Hi.
Too often I am faced with bullshit. Lets unpack the bullshit.
but first: an excerpt from an IM I sent someone tonight after finding my laundry soaking wet and full of lint after I paid quality campus cash for it to be dried in the dorm dryer.
i am so going to cut thru nyus beurocratic process tomororw morning and get that dollar back on my campus cash card, and get an apology from some ass kissing administrator.
they might think that nobody will pursue this because of the mere pence involved, but I surely will. It is the principle, and if nothing else, I am a woman of principle.
So I lug with me, day by day, an antiquated suitcase chock full 'o shit, of the bull flavor.
1. Peanut butter and co. They have peanut butter, but since it's dubbed "gourmet," it runs $6 a jar.
2. The entire NYU Health and Wellness Center. I will unpack this more juicily upon request. Lets just say that on average, I get shot down there by self- important pseudo- MD's about 75% of the time I go. Either that, or I'm told to give whatever the problem/ ailment "a few days," after which the treatment is "a few more days"
As for the Mental Health aspect, express distress and you'll be granted a scrawled perscription to one of about 12 SSRI's that they circulate around the NYU kids, respectively. It's a toss- up which one you'll get. Have been known to favor Cymbalta, Prozac, Paxil, and Anthrax.
As for the ten free therapist sessions, the best advice I got from mine freshman year was that when I was feeling down, anxious, or sad, I should try to "see a movie, read a book, work on a jigsaw puzzle, or go to a museum."
Where is the duncecap when you really need it?
3. Vanilla ice cream. Effin gross.
4. makeup.
5. Asian people wearing blue or green colored contacts.
Why? It would be like me, a white person, getting a lip replacement so I had lips characteristic of a black person, wearing a frizzy wig, and ditto with nose and above re lip. Why be something you're not? Just take a chill.
6. In a certain Gallatin 3- hour long class today a certain teacher- who- shall- not be named was absent, and left us with instructions to lead class ourselves, and what to do. There were 10 different instructions. The entire class showed up, and proceeded to follow all of her directions. What do we make of such a phenomenon? Do people actually care about something? Before they turn 45?
7. when teachers say "this idea that/of" and proceed to say a painfully obvious thing, like "self and other," or some other hackneyed axiom. Oh, I know. "it's cliche for a reason!"
8. Teachers that use words from our youngster parlance to curry favor with us.
9. Teachers who amplify and exaggerate minute technical difficulties in the classroom to get suck-up laughs from the class. We don't care that you forgot to plug in your computer, or the projecter is on the blink. Just do your thing, we'll do ours, and switch to Gallatin.
10. ASsignment pads. Use your hand, it will never get lost.
11. The last hour of latent-ness this poor post has endured due to my internet voyeurism with regards to the "Kimmel 17+1 unnamed gutsy student"
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
middle of the night
so lately, been wond'rin, who will be there to take my place
when im gone
you'll need love
to light the shadows on your face
remember that song? I could google it and write down what it is, but i wont botha.
too bad this household is in shambles right now. more than it usually is, even. but usually i am cool with it. now, because there is 9 people dwelling here overnight instead of the usual 4, resources are scarce, and sleeping options are limited. A Mad search for a pillow that began at 5 am ends now, with this pillow *cocks head towards pillow.* But who can sleep now? And where to sleep? And how can I sleep in this chilly atmosphere of expats who save money by not using heat in the dead of winter?
What is an expat?
What will today bring. I have a couple of things lined up in my head for landmarks/benchmarks, as I try to do for every day in order to maintain my steadily dwindling grip on functional productivity and overall action with a forward trajectory. The things I have lined up are less than something that is not so mammoth<
BLOODY HELL< the punctuation and caps lock are all of the sudden majorly fucked up on this ole compaq number reminiscent of a simpler time with more crude tools< (comma) sheepskin wardrobes, (ITS BACK!) and the third thing that was a sign of the times that served as the heyday of this compaq[t] [not] compy need not be written here because the point has been rendered moot by the reappearance of the comma after the blessed word 'wardrobes.'
The daughters of the deceased woman and the brave harrowing souled grandpa are bustling about the kitchen, making coffee, doing the dishes, wiping up surfaces in preparation for "later" (what happens later? Will let all of you eager readers/ voyeurs into my daily life know.) These are the vision of strength for us all, having come from a modest American home, vaguely Jewish, vaguely patriotic, vaguely vagabonds in Northeast Philly. I expect them to break down, the 2 girls, today they play 2 roles hand in hand: daughters and mothers. Organizers of the proceedings, whatever they may be, and mourners of a woman who has been a rock for me for my first 20 years.
A rock? now I can't remember hardly anything. So much of my time spent with her, I feel like, was sort of me trying to appease my guilt for perhaps taking her for granted my whole life, for not milking her for all of the information, posterity, and lessons that I could have been. So I painted this happy- go- lucky picture of myself for her, a spunky girl with a fiery drive, specific interests, and significant talent in some areas of note, and some of disgrace.
I overhear these women debreifing in the kitchen. Debreifing? The emotions are thick like soup sans water. The perpetual humming of a modern household, be it the deceptive heating system, the cieling fan above me, or the pipes and washing machine below me (Yup! I'm perched atop a whirring washing machine! Kewl) Every vocalization is made with that underlying wimpering waver that might as well provide subtitles in 3 languages "I am about to cry, and doing my utmost to hold in my tears till a more socially acceptable time"
luckily for us all, that time is in T minus 2.5 hours. Or something.
My mother, desperate for an entity to blame, to place her grief upon regally, is suspicious of the nursing home. Did they give her dinner that last night? Did they forget about her, in her catatonic state in her hospital bed in room 429 (yes I made up the number, but that's what gives tear- jerking memoirs like this one their street cred) as she used a steadily diminishing capacity of her brain and her body shut off its systems that were not needed or even foremost, silently, without warning any of us explicitly of their plan to close up shop later that night? Did they not pause to thicken her apple juice enough so she would be able to swallow it without choking on the transient, gurgly liquid that would never be enough to coat her innards or contribute to the human body's 75% of water?
My dear aunt, my mother's sister just gave me a rundown of the proceedings. First funeral home, then quick car ride to gravesite. Solemn, respects, eulogies, local Chabad Rabbi as leader, as per the life change of my cousins family roughly a decade ago. All this interspersed with and accented by seemingly arbitrary Jewish customs of misogyny like the fact that despite our families lack of able- bodied males who will be present (my father will watch from an undisclosed panoptic location, the priestly gene pool coursing through his veins detectable only in the teltale surname grounds for a life on the outskirts of cemetaries, graveyards, funeral zones. Back to my run-on: we need 6 "pallbearers," they must be male. The 2 children and 4 of the 5 grandchildren are female. Out of the running. We women may very well sit idly by while my family and the Rabbi try their durndest to find some migrant workers, perhaps a deaf-mute dwarf, a gravedigger's Cretian apprentice, anyone with a penis 'n scrotum to help defy gravity as they steadily lift the wooden box which contains my grandma's body wrapped in a shroud. Her soft soft skin, once wrinkled by old age, she was past that point. Beyond the wrinkled skin stage is a sagging, windblown facade. Weathered and leathered were her arms and hands, they once witnessed the ivory keys of concert pianos up close and personal, pounding, tickling, and pressuring the polar colored yet integrated keys of the upstanding instrument slash furniture item. Her teeth: light green and brown, yellow and off- white, the subject of a minor tragedy she once told me about- "the dentist made a mistake" she said simply. I haven't seen her teeth as anything but puffy- cloud white since the day I learned my colors and was in her presence. Her body is one thing. But where is the rest? If there is some sort of communion with god in an afterlife, or limboland, does it feel to her like it has been forever, or for never, as time as we know it probably holds no meaning 'out there'? Does she even feel. I don't want to ask these questions because I formulate the questions within the limitations of our world of time, space, emotions, apologetics, rhetoric, and mixed metaphors, sour grapes, and paralysis, orgasm and overdose married in a union so precious that no proposition number 8 would consider approaching it with a 200- tefach pole. cubit pole.
All of a sudden religious practices are at the forefront. As if they were about to transmit all of the sacred truths that must be passed on to the newer generations, they flesh out the details of the Jewish mourning process. In the face of fear, loss, and as we are forced to make lingering eye contact with the morbidity of those who concieved us, vowed to never decieve us, which is what brings us here today, humbly before those who we live before, but blindly, naively, not until it's too late. In the face of the above, we cower and cling to ritual. I am sure someone like Rene Girard, Rene Descartes, Joyce Kilmer, or some other god forsaken famous stuffy man whose 'work' has been widespread for it's academic clout, no by coincidence sporting the blatant name of a female, has written on such human phenomena before. Fuck them. I see it right here, so they may have been born first, but I am me. Can anyone blame them? They consider the garments they wear, which should be torn first, the outer or inner shirt? Are these chairs too high off the ground for us to sit on for the next week, and how do we convince dad/grandpa that this is not an occasion that deems fasting an appropriate response?
This lurker of a thought wants to be typed up here: What if my grandpa can't take this unspeakable anguish and he submits to natural forces and causes, as a preemptive measure to avoid the upcoming weeks, months, maybe even years, that he will be forced to live in solitude while being surrounded by the other elderly who he is unable to shoot the shit with. He is just too wound up in his retired- aeronautical engineer world of reviewing the rules and regulations that allow the nursing home to run without a hitch: the way the residents choose their meals for the next day on small blue slips of paper. The morning, afternoon, and evening routine with medicine, hygiene, futile socialization attempts, and sleep patterns. The heating system, the new fangled technology of remote control television, a box that is both a clock and a player of the classical music compact discs my mother incessantly borrows from the library for him/them/just him now I guess...
So I guess I won't be getting to sleep before the funeral. I am kinda glad I wrote this though. Would be kinda sour if the compaquter croaks right now. We could stage a double funeral.
when im gone
you'll need love
to light the shadows on your face
remember that song? I could google it and write down what it is, but i wont botha.
too bad this household is in shambles right now. more than it usually is, even. but usually i am cool with it. now, because there is 9 people dwelling here overnight instead of the usual 4, resources are scarce, and sleeping options are limited. A Mad search for a pillow that began at 5 am ends now, with this pillow *cocks head towards pillow.* But who can sleep now? And where to sleep? And how can I sleep in this chilly atmosphere of expats who save money by not using heat in the dead of winter?
What is an expat?
What will today bring. I have a couple of things lined up in my head for landmarks/benchmarks, as I try to do for every day in order to maintain my steadily dwindling grip on functional productivity and overall action with a forward trajectory. The things I have lined up are less than something that is not so mammoth<
BLOODY HELL< the punctuation and caps lock are all of the sudden majorly fucked up on this ole compaq number reminiscent of a simpler time with more crude tools< (comma) sheepskin wardrobes, (ITS BACK!) and the third thing that was a sign of the times that served as the heyday of this compaq[t] [not] compy need not be written here because the point has been rendered moot by the reappearance of the comma after the blessed word 'wardrobes.'
The daughters of the deceased woman and the brave harrowing souled grandpa are bustling about the kitchen, making coffee, doing the dishes, wiping up surfaces in preparation for "later" (what happens later? Will let all of you eager readers/ voyeurs into my daily life know.) These are the vision of strength for us all, having come from a modest American home, vaguely Jewish, vaguely patriotic, vaguely vagabonds in Northeast Philly. I expect them to break down, the 2 girls, today they play 2 roles hand in hand: daughters and mothers. Organizers of the proceedings, whatever they may be, and mourners of a woman who has been a rock for me for my first 20 years.
A rock? now I can't remember hardly anything. So much of my time spent with her, I feel like, was sort of me trying to appease my guilt for perhaps taking her for granted my whole life, for not milking her for all of the information, posterity, and lessons that I could have been. So I painted this happy- go- lucky picture of myself for her, a spunky girl with a fiery drive, specific interests, and significant talent in some areas of note, and some of disgrace.
I overhear these women debreifing in the kitchen. Debreifing? The emotions are thick like soup sans water. The perpetual humming of a modern household, be it the deceptive heating system, the cieling fan above me, or the pipes and washing machine below me (Yup! I'm perched atop a whirring washing machine! Kewl) Every vocalization is made with that underlying wimpering waver that might as well provide subtitles in 3 languages "I am about to cry, and doing my utmost to hold in my tears till a more socially acceptable time"
luckily for us all, that time is in T minus 2.5 hours. Or something.
My mother, desperate for an entity to blame, to place her grief upon regally, is suspicious of the nursing home. Did they give her dinner that last night? Did they forget about her, in her catatonic state in her hospital bed in room 429 (yes I made up the number, but that's what gives tear- jerking memoirs like this one their street cred) as she used a steadily diminishing capacity of her brain and her body shut off its systems that were not needed or even foremost, silently, without warning any of us explicitly of their plan to close up shop later that night? Did they not pause to thicken her apple juice enough so she would be able to swallow it without choking on the transient, gurgly liquid that would never be enough to coat her innards or contribute to the human body's 75% of water?
My dear aunt, my mother's sister just gave me a rundown of the proceedings. First funeral home, then quick car ride to gravesite. Solemn, respects, eulogies, local Chabad Rabbi as leader, as per the life change of my cousins family roughly a decade ago. All this interspersed with and accented by seemingly arbitrary Jewish customs of misogyny like the fact that despite our families lack of able- bodied males who will be present (my father will watch from an undisclosed panoptic location, the priestly gene pool coursing through his veins detectable only in the teltale surname grounds for a life on the outskirts of cemetaries, graveyards, funeral zones. Back to my run-on: we need 6 "pallbearers," they must be male. The 2 children and 4 of the 5 grandchildren are female. Out of the running. We women may very well sit idly by while my family and the Rabbi try their durndest to find some migrant workers, perhaps a deaf-mute dwarf, a gravedigger's Cretian apprentice, anyone with a penis 'n scrotum to help defy gravity as they steadily lift the wooden box which contains my grandma's body wrapped in a shroud. Her soft soft skin, once wrinkled by old age, she was past that point. Beyond the wrinkled skin stage is a sagging, windblown facade. Weathered and leathered were her arms and hands, they once witnessed the ivory keys of concert pianos up close and personal, pounding, tickling, and pressuring the polar colored yet integrated keys of the upstanding instrument slash furniture item. Her teeth: light green and brown, yellow and off- white, the subject of a minor tragedy she once told me about- "the dentist made a mistake" she said simply. I haven't seen her teeth as anything but puffy- cloud white since the day I learned my colors and was in her presence. Her body is one thing. But where is the rest? If there is some sort of communion with god in an afterlife, or limboland, does it feel to her like it has been forever, or for never, as time as we know it probably holds no meaning 'out there'? Does she even feel. I don't want to ask these questions because I formulate the questions within the limitations of our world of time, space, emotions, apologetics, rhetoric, and mixed metaphors, sour grapes, and paralysis, orgasm and overdose married in a union so precious that no proposition number 8 would consider approaching it with a 200- tefach pole. cubit pole.
All of a sudden religious practices are at the forefront. As if they were about to transmit all of the sacred truths that must be passed on to the newer generations, they flesh out the details of the Jewish mourning process. In the face of fear, loss, and as we are forced to make lingering eye contact with the morbidity of those who concieved us, vowed to never decieve us, which is what brings us here today, humbly before those who we live before, but blindly, naively, not until it's too late. In the face of the above, we cower and cling to ritual. I am sure someone like Rene Girard, Rene Descartes, Joyce Kilmer, or some other god forsaken famous stuffy man whose 'work' has been widespread for it's academic clout, no by coincidence sporting the blatant name of a female, has written on such human phenomena before. Fuck them. I see it right here, so they may have been born first, but I am me. Can anyone blame them? They consider the garments they wear, which should be torn first, the outer or inner shirt? Are these chairs too high off the ground for us to sit on for the next week, and how do we convince dad/grandpa that this is not an occasion that deems fasting an appropriate response?
This lurker of a thought wants to be typed up here: What if my grandpa can't take this unspeakable anguish and he submits to natural forces and causes, as a preemptive measure to avoid the upcoming weeks, months, maybe even years, that he will be forced to live in solitude while being surrounded by the other elderly who he is unable to shoot the shit with. He is just too wound up in his retired- aeronautical engineer world of reviewing the rules and regulations that allow the nursing home to run without a hitch: the way the residents choose their meals for the next day on small blue slips of paper. The morning, afternoon, and evening routine with medicine, hygiene, futile socialization attempts, and sleep patterns. The heating system, the new fangled technology of remote control television, a box that is both a clock and a player of the classical music compact discs my mother incessantly borrows from the library for him/them/just him now I guess...
So I guess I won't be getting to sleep before the funeral. I am kinda glad I wrote this though. Would be kinda sour if the compaquter croaks right now. We could stage a double funeral.
Monday, 23 February 2009
Dry foods are more than just that 3 letter word, dry. I mean be it saltines (eat 6 within one minute- you will not be able to!) or krumbly challah that will turn crunchy if left exposed to the open air for over 5 minutes, or uncooked pasta, the way that my mouth responds in the similar way that it does to the suction-y dentist tool that is meant to suck our all your saliva. No, even more than that. Because the small pieces that
You know what? How can I finish writing of the sensations felt in my mouth on my grated tongue when I bear direct witness to my uncle plotting different ways to enhance the mood of the shiva house through rude comical signs and items to serve as reminders of our own mortality. For example: My grandpa, being what i presume is completely normal for a later octogenarian, has a bit of trouble getting to the bathroom on time. So in preparation for whatever post- funeral festivities occur at this suburban Philly moderno- turned self- inflicted pigsty, (read: house) a sign was pasted on the powder room door, the only place on the ground level floor to let out urine in a socially respectable manner. The sign reads "Please use upstairs toilet if able- bodied enough to walk up the stairs."
This anarchist with side flavors of Breslov Hasidut, militant weapons, outright racism against all non- whites and non- Jews. My uncle, once a pot- smoking deadhead who embodied the unlikely blend of two stereotypes: the aforementioned, and the Arab and Muslim hating, gun and hunting loving militant with a severe case of both pre and post traumatic stress disorder constantly brewing under his taut skin stretched over decades of hard fat buildup.
A direct quote:"Oh here we go- for the treatment of chronic idiopathic constipation- Go Upstairs." He hastily flips the pages of JAMA magazines (Journal of American medical Assoc), and other such obscure pamphlets of medical literaure searching for relevant or not_ so relevant ads that might relate vaguely to my ailing grandpa. To accomplish what? Stir up an already simmering kettle of distraught, anxious women with rapidly graying hair, secretly angsty teens, and the absence of traditional familial stability?
You know what? How can I finish writing of the sensations felt in my mouth on my grated tongue when I bear direct witness to my uncle plotting different ways to enhance the mood of the shiva house through rude comical signs and items to serve as reminders of our own mortality. For example: My grandpa, being what i presume is completely normal for a later octogenarian, has a bit of trouble getting to the bathroom on time. So in preparation for whatever post- funeral festivities occur at this suburban Philly moderno- turned self- inflicted pigsty, (read: house) a sign was pasted on the powder room door, the only place on the ground level floor to let out urine in a socially respectable manner. The sign reads "Please use upstairs toilet if able- bodied enough to walk up the stairs."
This anarchist with side flavors of Breslov Hasidut, militant weapons, outright racism against all non- whites and non- Jews. My uncle, once a pot- smoking deadhead who embodied the unlikely blend of two stereotypes: the aforementioned, and the Arab and Muslim hating, gun and hunting loving militant with a severe case of both pre and post traumatic stress disorder constantly brewing under his taut skin stretched over decades of hard fat buildup.
A direct quote:"Oh here we go- for the treatment of chronic idiopathic constipation- Go Upstairs." He hastily flips the pages of JAMA magazines (Journal of American medical Assoc), and other such obscure pamphlets of medical literaure searching for relevant or not_ so relevant ads that might relate vaguely to my ailing grandpa. To accomplish what? Stir up an already simmering kettle of distraught, anxious women with rapidly graying hair, secretly angsty teens, and the absence of traditional familial stability?
Sunday, 22 February 2009
2 songs: killer queen and bohemian rhapsody.Why is Queen so good? The contrast, the assured sound that persists through the songs despite the erratic words and genre, the crispness coupled with the childlike carefreeness. The asymmetry. These contribute to the goodness, but are really just words.
I am currently polishing off a zesty bag of sour cream and onion ruffled potato chips. I dislike sour cream and onions but together in the form of whiteish/greenish powder stuck to the fried ridges in a chip, well the only word I have is "mmm". Are there other words like that, 3 of the same letter? There is zzz, kkk (more acronynm). So the chips: I put one or a few into my mouth onto the front part of my tongue, let out some preliminary chews,let them soak for about 2 seconds, and then suck vigorously inward so that I extract a juice that is flavored and spicy oil. And that's all for the chips, folks, the inside of the bag has been licked, once shiny silver with oil, now slicked down silver with a thin coating of my laden saliva on it, especially in the bottom corners where the crumbs tend to frequent.
Is doing an extracurricular hobby type activity for ten hours in one weekend excessive? Is this blog excessive? I have gotten pretty positive feedback thus far, be it through comments here (although those are sparse) facebook, in person, or telepathically (the most and least at the same time) And I thank y'all for your continued concerted efforts to bolster my back.
Whistles away now, because I did not sleep for 2 nights now. Fading fast, bleary and dream.
I am currently polishing off a zesty bag of sour cream and onion ruffled potato chips. I dislike sour cream and onions but together in the form of whiteish/greenish powder stuck to the fried ridges in a chip, well the only word I have is "mmm". Are there other words like that, 3 of the same letter? There is zzz, kkk (more acronynm). So the chips: I put one or a few into my mouth onto the front part of my tongue, let out some preliminary chews,let them soak for about 2 seconds, and then suck vigorously inward so that I extract a juice that is flavored and spicy oil. And that's all for the chips, folks, the inside of the bag has been licked, once shiny silver with oil, now slicked down silver with a thin coating of my laden saliva on it, especially in the bottom corners where the crumbs tend to frequent.
Is doing an extracurricular hobby type activity for ten hours in one weekend excessive? Is this blog excessive? I have gotten pretty positive feedback thus far, be it through comments here (although those are sparse) facebook, in person, or telepathically (the most and least at the same time) And I thank y'all for your continued concerted efforts to bolster my back.
Whistles away now, because I did not sleep for 2 nights now. Fading fast, bleary and dream.
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Crumbs + Satisfaction
crumbs are cool because they get into the nooky nitty gritty spots of my life. For starters, my keyboard. For middlers, the floor mixed with dust and wayward hair under my desk. For finishers, my goshdarn fingernails!
The statistician, er, satisfaction that I get from cleaning the crumbs out of my keyboard is severalfold.
Fold 1: The q-tip never fails to emerge from betwixt my keys with at least some discoloration, from either dust, food, or general grime! (who, bee tee dub, was the most inspiring war general in all of the 20th century.)
Fold 2: I get to blow a short hard burst of air every so often to disrupt the 9.8 m/s squared force that gravity is exerting on them
Fold 3: After I've done as much as I can i look on the screen and see that I have sufficiently fucked up my computer, sent several people spam- like IMs, and google searched lengthy combinations of numbers, letters, and punctuation marks, all inadvertently!
I thoroughly got distracted. I'm listening to some queen songs over and ovary.
It's kinda nice. My body is shot to heck, but I cannot stay in this cabin(et) until sleepytime. I shall try and find some ruckus to be a part of. Best case scenario- it will involve good pizza, garlic knots (ok maybe not both, that'd be hella indulgent, especially after playing hockey for a record 7 hours.) puns, words, body communication, laughter, and substance. Oh, and hopefully it won't include money, politics, buzzwords, exploitation, sexploitation, drudgery, small-talk, and fallacies.
That's a lot more negatives than positives right there. Hmm.
Over Under Through- anywhere a mouse can go is where you'll find me.
The statistician, er, satisfaction that I get from cleaning the crumbs out of my keyboard is severalfold.
Fold 1: The q-tip never fails to emerge from betwixt my keys with at least some discoloration, from either dust, food, or general grime! (who, bee tee dub, was the most inspiring war general in all of the 20th century.)
Fold 2: I get to blow a short hard burst of air every so often to disrupt the 9.8 m/s squared force that gravity is exerting on them
Fold 3: After I've done as much as I can i look on the screen and see that I have sufficiently fucked up my computer, sent several people spam- like IMs, and google searched lengthy combinations of numbers, letters, and punctuation marks, all inadvertently!
I thoroughly got distracted. I'm listening to some queen songs over and ovary.
It's kinda nice. My body is shot to heck, but I cannot stay in this cabin(et) until sleepytime. I shall try and find some ruckus to be a part of. Best case scenario- it will involve good pizza, garlic knots (ok maybe not both, that'd be hella indulgent, especially after playing hockey for a record 7 hours.) puns, words, body communication, laughter, and substance. Oh, and hopefully it won't include money, politics, buzzwords, exploitation, sexploitation, drudgery, small-talk, and fallacies.
That's a lot more negatives than positives right there. Hmm.
Over Under Through- anywhere a mouse can go is where you'll find me.
Friday, 20 February 2009
Questions & Rhymes: updated after the JUMP
Questions
1. TBNYU reports that negotiations have begun. Who exactly is doing the negotiating, and when is it/has it been taking place?
-"we'll fund TWELVE Gaza kids NYU educations. k?"
-NO can do. It must be 13.
2. What is mace? What is tear gas? What is pepper spray?
-one or more of these was used tonight. I know this because at about 1:20 AM I a guy near me began pouring out the contents of his SmartWater bottle into the eyes on the man next to him, as this man pulled down his eyelids. I asked "why are you pouring water on his face?" -"He got maced." was the curt reply. Maced man was groaning a bit, or perhaps that was just my heart.
3. Is charlie (aka: hero of our time) missing class for this?
4. Why, oh why would any of these students be willing to be arrested and expelled? Arrested, fine. But expelled? That means even more wasted money that goes into Sexton's butt pocket.
5. Why doesn't the world remember that we are all people? We're all the same. They shouldn't try their gosh darndest to amplify alleged differences in the name of boredom, or more ironically, democracy.
6. Where is Jsex in all of this? I daresay he be renamed John "low-profiler" Sexton
Rhymez
democracy + hypocrisy
exposure + disclosure
B-A-N-A-N-A-S + T-U-I-T-I-O-N
school + school
streets + streets
something-eese + "fuck the police"
justified + occupied
impossible + possible
Wittyish Sign:
"Sex Fuckston"
bye.
1. TBNYU reports that negotiations have begun. Who exactly is doing the negotiating, and when is it/has it been taking place?
-"we'll fund TWELVE Gaza kids NYU educations. k?"
-NO can do. It must be 13.
2. What is mace? What is tear gas? What is pepper spray?
-one or more of these was used tonight. I know this because at about 1:20 AM I a guy near me began pouring out the contents of his SmartWater bottle into the eyes on the man next to him, as this man pulled down his eyelids. I asked "why are you pouring water on his face?" -"He got maced." was the curt reply. Maced man was groaning a bit, or perhaps that was just my heart.
3. Is charlie (aka: hero of our time) missing class for this?
4. Why, oh why would any of these students be willing to be arrested and expelled? Arrested, fine. But expelled? That means even more wasted money that goes into Sexton's butt pocket.
5. Why doesn't the world remember that we are all people? We're all the same. They shouldn't try their gosh darndest to amplify alleged differences in the name of boredom, or more ironically, democracy.
6. Where is Jsex in all of this? I daresay he be renamed John "low-profiler" Sexton
Rhymez
democracy + hypocrisy
exposure + disclosure
B-A-N-A-N-A-S + T-U-I-T-I-O-N
school + school
streets + streets
something-eese + "fuck the police"
justified + occupied
impossible + possible
Wittyish Sign:
"Sex Fuckston"
bye.
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