Five Prospective Titles for my School-Assigned Film Project

It’s May 15th. I’m graduating from high school in less than a month. And what do my teachers decide to do? Why, only the most logical and constructive thing they could possibly do considering the circumstances: assign endless amounts of “final projects.” Not only do I have a 10-page paper due tomorrow on a topic I know absolutely nothing about, but my final Detective Story film is also due by 8:00 tomorrow morning. I spent the day at school editing bogus film clips, on a day when I wasn’t even required to be there, and while the project is 99% done, our class has yet to come up with a title for the movie.
In order to be helpful and constructive, I will now compile a list of potential titles for my school-assigned film project.

1.  BoneKrusher: Shit On Your Face.
Although this title is wholly unrelated to the content of the movie, it sounds pretty badass.

2. S my D While You’re Down There.
Reeks of elegance and cinematic depth.

3. Weltanschlong.
“Weltanschauung” is one of my English teacher’s favorite words. Apparently, it is German for “world view.” “Weltanschlong” would involve the film, as-is, except it would have random images of penises spliced in between the scenes. Sexual and violent.

4. Ten Things I Hate About Shotwell.
Self-Explanatory.

5. Dharma Voltage.
Pretentious and deep because the two words are entirely unrelated. My English teacher will definitely not understand it, and will therefore assume that the film is beyond his comprehension because of its cinematic depth rather than because it blows serious ass. Might elevate grade from “F” to “D.”

Blum, blam. 

An Open Letter to the Graders of my AP Art History Exam

To Whom it May Concern,

I apologize.

I apologize for answering approximately 50% of the multiple choice questions, and I apologize for guessing randomly on half of the questions I did actually answer. I apologize for using the entire second page of the multiple choice section to draw an in-depth map of the solar system. Please note, however, that I spent a lot of time drawing Jupiter’s rings. And they look damn good.

I apologize for drawing a large cat with its tongue out and writing “MEOW” in bubble letters on the back of my essay booklet. It seemed quite fitting at the time. You see, I thoroughly enjoy cats.

I apologize that both of my essays consisted solely of one paragraph each about the Venus of Willendorf, even though the second one was supposed to be about contemporary art. I’m sure you’ll understand my situation when I say that I simply could not remember any contemporary art. In fact, all I could remember was the Venus of Willendorf.

I apologize for using the space provided to outline our essays to draw a large picture of said Venus and to make a to-do list for this weekend.  As you will see, I have much to do this weekend. As I’m sure you know, time management is a very important issue, especially when you’re as busy as I am. I hope you don’t take off points for “call my fabulous ex-boyfriend” and “CVS: buy cigarettes.”

I apologize for ending my second “essay” with “OOPS RAN OUT OF TIME LOL” in all capital letters, followed by a sad-face emoticon. In truth, I did not run out of time, but everyone else was leaving, and the only people left in the room were the ones who were actually serious about the test. It also might seem slightly illegitimate that I “ran out of time” when I clearly devoted a lot of time to drawing pictures of cats and fertility figures, mapping out the solar system, and making to-do lists. Please let me assure you, dear AP graders, that this is absolutely not illegitimate. Open your minds. Let the LOLcats speak for themselves.

On a more positive note, I did refrain from ending with my planned disclaimer of “I am actually going to college next year. And not a community college, I mean like… a real one. I promise.” Granted, about 95% of the rationale behind that decision was that I really just wanted to leave. So, I will take this opportunity to assure you, dear AP graders: I am going to college next year. And don’t worry, I’m not taking Art History.

Apologetically yours,
Cheezburger.

WWLKD?

As of right now, I have decided to employ a new guiding philosophy in my personal life… since clearly my last one didn’t work out too well.

My new philosophy is as follows: for every situation I am in, I will ask myself — “what would Lil’ Kim do?”
I really think this is going to work out… because in every situation, the answer to the question “what would Lil’ Kim do?” is as follows: RUN SHIT.

Here, I will compile a list of situations I am currently in, and I will provide my new courses of action… judging, of course, based on what Lil’ Kim would do.

How to Better My Life Through Tactful Emulation of Lil’ Kim.

Situation #1: Waitlisted at your first choice college.
What I would do: Send letters, recommendations, and a fat portfolio supplement.
What Lil’ Kim would do: Threaten the local admissions rep. with your 12 gauge, then use your millions to build the school a solid platinum library and a stretch Hummer. If they still don’t let you in, dis them in the second verse of your next Top-40 smash.

Situation #2: Your male companion decides he needs some space.
What I would do: Cry a lot, try not to smother him, compromise my self-worth to maintain a functional relationship.
What Lil’ Kim would do: Kick him in the groin with your Jimmy Choo pumps, dis him in the second verse of your next Top-40 smash, embezzle money from his parents and use it to buy a stretch Hummer and some Louis Vuitton luggage. Sneak into his mansion and burn all of his clothing.

Situation #3: You walk into the student lounge, and everyone was clearly just talking about you.
What I would do: Turn right back around and walk out to avoid an awkward confrontation.
What Lil’ Kim would do: Ask rhetorically whether or not your sexiness is offensive. Debase everyone’s self-esteem by verbally flaunting your heated floors, stretch hummer, and Louis Vuitton luggage, then proceed to kick a bitch’s ass in your Jimmy Choo pumps. As a final blow, call the bitches out for copping your swagger in their videos.

Situation #4: A 200-pound man with frizzy hair and gaping nostrils somehow thinks he can flirt with you by touching you unexpectedly.
What I would do: Ignore it for as long as possible, then move to the other side of the room. Make rude comments when he follows you.
What Lil’ Kim would do: Slap him in the face, throw your Hennnessy on his Nikes, bust a quick rhyme about his lack of style and game. Tell all your girls.

Situation #5: Your parents say you’re grounded because you haven’t done Chem homework in two weeks.
What I would do: Cry a little, slam a door, curse parents for ruining life. Ultimately roll with the punches.
What Lil’ Kim would do: Embezzle money from their bank account, arson the shit out of their mansion, “beep-beep” your girls and stay high… until the next morning, when you’ll probably be grounded for an additional week. At least.

Blum, blam.

True Life: My College Mascot is a Mythical Creature with the Body of a Lion and the Head and Wings of an Eagle.

Brief anecdote:
Today during lunch, I was crouching, catlike, on the floor of the student lounge drawing my Sarah Lawrence gryphon on the “Where Will You Be Next Year?” posterboard — when all of a sudden, someone asked me a question I was thoroughly unprepared to answer: ”what exactly is your mascot?”

To make a long story short, I had just sort of accepted the fact that Sarah Lawrence is represented by a gryphon. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t really know what a gryphon was. In the picture on the college logo, it really looks like a bird:

…I had definitely assumed it was a bird. It looks like a hybrid vulture-hawk, if you ask me.
But apparently, a gryphon is not a bird. Far from it, my friends.
A gryphon, dear reader, is a mythical creature with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle.

My college mascot does not actually exist in real life.

Although I’m decidedly excited to go to Sarah Lawrence next year, I’m equally ambivalent about being represented by a mythical creature with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle. Here, I will summarize the rationale behind these sentiments in a list I will call “Nine Reasons I am Ambivalent about Being Represented By a Mythical Creature With the Body of a Lion and the Head and Wings of an Eagle.” Bon apetit.

Nine Reasons I am Ambivalent about Being Represented By a Mythical Creature with the Body of a Lion and the Head and Wings of an Eagle.

1. Does it have talons?
According to the Wikipedia entry on “gryphons,” most contemporary illustrations show the gryphon with an eagle’s legs — yes, the gryphon has talons. However, in most older illustrations, the gryphon is depicted with the legs of a lion — no talons. Hey, Sarah Lawrence? Throw some talons on your gryphon before I get to Bronxville. Talons are intimidating, like the mythical creature equivalent of brass knuckles — and when your sports teams are already made up of 95-pound chainsmoking vegans with sleeve tattoos, your mascot had better be badass. And have talons.

2. Are they monogamous?
According to the aforementioned Wikipedia article, gryphons mate for life: so congratulations, gryphon, on your moral soundness and your happy relationship. I, however, am not a monogamous creature. If I was actually a literal gryphon, I would be the gryphon who gets ostracized from the gryphon community for refusing to mate for life. I can only hope that the Sarah Lawrence gryphon shares in my belief system — I genuinely hate couples, and I’m already ambivalent about the gryphon… so if the gryphon had a long-term boyfriend who it squawked around with all the time, I would probably have to transfer.

3. Do gryphons lay eggs?
Apparently, the egg-laying habits of the female gryphon were first described by Hildegard von Bingen. Now, I don’t know much about Hildegard von Bingen, except that she was a German nun around the 12th century and that my middle school music teacher made us spend about 8 weeks “studying” her “music.” If Hildegard von Bingen has any business with the Sarah Lawrence gryphon, I would like the affiliation to be made public now. Unless the gryphon renounces von Bingen’s support, I might have to think seriously about reneging my acceptance.

4. Why is the male gryphon called a “keythong?”
…I feel that this concern is self-explanatory. Let’s stick with “male gryphon.”

5. Exactly how rare is the male gryphon?
According to Wikipedia, the male gryphon is “quite rare.” I think I’m beginning to understand why Sarah Lawrence chose the fucking gryphon.

6. It’s not real.
Let’s face it, the prospect of actually being taken down by a gryphon is slim to none. Similarly, in fact, to the prospect of actually being defeated by a Sarah Lawrence sports team.

7. Probably carnivorous.
Lions eat meat. Eagles eat meat. Burger-flavored kisses.

8. Supposedly represents Christ.
…and I genuinely hate going to church. Shit, son.

9. Ugly.
And you know it.

Pros and Cons of Dating My English Teacher

Today was the best day of my life. Here, I will recount for you the series of events that made up said day.

Arrived at school around 7:40. Had to wait until 7:45 for “Morning Meeting” to start, but I really didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I pretended to be very busy (with my iPod on, listening to Hidden Vagenda) until EXACTLY 7:45, when I returned to the lunch room and sat at a table by myself. Pretended not to hear people when they asked if I was okay.
Went to Science of the Arts, where I put on my cheery “greet the morning” face and learned that Leonardo da Vinci was a vegetarian, at which point I made a “power to the people” fist, and everyone looked at me funny.
Went to Detective Story, where I lost any remnants of composure I had previously been clinging to, and sat there weeping in my detective costume (woolen fedora and Ray-Ban wayfarers) until they finally excused me. Moved my festival of pessimism to the office of our Dean of Students, who offered me a 5-second apology for the fact that my life is a crock of shit, and then proceeded to distract me with impromptu reviews of books I have no desire to read in the first place. Most of them were about refugees.
Skipped out on lunch room food in favor of drawing a big Sarah Lawrence gryphon on the “Where Will You Be Next Year?” posterboards. My arm hurt for about an hour afterwards, since I had to hold the posterboard up to the window in order to trace the logo… it doesn’t sound like a workout, but trust me, it is.
Went to Chem after lunch. Regained my composure and overwhelming sense of self-importance by answering two questions correctly (a new record) and actually handing in homework. Then the fire alarm went off.
Everybody else was already gone, since I take an inordinately large amount of time to arrange things in my backpack. Walked down the back staircase by myself, relatively calmly, until I noticed that all the maintenance men were running UP the staircase towards me yelling “go! go! go!”
Unusual. So I hurried after them, threw my backpack in the lounge, and didn’t take the extra few minutes to go to my locker and get my coat.
At this point, I might add that my school has the most ludicrous and ineffectual fire drill procedures that I’ve ever heard of: we exit the school “calmly,” and then we line up in pairs by grade on the front lawn. If the school were ever to spontaneously combust — which, at this point, seems wholly realistic — I can assure you that the back of my neck would AT LEAST be singed, if not burned to a legitimate crisp.
Anyways. It was windy and freezing, and there I am in corduroys and a t-shirt. At first it wasn’t so bad, but then it just got colder and windier, and the fire alarm wouldn’t stop going off, and four or five fire trucks came to the school. Everyone was huddling together for warmth, but I really hate being touched (see “Diez Cosas that Piss the Living Shit Out of Me”) so I kept to myself. I was shivery and cold, right on the brink of hypothermia. I could tell the end was near. I had been trying to watch my feet, so as to avoid conversation with basically everyone around me, when I looked up and saw what I assumed to be a vision.
It was not a vision. There it was — my English teacher was standing under a big tree wearing khakis and a windbreaker, and he was eyeing me… not in that sketchy “3 seconds to rape” type way, but he was definitely eyeing me. I hate eye contact, so I looked back down at my feet… but when I looked up, he was about 3 yards in front of me. Walking towards me. Taking off his windbreaker.

And so it came to be that I, your faithful internet blogger, am now known as the girl who wore the English teacher’s windbreaker for 30 minutes on Monday, May 12.
Drink it in.

Now, in my code of conduct, I find that when a male gives a female his jacket or sweatshirt, the gesture does not simply mean “don’t be cold.” That would be far too straightforward. According to my code of conduct, the loan of a jacket or sweatshirt from a male to a female means exactly as follows, nothing more, nothing less:
“We are now dating.”

Clearly, I am ecstatic. However, I find that there are many consequences, both positive and negative, that may come along with dating my AP English teacher. I will list them here, in a list I will call “Pros and Cons of Dating My English Teacher, Who is Probably Sixty, But is Also My Dream Date.” Bon apetit.

Pros and Cons of Dating My English Teacher, Who is Probably Sixty, But is Also My Dream Date.
ISSUE: He is sixty.
Pro: Mature, learned, wise.
Con: Socially unacceptable, close in age to my grandfather, wears orthopedic sneakers.

ISSUE: He is married.
Pro: Sneaking around is exhilarating, affairs are chic, reminds me of film noir.
Con: Heartily immoral.

ISSUE: He is not a vegetarian.
Pro: Manly, high in protein.
Con: Inadvertent transmission of animal by-products, burger-flavored kisses.

ISSUE: He can recite the last paragraph of The Great Gatsby entirely from memory.
Pro: Well-read, good memory (especially considering his age), similar literary tastes.
Con: Tear-jerker; could easily manipulate my emotions at the drop of a hat. Would be sloppy in public places.

ISSUE: Non-smoker.
Pro: Healthy lungs, normally colored fingernails, no lingering stench on clothing or upholstery.
Con: Will inevitably disapprove of my destructive decisions, might tell my advisor, will probably lecture me about being headed for a “toxic, disfiguring ailment.”

ISSUE: Wears a lot of leather.
Pro: Looks fuckin’ badass.
Con: Immorality, squeaky noises when he moves his arms.

I suppose I will weigh out my options.
Blum, blam.

“Diez Cosas” that Piss the Living Shit Out of Me.

Today, one of my fellow webloggers posted a list of ten things that appeared in their Google search history. I have already done this via Facebook, but I still wanted to make a list of ten things, so I decided (in my standard tradition of overwhelming negativity) to make the following list:

“Diez Cosas” that Piss the Living Shit Out of Me — as follows.

1. the “Acela Express.”
I generally take the MBTA home from school at 3:17. My ticket costs four dollars, and can be purchased once I’m already on the train, so lazy motherfuckers like me can just cut out the step that involves waiting at the ticket window while Amtrak’s not-so-bilingual employees putter around for ten minutes, click their computer mouses in a rather self-important fashion, fix their hair, page someone without any vowels in their name via walkie-talkie, and THEN attempt to get me a ticket. As fun as that step may be.
If I miss the 3:17 MBTA, I have to take the 4:25 Amtrak. This situation blows serious ass for a few different reasons. Firstly, I have to wait around at the train station for the better part of an hour, and there’s no wireless there, and the coffee at Cafe la France tastes like mud. Secondly, there’s this man with a really long pony tail (and khakis and black Skechers) who works at Cafe la France. I don’t know his name… and yet he calls me “baby” and offers to “sweep me off my feet” while he’s sweeping the floor unnecessarily close to my table. Lastly, the ticket costs 12 dollars instead of 4. Which is stupid, but let’s face it: it’s 12 dollars.
But if I somehow manage to miss the 4:25 Amtrak, I have to take the fucking Acela Express.
Now, I realize that “Acela Express” sounds appealing… I mean, it’s “express!” It cuts your travel time in half!
NO. Wrong. There is absolutely no difference between the Amtrak and the Acela except 40 dollars in price difference, a restroom, and a 2-minute decrease in travel time. The rationale behind my hatred is, at this point, self-explanatory.

2. Misleading Default Facebook Pictures.
…I WILL think you’re cute if you look cute in your default profile picture. And I WILL be angry if I click on said picture, only to find that you are truly heinous in every other picture (and therefore in real life.) I mean, I guess it’s good that someone was talented enough to make you actually look cute in ONE PICTURE. And if I were you, I would make that ONE PICTURE my default as well. It just sucks to be on the other end.

3. Personalized Ringtones.
My cell phone STILL plays “Anyone Else But You” when a former love interest calls me. It plays “Halloween Theme” (you know, the one that comes on when the guy in the hockey mask stabs people repeatedly) when my mother calls. It was amusing at first. Now it’s obnoxious. And I’m too lazy to change it.

4. AP Art History.
It’s absolutely unreasonable to expect me to virtually memorize two volumes of Gardner’s Art Through the Ages. I therefore resent you, AP Art History.

5. Being Touched by People I Am Not in Any Way Involved With.
…male or female, old or young: if you’re not my boyfriend, don’t touch me. Don’t touch my arm when you’re talking to me. Don’t pat me on the head affectionately. Don’t put your hand on my leg to get my attention at the dinner table. If I want you to touch me, the sentiments will be readily apparent. Until that time, please refrain.
I will make exceptions for congratulatory / sympathetic hugs… if you make it clear that you’re going in for a hug, and don’t bear hug me like a fucking ninja out of nowhere.

6. When Girls Wear Adult Halloween Costumes to My High School, Which is Entirely Female.
…if you want to wear a sexy nurse outfit in the bedroom with your boyfriend, that’s your prerogative. I, however, truly don’t want to see 98% of your breasts and thighs every time the administration declares a festive dress-up day.

7. Philosophy Majors.
…entirely self-explanatory.

8. The Fact that I am Not Immortal Technique’s Target Audience.
I’m white. I’m seventeen. I’m female. I’m a vegetarian. I plan to attend a liberal arts college. My yard is bigger than my house. I have a hot tub. I enjoy hybrid cars and black coffee. I baby-talk my cat about how different her life would be if she had been born with opposable thumbs. I have never been to Brooklyn. Of course, I’m upset about this: “Bin Laden” makes me want to take up arms and start a revolution, but those sentiments are paralleled with an equal and opposite sense of illegitimacy. And then I just feel foolish.

9. Khakis and Black Skechers.
Your clothing represents who you are… I get it. My clothing, for example, means “I have the build of a 9-year-old boy, and I really like leopard print, and sometimes I wear hats.” People who wear khakis and black Skechers think that their preferred pants and footwear mean “I like metal!” or “I’m a nonconformist!”
…No. Khakis and black Skechers, to me, mean “I’m pasty and ten pounds overweight!” or “I haven’t cut my hair in eighteen months, and it looks unhealthy!” or (the most disturbing of all): “I think khakis and black Skechers actually look good!”

10. People Who Lose the Plastic Mounting Device for their Portable GPS Systems.
No, I don’t want to fucking hold your GPS in my lap while it screams things in an Australian accent. It makes me feel foolish. Also, it makes me nervous when you try to balance the GPS on the cupholder, which is not that sturdy, and then it falls underneath your feet while you’re trying to drive. I feel like that’s not safe. And when you’re smoking a cigarette, switching the radio station, AND trying to program someone’s address into your unmounted GPS, I genuinely feel like I’m going to lose my life. Precious cargo, fuckers.

Blum, blam.

What rhymes with “Parliament?”

I’ve been thinking a lot about what exactly I’m smoking — and no, not in the way of “health concerns.” I am thoroughly unconcerned with my health. I have more important things to worry about, like my break-until-Thursday relationship status, getting off Bard’s waitlist, and maintaining a healthy vegetarian diet. I realize that the last concern is heavily ironic, considering that emphysema or lung cancer will cut me down much faster than animal by-products clogging my arteries… I just don’t care.

Anyways. I’ll tell you exactly what I’ve been thinking about (aside, of course, from my break-until-Thursday relationship status, getting off Bard’s waitlist, and maintaining a healthy vegetarian diet): his-and-hers cigarettes.
Drink it in, my friends.

Think about it. I really think I’m onto something. I mean, consider the following situation:
You’re at the gas station with your boyfriend. You both need some cigarettes, but alas! — he’s a regular Camel Joe, and you? Well, you refuse to smoke anything that doesn’t have “light” attached to the name, in an effort to curb the inevitable emphysema. So, you send him in… because chivalry is alive and well, and also because you’re still a legal minor.
“One pack of Camel filters and one pack of Parliament Lights, please.”
CLEARLY those are for two different people. He isn’t fooling anyone. Why not simplify the process? Instead of “one pack of Camel filters and one pack of Parliament Lights,” why can’t we say… oh, I don’t know, “Hipster’s Delight?” Quite frankly, I think it makes a lot of sense. There would be other combinations, too — like, maybe Marlboro Reds and Marlboro Lights could be “Shoplifter’s Paradise.” Newports and Reds? “Clubgoer’s Remorse.” American Spirits and Turkish Golds? “Crunchy Granola 2-for-1.”

I really hope nobody steals this idea, because when I patent the living shit out of his-and-hers cigarettes, I’ll inevitably be filthy rich. I’m thinking I’ll use the money to build Bard a library… and then, they’ll be obligated to accept me.

Blum, blam.

Day One.

A Song that Only I Am Allowed to Like:

I have not had a cigarette since Saturday night. As consequence, my life has fallen to shambles.

Aside from that, today was utterly mediocre.
Continued the ongoing brawl with my English teacher, which I will inevitably win. I have elevated my tactics from “silent treatment” to “roll right up and sass you all in your face.” Will inevitably receive infraction notice soon. Worth it: am fighting the good fight. Also, don’t care about infractions.

Got woken up from a delightful nap yesterday when my fabulous ex-boyfriend decided to send a mass text message: “HAPPY CINCO DE MAYO!!!1!!”
Should probably remind him:
-nobody celebrates Cinco de Mayo north of the Mason-Dixon line,
-no good reason for German Jews to celebrate the Mexican independence,
-I fucking hate mass text messages. 

Current crisis: what does one say when their male companion has recently experienced a familial crisis? Already said “I’m sorry.” Feels cliched.
Indubitably should be warm, caring, sympathetic, et. al: am none of the aforementioned. Should probably work on it. Perhaps a prewritten card will do the trick, especially if I add some stick figures with hearts around them (for artistic flair.) Must remember to stop at Walgreens. Will also accept suggestions on how to be warm, caring, sympathetic, et. al.

Must go:
-scavenge my possessions for any loose Parliaments,
-make some (Fair Trade certified) coffee,
-think of ways to be warm and sympathetic,
-pretend to do homework to appease the administration,
-microwave 12 of the pre-frozen mozzarella sticks I have been safeguarding with my life since Friday.

Blum, blam.