Monday Bear

So we all assume things to make us feel better, whether you like to admit it or not.
Example: You go to a public rest room, sit on the potty, stand up, and find a pubic hair on the seat. Of course, you assume it was yours, seeing as you didn’t see it before you sat down, and your keen eye would have noticed it, right?

Welp, this happened to me about a week ago. (And yes, you’re right, I haven’t blogged in over a week. Colleen seems to be the only complainer, though.) I went to the potty [and most of you know that I live in a dorm, so my only potty is a public (or should I say, pubic) one.]. When I stood up, I noticed a pubic hair on the toilet seat. No big deal, right? Just assume it’s yours, right? Wrong. I would assume it was mine, but egads, everyone knows Liz’s pubic hair is traffic cone orange. And not an inch and a half long. I trim that junk.
I shuttered, but then made an assumption of my own to make myself feel better:

I told myself it was Matt’s. Even though I hadn’t been anywhere near his area in over two weeks. I would have just rather it been his than that of a stranger.

I mean, I guess it could have been one of my friends’, but what are the odds.

Also, it kind of pissed (ha!) me off that someone else was using that stall. That’s my stall. Like myspace, except for pooping and peeing. Like babyspace, except for pooping and peeing. I always use that potty. It’s just for me. Now, I come to piss, and I find that some bitch used it and spread her pubic hairs all over it.

Bitch.

While we’re on the subject, I always crack up every time I hear “Summer Skin” by Deathcab. You know that part that goes “I don’t recall a single care/ Just greenery and humid air” ? I wish they said “Greenery and pubic hair.” You knows? I’d like that.

So we went to see Architecture In Helsinki the other night at Exit/ In. I was pleasantly suprised. They put on quite a good show, and the chick was alot fatter and less pretty than I thought she would be. She had on a cool hoodie, though. I want one for xmas. It had a koala on it.

This is already kind of long, and I’m not even halfway finished.

The “band” that opened for them was a chick and a laptop, and they were called The Blow. I really really really liked them. The chick looked like Davo. Except with curves, kind of. She danced like me. And I really liked her lyrics/ poetry. Matt compared them to Ladytron, but I didn’t think they were much like them at all.

There were a few people from our school there: Zahrah, some really cute chick from one of Matt’s classes, and some guys from Cummings Hall.

There was this really drunk chick in front of me, and she was quite annoying. I hate drunk girls. Obnoxious.

Speaking of Davo, that is someone to whom I haven’t talk to/ written/ anything since I’ve been in schools. I need to get on that.

Mama’s birthday was Sunday.  She got panties from me.  We celebrated with hash.
Babyspace = myspace for babies.

And Courtney is a candle flighter.

ouch.  buuuurrrrn.  I mean droowwwwned.  :: shhhh and hand motion ::
So biology is killing me. I don’t understand photosynthesis, and I’m afraid that’s going to keep me from passing Exam 2, which I’m afraid will keep me from getting into med school. I don’t want photosynthesis being the only thing keeping me from being an Ob/Gyn, seeing as vaginas aren’t even autotrophs.

So if anyone is an expert on photosynthesis/ respiration/ Kreb’s cycle/ Calvin cycle, seriously, help. I’ll do anything except have secks with yous.

Sister Mary Harper wrote a poem about pooping:

deciphering between brushing my teeth or just falling asleep.
suddenly, i jump to my feet.
remembering i had an urgent oops!
i recognize .. it was a feeling of poop.
i run down the hall, throw open the door, searching for a stall.
Not ONE toilet avaible in sight.
it was about to be a bathroom vs. mary fight.
finally, a current-pooping-resident-pooping-dorm-girl slowly opens the door, i fly through that stall like pooping is illegal and maybe more.
just as i think i’m about to experience the most wonderful sensation a bathroom could possibly give… my journey to finally let it all go..is put on a pause.. and i couldn’t do ‘the Liz’.
through my frantic panic of getting my very own toilet, i realized i hadn’t locked the door. i must be a toilet hogging whore…
the next thing i know i don’t even get a hint or knock from behind enemy toilet lines. i just got MAJOR SHOCK, though i ended up fine.
so, if you’d like the moral of this entire pooping ordeal..
just remember, if at first you don’t get to poop, chances are someone else will.
Mary’s a really good poet. And she’s always better at English than some bitch from Cock County.

At first I typed Cock Country. I wish I lived there.

…

I just really love chickens.

Mommy came to visit me this weekend. Here’s what we did, in list form:

• We went to Applebee’s Friday night and ordered way too much food. I just finished eating it all last night. Today is Wednesday. No, I didn’t get sicks.
• We went bowling. There were some obese women playing next to us. Their names on the score screen were Babygirl and Cherub. Fat chicks always have cutsie names. Like that Angel Eyes chick. shudders.
• It cost us $22 to bowl two games. Babygirl was hitting on my mom, I’m pretty sure.
• The guy who was with the two fatass bowled like a lizard. Lizards bowl quite well, apparently.
• We had a sleepover in a hotel.
• We went shopping the next morning. Mommy bought me 2 shirts and some shoes. They were all on sale.
• We went to Steak and Shake, where I had a S’mores shake. I encourage everyone to drink one, even if you hate marshmallows.
• Unless you’re fat.
• There was this fat woman, and she went to the bathroom, and while she was in the bathroom, they cleared away her food, and she came back, and she said loudly and bitchily, “Excuse me! You just cleared away my food?” And yes, I did mean to put the question mark at the end. She was an up-talker. Nobody likes an up-talker. But then everyone who worked there was like, “It wasn’t me; I didn’t do it.” Nobody apologized.
• I would have told her that I took her food away because she was fat.
• Mom left.
• It rained.
• I helped Matt become homecoming queen.

And just for the record:

Liz= Fat Ass.

Liz /= Fatass.

There is a difference. It took me many many months of pouting at Matt to learn that.

Alley Jo’s mom found her vibrator. It’s black.

If my mom found my vibrator, I’d lie to her and tell her I started smoking, and that’s a lighter shaped like a penis.

Holly. Is my friend. She got a dress this weekend.
Zephyr is also my friend. She looked cute eating her veggie wrap in McCally. ie. Whichever.
Nana says that all men have pooped in their pants, whether they want to admit it or not. They think they have to fart real big, and they say, “Ooooh, this is going to be impressive. I can tell my friends about this,” but really they shit themselves.

ALL MEN HAVE SHIT THEMSELVES.

Matt shat himself. Favee shat himself. My daddy shat himself. Erick shat himself. The guy sitting next to me shat himself. Chris Smith shat himself. Trevor’s dad Chris Smith shat himself. Trevor shat himself. Johnny Depp shat himself. That guy from that band shat himself.
Your boyfriend shat himself.

No really, he did.

People’s blogs I still read, even though I’m a busy college woman who is taking the time out of her day to blog for you bastards:

• Zephyr’s (If she still blogged)
• Dave’s
• Lia’s (sometimes)
• Colleen’s
• Alley Jo’s
• Trevor’s (sometimes)
• If Holly had a blog, I would read it.
• If Matt still had his Emo Fag blog, I would read it.

So in conclusion, really, why is polaroid film more expensive? You really really would think it would be cheaper than normal film, since it’s been around longer.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, September 27th, 2006 at 5:04 PM and is filed under Awkward Scenarios, Babies, Breasts, Music, Nasty, Pooping, School, Secks. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.