The New England Society for Tea Fetishism

The same argument as Dennis, you say. What does that say about us then? I don't know. I'm quite hungry and I have half of a giant burrito in the fridge just waiting for a quick stint in the microwave and then a long gig in my belly.

There's a mouse in the office. It could be a rat or a squirrel, though. The poopies are quite large and all on Susan's side of the office and she's convinced we're going to get some kind of rodent plague. She keeps telling me to wash my hands before I eat.

We went to Meson Ole on Saturday night and ate way too much food (mmm, giant burrito) then jaunted over to Jeff and Pete and Amber's house to party for a while. I played sshole and ended up being the asshole on the third hand. The price of asshole is to wear a metal collander on your head and wear a sign that says "I like little boys." Pete wouldn't wear the sign when it was his turn. When Marshall was President he made up rules like "No cursing in any language and no saying words that begin with the letter D." When asshole was over a couple guys played Shitbag, which is a high-low game that Seth, King of the Drunks, made up a few days ago. George had too much food in his stomach and ended up wasting the money he spent on dinner. It was a fun night. But some boys are a little too familiar with the touchy-feely stuff, and I think I'm going to have to lay the smack down next time.

And so begins the group of blogs with titles that reflect nothing of the content, but rather the songs that are kicking around in my brain.

Happiness is a Warm Gun is a good way to end the night at the bar. So is a shot of butterscotch schnapps. Mmmm . . . buttery. So it was another night of debauchery and dart playing at the Tidewater. We were supposed to have a reading, but the snow prevented enough people from coming. Pete and I got whipped at darts, which is unusual because we so often dominate, although I did make three amazing shots. Pete is getting quite huggy which is . . . probably not a good thing, but I like hugs, so it's hard to refuse. Also he calls me "my love," all the time--cute, shmoozy, very Peter thing to do, but the only other two people on the planet who call me that are my mom and Amy, so also slightly weird as well.

This kind of creepy older guy bought drinks for me and Tracy, probably because we were the only two girls in the bar. Yes, creepy, but who am I to turn down free alcohol? I raised my glass to him before I took my first sip and headed back to the dart game, but that was it. Tracy was not so lucky, and even though George hung all over her specifically to send out the "She's mine" vibe, the guy ended up trying to chat her up. Twice. Jeff traded in his shaggy, hippy-hair style for a close-cropped look that is fun to rub. He looks so cute in his bartender outfit. On an unrelated note, I find it funny that at the end of the night when we're back at the dorm George usually has to make a comment about the male attention that I received at the bar.

I'd like to take a moment to say God bless Happy and Ruth and all the other wonderful people who were on the grounds crew at Hood when we were there. They rocked so hardcore. The crew here doesn't seem to understand that you have to plow down to the asphalt. There is at least a half-inch of very compact, very smooth snow on top of a thin sheet of ice all over all the roads on campus. I ended up falling on my hands and knees on my way to work this morning.

No reason for that title except that I've been singing it for about three days.

Jay won Poject Runway, which is good for me since during his runway show I kept thinking oh my GOD I want to wear those clothes. And Jay is just so cute and cartoony and original. I love him. I was cheering for Kara Saun but during the last episode she turned into a primo bitch who thought she was entitled to break the rules, and I didn't want her to win anymore. She's an amazing designer, though, and she's gotten a ton of publicity from this show so I think she'll be fine. Wendy will have a career with society women of a certain age.

Have you ever been on Drew Curtis' fark.com? It has all these links to strange, funny, and stupid news stories. I'm not sure how long the Fleet Center in Boston is doing this, but they have been auctioning off the rights to rename the Fleet Center for one night. So if I wanted to pay enough money I could have it named the Paperbag Writer Colliseum next Tuesday. Drew Curtis made a bid and won, and had a contest on his website to pick the name. The number one choice was the UFIA Center. For the unitiated, as I was a couple weeks ago, UFIA stands for something along the lines of "Unsolicited Finger Inserted in the Anus." (What kind of searches will I get from that one, do you think?) Of course, the contest was just for fun. You know what he's really going to name it? Amy and Tracy will appreciate this. For one night only, the Fleet Center will be known as The Boston Garden.

I've been watching this awful show on MTV called My Super Sweet Sixteen, which is about a different kid every episode who is putting on a big party for his or her (it's been mostly girls so far) sixteenth birthday. Some of these girls are extravagantly wealthy--like, "let's fly to Paris to pick out my dress," wealthy, like, "I'm passing out 1,000 invitations so I can fill up the night club that my dad owns." I just marvel at how spoiled these kids are and at the sense of entitlement that they have. The girl with the thousand invitations said that she deserves everything she has because she's a good person and then she calls two cute little plain jane, borderline-goth girls "losers" and laughs about how they're not getting invited. And I cannot change the channel.

I just had to add this because it's plagiarism week here at Paperbag Writer.

Snake handling is for pussies. I'm starting up a sect where you prove that God watches over you by punching bears in the face

Taken from the signature line of Agent Helix on the chud.com message boards, who attributes it to Dan Whitehead.

So what was Memorial's ho's name, anyway? I think I've been picturing the wrong girl, too, so that doesn't help.

I have to go see Reeves today and get another form for my thesis stuff. Then I should probably make an appointment to see Roberson. I wonder what he'll say when I tell him that I don't have nearly enough material yet to constitute a work of publishable length. I suck sometimes. I should probably work on not sucking so much. That should have been my New Year's Resolution: Suck less.

This is why I'm so glad we started blogging in college.

"Candle in her Deal"
goodbye memorial's ho
though i never f'ed you at all
i heard the stories of those who did
they crept out of the world wide web
and they crawled into your bed
they made you do things
for 20 bucks you gave them head
and it seems to me you lived your life
with a candle in your deal
never knowing what it was like
to see your f'ing rear
and i would have liked to known
what was up with that
your candle burned out long before
your deal ever did
college life was tough
the toughest job you'd ever tried
hood offered you money
and a room in which you lied
down with the internet trash
oh res life, they hounded you
"we take away your guest priviledges
we swear to god we do"
still it seems to me
you lived your life
with a candle in your deal
never knowing who to stick it to
when bush left for real
she said the only candle that
you guys had in the room
was one of them big ones with 3 wicks
maybe t'was the handle of a broom
goodbye memorials' ho
from the young girls on third floor
who say you not beyond sexual
no more than 'money grubbing whore'
but it seems to me you lived your life
with a candle in your deal
never knowing you'd be notorious
for doin it for a steal
would have liked to known how much
you made that fiscal year
your candle burned out long before
you stuffed it in your rear

Laura Faris ladies and gentlemen

I had a full weekend, with lots of off campus adventures. Well, two off campus adventures, but statistically, for me, two is lots. And suddenly that makes me sad.

I spent Saturday afternoon with Tracy at the Tanger outlets in Riverhead. Tracy the Nash, this place is like half the size of the entire strip in Kittery. We made it around to less than a third of all the shops, and spent most of the time trying on extremely cute and ridiculously affordable outfits in a store I'd never heard of called Charlotte Russe. Apparently Tracy breaks the bank every time she goes in. She came out with a dress, a skirt, and several shirts. I came out with . . . a corset. Yeah, I don't know why either. But it's very cute and I could wear it underneat a suit jacket or with a short black skirt if I ever feel freaky. We shopped 'till we almost dropped, and then had dinner at Mount Fuji. Tracy seemed to like it but I think that the whole giant kettle of soup with unidentifiable fishy bits may have been off-putting.

Yesterday I went on a seal walk on Montauk Point with the marine science club. I think I got windburn. But Montauk is very beautiful and, in places, very stinky because the ocean actually has life in it. There are all kinds of beasties in the washed up seaweed, fish heads with spines and tales still attached, horseshoe crabs, etc. We did see some seals, but they were in the water so we only saw little silver and brown heads bobbing in the waves. Then we walked back to the lighthouse and hiked over to the bluffs. We must have walked about two and half miles, maybe three. On sand. I was tuckered out.

Today, it is just me in the office. Alice Flynn is on vacation and Alice Cilio is out sick.

There comes a time in the night where I can't tell if I'm still drunk or just really tired. For me, that time came around 2:50 am.

I knew it was a Tidewater night because it was Thursday. Those two are starting to go together like rice and beans, like Sonny and Cher, like, ehhhh, tomato sauce and Amy's J. Crew shirts. Jeff has to work until 4 on Thursdays, and George has taken it upon himself to keep the boy company. The night started out at Shawn's house, where he and George constructed D&D characters, and sucked Tracy into their fold, too. I resisted. I'm a big enough dork without having Dungeons and Dragons on my resume. Then, after much whining by me, off to the Tide!

Tracy was dropped off at home because she was falling down tired, and we picked up The Nameless One (TNO from here on, for reasons to be disclosed later). It was just me, Shawn, George, and TNO in the bar, along with the owner and one other customer. Much like when I found that a drink and a half makes me a better foosball player, with two drinks I was invincible at darts. Bullseye, bitch!

Uhhh . . . anyway. Earlier in the evening there was talk of strip clubs. A certain West Virginia bar may have been mentioned. TNO and I took it upon ourselves to fold the dollar tips left for Jeff lengthwise. Then she decided to stuff the ones down Jeff's pants, which eventually resulted in a spectactular head-first dive off of the bar and then, after she stood up, the disappearance of her hand past her wrist down the pants of Jeff. Bad touch. When we dropped her off she said, "Don't tell anyone I fell off the bar." So that's why she's The Nameless One.

I went to bed aroun 4:15 and got up for work at 8:03. I am the walking dead.

For some reason the counter that keeps track of my posts on the dashboard has been stuck at 443 for several months, which is a little upsetting since I was going to have a parade when I reached 500.

What does it mean on the statcounter when it says that someone's visit is spread over more than one day? Should I be worried?

I guess more than anything it's a play on the Beatles song "Paperback Writer" but I came across it as the name of a Radiohead song. As you know (or at least as Amy and Tracy know) I adore Radiohead. I also thought that since I'm in school to be a writer, it fit.

Who knows, maybe I'll change it again soon, but for now, I like it.

Here's the deal: I gotta change the name of this blog. The constant searches for "Latin Muise" and "Launch Muise" and "BET Muise" are getting on my nerves. Mostly because every time I see one I think "How in the hell did someone type muise when they meant music?" So, the search is on. I'd have a name if Norbizness hadn't already taken Happy Furry Puppy Story Time. I'm willing to take suggestions.

Also, I got a crazy amount of people getting to my site from the "next blog" button the past two days. Way more than usual.

Poor California. So many things cause cancer to it, like silver polish, floor cleaner, and the anti-dandruff shampoo I've been slathering all over my head every day for the past two months. I'm glad I'm not in the State of California, because I'd sure hate to cause it any more problems than it already has.

Amy, do you remember how you told me that the Pill works by making your body think that it's already pregnant? And I was like "yeah," but I was really thinking, "that's not how it works." Well, I think you were right because last night, for the third time since I went back on the Pill, I dreamed that I was pregnant. Like, seven-months-gone pregnant. Hormones are screwing with my head.

Sorry about the lack of bloggage, Amy, but the only thing I have to blog about is rather blog inappropriate, since, well, let's just say there's a certain person who might be offended. I'll send you an e-mail.

Check out my Slanted Left links--I just added Norbizness, which is properly referred to as "Happy Furry Puppy Story Time With Norbizness." Hilarious reports of appalling political news. Plus fun with picture captions. And puppies.

But it doesn't want to cooperate

Also, Hilary and Bill now have matching Grammys, The Daily Show won for best comedy album, and Garden State (which you really need to see) won for best compilation soundtrack. Melissa Etheridge did a Janis Joplin tribute with Joss Stone (another singer who I could take or leave--mostly leave, actually). It reminded me of The White Stripes last year when they performed 7 Nation Army. When it was over the host said something like, "Pay attention kids, cause that's how it's done," and that's what I thought while I watched Melissa Etheridge perform.

I'm a glutton for punishment, so I watched the Grammys last night. Radiohead haven'tdone anything in the past year and Ani never gets nominated for anything except packaging, so I really wasn't rooting for anyone in particular. Well, for Green Day a bit. I was rooting against John Mayer, who won song of the year for Daughters (blecch), and against U2 (they also won) because, really, it's like the category goes into default win mode whenever they're nominated. And I didn't want Ray Charles to get the posthumous sympathy vote, which he did. That is, unless he and Nora Jones really did deserve it or if he'd never won one before. Hoobastank was totally shut out (sweet, sweet justice) and Franz Ferdinand performed (new-wavey hotness). I find it very funny that Black Eyed Peas are getting all this recognition for Let's Get it Started when the actual name of the song is Let's Retarded. They got nominated for a radio edit.

I finally watched The Lion in Winter, which has been sitting on my desk for about a week. Great purchase on my part, I have to say. Katherine Hepburn is the best thing since sliced bread. Have you seen it Amy? I'll have to bring it next time I visit.

Hey Amy? Do you remember the seeing-eye ponies on the television? The ones that have to wear the tiny booties so they can walk on linoleum and pavement and all that? I was watching Ripley's Believe it or Not the other night and they had an update on the ponies. Lord only knows, this show could have been a few years old, but the people who trained the ponies got their first customer--and he lives in Ellsworth. They showed him walking down the steps to Town Hall with is little booted pony.

In other news that may or may not only concern Amy, I hang my scrubby brush up over my dresser after I take a shower. I was reading for my memoir class when I heard a crash, then a smack, then a kind of wooden thud. When I looked up (after jumping halfway out of my skin) the handle to the srubby brush was still hanging from the hook above my dresser. The brush head was on the floor by my shower caddy. I found that there is no glue involved in this thing, just a tongue and groove configuration, and really, what do you expect for--what was it, 88 cents? I put it back together and it's fine now.

I was at the Tidewater until 2:30 last night. We had a reading for the MFA kids and played darts. I'm being quite tight with my funds right now, so I had one drink, and the bar owner gave everyone a free round of peppermint schnapps. Pete and I won four games out of five. We were unstoppable. I mean, except for that one game where were stopped. Then I totally sucked ass at fooseball (or foosball, for Mare. Maybe someday I'll look that up), scoring a point on my own goal twice. I really can't play without at least two drinks in me.

Have you ever wanted to start another blog with a fake persona? Not that there isn't a certain amount of artificiality in every blog, but lately I've had the urge to start a new blog as someone completely different than myself. At first I thought it might be a good exercize to come up with a blog for a character in one of my stories and see how far I could take it. And then I thought, wouldn't it be freakin' awesome to write like some fifteen-year-old goth kid who calls herself Lucretia or Violetta or Nightshade? I'd like to do it just to see if I could pull it off.

No worries about laughing at my brush with blindness. (Amy, the "take your cat and leave my sweater" song is on right now) I wrote it to be funny because when you pull a bonehead maneuver like that, the only thing you can do is chuckle at yourself.

I e-mailed Roberson yesterday and asked if he would go to the prom with me---I mean, be my thesis advisor. It took me a while to word it correctly. I haven't checked my e-mail yet. God, I'm such a dork.

Think of all the ways you can go blind. There's diabetes. You can stare at the sun for too long and damage your retinas. A car battery might explode in your face during a jump. The infant Antichrist could order crows to peck your eyes out. Seeing Dick Cheney naked would cause at least a fifty-percent decrease in visual accuity, I'm sure. There are all kinds of ways to lose one's sight. I chose shoe polish.

It's quite slushy and sandy here, so Friday night I decided to shine and waterproof my new boots because I don't want them to go the way of the big, black shit-kickers. The polish I have consists of a tube with a sponge on top. The sponge has a little hole in the middle and the polish squeezes up out of that.

Let's take stock here: I graduated in the top 20% of my class in high school. I graduated cum laude in college. I am six easy credits and a thesis away from a master of fine arts in writing. I understand the scam that Bush is trying to run with all this talk of personal accounts for social security. I totally dominate at trivial pursuit. And I looked straight down the hole in that sponge while squeezing the tube. From a distance of about two feet a glob shot out of the hole and hit both of my eyes. I let out the most embarrassing animal howl, which brought both of my suitmates running out of their rooms just in time to watch me toss water at my face at the sink in the bathroom. It burned like hell, but the only damage was that I had to throw out a fairly new pair of contacts. So that was the highlight of my weekend, if you don't count the six-hour trivial pursuit game on Saturday night that went until four in the morning.

I keep thinking, "God, I am mind-crushingly bored," and then I remember that the exhaustion I'm feeling isn't boredom related but rather caused by two late nights in a row. Last night was a Tidewater night, with Jeff bartending and everyone else playing or watching fooseball. I have found that after about two drinks, I am a fooseball genius. I was there for barely an hour when everyone (everyone being Pete, Seth, Marshall, Marshall's friend Chris, and Amber) wanted to go back to Pete and Amber's house to smoke. I didn't want to leave just yet so I bought Seth a beer and we had another fooseball game. Hindsight being what it is, it may have been better to just leave since I think Seth did the technicolor yawn when we got to the house. Then we successfully convinced him not to drive home, and he went to sleep on the couch underneath a huge red blanket. The rest of the night was spent shooting the shit and listening to music. I had a good time, although now I'm fantacizing about a nap.

I was on statcounter earlier and found that Amy checked out one of my archives from August of last year. I clicked on the link, just to see what I was doing in August and read an entry about my new primary care physician, Laura Beagley. The funny thing is that I thought about seeing her over winter break (I have a weird throat thing going on) but I completely forgot her name. So thanks, Amy.

I like to think of myself as a fairly tough chick. I mean, I have a relatively high pain threshold. I survived four years of sweltering heat and bitter cold and standing on a soccerfield for hours on end in marching band. I ate a cricket. But this morning I tried to convince myself that I didn't need hot water to take a shower and I lasted about two minutes--long enough to wipe the poof under my armpits and wet my hair. I stood next to the shower, which was turned on about as hot as it can go, and waited. And waited. And I waited some more. I kept sticking my hand into the water, knowing that it wasn't going to get any warmer, knowing that the hot water had been off since last night around 1am when I washed my face and couldn't get the faucet above tepid. So I said to myself, "You're a tough chick. You swam in the ocean when it was cold enough to make your instep ache. Jump in there and get to it, time's a wasting." About two minutes later I realized my jaw was aching because I was clenching it against the cold, and I got out.

So, Alice Cilio, the secretary of the Advising Department, got a new job working with the Dominican Sisters at some kind of healthcare program. Great for her. I'm really happy that she found a job. The bad part is that she starts the job on the 28th of this month. I thought that they would get a temp or someone from another department or something, but she and Alice Flynn are talking like I'm going to take over the position, which is terribly frightful because I barely have any idea what I'm doing now. I hope I can pull my shit together before then.

I had my first class yesterday at 3:30. Modern Poetry was much more crowded than I ever would have expected. The class is full of talkative undergrads who will, I hope, carry the conversation and leave me to my very simple thoughts. I like poetry, but I'm not the best when it comes to analyzing it and even worse when it comes to vocalizing what's going on in my head when I read it. Lucky for me we worked on a poem called "The Snowman" by Wallace Stevens, and the only things Professor Hullot-Kentor asked me were "What is a juniper?" and "Describe the image you get from 'shagged with ice.'" Still, I think it'll be a good class. H.K. seems like a nice and pleasantly eccentric kind of guy. The only problem is that I had to drop $160 on books. I haven't spent that much money on books since I was an undergrad. I'll have my memoir writing class on Thursday. Yesterday I was in such shock at the pile of poetry books in my arms that I forgot to check if there were any texts for that class, too.

I read your note, Tracy, and I laughed. You are so silly. My favorite part? "I don't think they're going to be celebrating it."