So, after the last article came out in the school papes I flew (that Friday, actually) up to Manhattan to interview at some fine establishments of higher learning. The first, Eugene Lang: The New School for Liberal Arts, was a bit of a bust- every kid there was desperate to be weirder and more artsy than the others. My tour guide, Monica, also reminded Dad of his college friend Dave, which is never a good sign. The kids on the tour were also mean to me because I wasn’t wearing leggings, cowboy boots, and a miniskirt. Sorry I prefer dresses. Assholes.
My interviewer was really nice, though. Warren Emanuel, an admissions honcho at Lang. He asked me questions like what books I liked and how independent I was (answers: Vonnegut and very) and then we decided that if I choose to go to Lang I’ll start a crossword puzzle club because crossword puzzles are hella dank and there’s no club devoted to them on campus. Tsk, tsk artsy fartsies.
Anyhoodles, I enjoyed my time in the city, got some sweet new duds (holla W hotel store!) and ate some freaking delicious Mexican food at Mexicano Rosa with Uncle Harry in the Village. Ugh, the greatest guac! But all in all, I was amped out of my little mind for Bronxville, which is why I went back to the hotel, ate again, woke up super early, and took the train from Grand Central with big BK.
It was freezing, but a still a perfect wonderland of different kids in scarves and sweatpants. And, to my surprise, there were lots of cute, straight boys. OMG! Because the ratio of women to men is staggeringly high and lesbians roam free among the ladies, it’s easy to turn into a four year les, but I mean, c’mon, it’s not Wellesley! And I’m sure that if I were to turn gay, they’d keep me just as warm on a long winter’s night… Anyway, our tour guide, Brian (or Bryan, idk) was a groovy Latin American studies major with Gwen Stefani hair and was legit as they come. He took us all around the pretty, little campus. I have to say, everything fit me to a fitted long-sleeved Tee except for the whole “phys ed credit” thing… everybody know mama hate exercise. Shit’s weak. But Dad and I had a blasty blast on our tour. And the kids were nice. I mean, really nice, and when I told them about the Lang kids they all had one thing to say: Assholes.
My interviewer for SLC was basically me with cuter glasses. She was glorious. Her name as Sarah and she made me lol all the while talking about Stephen Colbert and SLC’s many famous alumni (among them Alex Mac, who, according to Sarah, was a creepy goth chick… I believe it). She pretty much assured me that if I’m accepted I’ll thrive because there’s no environment as nurturing to the liberal arts as Sarah Lawrence. We talked about fantastic writing classes and theatre and…UGH! ACCEPT ME! I’m so desperate!
BK and I then ate some delicious pizza, went back to the Village, then the Upper East side, ate more, took a cab home, and slumbered once again in the W Times Square (a Eurotrash businessman’s wet dream). In the morn we walked around Time Square and Bryant park in only sweaters like badasses and then packed it up and took a cab to JFK. All I have to do now is reconfigure/ write all of my essays to make them SLC perf and send them shits in with my early decision agreement contract. Yeah, I said it… and you’re damn right it’s binding.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
college counseling (i)
OMGz! You guys, I’m so stressed for college! On the real, I open up the Sarah Lawrence supplemental information page every night and just stare at it, afraid that if I touch it I’ll accidentally submit it and they’ll reject me. I’ve wanted in on that beautiful New York campus since middle school, and I’m pretty much determined to get that oversized envelope, even if I have to slit a few prospective SLC throats. I’m all giddy inside just thinking about it! Not the throat slitting, the dorm sheet shopping. But threats usually work with me…
It’s all happening so fast- too fast! College is supposed to be so diesel, but I’ve been stressin’ over these applications for some time. And yeah, maybe if I just sat down and did it one day I could get it all finished, but homegirl’s got Saturday rehearsals and on Sunday I give blind orphans tetanus shots. Well, I totally plan to in the near future.
I could always enter the convent or get a job answering phones for my Dad, because it’s not like I’m going for the Greek life (because I’d only join a fraternity, but for lack of testosterone and experience with the illustrious keg stand, I can’t), but I’m so excited to write term papers and stay up late being pseudo intellectual and drinking coffee and energy drinks (tooth decay, yum!). Is that lame?
I wish I had taken the SAT’s more than once my junior year (hint, hint, little sister), and that I had been more involved in sports (my resume makes me look fat). But I know that somewhere out there, there’s an admissions officer dying to read my glorious essays, because they’re looking for a kid as ridiculous as me.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say here is, keep on keepin’ on, seniors, it’s gonna be worth it in the end because we get to move away from home and sleep in a twin sized bed next to a stranger and Lysol our shower shoes weekly while simultaneously living the American dream. Sigh… I can’t wait.
It’s all happening so fast- too fast! College is supposed to be so diesel, but I’ve been stressin’ over these applications for some time. And yeah, maybe if I just sat down and did it one day I could get it all finished, but homegirl’s got Saturday rehearsals and on Sunday I give blind orphans tetanus shots. Well, I totally plan to in the near future.
I could always enter the convent or get a job answering phones for my Dad, because it’s not like I’m going for the Greek life (because I’d only join a fraternity, but for lack of testosterone and experience with the illustrious keg stand, I can’t), but I’m so excited to write term papers and stay up late being pseudo intellectual and drinking coffee and energy drinks (tooth decay, yum!). Is that lame?
I wish I had taken the SAT’s more than once my junior year (hint, hint, little sister), and that I had been more involved in sports (my resume makes me look fat). But I know that somewhere out there, there’s an admissions officer dying to read my glorious essays, because they’re looking for a kid as ridiculous as me.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say here is, keep on keepin’ on, seniors, it’s gonna be worth it in the end because we get to move away from home and sleep in a twin sized bed next to a stranger and Lysol our shower shoes weekly while simultaneously living the American dream. Sigh… I can’t wait.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
I don't remember eating corn...
I’d like to preface this commentary by saying that this article is totally relevant to autumn because everyone knows that’s when the Indians harvest corn.
Corn creeps me out. On the cob, in a can, or in tiny pieces on my plate, I hate it. Even the way it grows is sketchy; don’t play like when you walk through a corn field you’re not watching your back for children with fangs to come out and eat your face. You hate corn, too. You just don’t know it yet. I’m about to expose corn, and it’s gonna blow your mind.
First, it doesn’t taste that great. Seriously, think about the things you eat that have corn in them. Have you ever said to your fellow diners, “OMG, you guys, the corn in this is making this chicken pot pie so dank”. No, you haven’t, because corn is superfluous.
Secondly, when you bite into a piece of corn bread (which, is delicious and doesn’t taste like corn), it ruins the glorious down home taste if there are tiny pieces of corn in it. You know it does… you either have to pick them out or stop eating it all together. I had to warn my grandma that if she ever pulled that one on me again she could count me out of changing her bed pan when the time came. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I mean, I can see why politicians eat corn because it’s what America was founded on. If it weren’t for Squanto and his bros we wouldn’t even be here right now. But they taught us how to plant corn so we could survive and we thanked them by killing them and taking their land. Thus, neither Native Americans nor true patriots should ever eat corn because that glorifies warfare with our peaceful neighbors and the first true Americans.
Also, the shiny shells of the corn are not digested by your body. I think you can see where I’m going with this one.
I hate corn. You should too. If America boycotts corn consumption it will probably stop altogether because corn is not a staple in the diets of many other cultures, with the exception of the Latin cultures that eat corn chips, which I also support because where there are corn chips there’s bound to be guac. We can still make cornmeal for cornbread, but most importantly, by quitting corn we can use corn oil for ethanol to stop global warming and the war in Iraq (because we’re really only protecting our oil, and if you don’t believe me, ask Tim Davis).
So, Cardinal Gibbons, stop eating corn, if only because it’s gross, but more importantly, because it can save the world from the ozone layer and our reliance on oil consumption, and that’s anything but corny. CORN SHUCKS!!!
Corn creeps me out. On the cob, in a can, or in tiny pieces on my plate, I hate it. Even the way it grows is sketchy; don’t play like when you walk through a corn field you’re not watching your back for children with fangs to come out and eat your face. You hate corn, too. You just don’t know it yet. I’m about to expose corn, and it’s gonna blow your mind.
First, it doesn’t taste that great. Seriously, think about the things you eat that have corn in them. Have you ever said to your fellow diners, “OMG, you guys, the corn in this is making this chicken pot pie so dank”. No, you haven’t, because corn is superfluous.
Secondly, when you bite into a piece of corn bread (which, is delicious and doesn’t taste like corn), it ruins the glorious down home taste if there are tiny pieces of corn in it. You know it does… you either have to pick them out or stop eating it all together. I had to warn my grandma that if she ever pulled that one on me again she could count me out of changing her bed pan when the time came. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I mean, I can see why politicians eat corn because it’s what America was founded on. If it weren’t for Squanto and his bros we wouldn’t even be here right now. But they taught us how to plant corn so we could survive and we thanked them by killing them and taking their land. Thus, neither Native Americans nor true patriots should ever eat corn because that glorifies warfare with our peaceful neighbors and the first true Americans.
Also, the shiny shells of the corn are not digested by your body. I think you can see where I’m going with this one.
I hate corn. You should too. If America boycotts corn consumption it will probably stop altogether because corn is not a staple in the diets of many other cultures, with the exception of the Latin cultures that eat corn chips, which I also support because where there are corn chips there’s bound to be guac. We can still make cornmeal for cornbread, but most importantly, by quitting corn we can use corn oil for ethanol to stop global warming and the war in Iraq (because we’re really only protecting our oil, and if you don’t believe me, ask Tim Davis).
So, Cardinal Gibbons, stop eating corn, if only because it’s gross, but more importantly, because it can save the world from the ozone layer and our reliance on oil consumption, and that’s anything but corny. CORN SHUCKS!!!
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
i'm fat because i can relate cheetos to relationships...
Cheetos and I have an ongoing love affair. Because of our secret love I find that I pine for their faux cheesy goodness on lonely Friday nights, making the occasional booty call to my favorite calorie filled snack.
Actually, I would hardly call Cheetos a snack for me. Quite frankly, I attack them with uninhibited animalistic passion, constantly yearning for more than just a convenience store bag. Family size, if you please.
Because Cheetos and I spend so much time together, I shudder to think of what would happen were they not in my life. They are not only a staple of my diet during the loveless days of my existence; they are in and of themselves a boyfriend.
I have many different boyfriends available on the well-stocked shelves of my local supermarket. Some are one time flings, others…I crave. For instance, the limited edition Cheetos that turned my tongue bluer with each bite were not only a one night stand, but one I regret whole heartedly. Then you have the cheese balls, a downright snack food tease. By only supplying itself in tiny yet delicious morsels, I am never quite satisfied and after a while, start to feel like I’m wasting my precious time and should have gone for the one Cheeto that never fails me: the original puff. It is he who is safety, a snack you know will always be there, outside the Quickie Mart, in your grocery store, in the hands of Britney Spears and various road tripping tweens…the puff will never die. With all of its preservatives and artificial ingredients making for a cheesy paradise; but after a while, these too get old. So safe, so finite, so…blah.
So I must move on. And when I do, I find that I rebound with the crunchy cheeto. The skinny one that no one really likes, but it’s been around for a while so they feel bad kicking it to the curb completely. Yes, this Cheeto is the ex that wasn’t man enough for me. I enjoyed it as a naive child, unaware of the glorious opportunities awaiting me if I would only open my eyes and really look for the Cheeto that would take me away form my first love and start me anew with it’s sweet yet salty flavor of love. The skinny Cheeto is the geeky boy I never really had feelings for, but dealt with anyway because I was too stupid to know better.
It was his exotic cousin that would leave a burning sensation on my taste buds. The elusive Fiery Hot Cheeto. It opened my eyes, showed me a world through rose colored glasses and then, in the end, let the slow burn sink in and ultimately leave a bad taste in my mouth. This Cheeto is the bad boy, the one I can’t seem to forget, the one I think about as I stand, tapping my foot, unsure of my Cheeto future. Should I risk the Fiery Hot? Or will he once again, like last time, bring tears to my eyes as I slowly run out of water. I gave that Cheeto everything I had and I tried to hold on, but in the end, I had to let go.
So where does that leave me? The X’s and O’s Cheeto’s that seem alright for a while, delicious like the original puff but a little bit edgy but oftentimes unavailable or the Twisted Cheeto that I see occasionally at parties, we have a drink and a few laughs, I think about how it might be if I take the bowl home with me and let them spend the night; and just as I’m about to leave with my newfound friend with benefits, I remember how large he is…how it hurts me mouth when I try to enjoy him for a long period of time, so I make an excuse and head for the door.
Yes it’s true…Cheetos and I will always be hand in hand, always needing each other, holding on and sharing our hopes and dreams, watching our favorite TV shows and leaving each other for another. They’ll love me til I can’t love anymore…because like love itself: Cheetos just want to give all they have to someone, letting them enjoy the sensation while it lasts, but no one can tie Cheeto down, no one can change him. That’s why at the end of the day, Cheetos will just break your heart and make you fat.
Actually, I would hardly call Cheetos a snack for me. Quite frankly, I attack them with uninhibited animalistic passion, constantly yearning for more than just a convenience store bag. Family size, if you please.
Because Cheetos and I spend so much time together, I shudder to think of what would happen were they not in my life. They are not only a staple of my diet during the loveless days of my existence; they are in and of themselves a boyfriend.
I have many different boyfriends available on the well-stocked shelves of my local supermarket. Some are one time flings, others…I crave. For instance, the limited edition Cheetos that turned my tongue bluer with each bite were not only a one night stand, but one I regret whole heartedly. Then you have the cheese balls, a downright snack food tease. By only supplying itself in tiny yet delicious morsels, I am never quite satisfied and after a while, start to feel like I’m wasting my precious time and should have gone for the one Cheeto that never fails me: the original puff. It is he who is safety, a snack you know will always be there, outside the Quickie Mart, in your grocery store, in the hands of Britney Spears and various road tripping tweens…the puff will never die. With all of its preservatives and artificial ingredients making for a cheesy paradise; but after a while, these too get old. So safe, so finite, so…blah.
So I must move on. And when I do, I find that I rebound with the crunchy cheeto. The skinny one that no one really likes, but it’s been around for a while so they feel bad kicking it to the curb completely. Yes, this Cheeto is the ex that wasn’t man enough for me. I enjoyed it as a naive child, unaware of the glorious opportunities awaiting me if I would only open my eyes and really look for the Cheeto that would take me away form my first love and start me anew with it’s sweet yet salty flavor of love. The skinny Cheeto is the geeky boy I never really had feelings for, but dealt with anyway because I was too stupid to know better.
It was his exotic cousin that would leave a burning sensation on my taste buds. The elusive Fiery Hot Cheeto. It opened my eyes, showed me a world through rose colored glasses and then, in the end, let the slow burn sink in and ultimately leave a bad taste in my mouth. This Cheeto is the bad boy, the one I can’t seem to forget, the one I think about as I stand, tapping my foot, unsure of my Cheeto future. Should I risk the Fiery Hot? Or will he once again, like last time, bring tears to my eyes as I slowly run out of water. I gave that Cheeto everything I had and I tried to hold on, but in the end, I had to let go.
So where does that leave me? The X’s and O’s Cheeto’s that seem alright for a while, delicious like the original puff but a little bit edgy but oftentimes unavailable or the Twisted Cheeto that I see occasionally at parties, we have a drink and a few laughs, I think about how it might be if I take the bowl home with me and let them spend the night; and just as I’m about to leave with my newfound friend with benefits, I remember how large he is…how it hurts me mouth when I try to enjoy him for a long period of time, so I make an excuse and head for the door.
Yes it’s true…Cheetos and I will always be hand in hand, always needing each other, holding on and sharing our hopes and dreams, watching our favorite TV shows and leaving each other for another. They’ll love me til I can’t love anymore…because like love itself: Cheetos just want to give all they have to someone, letting them enjoy the sensation while it lasts, but no one can tie Cheeto down, no one can change him. That’s why at the end of the day, Cheetos will just break your heart and make you fat.
I just wanna say...
that I wish the Sarah Lawrence admissions office would return my calls...
I feel like a desperate teenage boy trying to confirm a friday night date with a girl I know is totes out of my league.
Just... gimme a chance...
I feel like a desperate teenage boy trying to confirm a friday night date with a girl I know is totes out of my league.
Just... gimme a chance...
cravin' more cravens.
Did anybody see that kid smoking the meth in the corner at Cravens’ house? I don’t really know how that party escalated, but I’ll tell you one thing, I felt like I was in one of those glorious teen movies, full of debauchery, recreational drug use, and most importantly: Steve Cravens.
Cravens was a sober Simon Cowell in a world of pilled out Paula Abduls. It was tragic, yet beautiful. However, I’d would like to reprimand him for lack of adequate parking. It would have been in everyone’s best interest to grab the guy with the light sticks outside Solid Gold that I feel obligated to provocatively double beep at because he’s wearing an orange tech vest at 2pm, to have him wave the VW’s and occasional Camry’s in and out of his tiny street.
That party was blazin’ (literally). Not only was the turn out sick but I saw kids I thought were as good as dead holding Buds and mingling with the bros. Killer. Yes, ‘twas a glorious Saturday night, even thought Saint Thomas was packing their kids into limos for a night of slow dancing next to the buffet and planning fights against the Chiefs (Indian warfare trumps Raiders, like… what the hell is a Raider?).
It was totally, boss, Cravens. Well done. I commend you on your ability to pack almost every senior currently or previously enrolled at Gibbons just two streets away from our beloved CGHS and two more streets away from a slumbering angel, Patty Burke. You’re a hardcore son of a bitch.
And though we heard there was a hotel party that was slammin’ (kind of, not really) we just want to say that a Steve Cravens party is like a Dorito, you just want more. It’s the MSG…or, maybe… it’s the rush of hearing Tara French got her shit copped out of her car.
Cravens was a sober Simon Cowell in a world of pilled out Paula Abduls. It was tragic, yet beautiful. However, I’d would like to reprimand him for lack of adequate parking. It would have been in everyone’s best interest to grab the guy with the light sticks outside Solid Gold that I feel obligated to provocatively double beep at because he’s wearing an orange tech vest at 2pm, to have him wave the VW’s and occasional Camry’s in and out of his tiny street.
That party was blazin’ (literally). Not only was the turn out sick but I saw kids I thought were as good as dead holding Buds and mingling with the bros. Killer. Yes, ‘twas a glorious Saturday night, even thought Saint Thomas was packing their kids into limos for a night of slow dancing next to the buffet and planning fights against the Chiefs (Indian warfare trumps Raiders, like… what the hell is a Raider?).
It was totally, boss, Cravens. Well done. I commend you on your ability to pack almost every senior currently or previously enrolled at Gibbons just two streets away from our beloved CGHS and two more streets away from a slumbering angel, Patty Burke. You’re a hardcore son of a bitch.
And though we heard there was a hotel party that was slammin’ (kind of, not really) we just want to say that a Steve Cravens party is like a Dorito, you just want more. It’s the MSG…or, maybe… it’s the rush of hearing Tara French got her shit copped out of her car.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
WHORE-O-SCOPEZ
Aries (March 21-April 19)- Just like your astrological sign, the ram, you’ll be ramming all the fine fellas or ladies this month, thanks to Jupiter, who is totally in alignment with your two silky, smooth moons.
Taurus (April 20- May 20) - Due to a botched boob job, your love connections will indeed be slowed this month by intense nipple discharge. Didn’t get a boob job? I guess your parents lied to you about your birthday then…
Gemini (May 21- June 20)- Mars is in place for you this month, ensuring an STD if the necessary precautions are not taken. Remember, abstinence is the best protection!
Cancer (June 21- July 22)- Just like your sign, the crab, be sure to remember this month that these crustaceans belong in the ocean, not in your pants!
Leo (July 23- August 22)- Your significant other will be dumping your desperate booty this week because you’re so freakin’ clingy. Might as well beat ‘em to the chase…
Virgo (August 23- September 22)- Still reppin’ your sign with “virginity” stamped on your forehead? Count on a sleazy Italian man to take that burden away from you this month. Be sure to get tested the by the following Monday.
Libra (September 23- October 22)- Three words: Cosmo Kama Sutra.
Scorpio (October 23- November 21)- Your parents will catch you reading 101 Days of Great Sex at your local Barnes and Noble and never look at you the same way ever again… sucks to be you.
Sagittarius (November 22- December 21)- Don’t go strolling in dark alley ways this month, as Venus ensures that all sexual predators are targeting the Archer…that’s you.
Capricorn (December 22- January 19)- A love connection will hook itself up around the 27, but soon you’ll realize they’re playing you and be forced to tell them they’re straight up buggin’ by the 29. They’ll try and get you back but don’t trip, you know they just like you cuz them jeans fit so tight.
Aquarius (January 20- February 18)- When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars then peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars…this is the dawning of the age of Aquarius! Age of Aquarius! Aquarius! Aquarius!
Pisces (February 19- March 20)- You will soon find yourself in an interracial relationship that your grandparents don’t approve. Make sure to remind your grandpa that Jin Wu’s phone ain’t no phone, it’s a Helio, son!
Taurus (April 20- May 20) - Due to a botched boob job, your love connections will indeed be slowed this month by intense nipple discharge. Didn’t get a boob job? I guess your parents lied to you about your birthday then…
Gemini (May 21- June 20)- Mars is in place for you this month, ensuring an STD if the necessary precautions are not taken. Remember, abstinence is the best protection!
Cancer (June 21- July 22)- Just like your sign, the crab, be sure to remember this month that these crustaceans belong in the ocean, not in your pants!
Leo (July 23- August 22)- Your significant other will be dumping your desperate booty this week because you’re so freakin’ clingy. Might as well beat ‘em to the chase…
Virgo (August 23- September 22)- Still reppin’ your sign with “virginity” stamped on your forehead? Count on a sleazy Italian man to take that burden away from you this month. Be sure to get tested the by the following Monday.
Libra (September 23- October 22)- Three words: Cosmo Kama Sutra.
Scorpio (October 23- November 21)- Your parents will catch you reading 101 Days of Great Sex at your local Barnes and Noble and never look at you the same way ever again… sucks to be you.
Sagittarius (November 22- December 21)- Don’t go strolling in dark alley ways this month, as Venus ensures that all sexual predators are targeting the Archer…that’s you.
Capricorn (December 22- January 19)- A love connection will hook itself up around the 27, but soon you’ll realize they’re playing you and be forced to tell them they’re straight up buggin’ by the 29. They’ll try and get you back but don’t trip, you know they just like you cuz them jeans fit so tight.
Aquarius (January 20- February 18)- When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars then peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars…this is the dawning of the age of Aquarius! Age of Aquarius! Aquarius! Aquarius!
Pisces (February 19- March 20)- You will soon find yourself in an interracial relationship that your grandparents don’t approve. Make sure to remind your grandpa that Jin Wu’s phone ain’t no phone, it’s a Helio, son!
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