GSU has aced Pain in the Ass 1001

I was so, so, so very excited about finally going back to school.  I'm still excited, sure, but I'm also starting to realize that there's just no winning when it comes to the quality and competency of institutions for higher education.

Don't get me wrong.  My professors are fabulous.  The classes are going to be entertaining, at the very least.  But good Christ, I have never seen more slack-jawed, clearly dumbfounded people in my entire life.  Walking through the courtyard is like getting a backstage pass to a Neanderthal convention.

When did 18-22 year olds turn into such blathering idiots?  You know, I ask because my biggest concern is that I'll discover that I was JUST LIKE THEM, and I fear the only option I would have left would be to turn to Seppuku as a means of salvaging my honor. 

Other than the completely oblivious student body (for the record, I'm generalizing. You know, like saying "the general public is a mass of greedy, bovine-esque bastards," despite the fact that I know quite a few people that are the opposite), my GSU experience, 2nd edition, is just like the last. There are the same, completely insane hobos wandering around downtown Atlanta. There are the same horrendously-dressed "business women" that don't know how to apply lipstick but can down four Philly Cheesesteaks in 14.6 minutes. There are the same drivers, in newer cars, still trying to pretend they're NYC motorists, honking and yelling and all that, but lacking the guts to actually commit to the role by running someone over. The heat and humidity, the odd-smelling train to and from campus, the cops pretending to look busy despite the traffic light above their heads CLEARLY doing all the work. All the things that you'd have to spend considerable time downtown on a regular basis to notice... well... they're still there. Atlanta hasn't changed.  And while I love Atlanta, because it is my home, I still can't wait to (one day) find myself living in NYC.

At least the motorists there have some balls.

And this round goes to.... Chuck Norris. But you already knew that.

The past 24 hours have been completely insane (not that I'm wildly familiar with insanity, mind you). I don't know what is going on, but I am totally baffled. Like, more than usual.

Life has been like, "Hey! Here, have something AWESOME!" Then fate, or Satan (for you zealots out there), has been like, "Dude, Life, what the hell are you doing? That was a bit much, don't you think? I better balance that shit out, stat." And then Life is all, "Hey, now. Come on Fate/Satan FATAN. That was harsh, dude. Like, WAY more drastic than that good thing I did. Now I have to do something awesome again. Fucker. Oh, by the way, Chuck Norris called. He asked me to tell you-" then Life roundhouse kicks Fatan in the face.

Now that this is an actual fight, I figure someone ought to keep score.

-Realizing that my financial aid went through -point to Life
-Spending 4 hours on my feet,behind a bar, after being unable to find the shard of glass embedded in my foot -point to Fatan
-Getting free Braves tickets for a friend that really, really wanted them but couldn't afford them (and the requisite teasing about their love for the only sport almost as lame as golf) -point to Life
-Helping a friend through a traumatic experience that involved all kinds of insanity, cops, misunderstandings, and the like -point to Fatan
-Waking up late for work by 30 minutes this morning -point to Fatan
-Hearing from a darling old friend that I haven't seen in far too long-point to Life
-Getting totally dumped by my band... stupid time constraints -point to Fatan
-Being commissioned by a serious art collector to do a painting for his new house -point to Life
-FINALLY getting the glass out of my foot, using nothing but ingenuity and some cuticle clippers -point to Life
- Forgetting to eat today -point to my figure, and irritability

So I'm off to fly home, deal with dogs, fly to class, and then go home again before going to karaoke. Jesus Christ, I need a Jack and Coke nap.

Fucking 3am

"Why do you stay up all night and drink whiskey if you have work at 9am and then have class until 10pm?"

"I'm an insomniac. And I forgot to buy ice cream. Shove off."

Note to Future Lindsey:
After class tomorrow, but before passing out with the dogs on the amazing rug in the living room that you nabbed for $40 marked down from $155 because the dumb bastards at Ikea don't know how to use stain remover, stop at the 24 hour Kroger and buy some fucking cookie dough ice cream. And milk.* And maybe some Tylenol PM.

Goodnight to those who sleep. And by "good", I mean "shit" because I'm totally jealous moody due to lack of sleep and ice cream (not in that order).

*Also, get some more Eukanuba for the beasts. And some juice. And cheese (American and parm). And see if you can find someone to take your card and get a can of Bali Shag while you're at work tomorrow. /to-do list

Work, work, work, work. Hey boys! How ya doin'? Didja miss me?

I was giving my number to a woman on the phone at work, so she could call me back, when I said, "Four, zero, one, one. Yep. And my extension is 2001." Her reply was, "Oh! I like that extension. That's a good extension." So I mindlessly replied with, "That's what SHE said... I mean... uh... Thanks."

Okay, so I only said "that's what she said" silently to myself. But my brain was like, "Say it! SAY IT. SAYITSAYITSAYITSAYIT." Clearly, I need a nap. Or a drink. Damn me for leaving my cosmopolitan-boots at home.

Work has been so entertaining lately. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Or the lack of serious pressure and insanity that I have been dealing with for the past year and a half. Or both. Or all three. 

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As I go through my day, I tend to get burnt out on working and decide to play on Facebook   edit photos from last weekend's party   brush up on my NFL stats   stare blankly into space read the BBC world news. I occasionally hit up CNN, but I find that the best reporting on the US tends to come from anywhere but the US. And the BBC is awesome.

I came across an article today that was about how the children of sperm donors are finding their half-siblings, and occasionally even tracking down the donors. It was really interesting, but I had to read it three times to really grasp what was being said. Why? Because the last name of one of the children the article highlights is -wait for it- CLAPOFF. As in, to clap one off? As in spanking the monkey? As in choking the snake, as in jerking it in a cup to pay for the large pizza with the works and the six pack of PBR you're going to consume later that night?

So the article was like, "The offspring of blah blah sperm donor blah CLAPOFF." And then I would start laughing maniacally to myself, and then I would think of other euphamisms for male masturbation, and then I would realize that my eyes were still reading the article, and my brain was trying to follow and pretend as though it wasn't amused (even though it totally was), so I'd pay attention again and read, "...sperm donation enabled two mothers to give birth blah blah blah the internet age has allowed their twins Jonah and Hilit Jacobson in Georgia and Jesse and Jayme CLAPOFF...." And it would start all over again.

I was going to ask if I ought to be concerned about what I thought was immaturity on my part. That was the point of this post, initially. But, actually, the Clapoff thing is REALLY fucking hysterical, and totally chock full of high-brow laughs. I wonder if the guys at CNN tracked those kids down to do a story on insanely, hilariously ironic last names and then their brilliant story was shot down by The Man, a.k.a. their boss that had never taken a single journalism class or known anything about what gathers public interest, so they just went with what they could find in a pinch, while sticking with the same general subject.

I'm sure that's what happened. I mean, come on- HAHAHA, oh, I totally just said "come on"! Hahaha..... Man. That's fucking awesome. What was I talking about?

BOWNED. Fuck. I mean owned.

I just went to type a charming, but still somewhat professional email to my boss. And yet, for some reason, my hand-eye-coordination thinks that professionalism is bullshit. It also thinks it isn't getting enough action, because Hand-Eye Coordination is being a HUGE slut today.

For example, instead of typing "I would love to," I wrote, "I would love you." It gets worse.

"I know you're busy as hell," became, "I know you're busty as hell."

"I have that log at my desk [referring to the credit card log I use for collections, etc.]" became, "I have that flog at my desk."

Those are the only examples of the skanky typos (though there were a few normal, G-rated typos, too).

True story. And I am so very glad that I proofread my emails before sending them. At least, usually. God, I grope. HOPE. I mean hope.

And that didn't happen because I'm thinking about such inappropriate things while I ought to be working probably. Get your minds out of the gutter. JEEZ (with an "e"....).

P.S. Just so you know, I'm not currently drunk. Here's a photo for comparison.

Me, being drunk at karaoke.

P.P.S. Do you remember that part in Crocodile Dundee (you have to pronounce it "dun DEE") where that kid pulls out a knife, and Crocodile Dundee says, "That's not a knoife. This is a knoife." And then he pulls a machete out of his boot? I can't get that out of my head, because I keep hearing, "That's not a drunk. This is a drunk." Except that I'm not going to pull a cosmopolitan out of my boot because 1) I'm not wearing boots, I'm wearing really cute sandals that are not conducive to hiding liquor; and 2) I'm at work, and it would be a bit really unprofessional to hide a cosmo in my boot while at work, and probably worse to drink said shoe-cosmo. Hear that, Hand-Eye Coordination? That's called keeping my job.

STICK your pun up your ass

I spent today being a total puss nostalgic. Somehow, I ended up telling someone about Spidey (oh, my sweet, adorable piece of shit car). Spidey died last year, actually. Talk of Spidey brought up the fact that he had the only super lame transmission automatic transmission I've ever owned, which steered the conversation toward how I learned how to drive a stick to begin with.

My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It had a manual transmission, which is great if you know how to drive it. Or, you know, drive at all. The most traumatic learning-to-drive-a-stick story I can recall happened when I was forced to take Honda to rehearsal because my dad went somewhere retarded with his car. My first journey (for which I was not prepared. Like, at all) went like this:

Me: Okay, Honda. Now, we're going to leave the neighborhood. Are you okay with that? Please don't die please don't die please don't die..... K?

Honda: *grumble*

Me: Hey, Honda? How's it going? Look at you, in second gear. Way to go. Now we're going to try third. Are you ready for third gear? Yeah? Okay, here we go.

Honda: KKRRRAAAAAA (that's how you spell what you hear when metal and metal are grinding)

Me: OH, HOLY FUCK. SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE. I'MGOINGTODIE. Oh. Clutch needs to be in. Sorry, Honda. Okay, ready this time? No, really, I'm sorry. Okay, clutch in.... shift to third... clutch out...

Honda: *bucking like a bull with its nuts in a noose*

Me: No. No, no, no, no, come ON you piece of SHIT.

Honda (clearly insulted): *stalls*

Me (with angsty, emotional, teenage tears falling from my eyes): FUCK. I am NEVER GOING TO LEARN THIS. Where the HELL DID DAD TAKE THE OTHER CAR?! GOD DAMN IT! SHIT!

Everyone else in the entire world: *HONK* "LEARN TO DRIVE!"
"Hey, KID! Get OUT OF THE ROAD."
"This ISN'T a parking lot!"
"What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

I could hear my dad's voice in my head, saying, "User error, Linds," over and over again, like he does anytime something that clearly isn't broken chooses not to work. So I took a deep breath, started the fucking bastard piece of shit engine, and put the car in first gear while trying to stab people with my almost tangible anger. I think the only reason I couldn't was because the tears water I got in my eyes (it was raining) deflected the sight-daggers/ machetes/ a-bombs.

This drive (that was supposed to be 5 miles or so from start to finish) took me 30 minutes. When I FINALLY arrived I turned into the first driveway I saw that was part of the rehearsal halls property. Having never been there before, I was unaware that this particular "driveway" was actually just a bunch of dirt with miscellaneous clumps of grass clinging to it. And it was still raining, so the dirt was actually some weird, cake-batter-thick mud. Seriously. It was wicked (and not the British "oh, that's so neat but I'm British and have to be all posh so I'll call it wicked," wicked). I'm talking the kind of mud your neighbor's miniature poodle gets into one day, and then the poor bastard is stuck being a hard brown lump for at least a week, even though your neighbor is a prim and obsessive-compulsive gay man, and the dog has a dog show in three days and the neighbor's lover is getting back into town in a week so everything has to be spotless and perfect and the dog is immune to bleach and is washed 24/7, because that shit is so sticky and oozy and gross that bleach is all, "Uh, I'm gonna pass on that one, man," and the neighbor is like, "But I spent a fortune to get a bleach-immune poodle specifically for this reason. Oh, fuck it all." And then he loses his mind because of his OCD and his muddy poodle. Yeah. That mud.

So I end up in the mud, entirely unable to get the car to move because I give it too much gas in first gear, sobbing my angry, hate-filled eyes out, and 30 minutes late for rehearsal. Getting out of the car was just as much trouble as trying to get the asshole to move, and by the time I had escaped my 4-door hell and made it to the front porch I was covered in mucky mud mixed with good ole' Georgia red clay and sweat, I had red, puffy eyes from crying allergies, my hair was tangled and soaking wet and attempting, unsuccessfully, to be windswept, and I was panting like a chow chow during a summer in Buenos Aires.

As I threw open the door to the building, thunder clapped and lightning flashed behind me (it was probably the most epic entrance I've ever made, and it was unfortunate that I was so pissed upset exhausted frustrated dirty distracted that I didn't notice it), and every single person in the entire cast gasped and looked at me as though I were the lovechild of the witch from Left4Dead and their worst nightmare, personified. Their horrified, shocked expressions registered to teenage Lindsey as looks of disgust and embarrassment, and I broke down.

Me: *sobbing* D-d-does anyone... *sob* know.. uh, know how *sob* to drive a- a- *sob* sstttiiickkk shiiifffftttttt *crying and wailing*

Everyone in the room: "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"What happened?"
"Jesus Christ, I thought you were here to murder us!"
"Will someone get her a towel? And a box of tissues?"
"Where the hell did you park?"
"You don't know how to drive a stick shift??"

After I calmed down and dried off (but before the PTSD that was caused by the whole experience kicked in) a friend of mine went out to move my car. She walked through the mud, though it seemed to have no interest in clinging to her clothes or shoes. She started the car on the first try. She had absolutely no problem getting Honda to leave the mud-field-driveway-thing, and that was that.

So, you know, when I offer my friends the opportunity to learn how to drive a stick, they may be wise to decline. I honestly doubt that anything would have taught me as well as the trauma of that afternoon. Fucking bastard Honda. I don't think I could possibly inflict that much trauma on another human being, though. I mean, come on. I'm not that driven by the misery of others.

Well, fuck.

I thought that maybe writing about my craptastic phone experience would make me feel better. I then realized that it would mainly consist of me whining even more about how pissed I am at myself. And now I'm here, whining about trying not to whine about my phone. The bullshit has been resolved, but I would have rather given my first-born than go through this again (even though I don't want kids... which, I suppose, means I'd give my first- AND second-born).

My phone was either left at The Clermont Lounge, or at a diner we went to after our appetites were crushed by the dancers at the Clermont, and then picked up by someone who called Santa Barbara for, like, 5 minutes Saturday morning. It is now gone forever, to the place where things stolen by fucking douche bags that lack the manners to just fucking take that shit to the register end up. I hope that my stolen phone explodes, impaling their stupid face with shards of Apple Certified glass, disfiguring them to the point that people mistake them for Mel Gibson in that movie about that guy whose face was all gross. The Man Without a Face. Or Man with a Face of Guilt and Sin for Being a FUCKING THIEF. Or something.

So the phone is gone. It was synced with my computer, so I didn't really lose anything. Just my faith in humanity. And the ability to go out drinking with any kind of purse that doesn't zip closed entirely. And the technology needed to call anyone, locate or orient myself in relation to my surroundings (I am ALWAYS lost, even with the GPS, and now I'm totally on my own. In fact, I'm typing this from my MacBook in the middle of an unfamiliar city where it's -14 degrees and the street signs are written in Russian or some shit, and I was just trying to get to the park that's MAYBE 15 minutes away from my house), check my email, check my account balances, take photos.... The horribly tragic and unfair and slightly whiny list goes on.

Fortunately for me, it was time for an upgrade. I managed to order the iPhone 4 online the day after my phone was left and then stolen. Then I discovered that it would take THREE WEEKS for Apple to ship that shit. Really, Apple? You can't just, you know, get off your asses and send me a phone? Supply and demand can die in a fire, I went almost a week without any means of communication. Had my car broken down (which it wouldn't have because it's the shit) and I been kidnapped, murdered, and then decapitated, it would have been YOUR FAULT. That's right. I'm irrationally blaming you for my hypothetical KIDNAPPING. Way to go. And no, this has nothing to do with the fact that I'm usually an impatient person.

So I canceled the order (that I used a gift-card to pay for) and decided to try to get a phone at the store. Sold out. Sold out. Sold out. Apparently, EVERYONE wants one of these phones. Well, everyone except the people that go on and on about how they suck (they're just jealous). Which is basically, like, 7 people on the planet. Then, Wednesday, I was told that there were some iPhone 4's at the Perimeter store. So I scooted my happy ass over there to FINALLY reconnect with virtual civilization (and my sense of direction/ checking account balance/ bejeweled high score).

My old AP music theory teacher, Volzie, works at the Apple store, and ended up being the one to help me out. We got the phone, and then the gift card wouldn't work. I got really frustrated and said that I would kill EVERYTHING just spend the $200 cash so I could leave with a phone, but Volzie didn't want me to have to deal with selling a $200 Apple gift card that I wasn't going to use. We called this and that and eventually found out that nothing could be done. So we sighed, canceled the transaction because it couldn't be tendered properly, and started the process again.

Then, Volzie went to put the new order in and AT&T was all, "Oh, hai guyz, so you know when you just said you were trying to buy this, and then didn't? ? Well, fuck you. We've decided that you DID buy it. So that whole 'eligible for an upgrade' thing? Yeah, that doesn't exist for you anymore. We're guessing you don't want to spend $600 on a new iPhone because you're lame and broke and everyone hates you, so have fun getting lost and over-drafting your checking account. Love ya, mean it!"

So I left, after two or three hours of nonsense, without a phone. Luckily, the manager felt REALLY bad, and gave me a card saying I didn't have to wait in the queue once AT&T figured their shit out. He also said he would hold a phone there for me (which they're TOTALLY not doing for anyone anymore, due to the demand).

The next day, the money was back on my gift card and AT&T was all, "Ohhhh. See, that wasn't us that you spoke to yesterday. It was our evil twin, AT&T-with-a-mustache. So go get your pretty new phone, and we'll try to track down that jerk Bizarre-o AT&T and give him a piece of our minds." And that's exactly what I did. The guys at the Apple store even bought Apple Care for me, so there's $65 I didn't have to spend on an extended, better warranty. Though I don't know if I would sell a total of 4 hours of my life, some stress, and dealing with the mall for $65.

The lesson I learned from this is that my history teacher was a liar. There's no way in hell that people lived in a time without land lines, at least. Also, the iPhone 4 is sweet, and doesn't actually drop calls, so the naysayers can suck it.

Holy Mary mother of god, Grandpa's on the hobby horse again.

Actually, those are song lyrics. I have no idea if my gramps is on a horse, hobby or otherwise. I do know that it has been one hell of a week. I also know that I just spent 3 minutes of my life trying to inform my phone that I was TRYING to say "hell", not he'll. I'm cursing on purpose, phone. Stop trying to censor me. Damn it.

I am just posting quickly to say that no, I did not forget/abandon/choose to shun (Amish-style)/ regret and delete this blog. I'm just bring pissy and lazy, and shirking my prior interests. And while none of those things usually happen, minus the pissy/lazy bit, they seem to be out in full force lately. I'll be sure to inform you of the insanity as soon as I can figure out how to do so without inadvertently forcing you to attend my pity party. Though if you want to come, it's byob because I'm broke, and you ought to bring your own cheese, because I barely have enough for my own whine.