No Internet, No Happiness

I don't have space in my heart and mind for the kind of hate I feel for the people who lived upstairs. I hope they go on to be cut up by hobos, hit by buses, treated in dirty hospitals in third world countries, infected by AIDS and die alone. Or together. Maybe that's worse. Maybe they can play some more avant garde gong jams to soothe their journey to HELL. If I'd known these people would continue to annoy me even after they'd gone, I would have set them on fire when I had the chance. My internet probably still would have been disconnected by accident, but I would have done something helpful and proactive about it. Cussing out Time Warner's customer service representatives can only take you so far. Sometimes you need to immolate someone.

4 days without internet was HARSH. I mean, yeah, I was really productive. I read 3 books (300, 600, and 800 pages in length...for serious), did a lot of Latin, studied Greek, memorized a lot of German vocab. But what good is productivity if life isn't worth living?? And life without internet totally isn't worth living.

I didn't even mourn the useless, time-wasting stuff. No, I'm talking about serious things. Like emailing professors, reordering the Netflix queue (it's more serious than you think), ordering books to study for the MA exams, getting my bank balance, checking the weather! These are things you can ONLY do online. And man, the downloading. Only NOW can I begin the tedious process of catching up on my network tv viewing. I think I'm going to queue up the season finale of ANTM right NOW.

Dr. Fünke's Good-Time Family Band Solution

Everybody has shitty neighbors. My shitty neighbors are in a jazz/gong band. And their back-up dancer has one move: falling the fuck down. Loudly. Like she's trying to do the worm but only managing to smash her bitchy mug into the floor. Seriously, what's the matter with these people? In my last building I had werewolves living upstairs, now I have a family of Gerald Fords.

I once wrote this on Jessica's blog comments, referring to the uncanny ability of my bathroom grate to pick up sounds from their apartment:

"for some reason the grate at the top of the door is like the portal to Narnia, if Narnia were the apartment of stompy, loud, socially-retarded, shitty trumpet players."

It's so true! It's like a wonderland of asshole-ery up there! Mr. Trumpet Jackoff knows one note: sustained crap-flat. I think the percussionist dabbles in experimental plate breaking.

I imagine the back-up bitch as a crazy axe/plunger-wielding wench and Mr. Gong-show as a redneck asshole. And the cage is filled with the bones of their one-man mosh pit. Or maybe it's filled with the bones of the property manager who supposedly told them to knock it off. Maybe they've picked his sinews clean to string a harp and make the band a three-piece.

I'm going to be one of those crazy old bitches banging on the ceiling with a broom. And I don't care. Because if that chick doesn't stop toppling down onto the floor, I'm going to set her on fire.

Present Day

Yes, I twisted my ankle while getting off the bus day. What rotten luck! I maintained in Italy that I had only twisted my ankle (only to go home and find out that I had broken my foot). Now I understand why everybody freaked out when they saw my foot years ago (it looked pretty bad). A twisted ankle looks nothing like a broken foot. Who knew?

Italy 2004

It seems I have a problem with hills as well as keeping cameras nice. I maintain to this day that it was the rocky terrain and darkness that caused my fall.

Hic, haec, huh?

I'm actually really good at Latin. Now. It's taken 8 years of constant study. And I've never done that badly in Latin since. There was a B+ in second year, then it's been all A range since. But still, it's funny to think about it. I HATED Latin 101. I skipped it EVERY SINGLE WEEK (which probably has something to do with why I performed so badly). My TA didn't even remember me afterwards because he had only seen me a few times in an entire year. I guess I shouldn't feel bad: the class started with 60 people, and only 6 made it to the final exam.

Let's just hope I'm a better teacher than MY first Latin professor.

Sunday Afternoon at the Coffee Shop

Apparently Jesus doesn't much like it when you rag on his followers in your blog - Strip Generator got stuck on my upload twice. I had to screen cap this. Watch, when I post this, the internetz will catch fire. Jesus should forgive me, though, I'm listening to mewithoutYou.

So what's the deal with Christians and coffeeshops? And diners? And the school cafeteria? Basically any place they can sit and talk Bible, really. Always loudly. Always with such conviction. They're deluded, but at least they're consistent, I guess. I'm actually not sure, of the 3, which was the worst part. I guess the Greek studying. I haven't been this unmotivated since...the last Greek test. Huh.

Oh, and while we're on the topic of Christians and irritating things, I thought I might mention my sign. Everyone who has been to my door since I put it up has commented on my sign. I got irritated at people knocking on my door (ever since I moved out for the first time, I've gotten black-out-rage whenever uninvited people knock on my door. Kinda like my anger at unsolicited phone calls. It's 'cause I'm a private person. Or a bitch. Whatever.), so I put up a sign: NO SOLICITORS, CHARITIES, OR RELIGIOUS ORGANIZATIONS. The first is obviously because solicitors are irritating. The second, because all these fucking hippies canvassing to save the lake or some other lamesauce hippie thing keep bugging me. And third, because there's a coven of Mormons living next door. Seriously. We have a Grand Dragon Temple of Mormons on the adjacent property. That's where they collect impressionable youths and brainwash them to serve the church for two years by wandering the streets, going door-to-door, proselytizing. Proselytizing is something that would get you shot in my idealized version of America. As opposed to things that get you shot now, like going out after dark in the suburbs. Anyway, so they keep these kids hostage, do a little Clockwork Orange business, then set them free on the unsuspecting townspeople. These kids aren't even allowed to call their families. Someone might mention Waco similarities, or the fact that their founding father was arresting for prospecting or something.

Mormons just piss me off. (Unless you're a non-proselytizing Mormon. Then you don't piss me off. We're cool.)

Oh, so, the sign. Why the sign? I'm just hostile. And I'm okay with it. Atheists don't go to hell.

P.S. They really were talking about Christian dress code. Jesus doesn't like to see knees.