The cool kids do pollen and pet dander.

The other day a boy asked me if I was high.

No, really.

Man, if I had a nickle for every time someone asked me that...I'd have somewhere in the neighborhood of ten cents.

I wish I had been high. It probably would have made the whole paper writing experience much more enjoyable. I had this four sentence conversation when I went down to the dorm lobby at two o' clock in the morning to get my paper out of the printer. My allergies were making me miserable and I was at that late night paper point were my eyes were all squinty and bleary and the words on the computer screen were going all wavy and realigning themselves of their own free will. My domain as ruler of the keyboard had been undermined by the rebellious peasant masses of Times New Roman.

But seriously, I wasn't high.

Anyway, when I arrived in the lobby, there were a few people gathered around the front desk. One of them took one look at me and his eyes lit up.
"Are you high?" he asked.
"no." I said.
"Then why are you all bloodshot and...messed up?"

He's a real smooth talker, that Luke. I explained that I don't always need drugs to get messed up and went on my way.

I hope you guys enjoyed that story. It's a time of year when I always look like I've been abusing lots of substances. I feel so uncool when I explain that, no, it's not liquor or weed, it's...um...pollen and pet dander. It would probably be better if I just stopped trying to explain altogether. If anyone asks, I am soooo stoned right now.

Only losers do homework.

It's been an off week. Today is Thursday and it feels like Friday should have been yesterday. It might have something to do with the fact that fall break starts tomorrow. The sands of time move so slowly when you're having fun.

Sorry. It is quite possible that this blog is quickly going downhill. Be polite guys. Don't say anything until I start using ALL CAPS and asterisks to cyberscream about how I WILL *NEVER* FIND TRUE LOVE and transcribing Kelly Clarkson lyrics because she's captured the way I *REALLY* feel with depth and tender insight. Yeah yeah. Since you've been gone...I'm so movin on...

Then you have permission to shoot me in the face. I'm counting on those of you with guns to save me from myself. (You know who you are...coughconservativecough)

Anyway,you had to read through all of that just to find out that I really have nothing to say. I'm only here because I have finally hit the bottom of the well of charm that is facebook. Perhaps I shall discuss my feelings about The Notebook

When I speak the title of that movie, most of the girls around me have a physical reaction. If they had blogs, that reaction would read like this: "Oooooooooooh, i *LOOOOVE* that movie." I finally sat down to watch it last week after much protest, being informed, "Caitlin, You're going to watch it and you're going to cry. It's soooooo romantic." Really, it wasn't a bad movie. Being dead inside, I couldn't muster a tear for the doomed lovers, but I've seen much worse. There were only a few places where I thought creative deaths would have been more entertaining than the makeout sessions that actually occurred. (Remember that romantic swan scene in the rowboat? Ever seen The Birds?) The one biggest Notebook qualm I had was with a scene that's been in every romantic movie since the beginning of time when the chick - "If I could only find a man like that my whole life would make sense" - flick was created.
Quirky but handsome man says, "Dance with me."
Incredulous giggly beautiful sparkle head says, "What, here? But we haven't any music."
Boy says, "We'll make our own."
Then the lover's dance and strings from Romance Inc. swoop in from all around as they melt into each other's arms.

Please. I've seen that scene 20 gazillion times in 20 gazillion different movies and it never seems very romantic to me. Just once, I'd like to give the Romance Inc. guys a coffee break and let those idiots dance for like two minutes without any swooping strings. Then they'd both just kind of stop and feel awkward. Because you don't do that sort of thing unless you're equipped with a soundtrack or hallucinagens.

It's jut how I feel. Don't judge me, OK?

P.S. My favorite commercial ever is back on TV. It's that fantastic Nissan commercial where the slogan is: "Hard core just got harder. Core." It gets me every time.

The End of Time

Do you believe in Santa? I do. Once upon a time he gave me a beautiful watch. It was a Fossil and everything. It was both utilitarian and pretty, unlike myself. If I had a real boyfriend, he would probably have left me for my superior Fossil watch. But, since all of my boyfriends have been imaginary, I had no reason not to love this watch like a good friend.

But alas, now my watch is not nearly the specimen it once was. Perhaps in a subconscious passive aggressive attempt to bring the watch's iflated ego down a notch or two, I dropped it in the shower. Now, it's quite broken. The glass is intact, but all the numbers came off the face. The only thing left clinging to its rightful place in time is a lone one. It used to be part of the twelve, but now it's not even a whole number. It stands lost and alone in a terrifying world of chaos. All the other numbers rattle around in between the face and the glass like that silver confetti you toss on New Years Eve. It doesn't keep time anymore because the minute hand doesn't move, and the second hand gets caught on the loose numbers and just sort of twitches pathetically. Even so, I decided that I will keep wearing my confettified watch so that, whenever anyone asks me what time it is, I can look at my wrist and say, "Well, my watch says it's party time."

Oh watch. Your death will not be in vein. Light a candle and think of me and my loss today.

Me, Truth, Marshmallow and Satan

Woa, sorry guys. I dropped off the face of the planet there for a little while. I was busy investigating the meaning of truth. But, now I'm back and I am here to tell of my adventures into the depths of good, evil and man's purpose in the universe.

Or not really. If, over the past week, I came across absolute truth, it was in the tiny little footnotes at the bottom of my gazillion page religion book and I missed it. Who has time for the mysteries of the universe when they're trying to write an English paper worthy of a check-plus, and study for a religion test that can't be studied for? Who has time for footnotes? Not I.

On Friday I took the first test of my collge carreer. The first part was a five-to-six page essay we were given two nights to complete. The second part, administered in a sixty minute class, consisted of ten essay questions. I looked at the test and figured, after doing some quick calculations in my math friendly brain, that I had ten minutes for each question. Because sixty divided by ten equals...um...ten. (Seriously guys. In high school did you ever look at me and wonder how I, with so many obvious mental handicaps, could autonamously accomplish simple tasks like getting dressed in the morning? and being literate?) Needless to say, I was mistaken. Not that it really mattered because I spent fifteen minutes on the first question anyway. As the test continued and sixty minutes flew by, the answers to my questions got progressively worse. The answer to number one began something like: "Well, in order to discuss what relevance Adam and Eve have to our daily lives, I must first discuss the nature of truth. I shall address this subject in three parts..." My answer to question number ten went something like: "Well, Babel is like, humans keep trying to build a tower to heaven. By themselves. But they can't." Somehow, I don't think my professor's comments will include: "The depth of the simplicity here astounds me on many levels. A+ for you!"

Maybe I would have been better off at some hippy school where the administration doesn't believe in tests because its mission is to teach students how to have A+ souls. Or not. If anyone could fail at a mission like that, It'd be me.

Oh well, that's life I guess. Coincidentaly, my test ends with those very words. In other news, I was home this weekend and my dog has hair! Yeah, I know. It's a medical miriacle. Either that, or Marshmallow sold his soul to Satan in exchange for beauty in his old age. Either way, he's lookin' good.