Thursday, October 28, 2010

it's anthropology, my dear watson.

today i proved that i didn't have to take notes, pay attention in class, read my textbook, or read the outside reading assignments in order to get a 98 on the test. i would take the time to question the legitimacy of the course , but instead i chose to do something more productive, such as solve the mystery as to why the professor's hair is always wet. 

reasons why your hair is wet:

you are an olympic swimmer in training. 

you put on some beyonce and have a hair-flipping session to pump yourself up for class. 

you threw a coin in the fountain and fell in. 

it is your attempt to stay cool in the savannah heat. 

you had the choice of either wearing too much bronzer or drying your hair and you went with the former. 

the constant pulling of the fire alarm on campus has inspired you to be as fire resistant as possible. 

you heard a rumor that jane goodall never dried her hair. 

your wool cap matched your outfit today, but by the time you got to school your head was sweating. 

and now for a playlist inspired by hair:
freak'um dress, i am not my hair, samson

Monday, October 11, 2010

happy is a yuppie word.


      The first thing I noticed was his shoes. They were moccasin styled- striped pink and green. A sort of shoe-slipper hybrid you would expect to be worn on a granola head. The green stripes really made his green polo pop, so much so that his collar did the same thing. “Popped” collars are a culture shock to me. I always thought that it was a look that only Johnny, Soda Pop, and the gang from Grease used, much less yuppie, old dads at a fall ball lacrosse game. But there he was, in all of his popped collar and high waisted, steam-pressed jeans glory. And we were the lucky ones who sat behind him.
            “He does forty push-ups before each game so he can play with a certain finesse.” Yes, I am certain that Carter (the unfortunate son of the yuppie dad) does push-ups in hopes of finesse. As if with every repetition he completes he thinks, “I really hope the rest of the guys notice my finesse,” or “I can’t wait to wear the tee shirt with the sleeves cut out so I can show off my finesse.”
            And the game begins.
            I’ve never been to a lacrosse game before and I was most surprised at the violence. The boys ran up and down the field as they pummeled one another. No, seriously, they just kept wacking each other with sticks. I feel as if some of the players forgot about the rubber ball they were supposed to be chasing. And that was how the group of parents sitting on the sidelines separated each other.
            A woman under an umbrella with red hair that appeared to have the texture of straw, screeched “hit him harder, hit him harder” as a Kennesaw Mountain High School Mustang fought a Woodstock High School Wolverine for possession of the ball. I was confused as to which player she was giving parent-of-the-year advice to, but then when the Wolverine smacked the Mustang on the head she was in search for a referee.
            That was when the rather violent mother and the yuppie old man with a son that is the “utility tool of the team because he can play every position in lacrosse” found each other and began talking smack about the other team. The woman didn’t know who the opposing team was and Carter’s dad knew that the team was good, just not “state-championship caliber” like their boys. As if the lacrosse game was a cosmic joke, Carter, the golden boy who has “plans of going to West Point” and “puts red bull in his cereal” was caught twirling his lacrosse stick.
            Yes, the yuppie dad’s son stood on the field and twirled his lacrosse stick. The dad’s cover up? It was fall ball lacrosse, and since “any boy is allowed to play” the others simply cannot compete to Carter’s standards. So Carter twirled his lacrosse stick in boredom. It is such a pity that the game wasn’t challenging enough, Carter worked for all of that finesse for nothing.
            But as the parents wondered who Carter belonged to and for once the dad wasn’t willing to admit that he was the gene pool that created that stud of a boy, the players stampeded down the field; the ball was in the Wolverine’s court. The yuppie dad, in an effort to remove himself from his baton twirler of a son, yelled for Joey to go deep. I guess Joey ignored the yuppie dad’s requests because the dad looked at the other parents (how dare the witty comments he makes not be heard by everyone) and said, “I wish they wore shock collars so we could control them.” That sounds like a swell idea, really. Why would we want the team to listen to their coach when they have screaming parents on the sidelines? Yeah, that makes sense.
            At the beginning of the game I was excited. I knew my brother was pumped and I couldn’t wait to see him play. And then as I waited for the game to begin I read my book and enjoyed the autumn weather. I laughed when I noticed the shoes of the man standing in front of me and I thought of him as a goober and then turned my attention to other things. If he spoke softly or if I sat on the other side of the field he would have been nothing other than the guy with the funny shoes and this essay would have never been written. But as he talked (so loudly that reading was out of the question) I began to learn an incredible amount about the man I didn’t know and his family I never met. I don’t even know what Carter looks like, but I do know that were he was going to college was a running joke in the family because the college of his choice seemed to change every week. I do know that his father wants him to go to West Point and that his sister, Katie, has her act together. I knew that the man worked for an airline and he didn’t like the new boys that “just got out of college and seem to know everything” and all he wanted to do was “show up, fly the jet, and leave.” I suddenly found myself with enough information to perform a quick search on Facebook and steal his identity; not that I would want to have the identity as the goober old man who has the ability to enrage those that don’t even know him, but I could if I wanted to. I turned to my parents and found that I was not the only one who was more irritated than amused by this man. I was a savage beast on the inside, I promised myself that I wouldn’t care if the Wolverines lost every game left in the season, I just couldn’t let them lose this one, I couldn’t bear the thought of yuppie old dad leaving in victory. But alas, I suppose the goober knows what he is doing after all, for the Kennesaw Mountain High School Mustangs win, dashing all of my hopes of watching Carter’s dad eat his words. And that was that, the game was over, the dad could now update his status and have other yuppie parents comment on it and tell him what a grand dad he is, and I left a touch more jaded of the world than when I came. 

this post has a case of lisztomania

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

"a" for effort.

a few weeks ago, my english class was given the assignment to look through the history of armstrong college and then make an observation about the progression of modern times. 

The pictures are yellow and they smell bad. Everyone in the yearbook looks cute though I'm sure the girls cried when they saw the pictures. Which kind of tells me that I shouldn't be so freaked out about my own pictures because I probably don't look as bad as I think I do. The buildings are beautiful. I wish Armstrong still looked like that- majestic. I wonder if they think that "Grease" was true to life. I hope that they did, cheesiness and hair grease and all. But then again, I'm not sure if I agree with Hollywood's depiction of high school (but John Hughes knew exactly what he was talking about) anymore. But I still hope that they watched Bandstand and wore full skirts and danced like how dancing is supposed to be. 

this is the first building of armstrong college. 

this song told me how the atlantic was made. 

Monday, October 4, 2010

i guess the change in my pocket wasn't enough.

the challenge i had for the week was to write down everything i bought:

susanna! button pin
man with goggles button pin
owl tree stand
tiger in grass coffee cup
"other people's rejection letters" book
castle pillow
two percent milk
eleven gallons of gas
milo's sweet tea
a pot of tea 
red velvet cup cake
purple ruffled scarf

and guess what the best part was? all of these things cost sixty-seven dollars and my phone number (twenty-two dollars for gas. boo.)

"having money is rather like being a blonde. it is more fun but not vital."

this post was written as i listened to my favorite "walking in fall" song. do it, i dare you. 

midterms are tomorrow.

oh no. 

this post was created to the sweet music stylings of cee-lo.

Saturday, October 2, 2010

when you feel embarrassed, i'll be your pride.

today, my challenge was to 'try a medium that is subtractive.'

i don't know what that means. so instead i will write about my crazy college adventures thus far. like how i and my friend bobby renee 'studied' at the gryphon tea room. she was pretty certain that our waiter was 'checking me out' (and he did look kind of cute) so for the first time ever, i wrote my phone number on the receipt and then ran out of the building. 

August 11th 2010
Well, I guess the last few posts haven’t panned out as I thought they would. But tonight is the night of all nights, the last night I will be sleeping at home. That’s right, I leave for Armstrong in the morning, and I am not planning to be back until Thanksgiving break. Truth be told, I am excited. Truth be told, I am lying. Packing all of my belongings and prized earthly possessions in the car is freaking me out. I don’t know if I’m ready for this, if I’m ready to have a life of my own, to live without my family. I can now see why it is that some people never truly leave the nest, it’s too comfortable here. I actually had thoughts of wishing that I was going to Kennesaw instead of Armstrong because I wasn’t certain if this was the right decision after all. But, I am going to blame my terrible case of stage fright on this one, I never feel excited before I do something huge like this. Never. It is only after the experience is over with that I can truly appreciate it for what it was. Like a rollercoaster, people scream and cry over the thought of being turned upside down and flung down a metal track at unheard of speeds. But somehow, the ride doesn’t seem so bad once it’s over and you are safe on the ground and in tune with the laws of gravity once again. I just can’t believe that I am old enough for this to be happening. I just don’t know. It is this sort of moment that makes me stop and thank God for being there. For now as I am bombarded with all of these thoughts of growing old and the body shutting down and wishing to be a child again, I am so glad that there is more to life than this life. There is something else, something better. And that, my dear Watson, is what truly excites me. I completely owe everything I have and live for towards God and the promise that there is something after death.
How is it that everything I write in here becomes depressing?

Here are the ways I plan on securing my spot as the cool indie girl of AASU:
Urban Outfitters
Vintage-y looking dresses that don’t show a lot of skin- but do show off my tan
Carrying my Complete Works of Earnest Hemingway around with me
Riding my classic Huffy bicycle with a wicker basket to class
Talk about my music in a somewhat snobby way
Wear a fedora at all times
I really just hope my room has enough space and that everything looks clean and not cluttered.
And that my teachers haven’t assigned any homework. That would be terrible. 

this post has been justified. 
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...