If It Walks Like a Duck...

Today, CNN gave me more insight into my own sexual orientation than I have garnered from the last ten years of living as a violently self-aware gay man/boy/child/what have you. Thanks to a recent study performed by some big school (and sharply refuted by the U of Nebraska...shocker), we now know that there is a direct tie-in between the way a gay man's hair whorls (yes, it's a word) and the way a heterosexual man's hair. As it turns out, 25 percent of gay men (myself included) have hair that whorls (it even feels weird to spell) counter-clockwise, whereas only ten percent of heterosexual men's hair whorls (ahhhhh) counter-clockwise. These are hard, scientific numbers people...virtually irrefutable.

The argument is that, because my hair whorls counter-clockwise, like so many other gay men, it must be something that I was born into. I was destined not only to be gay, but also to have a counter-clockwise hair pattern. This pattern is built into my DNA. The two are connected and, without one, the other is much less likely to exist. Of course, no self-respecting republican is ever going to tolerate the idea that gay men are, in fact, born that way and cannot change (or decide to change). No, no. Sex is biological and, as such, so is sexuality? How preposterous.

This, apparently, goes for republican researchers (practically an oxymoron), as well. The U Nebraska professor argued that, much in the same way we choose to be gay, we are simply more likely to wear our hair in such a fashion that would cause it to whorl counter-clockwise. Now, I'm not sure, but I have had three different hairstyles in the entirety of my life (excluding the thankfully short-lived rat tail): the "surfer cut" -- it was the only thing my Italian barber knew in English...think long on top, short on the sides; a buzz cut --in large part responsible for my no longer looking like an awkward ten year old; and the curly jew-esque mop I wore when most of you met me -- for this one, I apologize.

The point is that none of these haircuts involved me making any attempt at maintaining, let alone forcing my hair to whorl. This argument is like saying that toilets flush in the opposite direction in the southern hemisphere because the toilet decided it to be so. Nay, perhaps it is the porcelain on which we can place the blame...or the flush mechanism, tampered with by a pesky (probably gay) toilet designer, intent on making excreting homosexuals more at ease -- you know how we freak out when the toilet whirls in a different direction than the whorl of our hair. We just need organization and symmetry.

My point is this: who gives a shit? Toilets spin in the opposite direction as ours in the southern hemisphere, and the occasional gay person's hair spins, pardon, whorls in a counter-clockwise manner. Here's some hardcore, factual proof that being gay is not a choice: under no circumstance, ever, would I have decided to alienate myself from a huge chunk of the population. I would never have chosen to live this alternative lifestyle (god I hate that word). As much as I am now fully comfortable in my own skin, at least for the most part, I still think that if I could I would go back in time, talk to myself and say, "You're facing a big decision. Do you really want to be gay?" I would’ve talked myself out of it. After all, it’s not exactly an impulse buy. The thing is that I never had such an internal debate. I was gay, am gay, and will always be gay....no matter how I wear my hair.

Another fantastic finding in this CNN article was that most people can determine another's sexual orientation based on the way that they walk. To prove this, they place four videos online with the heading, "Can you tell?" It then gave a brief explanation of gaydar, the miraculous thing that, like a counter-clockwise hair whorl, only a select few (once again, myself included) seem to possess. Watching the videos, you see four individuals walking in the dark with red lights scattered about their limbs.

The first is obviously a lesbian woman. I guessed it the second the video began. First of all, the way she person carried herself -- shoulders hunched, arms too far out to the sides -- made it apparent. According to the article, what seals the deal is the movement of her knees, which, like those of a straight male (video 4), are spread apart. To picture this, imagine the shape of a diamond stretching from the crotch to the feet and fit that between the legs. This, apparently, is the lesbian/straight guy walk. Who knew?

Unsurprisingly, gay men walk in a very similar manner to that of a straight female -- knees tucked like a virginal nun. Rather than a diamond, place nothing between the gay man's/straight woman's legs...no air or anything. If their legs were a catholic school dance, a chaperon would ask for the two legs to "make room for the holy spirit."

In a true, gay, narcissistic, hair-whorling fashion, I immediately watched myself walk in a full-length mirror. Thankfully, I don't suffer from virginal nun walk, nor do I stalk. Then again, I'm extremely duck-footed and, as the title of this entry says, if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, and wears its hair like a duck, there is a good chance it's a duck.

Quack.

Chantix is Making Me Weak....

As many of you know, I started taking Chantix, a prescription drug to aid in quitting smoking, last Monday. So far it is working great, but there have been, of course, some side effects. These include an inability to fall asleep, regardless of how drunk or stoned, a constant need to be doing something, anything, which may explain the recent surge in blogging, and, a side effect not listed on the box, strong changes to my typically bitter emotional nature. That is not to say that I am no longer bitter...far from it. I think that in the long run, Chantix will actually make me more bitter, but that is only because it has managed to open my inner-self to random, shameful, overly-sentimental feelings that are beyond my control.

While nothing has actually changed in my life, I do feel different. I am no longer as able to withhold my comments as well, often leading me to utter whatever thought pops into my mind. Given I have spent a lifetime developing a dense speech filter to keep me from offending or creeping out everyone that I meet, this may not be a good thing. Sure, I haven't yet said anything that would cause me to hole up in my room, too ashamed to see the light of day or the disappointed looks on my friend's faces, I can feel it coming.

This recent personal revelation regarding the drug's side effects came from an incident this morning in the poster shop where, bored as usual, I could not have been prepared for the coming event.

I fell in love at first sight.

Pardon me. I have to go throw up somewhere. No really. I think I might actually vomit. That's because, along with a Brita-esque speech filter, I have developed strong aversions to seemingly typical sentimentalities of the greater society. I don't believe in love at first sight, nor would I ever believe that the person I met this morning is he who I am meant to be with forever, or even at all. In fact, I think people that talk about love at first sight are blind and stupid, willing to follow their partner down whatever road to unhappiness they choose. No, no. I am far too pragmatic for that.

But the thought is still there. I mean, how often are you at work when a beautiful, masculine being walks in and compliments your taste in music. Given that the typical patron of this shop has not a clue what I am usually playing, the fact that he, whose name I still don't know, did know was remarkable. More than music taste, however, was his casual and flirtatious manner, the exact type I go for. As most of you have seen, I will normally develop strong crushes on those people who appear to be flirting, give every indication of interest, and then flake out right at the end. Whether this illustrates my inability to unearth flirtation in conversation or the same blindness that leads people to rash decisions and unhappiness, I don't know. I'd imagine it is a mix of both. What I do know was he was flirting. It was made apparent by his friends' giggling and shady mutterings in the rear corner of the shop. They knew, and so did I.

Regardless of whether or not he was flirting, I am most disturbed by this situation. I have always flirted with people at work, given the fact I've worked retail since I was but a wee boy. It's part of the job. However, I have never thought about one of these casual flirtations longer than a few minutes after the fact, but will instead revert right back to thinking that I, once again, had passed up a prime opportunity, letting the memory of that person fade out forever. As I've said, this usually takes only a few minutes. I don't like to harp on things.

Quick break....someone just came in and asked me if we had any holocaust posters. What? Like, 24x36 prints of Jews in ovens? Is that what you want, you fucking sicko? Who knew Mel Gibson had relatives in the area? Maybe they live next to Whoopi...

Sadly, this man of my dreams, with his "just out of bed" tousled hair and five o'clock shadow, had to leave...something about getting on the road. While I thought about it, I determined that it would be too strange (and probably against company policy) for me to ask him for his number. He left, saying he'd back in a few days "for that poster," with a sly grin that Chantix manipulated into an overt misinterpretation, "for you."

This nameless man's friends walked him to his car and then returned to my shop. They, after all, had posters of bad bands to buy, making me grateful that his and my conversation had begun focused on good music.

....quick break.....holocaust kid is back. What a fucking weirdo....

Now, I am left to wonder what could have, should have, would have happened if I had just spoken up and asked for the number. Maybe he will come back. Maybe.... Until then, I guess I will just have to deal with the onslaught of emotionally instability brought on by this horrific medication. At least my loveless life will be a few years longer...

Pondering My Return to Bassoon.....

Much to my surprise, I received today an IM from a composer in the music school, asking if I would like to teach a master class for young, aspiring High School bassoonists. Oh, the little faggots! (Haha, you think I am being mean to gays, but I'm actually just playing on the German word for bassoon...I know, I'm too clever) Unsure how to answer, I asked how much it paid and, upon his response of, "I'm betting quite a bit," I agreed to have him hand my information off to the proper administrators.

But what, exactly, am I to do at this master class? I mean, I have been to more than my fair share and know pretty much the ins and outs of the program, but how I am supposed to teach them about an instrument I very rarely touch any more? More so, how am I supposed to inspire them?

Of course, this opportunity ties directly into my position as a bored poster shop employee. Having yet failed to resolve my issues with the corporate office, I am as unsatisfied a poster-hawker as possible. In fact, I'd be willing to say that I am as unsatisfied with the poster shop as I have been with my dealings in the music school, which are in great part responsible for my distaste of bassoon. Let's just say that both have similar sized administrations and both operate on such an uncontrollably bureaucratic level that getting anything done is impossible.

I guess I just have to look at these two situations as being remarkably similar and try to learn from each. My newfound knowledge of soul-selling, born of both this poster shop and my all-too-long tenure as a student phoner, plays into both. Once again, I am in desperate need of money (and housing, which is beside the point, but I figured I'd slip it in, hoping that someone will respond and be able to give a place to live next month....please). This financial desperation has proven itself capable in the past of destroying my sense of conscience. I will gladly solicit donations while you try and eat your dinner, another factor in the breakdown of the American nuclear family we all hold so dear. I will merrily convince you that the heinous bag you hold in your hand is stylish, if only to make my daily sales goals. Hell, I put up with every last bit of you administrative crap (until I find a new job/scholarship). I'll even take advantage of high school students. I will somehow convince them I am an authority on bassoon and that I know what is best for their playing.

Then again, it's not like this is the first time I have done this. I have taught master classes in the past, and love teaching private lessons. Surely I should continue on with these, given the fact I, for the most part, enjoy them. I know that am gonna do it and, for the mast part, I'd say I am excited/nervous about doing it. I just have to pray that this, in no way, makes me want to start playing bassoon again. As I desperately attempt to narrow down my life choices and filter out all the potential bad ones, I cannot afford to once again rationalize to the point that I believe music to be a suitable career. Then I'd just be screwed.

Pisces Rising!

Today, once again, I have been fortunate enough to make a new townie friend, Starlight. Starlight is a thirty-something man who, thanks to the 80s, appears to be around the age of 50. His is long, straggly, grayed hair, held back by a rubber band, of which he has several stashed in the pocket of an ancient leather jacket. Starlight, bless his soul, has a big crush on fellow bored poster shop employee, Ally.

So, while enjoying one of my little cigarette breaks, Starlight came and sat next to me and Ally, prodding us for answers about our astrological signs.

"Wait...wait...wait...you're a virgo?" he asked me, stuttering like Ozzy Osbourne. "And what time was dawn the day you were born? Uhh, uhh, uhhhh. OK. What time were you born? Uhhh, uhhh, uhhh. OK. So that means you are a Virgo Pisces Rising."

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Uhhh, uhhh, uhhh...that you have two very opposite forces. You're inner and outer selves are conflicted."

Next was Ally, who he incorrectly determined to be a Libra rising, not because he didn't know that she was, in fact, a Virgo rising. Rather, it was because Pisces and Virgo are diametrically opposed to one another. Like Ally, Starlight is a Pisces, but his rising sign is, as he would want Ally's to be, a Libra.

"I guess that's why we connect so well," he slowly managed to spit out. "Even with the bad energies in the air today, your sign and my sign break through them and complement each others."

Soon after, Starlight returned to his discussion on the nature of being able to play the guitar. Only when inspiration strikes him, today in the form of Ally, will he break out his instrument and serenade the Commons with virtually unintelligible music. I am blessed because his favorite spot to play is directly across from the poster shop, within very close proximity of Moonshadows. He is there now, attempting to find inspiration from the "economical" 2 for 1 draft beers.

His explanation of my astrological predicament has led me, as usual to google and wikipedia, where I am attempting to determine for myself my own nature. First, Starlight is correct. I am a Pisces rising and, technically, given the violent nature of Pisces' relationship with Virgo, I should be a basket case. Of course, according to the same website, Starlight should be very successful in love and life. While that may be a bit off, it does hit the nail on the head in certain respects: "You [Pisces Libra Rising] attempt to find inspiration everywhere."

My bet is, Starlight will be pretty damn inspired in about half an hour, for his is inspiration found only in the shadow of the moon.

Do As Your Deodorant Tells You!

Yesterday, I realized that Summer could not be survived with the small scrap of deodorant I had left. The once thick, full, and delicious-smelling Gillette Power Strip antiperspirant had turned into a chalky mess that, like a scared turtle, would come no further out of its shell. So, smelling of hippy and posters I ventured to a local Walmart where, to my great surprise, I could not find my particular brand. I really do enjoy the power strip...for some reason I feel that it works better than other similar "power stripe" varieties. Instead, I came home with the go-to standard, Degree brand deodorant, wishing I had just driven to Target and gotten what I would actually want to put under my arms.

Having slept a full fifteen hours in my muggy, poorly ventilated bedroom, soaking the sheets with sweat, I arose to shower. Finishing my routine, I cracked open the new deodorant, pulling the plastic cap off and pushing the fresh new stick from its case. Imagine my surprise when, much like a fortune cookie, the top of my deodorant bore a positive message...a little something to get me through the day.

"Go for it," it read in bold sporty type imprinted across the top.

Go for what? More deodorant? But I just bought some. Ohhhh, maybe I should take life by the horns, or some nonsense like that! I get it now. Wow, I am totally inspired. Never before has a stick of cancer-causing scents inspired me so much. I am gonna go out. I'm gonna take the world by storm, and do all of this smelling fabulous (but not quite as fabulous as I would if my old deodorant had a)lived longer and b)been so inspiring.

So, today I walk with a new skip in my step. I am a strong, empowered individual and I owe it all to a stick of deodorant. Now I can sit on my stool in my poster shop and think, "Gee, I've done pretty good for myself. I really went for it."

Thanks Degree.

Kim Jong-ILL

Two days ago I started to think that I might be getting sick. There was the standard tingle in the back of my throat, a light cough developing, and just a hint of fever. Since all of these are easily ignored, I did just that, continuing my cycle of working-drinking-smoking-etc.

Yesterday my voice started to go in and out, scratchy to husky, the cough got worse, and I started drinking at around 6 PM. I eventually passed out on the couch downstairs and slept until about 4:30 AM.

At 4:30 AM today, it seemed as if a herd of elephants had come and trampled my chest, leaving everything inside a liquidy pulp that must be painfully coughed out. When I'm not coughing I'm wheezing, when I'm not wheezing I'm sweating, and when I stop sweating will probably be right around the time I actually die. Reasoning? Seemingly high fever+90 degree weather without AC+debilitating cough+deliriousness=death. It is a simple equation we all know.

As such, you should all probably say goodbye to me. It has been a long time since I felt this sick...and I get sick a lot. I, in all honesty, might actually die.

And if this sickness doesn't get me, it sure sounds an awful lot like Kim Jong-Il will finish me off. According to BBC news, the North Koreans tested a ballistic missile with the capability of reaching the US outlying territory of Guam! My dear God, not Guam! Where would we get our...wait, what does Guam have?

Regardless of Guam's exports or political status, I don't think there are very many people in the US that really even know Guam is part of the country. More than that, I don't think they'd care that North Korea has the ability to blow up an island that, strategically, would do nothing.

The reason I bring this up is because the last line of the article states that North Korea has the ability to blow up Guam, and makes sure we know it is a US territory. Why would the BBC put that there? A scary yet subtle reminder of our country's poor standing with the international community? Well, if you're gonna do that they'd better be able to hit the west coast or something. I mean, otherwise what is the point. I really don't think we care that much about Guam and, if we did, we would have allowed them statehood the last 900 times they asked for it. We just want them to let us build our military bases there. Is that too much to ask?

Having now looked up what, exactly, Guam does (nothing but allow the US to sit on their face--militarily), I can see why Kim Jong-Il might fancy a missile that can reach it. Of course, Guam is probably littered with nuclear weapons silos, and I am sure that if North Korea did anything it would be the shortest nuclear war imaginable....and North Korea wouldn't be a problem/exist any more... Man this is looking better and better. C'mon, Kimmy, the illest Il in all of Asia, test our mettle. What do we have to lose? Guam?

Pretty soon I will be heading off to the poster shop. I started working there before exams started and now put in around 40 hours a week (or more) doing nothing at all. It takes ten minutes to open the store and ten minutes to close the store. I spend the other ten HOURS reading books, online newspapers, magazines, or anything that I can. I mean anything....with the amount of time I spend on IMDB these days, I should be the reigning Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon champion of the world. Similarly, I could link any person at Ithaca College back to me, thanks to facebook, in a game I like to call "Six Degrees of..." well, it doesn't rhyme. Still, I could do it. Just try me...

With this incredible "free time," I have also become quite addicted to reading the news, as well as more worthless pursuits like that just mentioned. Hence this little bit of fun regarding North Korea, who I actually wouldn't mind blowing up. More than anything, reading so much news has only served to infuriate me at the sorry state of the world. While I knew the world generally lay in shambles, I didn't know to what extent. If this newfound knowledge has taught me anything, it is that the only thing we can do is continue to bitch about all of them. So, I restarted this blog. With all this time spent in a poster shop, I am sure the postings will come frequently. Hopefully they will be slightly less scatterbrained than this one. Bear with me...I have a fever and my room is as hot as the fucking Mojave.

Just a Short, UNCENSORED Tirade About the First Amendment

Lately, there has been an overwhelming amount of discussion as to whether or not Don Imus should be stripped of his right to free speech because what he said was so darn politically incorrect. First, let us note that what he said, while indeed racist, was mostly sexist. I know a few "nappy-headed hos," and not a single one of them is black. Actually, I haven't showered today, and my hair is feeling a bit nappy. Perhaps I should use a clarifying shampoo.

While the status of my hair can be held accountable for many interior arguments (up? down? what is a gentile with jew hair to do?), it has little to do with Don Imus and everything to do with our idea of America. What if the world decided that I couldn't call my gentile hair jew hair because it is politically incorrect and sent Harvey Fierstein to teach me a lesson? Perhaps...a bribe?

And that is exactly what I am talking about. If we limit free speech, simply because it steps on other people's toes, then we have taken the Constitution and chucked it out the window. There is a reason it is the first amendment. It is the MOST important.

George Bush is a terrible president, and in the United States it is perfectly legal to call him anything you want. Hick, moron, greedy motherfucker, whatever. You have the right. Sure, you can't say that you want to kill him, but technically you can't say that you want to kill anyone. Every time you joke about how you are going to kill your friends because they are beating you at Scrabble is a felony, should we choose to live in a Imus-free world.

So censor the president. He has proven himself a liar time and time again. Let's be frank...it is just not possible to be that misinformed when you are the most powerful fucking man in the world. He used his free speech to mislead for his own benefit, and that is illegal.

Don Imus used his free speech to express his opinion. He has (had) been doing it for 40 years, and no one ever really got that upset, and he has called people a lot worse than "nappy headed hos." Some say that allowing someone with so much sway over the general public to spew remarks like that is unconstitutional, but that is where they are very much wrong.

Think of the words being used to describe Don Imus now, with bigot being a mere introduction to a delightful selection of often non-PC words. Yet 40 million people have listened to him every day, and they would still have listened to him if he hadn't been yanked off the air. Admittedly, he deserved that one. All of his sponsors bailed on him and the company couldn't make money. Perfectly legit, yet people still listened. That is because there are at least 40 million people in the US that agree with Don Imus. Of course, we know there are more than that, given that we have an entire country built for the most part on racism and sexism. While we, with our educations and ideas of true equality, disagree with his remarks, we have to respect the fact that a good chunk of people don't. What about their right to hear what they want to hear? Those airwaves are as much theirs as they are ours, yet we've taken away their ally.

During the revolutionary war, the rules of engagement stated that the greatest war crime was to kill the opposition's general. Even as they killed each other, they recognized that each side had just as much right to be fighting as the other. They were 100% equal.

Of course, that war never would have happened if people hadn't said what they felt regarding the Brits and, recognizing that very fact, we made that right the most important part of our constitution. Freedom of speech fuels dissent which, in turn, fuels democracy. Be thankful for that right, and never, ever place a limitation on it. Every person, regardless of ethnicity, religion, or ideology has a right to express their opinion. Otherwise, you have no right to disagree with Don Imus who, in turn, had no right to say what he did in the first place.

Instead, be grateful that he said what he did. It has been a long time since Americans became so enraged by a person's beliefs. In fact, I think the last time it happened, Martin Luther King was standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial declaring that he had some sort of dream. What a nappy-headed ho.

Don Imus was wrong to have said what he did, but had every right in the world to say it. If he wants to go on record and say that every gay person is a fag, every black a nigger, every Jew a money-grubbing userer, he has that right, just as I have the right to publish those things in context here. To deny anyone their ability to do so is incredible hypocrisy, for you talk about what you want to talk about, say what you want to say, or disagree with the message of our current administration. Yet without the first amendment you would have no right to do so, nor would you have any right to express the belief that Don Imus should be taken off the air. Are you willing to sacrifice your own rights to stifle the outrageous words of another? If so, the next time I see you you'd better have some duct tape over your mouth. Otherwise I will be forced to stuff a copy of the constitution down your throat to stifle your speech.

Wow! I Was Bitter in January But Wait 'Til You See Me Now!

Well, what a strange little environment I've found myself here. I feel as if I know it, yet it is so foreign. A world long forgotten.

Perhaps this memory lapse is because I have been doing nothing but work for the past three months. Perhaps it is because I have had to fight with the school at least once a week to get what I need done...done. Perhaps it is because the dog shit exploding diarrhea all over the carpet yesterday and I spent hours steam cleaning the fucking carpets in my apartment.

The carpets, however, were worth it. They are surprisingly soft to the touch when they are not coated in dirt, gravel, and dog hair. Yesterday, Cait presumed that they were so soft, you could lie on them comfortably. She then proceeded to do so, and confirmed her hypothesis. She also said they were wet, and then got up.

Because of the hard work I put in to cleaning this house in the last two days, I am going to enforce a no-shoes policy for one week to see how I like it. This, really, is more to fuck with people...the dog doesn't even wear shoes, yet is responsible for tracking in 90 percent of the crap I vacuumed out and dumped unceremoniously into Shalonda's (Those of you who know not whom this is, there may be a series of character bathtub, thinking her out of town. As it turned out, she had been at work and I too busy to notice. Maybe I'll let her wear shoes.

This recent burst of cleaning energy is no doubt prompted by spring. While this time of year we call "spring" has proven anything but springy, there were just enough warm days to generate pollen. The pollen awoke my allergies from their winter slumber like a bear, hungry from months of hibernation. As the bear to honey, I have consumed an immense amount of Dayquil in the last week. Couple with the adderol I have recently been blessed with, I am a whirlwind of activity by day and a worthless burnout by night. This, however, is still better than the all-day worthless burnout I usually parade around as.

Another reason for this recent extra time, which allows me the luxury of living life as a maid, is that I quit Phonathon...PhonaPhonaPhonaPhonathaaauuuuaaaan! It finally happened that Alyssa Robinson drove me over the edge. Too pessimistic! Me?

While her argument may have some weight, I really don't think it is fair to say that work me is that same as normal me. Normal me is a bitter shrew of a human being who would rather sit in and play Scrabble five nights a week than interact with normal human beings (read: non Scrabble players). Work Andrew is someone who has to be at least a little bit better than everyone else, and then make sure they know that he (I) is (am) better while making extra-sure they know I really, really hate it.

But that is EXACTLY what being a phoner is all about. You have to turn yourself off and pretend to care...I think I might puke. Seriously, though. Three hours a night, four nights a week, having the same exact conversation over and over again, all so that I can solicit a donation, which, in turn, lets the victim know that, in fact, I have been faking sincerity for the last 5-45 minutes. What makes such a self-sacrifice possible, you ask? Why, sarcasm and bitterness intended for humor sounds like a reasonable solution.

While this solution may not work at certain "preppy" schools, where people are also obnoxiously peppy (note the similarity in the words...creepy), it does work at IC. Ithacans, for the most part, have a fairly solid grasp on the reality of the situation. They are faking human interactions for money. They are selling their souls before they even get out of school. Laughing at yourself for doing it at least keeps you grounded in the reality that, a)this is not your lifetime job (and thank God, or else you'd be Alyssa Robinson--not my dog...the real one) and b)you recognize that you are actually prostituting yourself to the college and, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, we get a sweet reward for it...Phonathon bucks. Eat my ass, Phonathon!

Shit...I had 160 left when I quit. Now where will I get gift certificates?

Still, I do miss some of my Phonathon buddies so, if you read this, we can still be friends. Just because Alyssa and I broke up doesn't mean we broke up, too.

Leading up to my exit from the basement of Alumni Hall was a fun little incident with a teacher which led me to question my entire college experience. Some call it a nervous breakdown. I am not so much in to such psychobabble, but WebMD confirms that this may be what I had.

Last Monday morning, at 7:30 A-fuckin'-M, I went early to the music school to finish the last few questions of my theory homework. Sitting on a bench outside the teacher's office, I filled a few out before he asked me what I was doing. The following is what ensued thereafter:

Gavin sat down on the bench next to me five minutes before class. He asked to use my book because I had photocopied something for him and it had been cut off. Dr. C, as we will call him, came outside and insinuated that I was getting answers from Gavin, which is preposterous. We pointed out that, should I choose to cheat, I would cheat off of my roomate at home rather than on a bench outside his office and classroom.

Dr. C forced us into the room and made me turn in my homework before anyone had even really shown up. It was me, Gavin, one other girl, and the teacher. That, apparently, constituted class starting.

I then attempted to ask a question and was promptly refused an answer. This led to my blatant use of the pouty, "you're an asshole" face.

"Well, I don't know why you're having such an attitude about it," said Dr. C.

"Um," I retorted, "Maybe it is because I just wanted to ask a question and you wouldn't answer it."

He then proceeded to FREAK OUT, yelling at me about how I was disrupting his teaching style and class. Then, he broke out the big guns.

"And don't think I didn't see you out in the hallway getting answers off of Gavin," he yelled, shocking both me and the rest of the class, who had finally decided to show up. "You were out there cheating, and now you're disrupting class. Just get out."

Meanwhile, I wondered to myself how showing up early to do homework made me a cheater. My inner monologue took the form of an outraged gathering of my books and me spatting, "Maybe I should just freakin' leave. Not like I'm really learning anything!"

While I could go through the ensuing aftermath, I think I will just summarize it...

1) I went straight to the dean's office and told him what had happened. He said he would take care of it. He never did.
2)Dr. C sent me an e-mail which spawned a back-and-forth internet argument in which I demanded an apology, both written and to the class to clear my name. In the music school, gossip is constant, and news of the incident had spread by orchestra later that day.
3)I finally demanded a meeting with Dr. C and the dean, but was the pushed to the head of the theory department, another Dr. C. In our meeting, I threatened legal action.
4)Monday morning I received my apology. Dr. C (the good one) agreed with me 100%. It took everything I had to keep from smirking, and I graciously accepted my apology. Slandering his name came later.

So, the past few weeks started with shit and ultimately led to real shit. The times, they've been fun. I hope everyone leaves comments so that I have incentive to blog. I don't really do anything now that I don't work, and I think most of you are the same way.

God, 8:19...almost bed time.