On Wheat Chex and Amy Tan

It irritates me deeply that Wheat Chex are not available in some sort of larger-than-necessary value pack type thing.

Also, I realized something today that I have only come across once (and that was just in a novel). I am not terribly fond of ice cream. I don't really know why; I love other cold desserts, including milkshakes, but ice cream just does not do it for me.

That is all.

ND

Fuck Titles; I Hate Them

So, I've been getting all existential lately, and it's weirding me out. And people keep fucking me over.
Example:
I was reading Descartes the other day, and I was like, "This dude really gets it!" We could have been soul mates, or something. Then he got weird, and I got depressed. Why is it that when I finally find someone who thinks along the same lines as me, and who would totally "get" me, that person has to take it one step further and turn into a complete freak?
Also:
I came to the realization that even if there is a god, it doesn't matter (for reasons that I'll go into later, if I ever get around to posting my fuck-god-and-the-world paper). So- why am I stressing out over the possibility of there being a god? WHY? God, damnit.

History has been made today.

For the first time...

EVER...

Someone managed to stick me with a needle and get it right the first time. I know- crazy. Moron-lady stabbed me, and the blood not only came out, it went into the tube, too! I'm really excited. Maybe I do have actual veins. It's a heartening thought- in elementary school P.E, I was always that kid on whom nobody could find a pulse. It's nice to think that maybe I am alive, after all (provided my senses aren't fooling me, or anything).

Alright, this is a weak post. My life has been somewhat boring as of late. I figure that's a good thing, though.

Oh! Finally got my car home from the asshole state of Pennsylvania this past Sunday. And after driving it all the way home, when I needed to go out to Glenelg the next morning, lo and behold, it was dead.

And here's another thing: I have just vacuumed my carpet for what I believe to be the sixth or seventh time today. Why is it that after vacuuming the rug thoroughly, visually inspecting every inch of that damn thing to be sure I have missed nothing, and replacing the vacuum in its usual spot, I turn around three seconds later and I find more shit to vacuum? WHY?

Why does God hate me?

Oh, yes.

Because I hate him.

Well, fuck you, God.

An Important Discovery

You guys can thank Holy Week and Greek Guilt (yeah, it gets a captial "G") for this one. Alright, here it is, the breakthrough of the century.

Have you ever eaten Fruity Pebbles? Of course you have- it's, like, the best cereal ever. And you've probably had your Fruity Pebbles with milk.
Now then: Have you ever eaten Fruity Pebbles with cranberry juice?? It's delicious! Go try it right now.

[Cranberry juice is not intended for use with all cereals; it is a dangerously addictive substance that should be consumed with proper caution; Ocean Spray is recommended. Void where prohibited and results may vary.]

And More!

Oh, and here's something else: This week is my Holy Week. I am fasting for a god I do not believe in, just because I need to kiss my mother's ass. I missed Easter last year; she still has not forgiven me. Neither has the rest of my family, I gather. So here I am, not eating any meat or dairy and getting ready to go to church. Church. Oh, god. And you know what? There are quite a few Greeks in Pennsylvania. I am going to blame Pennsylvania for this one, too.

Motherfucking Hell (in Pennsylvania)

I am having a terrible fortnight. That's what it is. Last week sucked, and this one isn't any better. There have been brief punctuations. Let us start with the weekend of the eleventh. I had a Geology Club trip. You should know that it was kick-ass. We drove up to Jersey Saturday morning. (I hate speed cameras, by the way. Thanks to the Jersey Turnpike, I probably have about seventy-five tickets in the mail. Fantastic.) We collected some fantastic specimens of various fluorescent rocks, saw a shooting star, a couple of satellites, heard a bear (didn't sound too happy), and got one hell of a workout walking up and down a hill six times. Then the shit kicked in.

It should be noted that on Saturday, when I was nearly in Jersey, my engine light went on. What was I going to do about it up there? I ignored it. Sunday, we left for home just before one o'clock. About seventy miles-ish out, the car started lurching forward and backward, as though it were about to die. On 95. I pulled over. Checked under the hood and realized that the oil was low- but that couldn't be doing it, could it? No, it turns out. It could not. For on the inside of the front right tire, there was a disturbing I'm-about-to-explode-and-cause-you-all-kinds-of-shit type bulge. Luckily, I had a spare tire. Not so luckily, 'twas a mere doughnut. (I never would have made it home on that, anyway, it turns out.) So we changed the tire. And that's what was causing the lurchiness, right? WRONG. For the car continued to lurch every time I stepped on the gas...We stopped at a gas station, got a quart of oil, and went off on our merry way. Our merry way lasted about five minutes. The lurching got worse. And worse. Pulled over again, still couldn't figure it out. Drove to the nearest gas station, whose manager informed me of a Pep Boys half a mile down the road. Couldn't find it (I know, what a shock). I stopped in a shopping center to ask for directions. I parked; my ass was hanging slightly over the next parking space. I went inside. I obtained the desired directions. I returned to my car. I put the key in the ignition. I turned the key. The engine started. I put the car in drive and began to roll forward.

The engine died right as I centered the car perfectly in the space.
Amazing.

Called 411, got Pep Boys.

In Arizona.

Finally got an actual person who informed me that he would try to find a tower (to be read as toe-er, not tau-er, you dumbasses). Sadly, the nearest and soonest available was two hours away. At six-thirty (we should have been home at four-thirty), the tow truck pulled up. By this time, Pep Boys (and apparently everywhere else in the state of Pennsylvania) was closed. We towed the two whole blocks down the highway to the garage and then waited an hour and one-half for our rescue to come bring us back home. My poor, dear car is now sitting abandoned in a parking lot three hours away. It is over a week later, and though I owe about four hundred and ninety bucks, I am not entirely clear on the whole repairs thing- did they actually do anything to my car? I've been charged for the tow, for a ridiculous diagnostic which apparently decreed that I have a leak in my transmission fluid or some such (I'm pretty sure I don't), a new tire, and Jesus Christ doesn't even know what else. Because he's dead.

But that is not the point. The point is that I'm whining right now and am not much closer to being finished. I got an 'A' on my geology test, so that was good. It was the Monday following the car shit, and half my notes were back home, so I thought it was pretty impressive that at six-thirty in the morning, two and one-half hours before the test, I memorized the half of the geologic timescale that I needed to know for it. Fast forward to the weekend. I went to New York on a group trip. It was pretty sweet. Until I got diarrhea and missed the Broadway play I was supposed to see.

That's right; I have no discretion. You weren't expecting that, now, were you?

And now it is Tuesday. Would you like to know what is wrong with that? I'll bet you wouldn't. So I shall tell you: Pennsylvania is holding its primary today. Hillary Clinton is probably going to win that primary. If Obama were to win, it would be all over for Hillary. It really would. If the Bitch wins (and she will), this whole damn thing is still up in the air. I don't want to watch CNN tonight. But I will. I'll have on all damn night, because I am a masochist when it comes to politics. I shall sit in front of my (my roommate's) television for the next several hours and watch Hillary Clinton win that election. I'll switch to MSNBC every now and then; I'll groan and pull my hair out... It'll be a good time.

Wow. Looking back on what I've just written (skimming, of course- who in his right mind would read all of that?), I have come to a realization. Most of my problems have to do with Pennsylvania. Could we just remove it from the union, please? Thank you.

On God and the Meaning of Life

Not nearly as profound as it sounds. That was almost a rhyme; congratulate me.

This is going to be so ridiculously capacious that in favor of sparing the people who have nothing better to do a long, boring read (and to give me something to post for awhile), I shall present this in segments. Here is segment the first. Enjoy.

No, wait, I lied. I'm too bleegggha;dvfeije to put it up tonight. Tomorrow, then. I'm going to go rent Love Actually.

Science Movie

Eh...

My goddamn arm hurts.

Yesterday was a productive day for me. I bought coffee, took a shower, walked around the Health Center with a bag of blood, and cut some comic strips out and hung them above my desk. They're pretty sweet, I must say.

Today, I didn't really do shit outside of attending classes. I watched Shrek 2.

That is all.

Blood

Alright. Let me preface by saying that I thoroughly pissed. I should also mention: If talk of blood makes you squeamish, please keep a toilet handy. Or, you know, don't read.

So, the people running the HerpVac study at the Health Center are clueless morons who do not know how to draw blood. I have seen it fucked up on me so many times that I think I could probably do it myself by now.

When I had blood drawn a few years back, I was told that my left arm is my good arm (for finding veins). Left arm good arm. End of story.

When I donated blood in high school, it was like this.
"Do you know which arm is your good arm?"
"My left arm."
"Let me see it."
[I present aformentioned limb]
[examination with the squeezy things and tourniquet commences]
"You sure?"
[Yes, I'm sure. It's my goddamn arm.]
"Well, that's I was told last time I had blood taken."
"Let me see your right arm."
[Extend right arm]
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"Let me see your left arm again?"

And the fun didn't end there! Oh, no. First they had to stick me repeatedly without results (until they pulled the needle out, then the blood was everywhere). Then...YES! We have a winner. I took note of the location of this vein for future reference.
---
Here is how it went with the HerpVac people.

Visit 1:
Can't find a vein; they take me downstairs to the lab-ish area and find a doctor who does it in five seconds. Left arm; same spot.
-
Visit 2:
Can't find a vein; they take me downstairs to the lab-ish area and find a doctor who does it in five seconds. Left arm; same spot.
-
Visit 3:
"You guys usually have to take me downstairs..."
"Let's see if I can find a vein first."
"..."
"If that's okay with you."
[Well, I can't offend her. She has a needle.]
"Sure, that's fine. My left arm is my good arm."
"Okay, let's start with that one."
[ten billion years later]
"I'm not seeing anything pop, here. Let's have a look at your right arm."
[Let's. Like we're going to do this together, or something.]
[another ten billion years pass]
"Let me check your left arm again."
[five billion years]
"They usually find my vein right about here."
"Alright, I think I've got something."
[You've got something? Really? You're, like, two inches away from where they ALWAYS stick me.]
"I dont' know why, but I'm just feeling it here."
[Oh, god. Ohgodohgodohgod. She's feeling it. Does she actually feel a vein, or does she just think she has psychic powers? Help me, Jesus!]
"Alright, let's try it here."
[sticks me]
"Come on, come on, flash."
[I assume that means 'bleed, goddamnit!' in medical talk. If that's the case, it ain't flashing.]
[Jiggles needle. No flash.]
[Yanks needle partially out and then drives it in deeper. No flash.]
"Alright, this just isn't going to cooperate for me today."
[Yeah, right, like you're usually good at this.]
[Pulls it out completely; blood flies. Woman freaks and drops needle and tourniquet. There is now blood on the counter, running down the side of the counter, and on the floor. Bio hazard, much?]
[Downstairs]
"My left arm is my good arm."
"Alright, let me take a look."
"They usually find it right about there, if that helps."
"Oh! Got it! Why didn't you tell her [HerVac woman] that?"
"I did."
"Why didn't she listen?"
"..."
[Because she's a dumbass.]
"When patients tell you these things, they are usually right."
[Glee!]

And, a nanosecond later, we're done.
-
Visit 4:
"You guys usually have to take me downstairs, so we can just skip to that if you want."
"Well, let me have a look. If I can't find anything, we'll go downstairs."
[Without prompting]
"My left arm's my good arm."
[An age passes as the hunt for a vein unfolds.]
"Hmm. Are you right-handed or left-handed?"
"I am right-handed."
"Let me see your right arm."
[...]
"Let me see your left arm again."
[Trying not to be one of those annoying people, but also not wanting to die]
"They usually stick me right about there."
"Okay."
[completely ignores golden spot]
"If I can't find a vein, we'll have to take you downstairs."
[Really?]
"Alright, here we go."
[No, we don't. I don't see any blood coming out of the hole.]
[pulls needle out, resticks me, repeats]
"Let's take you downstairs."
[Clever, this one.]

Even though he stuck me, the doctor couldn't find a vein, either, because that woman stabbed me so many times and now I have so many holes in my arm that if it rains, I'm screwed. (Sorry for the run-on, there.) They sent me home, told me to drink some water and do some stuff, and then come back at two. So now I am biding my time, cursing my veins.

I Knew This Wouldn't Stay

So, fuck the schedule. I've been on break and now I'm back, not that anybody cares.

Today I'm going to tell you some secrets.

Secretly...

Mike Gravel is Lyndon LaRouche. Barely disguised.

Hillary Clinton is conservative. ...Oops.

Fred Thompson is Judge Hathorne. That makes Pat Robertson Reverend Parris.

John McCain is very, very confused.

Bill Richardson is a rap video choreographer.

Dick Cheney is the monster in your closet. (He shares that space with Larry Craig.)

John Edwards is Gilderoy Lockhart.

Dennis Kucinich freaking cracks me up. Tell me the one about the UFO again? Oh, right, that wasn't a joke...

Mike Huckabee might just be an actual "Compassionate Conservative." Tooooo bad.

Mitt Romney is a sex scandal waiting to happen.

Joe Biden reminds me of that Senator Kelly guy from X-Men. I think it's the creepy hair.

And Condi wants George. Real, real bad.

Percolate, Goddamnit!

Sound-off Saturday...

You know what makes me mad? Land that doesn't perc. I went a-tree planting with the CBF today, and this is how it went.

1. Remove tree from pot.

2. Stick tree in pre-drilled hole.

3. Pack dirt down around it, add any necessary tree protection, and move on to the next hole.

At my third tree, this is how it went:

1. Arrive at hole.

2. Take note of disturbingly saturated ground.

3. Stick tree in hole.

4. Attempt to pack in tree with globs of mud.

5. Step around around tree to pack in mud.

6. Plunge leg a foot into the ground.

7. Get stuck there.

Alright. I'm glad for the trees. I really am. But can't they just dig a trench to the stream that was, like, FIVE FEET away from the area in which I got stuck? College Park is like this, too. Every time it rains the grassy area outside Centreville enclosed in stone is like Niagara-freaking-Falls. Rain boots will not save you.

Alright, so this was utterly pointless and a bit whiny, but I just needed to express my irritation at oceans that exist above sea level.

Thanks!

Eliot Spitzer

Fuck You Friday...

Good afternoon, all. ...As though there are enough people reading this to call them "all."

I'd like to send out a special fuck you today to former New York governor Mr. Eliot Spitzer. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what's up with him; the media has done enough. What irritates me the most is not that he was involved in a prostitution ring; it is that he is a Democrat. Let me be clear; I hold no silly notions that only Republicans can have scandals, or that Democrats are better than others. It is merely that it almost always is the Republicans (except, you know, Bill Clinton). They have well-publicized scandals; the Democrats...well, maybe they're just better at hiding their skeletons, because I'm certainly not about to put any politician on a pedestal. But Eliot Spitzer just went and shot that straight to hell. It also annoys me that he was so bent on cleaning up crime and busting prostitution rings. Come on, buddy. Try for some credibility. Mr. Spitzer does not just represent himself or even his family or state. He represents the Democratic party, which now has a lovely little spot on its recent record.

Another thing that concerns me (though, admittedly, to a much lesser extent) is Spitzer's image before this story broke. He was largely viewed as someone who staunchly upheld his principles with true integrity and as a congenial person. Thanks to him, nice guys everywhere have taken a hit. People who trusted in given politicians before may now be more closely scrutinized (unkindly). People who may have absolutely nothing to hide are going to have to deal with voters trying to find something suspicious in their pasts. Barack Obama comes to mind. Now, I don't believe for a second that someone is about to discover something utterly horrible about the man, but people might start questioning his motives and his integrity. I know this seems a bit out there, but the media will seize on anything if it garners an audience. I can only hope that David Paterson will be able to arrest prostitutes without sleeping with them.

Failed Security

Freelance Thursday...

Here is a - well, thing - about the fantastic time I had when Senator Barack Obama came to speak at the University of Maryland. It actually took place on February the eleventh, but I'm slow.

I was at the Comcast Center at five-twenty in the morning chekcing in press, pushing a garage door button, and telling people "No, you can't go this way." Fun stuff. Some things I would like to share with you:

1. The Secret Service really are smug bastards with weird ear pieces, shiny shoes, and long, black jackets, just like in the movies.
2. They do not care about what is convenient for you.
3. Reporters actually have feelings. They get sad pretty easily, I found.
4. It is very, very difficult to get people to take an young-ish looking girl on the short side seriously.
5. However, if you have an official campaign card and look harassed, you can make it work.
6. It is remarkably easy to snag an event press pass, add your name to the list, and sneak up onto the main press risers to take pictures.
7. I did exactly that.
8. There needs to be a law prohibiting deejays from playing "Umbrella." "Ella...ella..." is still ringing in my head.
9. Cops will take directions from you if they think you're someone important. (Ha! Fooled 'em!)
10. Most campaign staffers are hateful, hateful people. They do not trust you to have good judgEment when speaking about the Senator and therefore forbid you from answering questions from the press. We had to turn down interviews. After the event, though...
11. Doug Gansler is a fantastic person.
12. Barack Obama is even more awesome.
13. Seriously.
14. It is damn cold outside at five o'clock in the morning.

Hello, All

Welcome to Novus Disputato. This is the place where we will be posting ideas and essays that will likely piss off at least a few people.

A possible schedule to which we will most likely not keep:

Sunday: Sound-off Sundays. Stuff that makes us mad.
Monday: Mondays suck. No posts.
Tuesday: Questionable Tuesdays. We're going to ask questions, and we want answers.
Wednesday: Wide-Open Wednesdays. We shall pick a topic that YOU send in and write about it.
Thursday: Freelance Thursdays. Okay?
Friday: Fuck You Fridays. These are different from sound-offs and will feature a particular person who has earned our contempt.
Saturday: Sound-off Saturdays. We get mad about a lot of stuff.

There may also be Emergency Skinnies which are time sensitive and cannot wait for their appropriate day.