Monday, January 31, 2011

The Cosmos Suck.

Moral of the Story:
Stars will always be better than you.
Do you ever think that the cosmos, Jay Leno (well actually this is likely... TEAM COCO, anyway...) and God are not on your side? Do you get to the point where things are so ridiculous that you can't take them seriously anymore? WELL sometimes the cosmos just like to fuck with you and call it a day. Apparently I'm number on on their hit list. No I am not sitting in a corner, in a black room, listening to My Chemical Romance while writing breakup poetry (HTTM reference anyone?) I am sitting in a nice little homey cafe writing about how the cosmos suck.

Stars. For thousands of years human kind has wondered what stars were and how they were created. Well the answer is that they are fireflies stuck on a big bluish black thing (guess what I just referenced). You know, I would like to say that is the answer but its wrong. Sorry to disappoint you but in all actuality stars are giant balls of gas. My family has pretty epic farts but the cosmos just had to be a dick and take that honor away from us. See? That is one of the many reasons why the cosmos suck. If I had a wish, I would make the cosmos into a hipster and then bitch slap it with a stick made of pure badass-ery until it apologizes profusely for messing with my life.

Okay, enough with the anger towards the intangible cosmos (for now), here is the line up... (And I am pretty damn sure that every single one of you has been here once or twice and if you say that this hasn't ever happened, you my friend are sitting upon a throne of lies.)

Ice. Ice. After a glorious weekend of drinking and celebrating our (MY) beloved holiday of a birthday, drama pursued afterwards. It doesn't do me any purpose to state what it is and all I'll say is that having that happen after a night of drinking then having to make a five hour drive back to school, no bueno. On my way home, I had to make a treacherous ascent up a snowy mountain pass only to have to put on essentially retard proof chains which after I put them on, I want my money back because this retard was not out- proofed by those retard- proof chains. Once I get those bad boys on my little Jetta, I drive a mile only to be told I don't need them. Oh and did I mention that it took me 45 min to put those suckers on? Just sayin'. Anyway six hours later, I arrive at my humble abode.

The week that ensued managed to contain me eating it hard on the ice around campus about three times. You may say its not that bad but when you find your feet flying above your head, you have a problem. It was at the entrance of College Hall and people were just getting out of class only to find me sprawled and barricading the door. I have no dignity so I just brushed it off and went my way. My ass disagreed with me. I had a hard time sitting for a few days.

Over the next few weeks there was more cosmic fun to be had. My class that I had looked forward to all year was cancelled. My phone went by the wayside. I spilled my coffee (as previously stated in, smacked my head on a projector screen, got schooled by a freshman and fell off the treadmill.Yes. These things really did happen.

Eventually the cosmos must have gotten bored because after everything that could physically happen to me, short of falling off a building, I went to school in a helmet, a mouth guard, a pillow strapped to my butt, shin guards and a cup, (not really but I would have been wearing one if I was dude).

Its quite possible that I could be blowing things out of proportion but I'm a senior. I have little time to be rational.

Suck it cosmos.

Saturday, January 29, 2011


Beware The Hipster I have a warning to issue to you way beings as well:
The Hipster. Dun….dun…dunnnnnnnnnnnnn!
If you don’t know what a hipster is, then you have been spared the vision of every failed fad since the dawn of man. Not only are Hipsters amalgamations of clashing coifs, cataract-inducing color schemes and badly designed useless eyewear, the worst part is—
--The affluence of these kids’ parents. Yes, being a hipster is a handicapped way of saying, “I’m a bohemian! on my parent’s dime because I am a pretentious prick who thinks they know what struggle is.” I don’t get it.
A hipster in their natural habitat—something apparently “not mainstream”, like a crack house that serves coffee and free-shitty-wifi, or a book reading of Ted Kasczynski’s Unabomber Manifesto while playing MGMT and passing the communal Pabst Blue Ribbon. While desiring to understand this Hipster culture, I needed to immerse myself into this subculture of a subculture, but I had to figure out how to go about it.

Step 1: Go to Goodwill, and American Apparel®.
When I observed this unique hunt for the perfect paisley print that was two times bigger than my already curvy figure (basically trash bag status), I overheard two girls talking about—well, this is what I gathered—bands. Not just any bands, but bands with the weirdest damn names:
Hipster Girl 1: “Well, like, I mean, you have to listen to them. They burned their own vinyl, on top of another vinyl”
Me:( Listening through the rack of musty old-lady clothes) They can do that?
Hipster Girl 2: “No way. You haven’t heard about Scratching-The-Man’s-Back-With-Iron-Wool I bet?” She has a smirk of, I am better than you, bitch.
Hipster Girl 1: (Surprise) “I totally love that group!”
            Hipster Girl 2: “I made it up. But that’s what I would want my band to be called. STMBWIW. Yeah. That would be pretty rad.”
            Hipster Girl 1: (Blushes and is flustered) “Well whatever. I think I am thinking of another band with a long name like that.” Awkward pause. “So, wanna go hit up the record store? I have my new record player my mom got me from Urban Outfitters ®?”
            Hipster Girl 2: “That sounds good. We should grab some soy-chai before we go to your house though. I am going to need the caffeine before tonight where we go to that house party with fake mustaches:
Hipster Girl 1: “Oh yeah! I can’t forget my monocle either.”
That little exchange redoubled my efforts to look for the especially paisley prints. I crossed my fingers hoping the collar would have lace, or something like that.
After an hour, I carried a bag full of old-lady garb that I would make “fashionable” with some homemade belt made out of electrical wire or something because it would be considered a maverick art form.
At American Apparel® I balked at the amount of Hipsters, hoarding and planning their next raid of fads to combine. I watched them with a keen eye and picked out what they had chosen. Some gold leggings, cloth flats and some headband-y thing I would wear with my grotesquely large paisley-printed grandma shirt.
Cashier: “That’s going to be 98.56$”
I was shocked. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I broke my cover.
Suddenly, all the Hipsters, through their lense-less Nerd glasses stared at me. Oh No! They’ve spotted me.
I booked it out of there. The gold leggings would have to be put on hold indefinitely.

Step 2: Putting the Look Together
Spend three hours in the bathroom teasing your non-greasy, but-greased out hair. Make sure your make up is either really bold, or nonexistent, but you still have to wear some makeup. When that is all said and done, your hair and all that effort needs to have a large floppy hat placed over it. In my case, I teased the shit out of my hair, brushed it down and repeated the process about twelve times and then added the headband down.
            Lastly, draw the infamous mustaches on the inside of your dominant hands’ fingers for facebook photos.

Step 3: Give a “I-don’t-give-a-shit-attitude-because-I’m-hot-shit-attitude”

            When your hasbeen friends, or those less educated in obscurity than you greet you with a smile and a wave, make sure not to make eye contact, and shrug with an indifferent: “Hey.” Then proceed (if outside) to pull out a cheap pack of cigarettes and light one because you are so not-mainstream and need to de-stress from the socio-normative interaction.
            (I didn’t do any of that considering my friends were very far away from me and wouldn’t see me caught dead in this look; but that’s the interaction I usually get from Hipsters—but that’s what I would do if the scenario came to fruition).
            Make sure if you do fully dive into Hipsterville, that you negate everything mainstream that your peer is talking about and say, “ugh, that’s so mainstream.”
            When your parents yell at you about spending money on crappy-but-expensive-clothes, retort with: “You wouldn’t understand!” Then proceed to smoke your next de-stress cigarette, and text your friends that your parents are so out of the loop and don’t understand my feelings and your differences that make you unique. They are just a part of a blind society!
Step 4: Go to a Hipster’s House Party

So, I went to a Hipster-oriented party. Obscure music and some electronic accordion blasted through the house. The house’s band played and sang about radioactive pandas as an allegory to the deadness of society. Cigarette smoke wafted throughout the rooms.
Dressed in my camouflage, as a way to be one with the Hipster, I had to restrain myself from talking as well as fake-drink my handed PBR beer in order not to blow my cover. I watched sexually-comfortable (but very insecure) guys, who dressed themselves in shredded jean shorty-shorts with obscenely colorful deep-plunge v-neck (no doubt about it, 30$ American Apparel®) talking about, you guessed it, obscure bands and movies. They wore their Hipster Shades at night talked about the mainstream—insert overly pseudo-political and economic conspiracy here—problem.
I laughed. And then the two Hipsters looked at me.

Hipster guy 1: “What’s so funny?”
Me: Oh shit! What do I say? I frantically think of something unremarkable. “Psh. I know.”—I restrained from showing emotion and just looking pissed off.—“Mainstream society is just so mainstream. It’s hard for me to under-fucking-stand.” I cross my fingers, waiting for backlash, or my cover to be blown.
Hipster guy 2: “Man, she is totally”—almost as if it was in slow motion—“right.” I was relieved and the conversation continued between the two Hipsters.
Me: Jesus, that was close.
The night ended with a bunch of guys and girls, who were so comfortable with themselves, sleeping in various positions with each other, hammered from a PBR and cigarette overdose. There may have been other contraband, but I stand in the main room of the party, intently studying this subculture.
            Final Thoughts:
            So my experience with the Hipster cult resulted in me getting asked for my number by some Hipster guys, hoping to connect with a female-Hipster to talk about their struggle with growing up. I gave them the suicide-help-line number, hoping that that when they needed a reality check: that would be it.
           I would kill myself if I were a Hipster.
           So, please, Hipster Culture…..
           Just die already.
           And to Hipsters:
           Get a job and get clothes that fit you and aren’t made of out plastic bags, or paisley prints that even my grandmother wouldn’t wear.
The Rest of Society

The Moral of the Story:
Keep all blunt objects away from society in the 
presence of a Hipster.


The Drawktopus

Moral of the story:
Don't waste electricity
The Drawktopus. It is a mysterious creature that dwells in every artist. This magnificent beast steals inspiration from every artist thus preventing them from drawing a masterpiece, like drawing Benjamin Franklin riding a T- Rex with an AK- 47 in one hand, the head of Medusa in the other and with a knife between the teeth. It is every artists worst nightmare. It entangles you in it's tentacles and dangles your pen in front of you like putting a Twinkie on a stick to coerce a fat person to run. With your poor pen out of reach, you are stuck there until the drawktopus gets bored and leaves only to someday return and taunt you once more.

I forgot to mention, the Drawktopus serves another purpose which is to distract you from school and write nonsense in your journal all day then leaving you with nothing learned.

All this overpriced education only to be ransacked by the dreaded Drawktopus.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Its a Buffalo and Crocodile Kind of Day

The Moral of the Story:
Save your money.
Okay so do you ever wish a buffalo would charge into a classroom with a crocodile on its back and while the buffalo is trashing the room and creating chaos, the crocodile would eat the prof's grade book, computer and paper all in one? Yeah. Today was that day.

I start my day sprawled across my bed, dreading going to class. No reason in particular to dread but it must be a sixth sense or something, or just laziness, regardless I got my ass dressed and head out the door. 

It wasn't as cold as it has been because I only needed to wear one jacket. It was borderline deserving of two jackets but I thought of that kid in A Christmas Story (cr.) who ends up being trapped in his snowsuit, so I thought against it. (Yes, that was a complete and utter exaggeration of my dilemma but it serves its purpose.) Anyway so I was walking to class rockin' out to some Katy Perry (judge away) and you know when you make that kind of gassy, growl-y sound in your stomach and people think you farted? Well I started to get that feeling but thank the lord I was outside. When I got to school I sauntered over to the Starbucks in the bookstore only to see an obscenely long line; it looked like a bunch of thirteen year olds waiting in line for Twilight (cr.) or Justin Bieber (cr.), the crack of tweens everywhere. Well I said "fuck this" and went downstairs to the OTHER coffee shop. 

Two coffee shops, a food court and a restaurant with a full bar are in one location, on campus. Yes, we get drunk and go to class. Progressive. 

Anyway, I had ten minutes to get to class and I think "yeah I can get this bagel toasted and my chai made in no time!" little did I know that my school cash wasn't enough to cover it so I had to use my weekly allowance thus depleting more of my poor college student funds. I hand over the cash (tears now flowing... ;_;) and paid for my beverage and bagel.

Five minutes pass. I'm like "shiiiit... oh man, I'm gonna be laaate" but the fate of my tea and bagel were in the hands of the baristas, who, being dicks, took their sweet time. Well I eventually got my items and I was left with three minutes to get to class. I bolted right off to class when I got my food. When I got to class the professor was setting up (thank god for liberal arts professors. They take their time unlike those frigid, rigid science and math professors...dicks) anyway I then placed my delicious bagel on my desk and started putting the cream cheese on, ready to taste a thing of beauty. 

WELL, guess who is the idiot who put her chai on the corner of their desk? JUSTIN BIEBER! (wait, thats a dude... kinda) No I'm just fucking with you, it was this retard in all her glory and anticipation to have tea and a bagel. Well I failed to realize how much of a bitch those cream cheese packets are and with my fighting spirit and stubbornness I refused to lose to that that fucking tube. Needless to say with all that fighting spirit I apparently had to make a sacrifice and it was either the bagel or the tea, as apparently I could not have both. I knocked the cup of awesomeness off my desk and watched it fall and explode on the floor. 

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!"! My heart was broken. I felt like a hambeast who was just been informed that there were no more pancakes in an IHop.

I embarrassed myself in the beginning of class. My fellow scholars must have seen my state of shock and jumped to the rescue, I eventually helped... after I stopped crying. 

I never got one sip out of it.

The Dirty Pot Conspiracy

Moral of the Story:
Do the dishes because you don't want 
Arnold to tell you to "stick around"
It may be weird, but I have an intense pet- peeve or rather EPIC HATRED of dirty pots. Let’s explore this EPIC HATRED.

The beginnings of the EPIC HATRED of pots when soiled (not like soiled when someone took the MOST EPIC poop of a lifetime in a Cuisinart® , but soiled as in: smutty, grimy, or just plain dank—not in a good way, but like… well you get it.).
Okay, enough of the caps lock, I feel Kanye West channeling through me.

So. Dirty Pots.
I shudder when I think of them. 
It all began when I was a wee young lass. Jooj may not share this same sentiment, to this is my story. (I really want to add beezies, to the end of that statement, but will refrain till further notice.) 
  Anyways, when I was a wee young lass, I abhorred the kitchen. Or cleaning. Probably just the cleaning.     

  You know why? 
  Because the giant stack of grimy dishes always stared at me, awaiting some scrub loving. My 8-year-old self imagined those pots like giving an old lady a sponge bath, and scrubbing every orifice of that weathered, wrinkly skin. Our grandma naked is a scary thought. 
Dirty Pots=Scrubbing old ladies (or men, doesn’t matter as long as they are covered in liver spots and multiple wrinkles, like sand ripples in the Kalahari desert).
  I was stuck doing the job. A lot. Before I knew how to curse, my 8-year-old vocabulary was: “DANGIT.”
  Scrubby McScrubberson. Elbows deep in three-day-old grime. My face contorted at every odor and feeling of hard two-day old pasta plastered to the metal pan.
  Worst of all.
  No one thanked me for my dutiful effort to rid the world of the grime on pot(s).
  And so, the battle became a war.

  Jump forward, my bitterness towards my constantly resurrecting foe in full swing.
I am in college. By that means, I have roommates. Roommates are like friends and human banks to contribute to keeping a roof over your head. Especially when diplomacy rules, and you orchestrate chore days for everyone in the house to adhere to. I love roommates—unlike my other half. But you know what I hate about roommates?


And that pot monster is back. Glaring me down, waiting for that scrub-a-dub-dub.
You know what pots? 


Scenario 1: It’s a good chore day. 
Threat level: Minimal
Outcome of battle: Win for the Human

Looking at the chore list and I see it’s my day for chores. I look to the sink.
-Sigh. But at least it’s my day and tomorrow is someone else’s.
Happily, the previous task-holder from the day prior loaded the dishwasher and I empty it and replace with dirty dishes. Put in the dish detergent, turn the knob and hear that machine rumble rumble rumble. 
The kitchen is immaculate when you are through with it, but my hands are raw with dish-soap, iron-wool marks from scrubbing and of course—fucking hot water I forgot to balance out with cold water.
Be proud.
But pride is swift as I become bewildered as ravaging females pillage the kitchen, scraping together homemade meals that range from Top-Ramen to flank steak for one (Yes. That happens). It’s a battle for the stove—stains, like bloodstains, but of pasta sauce (fucking pasta sauce), riddles the once pristine white surface of the electric stovetop. 
Shrug it off. I did my chore. 

Scenario 2: Not your chore day
Threat Level: Moderate
Outcome of battle: It’s close, but Humans win

  The scavenging roommates have successfully decimated all health code violations of the kitchen. Dishes are stacked sky-fucking-high, food remnants haven’t been scraped out, and! It’s not my dish-chore day; but it’s the weakest member of the taskforce.
  Damn it. 
  Hours go by. Walking by the kitchen intermittently through out the day and the dish-beast is there. Festering in its ungodliness. 
  Daylight dies into night—when the beast comes to full form.
  The soldier tasked today makes it in time to clean the dishes. The beast is slowly killed, only small parts of its being are left in the sink, awaiting the dishwasher as the first load of casualties are expelled into the dish-water-of-nothingness.
The other agents don’t see it, but the monster is biding its time. The sink--Its camp--houses the leader—the dirty pot: filled with pasta sauce.
(What’s with the fucking pasta monster?)
I flick it off; We’ve won this round, but tomorrow’s battle will be tough.

Scenario 3: It’s a Friday
Threat Level: Low-ish depending on circumstances
Outcome of battle: I win.

I clean the kitchen usually on Friday when no one is assigned the chore because it doesn’t bother them as much as it bothers me. 
  Dinner is made. The roommates have pillaged and successfully laid waste to the land. Having no plans, I clean. 
  **same scenario as 1: The kitchen is immaculate when you are through with it, but your hands are raw with dish-soap, iron-wool marks from scrubbing and of course—fucking hot water you forgot to balance out with cold water.
Kitchen monster—submerged in Dawn®; dying a slow and chemical death.

Scenario 4: It’s Friday and there is a party
Threat Level: Double Fucked
Outcome of battle: I lose and am crucified

  No story can be told, but survivors are few and far between. According to the official death-records:
"The double agent Tequila distracted her from the task of dish-watch duty and the Pot-Monster grew to enormous proportions. Worst of all, the pasta stains returned, and this time were partnered with left over dried bread crust." 
-end journal

Needless to say, I HATE dirty pots.
And mingling with that double agent Mr. Tequila, you sneaky sneaky asshole.

Greetings from the mind of twins

Moral of the Story: 
Never take your third eye off your twin.
Currently, I, Jooj am posting the first post. You see me and KitKat go to two different schools roughly about 400 miles apart so she and I are telepathically linked and talking right now. We are discussing what the first post should be. We are arguing whether we post comic first or stories first. And its just been decided that we are going to go with comics first because I just won rock, paper scissor all with the power of my mind. I'm pretty badass when it comes to rock, paper, scissors but I can't play spoons to save my life. :{


Yeah well, I, Kels, have finished the first writing piece. So there. I may have lost at rock, paper, scissors, but paper is my method of transcription--thus the best. And I could just throw a rock at you with my mind if I wanted to. But I won't. Because this blog is a twin blog, not a singlet blog.