“Texting” ‘Bout My Generation

So, I’m one of those nasty little Generation “Y” critters. You know the type, sickeningly and rather egotistically convinced that our generation knows how to solve the world’s age-old problems. Instead of learning how to write cursive, we learned computers, instead of etiquette we had facebook. I had an email by 11, then a cell phone at 16 and now I’m a facebook-addicted, twitter-pated, blog-posting twenty year old. And you know what? I don’t think technology’s the greatest idea, and I don’t think we’ve got solutions. I think my generation’s become a generation of cowards.

That’s right, you sneaky little Y-ers, I see you bashfully checking out my blog in your anonymous cyber-pool, ready to submit the scathing comment you’d never say to my face, or on the phone. I know, you didn’t mean to become so shy, it started out innocently enough.
First you started emailing things you were too timid to admit out loud. Then, you began “friending” that cute guy or girl in class you couldn’t work up the guts to ask out. Got to stalk the ole profile, find something to talk about rather than coming up with a topic your own. Then began the texting. You see, at least Townsend TALKED about his generation, hell he put it into song. But kids these days, they’ll just text it.

Oh, I know. It’s convenient. It’s subtle. It’s quick. You were only going to use it for when you were in class (when you really ought to be paying attention) or to send a mass invite to all your buddies for a movie tonight. And then somehow, it became easier to text rather than call.

Soon, you discover yourself forgetting exactly when is an appropriate time to use acronyms in writing and when is not. Hell, you don’t even know what an acronym is. If you don’t know, look it up, I won’t tell you. Lazy.

Now, texting has become the “safe” and less presumptuous way of conversing. After all, calling up someone of the opposite sex for the first time can be scary. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. Excuse me while I find an emoticon for the world’s smallest violin. Oh, I guess that particular gem has not yet been boiled down to its simplest, pixelated form. How’s this? 😥

I digress. This happens a lot.

My point is that this generation has become a generation of wusses. I’ve fallen prey to it, and it makes me sick. “Oh if I call him, I might seem over eager and then he won’t like me!” Well, shucks, because THAT never happens. (Seriously, in my case, never happens. Everyone loves me. I’m loveable.)

People used to have no choice but to buck up and approach people: for jobs, for friendship, for dating. It may have evolved from grunts and whacking people over the head with clubs and dragging them off to your cave to a nice “How do you do?” but now, it’s going too far. I mean, at least the whole club-and-cave thing was direct and effective. How is “poking” each other efficient? Useful? Clear?

People are afraid of each other, despite the fact that we don’t carry clubs anymore. Even though we “friend” more people than ever, we meet fewer and fewer people. People who approach you in real life are scary. We need that comforting internet mediator.

Now instead of spending time together and talking over a cup of tea or coffee like human beings, we text or chat over instant message. Why cut out all the human interaction? The confusing and comforting nuances of tone, expression, body language? Personally, I find the techno-conversation far more confusing. Sarcasm is pretty much my first language, and I judge a person’s intent not only from their words, but their face and body. Can’t do that over the net. It’s unnerving. Someone could be lying, or tired of speaking to you, but you simply cannot tell. Which just makes you more neurotic and afraid to speak to someone face to face.

We do everything through the internet, not just talking. We date online, we rent movies online, we shop online. It’s like we’re afraid of catching something. Maybe that pesky little strain of humanity that’s been holding out against the internet vaccine? Practice safe communication! Wear a cyber-condom! Hide behind that thin layer of technology and nothing can touch you. All the things you couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t say or do? You can do them without fear of reprisal with this sexy little innovation!

Guess what? Life’s about reprisal. Life’s about getting hurt, and sick, and dirty. Life’s about getting shot down, and having to understand when someone’s face belies their words. Life’s about growing a spine. This thing that taken over my generation? It’s not killing them, but it is taking away their shot at life. Maybe that’s why promiscuity’s on the rise, kids these days? They’re lonely and they want to cut through the zeros and ones and touch someone. Just to know there’s really a human on the other side.

My Personal Batman

So, I was over on Ms. Julie Summerall’s blog and she was writing about personal heroes, the ones not so conspicuous as Batman. So I thought, heck, maybe it’s time I wrote about my own personal Batman. While he’s never donned a cape and tights–a fact for which I am eternally grateful–my personal Batman has been spotted cavorting about in odd things like Spongebob shirts and leopard spot bras from time to time.

And after that introduction, it might seem a little strange to tell you that my capeless, Spongebob-sporting, leopard-print-loving personal hero is my faja.

Good ole’ faja’s been there for a lot–twenty years, six months and couple hours to be specific. There’s about half a dozen pictures of us at Daddy-Daughter dances littering the mantel, crowding the credenza and hiding on end tables. The fact that he’s framed them all and puts them out makes me smile every time I see them. Visible proofs that my faja loves me.

Dad’s a strange sort of fellow. He’s a bit like me, or rather I’m like him, in that he can be this hard-ass, gutter-minded, crime fiction writing guy but he can also be the man who wrote poetry for my mom every Valentine’s Day. He was the one who made up the story about nightmares being terrified of horses, so I would go back to sleep with my many horse models standing guard about my bed. Lots of people don’t know this side of the faja. He’s certainly not someone you want to trifle with, but deep down, he’s an old softie, and I love him for it.

That’s not to say that having a faja who is actually a bad influence on me isn’t fun–it is! I can’t count the number of times friends have told me “I love your dad!” or “Your dad is the coolest.” Well, he is! He taught me everything I know about writing. Many times, I feel like the years I have spent at school chalk up to nothing compared to what dad’s been teaching me my whole life. No professor’s ever told me that to be a great writer I need to learn to “kill my darlings” they’ve never pushed me nearly as hard as dad has (“You need to redraft this, Shannon. Again.) But then again, no one’s ever had so much faith in me as faja does.

I’ve been what’s often described as a “good kid.” For the most part, I got good grades, I didn’t drink, I didn’t sneak out or come home after curfew, I didn’t cut class, I didn’t lie to my parents about where I was going, didn’t get into drugs, none of it. A lot of that was because I couldn’t stand to disappoint my faja. That was far worse than any punishment he could give me. But my parents had trouble with me all the same. As a kid, I was constantly jealous of the attention my disabled brothers received. To be honest, I was a downright brat about it. But faja was patient with me– and in a very faja-esque way too! He didn’t take my shit. He didn’t lose his temper with me, but he straightened me out. He let me know that I had a gift, a life full of opportunities my brothers would never have. A lot of people shied away from being completely honest with young, bratty self–after all I was just a kid–but dad was blunt, dad treated me like an adult. And instead of asking me to be ashamed of my actions, dad just inspired me to do something with my life, to be a hero for my brothers. He made me a better person.

Then of course, came the teenage years. I had an awful middle school experience, and opted to go to the nearby all-girls private school to escape the kids and system I’d been with since kindergarten. And I was happy at Rosary. I loved the friends I made there, many of whom I still keep in contact with almost daily, I enjoyed the challenge of the college prep classes. At the same time, I found myself sinking into depression. I hated myself, and every little failure seemed so much worse. I was angry constantly, and our house became a battleground. In the end, it was faja who realize what was going on, who let me cry on him, who insisted I see a therapist. When things got hard, he wouldn’t let me feel sorry for myself, he’d prop me up, make me laugh, give me something to work towards. He saved my life. He once told me I was the bright spot in his life. I don’t think he realized how much that meant to me. To know that I was worth something to someone I loved so much, it gave me hope. I was rather hope-deficient those days.

Faja has also been unfailingly selfless throughout the years. I know he’d rather be a high school English teacher than working as a marketing muckety-muck (his term) but he always thought of his family first. I know how much having two sons with disabilities strains him, but I’ve never seen him resent them, I never heard him complain about them or call it unfair. Instead, he’s worked countless Casino Nights, and other charity events, stayed up late tutoring Danny, or fought til he was blue in the face to keep the damn school boards from screwing his kids over. He always done what’s best for his family, he’s always thought about what everyone else wants, and put himself dead last. I wish he wouldn’t. His best friend, my Uncle Brian, once called him the most decentest person on the face of the planet. He was dead on, Uncle Brian. When Uncle Brian died a few years back, I know it broke dad’s heart. But he didn’t let it show. He’d never ask us to help him in his grief. When he lost his parents, his aunt, it was the same way. As a matter of fact, I remember him comforting me and mom and everyone else. He was the real Batman–letting his own life, his own self play second fiddle to his heroic alter-ego.

Faja is now my best friend. When I’m lonely, I call him. When I’m bored, we talk books. When a I have trouble with a boy, or a bad breakup, faja always makes me laugh. He knows the best dirty jokes, has the best advice and is my moral compass. All the while he insists that this is a bad idea, that he’s really not all that great. Well, faja, I think you’re silly. You’re the best faja ever, even if you’re also the weirdest one. And Uncle Brian was right, you are the decentest human being on the face of the planet. I love you.

Thieves Are Inconsiderate

Last Friday, I packed my bags and loaded up my van with dirty laundry to begin the trek home for Thanksgiving break. Little did I know I’d be back in less than 24 hours.

I live in one of the eight on campus apartments, which is technically off-campus but supposedly beholden to the same rules–and security –as the dorms. Now, my roommates and I locked our doors and windows, turned off the lights and all the other rigamarole that we’re supposed to do when vacating for breaks. And security is supposed to patrol and keep our residences safe when we are not there. Sure, they never really showed up the past semester, but I just figured it was because we were there, and they had things to do along the lines of busting drinkers on our oh-so-“dry” campus. But maybe they weren’t real big on patrolling the on campus apartments after all, because Saturday morning I got one of those lovely calls from Carthage that always means something’s wrong, because really unless I owe them money, they’re not keen to talk to me otherwise. Sure enough, I was informed that someone had kicked in my back door and presumably robbed my apartment, and could I please come back and see what’s missing?

Oh, goody.

So, of course, mom doesn’t want me going up to my apartment alone now, certain the thieves are lying in wait for me under my bed, (tricky thing, that, since my bed is a mattress on the floor) so we make a family outing of it, trekking back up to friggin’ Kenosha on my supposed first day off.

And of course, they did steal things from my apartment, as people who break into apartments have been known to do. I found my apartment a mess–no, not all the robbers’ faults but they certainly did not tidy up amidst their pilfering– and minus my tv, my dvd player, all my dvds, all of one of my roommate’s dvds, some of my jewelry, and a drawer from my jewelry box.

Now, I was pretty mellow throughout this whole thing until I realized they had taken the damn drawer. That really got my knickers in the proverbial knot. I mean COME ON. Sure, you’re thieves, you’re stealing whatever you think you can fence for a decent price and those bracelets my godmom gave me look like they are actually worth something, so sure, I expect those to go *poof* but the fucking DRAWER? Really? I mean if you are gonna make me buy a new jewelry box, take the damn box, but is the drawer worth anything? No. Is it at all useful to you? No. Have you already royally pissed me off by breaking into my apartment and stealing stuff that a college student, particularly this college student, cannot afford to replace? Why, yes, yes you have, you twat. But as you are robbing me blinder than the Illinois taxpayers, I expect you to take what you think you need to sell in order to get by, or what not. But the tiniest shred of decency, courtesy, or some kind of consideration wouldn’t fucking kill you!

My brother spent far more than he should have giving me that jewelry box last Christmas–it’s called GENEROSITY you pilfering bastards–and you have now wrecked that by taking ONE FREAKING DRAWER. I can’t claim the box, I can’t replace the drawer, and what MIGHT just interest you is now, every time I see the gaping hole where the drawer should be, I’m going to get angry. Again. At you. And I am going to become more determined to FIND you. The police shall not hear the end of me until I find you. It’s not about the stuff anymore. I’m hard up, but I’ll survive. It’s about the fact that you lack ANY of the respect that is necessary for me to show you anything of the same.

For instance, you took the whole DVD tower that was housing mine and my roommate’s movies, and chucked it in the dumpster out back after you had taken its contents. Were it not for security finding said DVD tower and returning it to me, that piece of furniture would not have been returned to me and once again, I am too broke to replace it. Obviously, I could just steal one from someone else, but I happen to be a decent human being. Asshole. Again, I was over the fact that you stole from me, but the unnecessary waste and loss of things that are mine are kinda making it hard to forgive and forget.

Okay, I’m done ranting at a person who will probably never read this. Of course, my parents and the security guard who were there whilst I inspected my apartment have heard all this, and were amused at my use of the term “inconsiderate thieves.” They seem to think that thieves are by nature inconsiderate, which is true. But I think some take it further than others.

I don’t like inconsiderate people. At all.

The icing on the cake is hearing all damn week, and throughout Thanksgiving with the family, “Oh, thank heavens none of you were there!” HELL. NO. Had I been there, I’d still have my stuff and there’d be some sorry-ass wannabe robbers sitting in jail. I sleep with a knife under my pillow, I have thought about exactly I’d do should someone break into my apartment (it’s to small to afford me any escape) so you know what buddy? Bring it. Home field advantage. There’s also the fact that they probably wouldn’t have broken in were it not obvious everyone was gone on break.

But I wasn’t there, and my stuff is gone, and no one has been arrested, and I have yet to find out whether or not the school will cover the cost of my losses. I mean, I get security in exchange for complying with on campus rules and those hefty tuition payments. Since security kinda failed us there (No one even knew the apartments had been broken into until some 12 hours after the fact) I guess that means I get to booze it up and burn my incense after all. But really, I don’t need this shit right now. Finals, Christmas fest and papers up the wazoo are what I have to look forward to the next three weeks. So I am no longer mellow. Oh, and if the person responsible is by some miracle reading this blog?

I want my fucking drawer back.

A Little North of Neverland

I’m with Peter Pan. I don’t want to grow up–it requires too much paperwork. I’m still at that wonderful interim called College, where I have a little bit of independence, a little bit of responsibility, but the parental safety net is still affixed firmly below my little balancing act. And it’s nice, knowing that if I actually need something, my parents are generous enough to help me out more than they already are. Thing is, I’m a proud person. I don’t like help. So I job hunt. And fail. Economy sucks, no one wants a waitress whose school schedule is as weird as mine and the stores around here close early. So I cyber-job hunt. I’ve followed my dear faja’s large footsteps into the minefield that is freelance writing.
BAM! Instant sense of TMI. Too much everything actually. There are so many things out there. You’d think that would be encouraging, I mean SOMEONE has to hire me, right? Wrong. All the sudden influx of information on the industry of the written word (and I don’t mean the fun stuff, I mean internships, editing, proofreading, blogging for business, the usual prostitution of skill that I’ve heard so many people complain about. The world of the Dreaded Day Job.) is really telling me is “You don’t know jack. Now go back to your cute little class room, write your paper on Paradise Lost and feel like you’ve done something productive.” And man, do I want to listen.
Alas and alack, college doesn’t last forever, and the sooner I start getting the hang of the professional world, the better off I’ll be. So I find something not too ambitious and click the Apply Here button. Whoops! I need a resume. Off I go to write my resume. Funny, I feel like I’m missing something under the experience header. I’m a writer, aren’t I? People have been telling me what wonderful skills I’ve had for years. So why does that area look so seriously anemic? I don’t think Mr. Employer is going to care what I got in my Shakespeare class, and citing my experience on my college’s paper feels curiously like dressing up in my mom’s pumps.
After a few emails to the dear old paterfamilias, and conferring with peers about the Evil Resume, I finish it feeling a little out of my depth. But I press on. Oh, time for a cover letter. What the fuck is a cover letter? I know this one, hang on! What I don’t know is how you are supposed to write a cover letter to someone posting an ad on BlogPro, or craig’s list, someone clearly anonymous. I delete “Dear Sir or Madame,” feeling like a third grader learning how to write a business letter and settle on Hello.
After wading through numerous internet tutorials on how to write a cover letter, I finish, click the send button and can practically hear the anonymous Employer cackling his ass off at my inexperience. Sorry, they didn’t teach us Internet Etiquette in Literary Traditions I, or Spanish 202, or even Media Literacy. Good God, I think everything I’ve learned about job hunting has come from the internet, Tweets, or my dad.
Commence beating head on table.
Okay, the people at Einstein’s are looking at me funny, so I’d better stop that. I’m suddenly flashing back to kindergarten, when I thought I would feel so grown up when I hit second grade. And then second grade came and I pictured third grade as the height of maturity, sitting on the braided rug around the teacher, feeling at last like one of the big kids. Third, fourth and fifth grade came and went, and as I went off to middle school, I was starting to feel like maybe I was growing up. I mean, I had a locker now, with a combination. Surely this was the epitome of maturity. And yet, by the end of the first week, I felt small and insignificant once again. I thought in high school that once I graduated, I’d feel and be treated like an adult. Nope. So I’m wondering, eventually I’ll be treated like one of the “grown-ups,” or so I hope, but do you ever really feel it? Does that feeling of playing dress-up ever go away? Or am I always going to be wandering about unsteadily in my mother’s pumps?

Apologies

So, If you’re one of the say, seven people, who regularly read my blog, you’ve no doubt read my take on the fire-and-brimstone/ gospel-type preachers and religious folk in general. Now, What I said was true–in part. But I chose my words poorly. Very poorly. A sort of cardinal sin for someone calling themselves a writer, and an even worse one for someone lucky enough to be a friend.
To be absolutely clear: Yes, I’ve been told by SOME religious folk, maybe even many, that I am going to hell or that they’ll pray for me. Yes, I have been treated with condescension and worry. However, it is not invariably. I have a wonderful roommate who is a devout Christian and ha never once asked me to share her beliefs or had a problem with my far different ones. She doesn’t bat an eye at my books on paganism, or my crazy tangents on Paradise Lost. And there are others like her. So to those like my roommate, who I may have offended, I am truly sorry. I didn’t think.
And something else where I wasn’t clear: that pastor I talked about? The charismatic MC? My sarcastic tone and joking manner, not to mention complete irreverence for basically anything may have obscured this but my point was not that he is a manipulator. On the contrary, he has done great things. My point was that MY reaction to that sort of sermon is suspicion and what exactly does that say about me? That I’ve taken cynicism too far? I’m not sure. But the last thing I meant to imply was that this man was anything less than the devout leader and family man that he presented himself to be.
Again, for my blatant disregard for the tolerant and my lack of clarity, I cannot apologize enough. But this is my start.

Doubt

So, whenever I talk to religious folk, I am invariably told that I am either going to hell or that they will pray for me. Oooh, let’s not forget the look of pitying worry–the kind of look we reserve for the slightly mad as we humor them. Oh wait, that may be an unrelated issue.
I can’t help it, I’m a cynic. Did the whole religious upbringing in an extraordinarily Catholic family. Look up Irish Catholic and you could probably find a family portrait featuring yours truly and my few hundred relations. Seriously, we push maximum occupancy at Christmas what with roughly 90 or so people at our little holiday soiree.
So, religion. I’m afraid that I am an unrelenting skeptic without any reverence for God Almighty, at least in the myriad ways he exists to the various religions of the world. The closest thing I’ve come to accepting since my personal fall from grace is a type of paganism, but even that I must modify and simplify. I just can’t bow down and believe in the big man upstairs and all his omniscience and omnipotence. If I did, I’d probably still be vilifying his divine self for all the many evils of the world, and in particular what my brothers go through every day. I’m a forgiving sort, but if there is a god who is omnipotent, he can rot in hell because the bastard made my brothers and others like them suffer.
But I don’t believe that there is a personified omnipotent being up in the stratosphere who showers us all with his fatherly affections. Christianity just didn’t cut it for my mind. I have no problem with Christians, or Muslims or Jews or Buddhists or Rastafarians, mind you, people can believe whatever they want and I will not ask someone to change their way of thinking. Okay that’s a downright lie. Because there are people who I think should change their way of thinking and they fall under the fun little category of evangelists, proselytizers, missionaries, etc. It’s always been my motto to respect other people’s rights to their own belief, and these self-righteous think-they-know-it-alls just trample on that day by day. Look at Al Queda, look at the Spanish Inquisition, look at that sick fuck who was behind the proposed Q’uran burning in Florida.
So now you’ve got a grasp on my problem with organized religion, or at least one facet of my problem, I shall get to the point. I know, I know, a point Shannon? You haven’t had one of those in a while. Sure you’re up for it? Maybe you should take another few weeks off without blogging, you lazy fuck.
Shut up voices.
Now see, that look you are giving me via your computer screen right now? THAT’S the look.
But I digress. Last Sunday, I found myself covering an event on campus called GospelFest for the paper. Now, considering my aversion to organized religion and preaching, you’re probably surprised I volunteered to review such an event. Fact is, I like gospel music. It’s fun, a lot more fun than gregorian chants and endless Baroque pieces in simpering latin. (I sang a lot of Latin in high school, back in the ole plaid skirt days.) So off I went to GospelFest.
The music was great, the kids who did some urban praise dancing were awesome–I love dancing, having no talent for it myself I find myself constantly amazed by those who do–and the whole service was run by a charismatic and comically stereotypical MC. Yes, friends I am on dangerous grounds, but sometimes stereotypes are actually adhered to. The Pastor who led the ceremony was a loud, large African American man from Chicago, who had a booming voice and tone that you would expect to see on some revivalist televangelist show. That’s not to say he wasn’t a great speaker, he was, and the list of his achievements was impressive. But his constant calls to get on our feet and feel the spirit, the spittle flying from his mouth as he raised his palms and asked us to praise the Lord, these things didn’t move me.
When I witness a performance like his, I view it as just that: a performance. I cannot see someone summoning up that kind of zeal, zest, and genuine inspiration just because they are scheduled to. I think of religion as something that should be felt as truth, it should never be even a tiniest bit forced or false. And to see someone doing a choreographed encouragement that audience feel what they ask feels manipulative. Feeling and emotion are the easiest ways to manipulate a person and I feel that a lot of religious folk use this to their advantage. Guilt, fear, a need to belong, love, inclusion, exclusion, righteousness–these are all feelings that religious groups use for proselytizing. Call me naive, but if what you believe is true, than you shouldn’t have to use charisma and emotion to get your point across. Sincerity and plain speech should do the same. When I see religious types employing the fire-and-brimstone, hallelujah and praise the lord type of emotionally driven speaking tactics, I question whether they believe or whether they want to be believed. And so I am a cynic.
So yeah, I see a man who teaches Sunday school, directs choirs for urban kids to keep them off the streets, and is a pillar of his religious community and all I can see is possible deception and, as Salinger would say, a phony. I take a preacher and construe him as possible manipulator. I fear that which I cannot understand and doesn’t that make me a hypocrite? Maybe this skepticism means that I cannot be deceived, maybe it means that I am an independent thinker who will not be manipulated. Or maybe I really am going to hell.

Things I’ve Learned About Living

1. Get a Penguin suit. Use it for tummy tobogganing.
2. Record the penguin expeditions for posterity.
3.3 is a mystical number in pretty much every culture.
4. If it’s sunny, go lie out in it in a peaceful place and just try to find a balance.
5. Sneak up on your friends as frequently as possible.
6. Go to karaoke with friends or family. If you’re good, bask in it. If you’re bad, make the world suffer with you. Or just sing Baby Got Back. It’s a classic.
7. Yes, things are easier for prettier people. Life’s tough all over.
8. Climb trees. You are never too old, and the people pointing are just jealous.
9. Embarrassment is something to be beaten black and blue and buried. It is never a reason to chicken out.
10. Question everything. Always.
11. Just because it works for someone else, doesn’t mean it will or can for you. Never let a persuasive person convince you their way is best, when you know damn well your way works just as well.
12. NEVER try to change a person. Change has to come from within.
13. That being said, don’t let others change who you are without your permission.
14. Kindness is more important than pride.
15. Hugging is good for the soul.
16. A little bitchiness now and then is also good for the soul.
17. Don’t mistake having a backbone for being a bitch. Don’t mistake being a bitch for a completely bad thing.
18. Go with your gut. Think about it thoroughly, but your mind can change. The gut will never go away.
19. Don’t get married too young.
20. Don’t assume that failed relationships are someone’s fault.
21. The meek generally don’t inherit anything.
22. If you are constantly picking battles, people will generally laugh at your war.
23. Forgiveness is essential, both because it makes you a better person and is necessary in any relationship, but also because we all have to forgive ourselves at some point.
24. Don’t be rude. Unless someone is REALLY asking for it. Then it’s cathartic.
25. Fathers can also be best friends.
26. Taking yourself seriously isn’t funny. Laughing at yourself is far more entertaining.
27. Blog posts are a way of procrastinating.
28. Procrastinating is healthy is small doses. I never do it in small doses.
29. Everyone is fighting their own private battle.
30. But that doesn’t mean they get to be a bitch about it.
31. Take long walks at night. Full moons are the best.
32. When walking in the woods, ditch the path.
33. Drive with the windows down and your music blaring.
34. Never let me park your car.
35. Read things on thequotationspage.com. You’ll feel wiser.
36. Money IS important, but only at a very basic level.
37. Be aware of double standards. Especially your own.
38. If you’re bored and you have a computer, go to mylifeisaverage.com. Search for ideas on ridiculous things to do.
39. Love is far more important than pride, but pride should not be a victim of love.
40. Everyone has their own stupid tv show they love to watch, and their own awful book they like to read.
41. Twilight really is an awful book.
42. Sexual innuendos have their time and place.
43. Sexual innuendos are generally far funnier when out of their time and place.
44. If you are easily offended, you will spend most of your life angry and sad.
45. PMS is not an excuse to act like a jerk. It is an excuse to eat tons of chocolate.
46. Be ridiculous. You’ll have more interesting friends.
47. Go to bad horror movies strictly to mock them.
48. Don’t hedge your words worrying you will offend someone. You’ll carry around more regret than you realize.
49. Play pranks.
50. Do NOT fake a heart attack on your ten year old daughter. She will plan revenge.
51. Romantic comedies and romance movies generally display unhealthy relationship. They should thus be mocked with all the energy you can muster.
52. People’s language really has deteriorated.
53. The far right is annoying.
54. The far left is annoying.
55. Sometimes you have to fight for what you believe in. More often, you have to take a deep breath and endure.
56. Nobody feels like the popular, pretty, funny one.
57. I do not need another person to complete me.
58. Black hair dye does not come out. At least it hasn’t yet.
59. Reading extensively is the best way to develop a good vocabulary.
60. Ignore people who use hyperbole.
61. Everyone uses hyperbole.
62. A little cleavage can get you a free drink, a discount, but it also gets you 70 cents to a man’s dollar, and a hand wrapped tightly around your pepper spray on dark streets.
63. “isms” of any kind should be well-researched, well thought-out but little adhered to.
64. Movies about homosexuality will be boycotted by religious sects. Jackass will be made into a 3-D feature.
65. Buy flowers for yourself.
66. Humiliation is harder to forgive than pain.
67. Tea eases headaches, sore throat, and anxiety. It should be steeped properly.
68. My autistic brother might just be happier than I am.
69. I found out what 69 means in high school. According to the movie Everything Is Illuminated, it is also called a premium year for lesbians.
70. If it’s truly POURING rain, remove your shirt and go running in it. Bring friends.
71. Okay, I’m out of shit to list.

Taking a Stand: The Bitch Is Back

I don’t know when I became this timid person, afraid of hurting everyone’s feelings to the point where I forgot about my own. I don’t know when I lost my spine and just started touching my toes for whomever because I was afraid to stand up for myself. When I was eleven, I told my parents I would no longer eat meat. This was followed by months of power struggles, haggling, and downright fights over what I ate. Years of comments about my “phase.” I stood my ground, although I do thank my parents for, when they realized I was dead set on vegetarianism, making sure I ate healthy. I am proud of this first real assertion of individuality. The vegetarian thing got me made fun of in middle-school as well. Don’t really understand why, but “tree-hugger” was a common albeit moronic taunt, as various neanderthals knocked my books out of my hands and dumped juice in my hair. I stood my ground then. When I saw someone being made fun of, it didn’t matter what other people thought, I told the taunters to shut the fuck up. I was a courageous, somewhat self-righteous crusader all through high school. A lot of times I was a pain in the ass, and would go off half cocked. But I was no one’s door mat. Somewhere since then, I’ve gone the other way. I’ve become the girl who is so concerned about her boyfriends feelings, that she disregards her own.I’ve become the girl who lets her boss stick her with all the lousy shifts because she’s the only one that won’t bitch about it, who lets people take advantage of her nice disposition at work. I’ve become the girl who lets the nasty comment about the odd kid in the corner slide, because the bullies might not mean anything by it, and I need to choose my battles. I’ve become part of the meek and apathetic problem. The meek don’t fucking inherit the earth. They get put in it.

Tonight, I reached my breaking point. It was the first newspaper brainstorming meeting of the year, and I had come up with a good semi-local idea: Daley is not running for another term. This is huge news for Chicago. I suggested we do a piece on the history of the Daley dynasty and Chicago politics and how a new kingpin–ahem, mayor– will affect Chicago. It is the unwritten rule of brainstorming that whoever comes up with a story has dibs, unless they either don’t want it or have a conflict of interest. Neither of these applied and yet no sooner had the idea come out of my mouth than some other guy said, “Oh! Can I write that?” in a manner that very much demanded he have the opportunity. The managing editor upheld the rule and gave me the choice. “Shannon, do you want to write the piece?” Before I could answer, the usurper interjected. “No, seriously, can I have this? I wrote this paper…” Blah, blah, blah, insert pathetic guilt trip look here. The really embarrassing part? The thing that makes me cringe?

I SAID OKAY.

As I walked back to my apartment, I thought it over. This is not the first, second nor third time in the recent past that I have allowed someone else use me as their own personal tissue, their doormat, their bitch. I am no one’s bitch. I am THE bitch. There’s a difference and it’s about time I got back to teaching the manipulators, the bullies and just the everyday people who try and throw their weight around, the difference.

We’re Baa-acck!

It’s a chilly Wednesday morning in Kenosha, and the sun is shining crisp and clear through a blue sky. Little puffy clouds roll languidly along and the lake sparkles. But what’s that, Kenosha residents? Could it be? Le gasp! The unwashed masses of college students roll blearily onto campus, by bus, by shuttle, by car and on foot! Soon, it will be the weekend and they shall descend in locust-like swarms on bars, restaurants and city streets, leaving nothing but crumbs and empty beer cans in their wake. The quiet peacetime is over and I’m sure the residents of Kenosha are just thrilled to have us Carthaginians back. No really, they sent us a lovely welcoming in the form of a noise complaint. My roommates and I watched a movie and went to bed around 12:30 am. We didn’t hear a peep. But truly, thanks.

Contrary to noise-complaining neighbors’ statements, some of us are not uncouth young mongrels. Some of us are decent, hard-working, studious people. I do not think this will keep the KPD (kenosha police department) from gleefully stopping any out-of-state plates going one mile over on Sheridan road in hopes of ticketing a Carthage student. I have Illinois plates and a Carthage decal. All I need now is to find a Bears bumper sticker and I might as well just pay the KPD a flat fee and save them the trouble.

Fortunately, the Carthage campus is a tad isolated by the beach and the arboretum, giving the residents and students a lovely little buffer, with the exception of my apartment building, from whence I heard no peeping. But this buffer also necessitates a car for those of us out job-hunting.

Having exhausted my resources on campus only to discover I can’t be hired due to my ineligibility for work-study last year, I came to the conclusion that this year I would need a car if I wanted a job. So, I bought Old Blue, with his Carthage-decal-shaped police target on the rear, rented a random, hopefully non-homicidal person’s driveway in lieu of a $450 parking spot on campus and am ready to go on the employment hunt. Nice restaurant down the road? Hit it, we’ll see. Restaurant’s downtown? Not hiring, or mysteriously lacking any staff on my last visit. Today? It’s time to invade Chili’s and the various surrounding stores. The ironic thing is I’m out some $1300+ for the car, the insurance and sundry, and yet I have no job. I really am starting to realize the importance of money, despite a certain parents assertions. For instance, the meal plan is paid for by my padres and is thusly considered free food. Kidding. Did you know that my generation (the generation of current high school and college students) are the first generation in over fifty years that will make less than their parents? Swell. Now, I never was one to care much about money, so long as I had food, clothes and shelter, I was fairly good. My American dream is a cabin in the Smokies, with two dogs, a cat, and a tiger. The tiger might be negotiable.

My point? I had one about a paragraph ago, I promise. I may have to go back and find it. Oh, there it is!
College students in general are not loud hooligans, it’s just the non-hooligans are inside watching Disney movies and going to swing dance club, and the hooligans are out drunkenly harassing your cat. Due to kitty’s angry yowls, you are more aware of the drunkies than lame but harmless people like me. Until I knock on your door and offer to rent your driveway. Hire me to protect Mr. Fluffy? I need a job.

Old Blue and Jiffy Lube

Just last week, I bought the minivan off the faja, who seemed all too pleased to be rid of it and eagerly bought a used Audi A6 in its place. Twenty years of driving minivans I guess explains his giddiness. I however, after another summer of ninja-waitressing, am pleased as punch to find myself the owner of any car, no matter how it affects my non-existent street cred. Old Blue is actually the car I first learned to drive in, and he has a lovely dent to prove it, so I suppose it is for the best that we continue our journey together. However, after the original excitement and a week of random bursts of “The car is MINE bitches!” I started Old Blue up last night to discover a strange noise. Further investigation revealed that the old gent was in need of an oil change.
With a distinct feeling that the honeymoon was over, I made my merry way over to Jiffy Lube this morning, fully expecting to encounter some of the notorious mechanic scammers. I mean, I’m a twenty year old woman who doesn’t pass for eighteen most days, with little knowledge of cars and no stern-looking father at my side. I could practically feel the sharks circling already. I knew what I wanted however, and what Old Blue needed, and had prepared my coldest “Don’t fuck with me” glare for what I thought was the inevitable pushy mechanic telling me I needed to get the serpentine belt replaced ASAP.
I was pleasantly surprised when the man at Jiffy Lube cordially and professionally mentioned that my brake light was out (I knew and had already forgotten about that!) and that with the oil change, he would change my air filter and rotate the tires for an extra $23. Neither of these things were unexpected–they were actually needed–and he was not at all pushy. He also suggested a better type of oil for my vehicle. Before you get all suspicious, I have to mention that this oil didn’t cost a penny more than the oil we had been using. I paid $72 for a change of oil, air filter, a fixed brake light and a tire rotation, all of which was done in about fifteen minutes–or in a jiffy, if you will. Moreover, the employees there were extremely polite, friendly and helpful. When I paid, I turned to find an employee already at the door holding it open for me, and another opening my car door, wishing me a good weekend with a rather genuine smile. So in short, while I sigh at having to cough up $72 so early into my car-owning experience, I do believe that Old Blue, Jiffy Lube and I are at the beginning of a beautiful friendship.