I’m So Smooth Sometimes I Think I Should Just Date Myself

There is a boy I sit next to in one of my classes whose name I don’t know. You’re probably thinking he’s noteworthy because I find him attractive, and you would be right. Sometimes he wears a suit to class just for the hell of it, and his face is very agreeable, and amazing things are happening with his hair. Our entire relationship consists of him glancing up when I come bursting through the door at full sprint with just seconds to spare. Sometimes I ask him for today’s date, but mostly I just appreciate that we occupy the same physical space three times a week.

Anyway, my professor the other day was lecturing about two lovers in our text who had been reading a book about sexy times, looked up, made eye contact, and gone at it like a couple of rabbits. But our listless, apathy-riddled group of Monday morning zombies was just not getting this. The professor was agitated. He was practically jumping up and down. “This is important stuff!” he cried. “All they did was LOOK AT EACH OTHER and then they wordlessly embarked on a passionate love affair! You’re college students! You know what that’s about! Okay, everybody–RIGHT NOW, turn to the person next to you and communicate to them with your eyes the phrase ‘I WANT TO HAVE A LOVE AFFAIR WITH YOU.’ DO IT.”

So long story short, the cute guy in question and I shared a sideways glance and then we both just kind of snorted. The romantic potential is off the charts.

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Breaking news: I kissed a boy

Valentine’s Day is on Friday, so I figured now was as good a time as any to wrap up my Never Been Kissed series of old (!!!), from which many of you know me and about which I still get messages chiding me for not ever kissing Liam. That was the column that eventually got me a job freelancing at SparkLife, and I swear to God, whenever there has been a boy in the picture (or even kind of in the picture), always, ALWAYS in the back of my mind was if I kiss this dude, I’ve got to run off and write about it on SparkLife. I just owe you guys that much. You stuck by me while I did idiotic things in grocery stores and screwed up potential dates and mostly just complained a lot. Jeez, you guys really took one for the team.

So here you go. I promise it’s a story for the history books. At the very least it will elicit a wheezy chuckle.

IT’S JUST THAT COLD.

When I was in high school, I got a fair amount of snow days, and it was wonderful. But that is nothing, NOTHING, compared to the truancy situation brewing up there as we speak. I don’t think my little brother has been to school since Thursday. They just KEEP CLOSING SCHOOL. I mean, I’m sure the situation is very dire and all that. They were under a national state of emergency. But it’s hard to look at that and not feel a little bit gypped, because when was in high school, snow days only came about after the first few buses got stuck in ditches and parents threatened the school board. Ergo, we never had, say, three snow days in a row. Jeez.

And now that I’m in college? Forget about it. It quickly became clear to me that universities rarely, if ever, issue a school-wide shutdown. Or rather, my college doesn’t. Schools all around us have been getting snow days all winter. But no, not here. My school is very proud about the fact that they never close. Something about honor and knowledge, I don’t know.

This is why my roommate came sprinting into the apartment last night, shouting, “GET YOUR LAPTOP, LOOK AT THE SCHOOL WEBSITE, DO IT NOW, HURRY HURRY HURRY,” and I did so, and then we both gasped and cheered and high-fived and missed and hit each other’s faces, and then people elsewhere in the building heard us and a general cheer went up, culminating in one dude bellowing directly below me, “SNOW DAY, BITCHES!”

It’s -30 degrees Fahrenheit. They had to close because people were getting frostbite waiting at the bus stop. Also, they can’t seem to keep up with the snowy sidewalks. I had to dive out of the way of a plow yesterday. So, to conclude, no, I will not be leaving this apartment today. I’m wearing all the sweatshirts I own and getting under the covers. My school hasn’t had a snow day in 36 YEARS, so I’m going to enjoy it. (By enjoy it, of course, I mean I’m not going to do my homework and then feel really anxious about it. That’s the same thing, right?)

Assassin: THE THRILLING CONCLUSION

SORRY. SO SORRY. I let things get away from me. Actually, that feels inaccurate. I just laughed out loud when I typed that, because my phrasing makes it sound like, well, yeah, things got away from me, but it’s under control now. It’s not, though. I’m drowning in essays. I’ve decided that if I finish this essay today, I’m going to let myself watch Tangled and eat mini M&Ms. I work with a pretty strict reward system.

I promised a follow-up to that whole Nerf gun war my brother was in, so here it is. I went home that weekend, so I got the whole story as events transpired. Shit starting getting real one night when there was a shootout in our front yard. With time running out and people getting killed left and right, Alex and his remaining teammates cornered the girls’ team in the Buffalo Wild Wings parking lot. They were literally using their cars to block the girls in. Finally they escaped, and Alex’s team followed them to the high school parking lot, which is, as you’ll remember, neutral territory, so the girls decided to camp out. In the parking lot. All night. (Did I mention what serious business this whole thing was?) Sadly, their determination won out, and Alex’s team was eliminated from the competition. Personally I feel that if you’re willing to spend the night in the high school parking lot with nothing but your car and five Nerf guns, you deserve the win. But I digress.

My roommate is a bona fide adult, and I am not

When I say my roommate can cook, what I actually mean is she LOVES to cook. She’s constantly making cookies, muffins, super complicated dinners, and what have you. I try to get in there and make my own crappy meal before she does, because hers is a whole production and she’ll be in there for hours. I cannot impress upon you the degree to which I can’t make food. I  live off sandwiches and macaroni. I don’t even know how I’m alive.

She’s also extremely creative. Right now she’s making a grilled cheese with tomatoes using BAGELS because her bread expired today. To put this in perspective, MY bread expired four days ago and I’m going to keep making my basic turkey sandwiches until I see green mold. This should give you the idea that, in addition to having no creative aptitude for food, I also don’t have any sense of self-preservation.

The most creative thing I do is toast the bread before I stick it in my eight-dollar toaster from Sears and then throw on the ham and cheese, so I can trick myself into thinking it’s like a croque-monsieur. I’m livin’ large, people. (It’s not even remotely like a croque-monsieur.)

Right at this very second I’m eating a coconut banana muffin that she made. I hate both bananas and the flavor of coconut. But this is good. This is really good.

I feel like I’m going into battle.

Today I have a biology exam. I can’t remember ever studying harder for an exam in my life. I don’t know how much weight that holds, though, because last year for my anthropology and psychopathology exams I started memorizing notecards literally on my way to the exam room.

When I was in elementary school, a few of my teachers thought I had a photographic memory, but I always knew I didn’t. I just knew all the tricks. In my junior year of high school, during a psychology class, our teacher wanted to see who could remember the most in a string of random numbers. I won (a term I use loosely, because there was no prize, like a trophy or a pizza party or a pet chinchilla) because I turned all the numbers into historical dates. I couldn’t have retained it for more than a few hours, but in that brief and shining moment I was the mnemonic device champion who did not win a pizza party.

Anyway, it’s for this reason that people have mistaken me for smart. I’m not putting myself down or anything; I know I’m, like, relatively smart enough not to walk into a sliding door (at least not twice), but it’s created this problem where I don’t start studying until the last possible minute because I’ve always known I could get away with that. And the point of all this is that I have been studying for the last three days. I have NOTECARDS and DIAGRAMS and a REVIEW SHEET. I know this shit. I’m nervous, of course (because what if I don’t know this shit?), but I feel pretty good about it, which is a stark contrast from the general what-have-I-done-to-myself-I-hope-I-can-remember-this-entire-diagram-thirty-minutes-from-now feelings of exams past.

ONE DAY MORE

Today I got hit in the face with a slushball. By a tree. It wasn’t even a person throwing it. I feel like I could be at peace with this if it had been an actual person. Like, “Wow, so there’s this asshole running around throwing slushballs at people indiscriminately. I hope your favorite show gets canceled, you piece of shit.” And then I could move on. But no. It was a tree, and that felt personal. It was like the universe zeroed in on me, wound up, and let fly, delivering a cold pile of soggy foreshadowing right in my face just to let me know who’s in charge and exactly how the rest of my week is going to go.

But you CAN’T GET ME DOWN, UNIVERSE. My spring break technically starts TONIGHT, after my four o’clock class. I’m scooting over to my grandparents’ place for the night, and then home, where I will be LAZY and INEFFECTIVE for the next week and a half. GET EXCITED. One more dawn! One more day! Ooooone… daaaaaay… more! *revolution music*