Not just for nothing anymore!

•June 13, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I used to think  the SAT was useless.  I used to think it rode on the same short bus as the FCAT for which many high school hours were wasted in preparation.  While taking the SAT, I died emotionally, fell into a state of conscientious comatose.  When I woke up, I had forgotten about the exam.  Pushed it out of my memory.  When the scores came back, I said, “What is this poppycock?  What is this ‘stan-dar-dized a-cheev-ment’ stuff?” and then made origami swans with them.

But recently, my SAT scores made a second coming.  A glorious, ray-of-light-shining-through-the-clouds reawakening.   See, after my battle with statistics and finite math this spring, I was lost and confused in terms of whether my C and B- would suffice so that I could graduate and burn the school down.  See, there are various complex, non-sensical rules regarding basic curriculum math scores.  These rules are made up so that people who do not meet the standards have to repeat classes that are totally irrelevant to their major so that the school can get more money from tuition fees.  Clever.  My English department advisor and the math department advisor were… for lack of a better term… useless?  (Sorry, Mr. English advisor.  That’s not really true.  It’s the system, right?  Yeah.  Wink, wink.)  There was a lack of information.  Not surprised.  So I went to the main advising center where people know things.  Important, life-changing things that us commoners would normally be ignorant of.  Bastards.  Anywho, long story short.  Turns out my SAT scores waived me from having to meet those aforementioned standards of doom.  I think my eyes welled up in front of the advisor I talked to.  I shook her hand, told her, “This is one of the best days of my life… where’s my diploma?”

FYI, I skipped the graduation ceremony.  I thought about it, knew that it would make my family happy.  But I couldn’t stomach the thought of paying to sit around for three hours, wearing a hat that would be unflattering on my head, just to have my name called and walk across the stage for ten seconds.  (Caring is not one of my stronger talents.)   Time and money will be better spent tonight with my awkward family, having a zagat-rated meal in a gay-owned restaurant.  Sweet.

My diploma arrived in the mail the week I found out I was liberated.  I made an origami swan.


Are you there?

•May 4, 2010 • Leave a Comment

You know God wants you to buy a piece of clothing you’re trying on when you find a dollar in the pocket.

In light of Easter and Passover…

•April 4, 2010 • Leave a Comment

A  couple of weeks ago, a friend and I went for breakfast at Strathmore’s, a little bagel-and-deli restaurant.  All the waitresses are post-menopausal Jewish women (duh).  We were sitting outside enjoying one of the few days of Florida warmth sans humidity.  The waitress came out with coffee and tea, ready to take our food order.  My friend orders eggs, bacon… potatoes?  Maybe, I can’t remember… cinnamon-raisin bagel, to which our waitress remarks is particularly good that day.  (Mmm, bagels.  My heart goes out to those with gluten allergies).

“And for you, hun?” the waitress asks me.

“I’m gonna have the fruit platter.”

“No you’re not.”

Whuh?  I… I don’t understand!  Why?  Is there no fruit?  Am I being punished?  Arrested?  Deported?

“Fruit’s no good today.  If I’m not eatin’ it, you ain’t either.”

My eyes widened, filled with tears of gratitude, faith and love.  For I wholly believe, friends, that this woman was an incarnation of Jesus.  It all makes sense– Jewish, brings you food, calls you out on your shit, and protects you from evil (like nasty produce).  I was saved, people.  Sure, saved from bad fruit, but SAVED, nonetheless!

“How about a stuffed tomato with cottage cheese?” I ask. (Shut-up, I like cottage cheese.)

“Sure, why not.”

Thanks, Jesus.  FTW.

P.S.  Here’s the truth about Easter

Dear Statistics (and post-secondary-education math in general),

•March 4, 2010 • 1 Comment

Why do you always do this to me?  What have I done, or not done, to make you so volatile?   I know we’re different– you like logic and long walks along quadrants, and I do literary analysis on Disney movies… late at night… while drowning my sorrows… because you never give me a chance! I thought we could  understand each other, Math!  And so many times, I’ve thought I had you figured out, only to be shot down when it matters most.  You know, I’m only with you because it’s a core curriculum requirement.  Honestly, I wasn’t too excited about you either, but I thought we might be friends in the end– work together, have a few laughs out of my mathematical handicap, I earn a C in the class, graduate, and that’s it.  Maybe be friends on Facebook too, I dunno.  I never wanted to pressure you into anything.  I was just hoping for a symbiotic relationship– I give you the numbers you want, I get the grades I need.  What’s wrong with that?   Do I embarrass you?  Am I asymmetrical or something?  Damnit, Math.  You just don’t care, do you?

I’m going to go open another bottle.  Call me when you decide to stop being a bitch.


When there’s nothing better to do…

•March 2, 2010 • 1 Comment

“Many people say that they have a right to smoke, but it’s actually not true.  Smoking is a personal choice.”

~some dorkwad whose first name is Jesus, which makes it all the more tempting and fun to tear apart his quote.

What?  Really?  I thought a personal choice is a right.  Like choosing to get married, or flossing, or deciding between Pepsi and Coca Cola (which we will sort of further address in this post…)

Apparently, starting this summer, the university I attend will become a smoke-free campus.  That means no stepping-outside-for-a-cigarette-break, but no-cigarettes-at-all.  If anyone actually reads this blog, he/she/it may recall that I don’t even smoke cigarettes.  But I happen to find the smoking-ban… just… dumb.  For one, the people of the Smoke-Free Tobacco-Free Campaign don’t seem to realize how many professors smoke.  And statistically, professors who smoke tend to be cool ones.  Does anyone realize how many pissed-off professors there are going to be on campus once the ban officially starts?  What if this leads to a drop in grades because they no longer have the patience for stupid questions?  There will be no mercy.  More students will stay back and never graduate and then the overpopulation will be worse than ever!  Parking will be even MORE impossible.  The bathrooms will be a constant danger zone.

“We’re not just doing this for the health reasons, we’re also doing it because it’s good for the University to have a public identity about being a smoke-free environment,” said some other dingus.  I’m sure it’s also good for the university’s public identity to have Pepsi logos all over campus.  Yup.  Pepsi is our new daddy.  I love the gigantic banner at one of the main entrances, which simply bears the Pepsi logo and the word KNOWLEDGE.  I knew there was a connection between phosphoric acid and I.Q.  And frankly, chances are that most students at my school are far more at risk of diabetes and heart attacks than lung cancer from second-hand smoke.

Originally, the plan was to have specific locations on campus where people could smoke, and then eliminate them one by one so that smokers would have time to “diminish their addiction” (pfft!).  But then that would cost too much money (really?), and besides, why waste time with fascist-ish action?  Chastise the defectives!  Basic rights are stupid!  Drink Pepsi!

It’s a little like the bible leprechauns pickled eggs Glenn Beck– hard to take seriously, kinda funny…  I’m not even sure I really believe it.

The best part is that this new ban is supposed to be “socially enforced”.  I’m sure the first puritan to reprimand a smoker on campus will receive a lovely cigarette burn to remember.

But he had a neat hat…

•December 17, 2009 • 1 Comment

I know, Conscience, I never write anymore.  It’s not my fault.  I moved, like, two months ago.  I got a new job and I’m working more hours and I’m running around between the United States and the Republic of Miami, and I hate math and Haagen Dazs keeps giving me coupons for a dollar off and I really love the Peppermint Dazzler (I don’t even like peppermint that much, but white chocolate ice cream with peppermint bark, then topped with hot fudge and Oreo pieces and whipped cream– WTF???).  Shut the fuck up.


So while driving in rush hour yesterday I saw an obese man on the sidewalk, in a wheel chair, maneuvering himself backwards with his feet– a la the Flintstones, but in reverse.  Whuh?  He had a white beard and glasses.  He wore a yellow button-down shirt, and a neat little hat, like a straw fedora with a black and white striped band.  So many questions entered my mind.  Why is he peddling himself backwards?  Where’s he going?  What health conditions does he harbor?  How did he get to that point?  Does he have friends and/or family?  Where did he get that hat?

(Oh god I just squished a bug and I feel reeaaallly guilty…)

Anywho.  It was just one of those sights that doesn’t quite surprise you, yet how it makes you wonder.  It must be a western response because I’m sure if a little Sudanese boy saw something like that, he would just think he was hallucinating because with everything we (supposedly) have here, such a sight is fucking ridiculous.  I didn’t know whether to feel pity, to reflect on our country’s health issues, to surmise that he must be an eccentric dude, or stop looking and think about kittens and cupcakes.  As an ostensible liberal and vegetarian, how concerned am I (or is anyone) supposed to be about others and the state of the world?  Where’s the line between Darwinian pragmaticism and Jesus-like bleeding-heart compassion?


Oooh, lolcats.  Bye.

You know it’s a Spic thing when…

•October 18, 2009 • Leave a Comment

You’re a female walking down the street,

and more than once,

some guy in a douche-mobile tries to get your attention by

a) whistling

b) ogling at you like a rapist/pedophile/vegetable

c) screaming

…because these are perfectly acceptable and proven methods of getting a girl to think highly of you.

Good job, Chulos.