Tonight I was tired, hungry and had gotten off of work pretty late. Me being an economically driven college student, I decided it was a better choice to drive to Snelling (a 24 hour dining hall) instead of the drive thru at Chic-f-la. Yeah, go me.
I finally found a parking spot somewhere close to the location of the said dining hall and began my adventure through cross walks and up stairs, around and around. Now, it was dark. When I say dark, I mean I darted across the road in attempts to get under a flickering street light. If the darkness and creepy strobe light lamp were not bad enough, the moon was/is full tonight. I have a fascination with the moon and although my favorite is when it takes on the color of butter, tonight was a treat: clear skies and full moon. I was semi-enjoying my walk when I hear this "clank, clank" sound from the quad located near the dining hall.
This was enough to send me STRAIT UP into a panic. I mean think about it: moon, lamp, darkness, weird "clank, clank" sound. This was a recipe for horror film and naturally I decided to investigate. Face those fears head on, right? As I got closer to the "clank, clank" I noticed tons (ehhh 10 or 15) people fighting. Literally. Swords hitting together were the cause of the "clank, clank." For a moment this seemed normally and I continued to walk towards my grub. But, as I continued to walk, I realized this was weird. Let's go over this again: darkness, strobe light lamp, full moon, "clank, clank," people in armor?
At first, this was okay, then it was weird, then I began to feel sorry for these participants. They were willingly fighting each other. Why? Is this a hobby? Was someone filming this? I mean, each to his own. I go shopping. I listen to grueling rap music. I go to football games. Some people sword fight at 9:30pm with metal swords and armor while the moon is full and lamp posts are flickering. No big deal. Right? Right?
Monday, August 23, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Stain Stare
Another yucky day in Athens which makes me, and my hair, feel just eewww. Today after class I strolled over to the dining hall where I ordered my usual grilled chicken sandwich on bun and picked up some sweet potato fries along the way. This all requiring the attention of my favorite condiment, Ketchup. As I made my sandwich and squeezed two lovely ketchup packets on to the bun, I realized my love. But today, Ketchup was not my friend.
Apparently my bite was too big for my mouth, or something, and I dropped a piece of a fry onto my pink men's Polo that I often wear on these kind of drab days. "Woops," I thought to myself and tried to dab it off. No such luck. For those of you who know me, you understand why this was no big deal to me. In a short, honest phrase: I am a messy eater. Though I try to salvage all of my clothes from the stains they acquire, Spray and Wash is my hero.
So as I was walking out of the dining hall I grabbed my Tide-to-Go pen that in conveniently located in my book bag for instances like this. As I walked and dabbed, the wet-looking spot on my shirt tail got larger and larger. I did not mind, because I was fighting the stain off right before my next class. I am here to tell you that every single person I passed looked, not at me, but at my ketchup stain. I am stain fighting here, people. These strangers acted as this had never happened to them before. They acted as if I was a crazy woman marching towards class with three wet spots on my shirt (only part of this is true). I was proud of myself for my multitasking skills today, and they shut me down. Now, as I type this my shirt is dry. The stain however is only slightly seen and reminds me of this instance where I was again a misunderstood fool.
Apparently my bite was too big for my mouth, or something, and I dropped a piece of a fry onto my pink men's Polo that I often wear on these kind of drab days. "Woops," I thought to myself and tried to dab it off. No such luck. For those of you who know me, you understand why this was no big deal to me. In a short, honest phrase: I am a messy eater. Though I try to salvage all of my clothes from the stains they acquire, Spray and Wash is my hero.
So as I was walking out of the dining hall I grabbed my Tide-to-Go pen that in conveniently located in my book bag for instances like this. As I walked and dabbed, the wet-looking spot on my shirt tail got larger and larger. I did not mind, because I was fighting the stain off right before my next class. I am here to tell you that every single person I passed looked, not at me, but at my ketchup stain. I am stain fighting here, people. These strangers acted as this had never happened to them before. They acted as if I was a crazy woman marching towards class with three wet spots on my shirt (only part of this is true). I was proud of myself for my multitasking skills today, and they shut me down. Now, as I type this my shirt is dry. The stain however is only slightly seen and reminds me of this instance where I was again a misunderstood fool.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The higher the hair, the closer to God.
For those of you who know me really well, you would know that I am from southern Mississippi: home of beauty queens and debutantes. Though these two roles do not accurately describe me, I have yet to forget the big hair I come from. The women in my family have big hair. Or at least we try to; even the Lofton women have bad hair days. Teasing and an ample amount of hair spray along with a few squirts of Freeze It moose are all a part of a morning routine that we take very seriously.
I have personally been a member of the fohawk and poofed hair style for a while and have been perfecting my skills since, oh, early high school. But this Bump It thing is ruining me. Recently, more than ever, I have been asked by total strangers and acquaintances if my "poof" is a Bump It. What? That's like asking me if I have silicone stuffed into my chest. Its like asking me if my 10-year-old truck runs on ethanol. No. For the record, I do not wear Bump It's, nor do I need to. My mother, bless her, bought me a pack and we tried these three-sizes-fit-all Bump It's. Here is my customer review. They suck, but the smallest one happens to suck a little less than the other two. If the higher the hair, the closer to God is true, a Bump It would make you all up in God's grill. No one wants that in this situation. So no, I don't use a Bump It.
When I am asked the same question of, "Is that a Bump It?" I get a little annoyed because often times the questioner is not looking at me, but directly at my rounded "poof." I breath deeply, and shyly answer no often times with an added giggle or twang. This is when the conversation can go one of two ways. Either the questioner can accept my answer and move along or he/she can continue to stare in awe and an non-believing manner. If the latter of the two occur, I simply ask if they would like to touch it. At this point I give a little demo of bouncing my "poof" and that's when they look at me like I'M crazy. This, my friends, is when all of my Southern Comfort runs out the door and B.Lo. comes out to play. Now the story with B.Lo. is for a different time, a different day. Just know, she is my alternate personality and is less patient and kind that I am. So when these strangers and acquaintances act like I am crazy, I simply continue to bounce the "poof" and walk away. They are officially off the list of "give out health and beauty advice to" that I have dialoged in my head.
For those of you who are reading this and have asked me about my high-life hair, ask yourself this: Have you found your way off one of my many lists? If so, make it up to me by never asking me about a Bump It again :). All the love.
PS: I am always willing to demonstrate the non-Bump It "poof."
I have personally been a member of the fohawk and poofed hair style for a while and have been perfecting my skills since, oh, early high school. But this Bump It thing is ruining me. Recently, more than ever, I have been asked by total strangers and acquaintances if my "poof" is a Bump It. What? That's like asking me if I have silicone stuffed into my chest. Its like asking me if my 10-year-old truck runs on ethanol. No. For the record, I do not wear Bump It's, nor do I need to. My mother, bless her, bought me a pack and we tried these three-sizes-fit-all Bump It's. Here is my customer review. They suck, but the smallest one happens to suck a little less than the other two. If the higher the hair, the closer to God is true, a Bump It would make you all up in God's grill. No one wants that in this situation. So no, I don't use a Bump It.
When I am asked the same question of, "Is that a Bump It?" I get a little annoyed because often times the questioner is not looking at me, but directly at my rounded "poof." I breath deeply, and shyly answer no often times with an added giggle or twang. This is when the conversation can go one of two ways. Either the questioner can accept my answer and move along or he/she can continue to stare in awe and an non-believing manner. If the latter of the two occur, I simply ask if they would like to touch it. At this point I give a little demo of bouncing my "poof" and that's when they look at me like I'M crazy. This, my friends, is when all of my Southern Comfort runs out the door and B.Lo. comes out to play. Now the story with B.Lo. is for a different time, a different day. Just know, she is my alternate personality and is less patient and kind that I am. So when these strangers and acquaintances act like I am crazy, I simply continue to bounce the "poof" and walk away. They are officially off the list of "give out health and beauty advice to" that I have dialoged in my head.
For those of you who are reading this and have asked me about my high-life hair, ask yourself this: Have you found your way off one of my many lists? If so, make it up to me by never asking me about a Bump It again :). All the love.
PS: I am always willing to demonstrate the non-Bump It "poof."
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Standing too close
I was standing in line this morning for breakfast at the UGA dining hall. I was waiting patiently for the boy in front of me to pick out which piece of melon would be his when suddenly a brash girl darted up behind me in line. She was standing at an incredibly close distance and peaked over my shoulder at the strawberries. EXCUSE ME. I was here first. But of course, the non-confrontational side of me kicked in and a stepped only slightly forward in attempts to subconsciously tell her to BACK UP. It did not work and she prowled forward when I moved on to the berries. Rude. I just don't understand those around me who cannot simply identify social context clues.
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