Welcome back kids. Mom, I couldn’t wear my new white sneakers ‘til the first day, but I wore them around the house yesterday anyway. I trust everyone has their shiny, new lunch boxes and fresh Crayola crayons for the new year.
I am horrible at dating. I guess I didn’t watch enough “ElimiDATE” in high school, but the whole dating thing just doesn’t click with me. I don’t understand the casual coffee, vague movie nights or late-night yogurt stops. My friends have tried to set up so many blind dates I should get a free guide dog.
I’ve got a date this Thursday. First time in a while. I’m supposed to meet her at Pacific Beach and ask her questions and listen to her stupid answers. Then maybe at the end of the date I’ll make a move on her to prove I’m not gay. Maybe she accepts, maybe she doesn’t. If she doesn’t she’ll probably conjure up some excuse like, “I’m sorry, I never kiss on the first date.” I’ll respond by saying something along the lines of, “Oh, that’s admirable,” and play the sensitive d-bag while on the inside I’ll see the with rage.
Since the beginning of time, men have despised the great art of shopping. The crowded malls, the nagging salespeople, and the sweet aroma wafting from the food court is enough to have most men tugging at the end of their boyfriend leashes to ditch the shopping spree and succumb to their inner chowhounds.
I don’t know how it took me this long to discover Scrabble on Facebook, but as of about two weeks ago, I am completely addicted. I’m normally not a very competitive guy — I mean, I was born with an adequately sized penis, so I have no reason to be — but something about Scrabble makes me a little too serious.
The day I turned 21 years old will be forever imprinted in my memory, which may come as a shock because most people can’t recall their big day at all. Yes, I did participate in the common task of drinking until you can’t stand, but this was also the first night I would begin to learn a very valuable lesson: Being 21 years old is not all it’s chalked up to be.
I think growing up during the late ‘90s has spoiled us. Sure, maybe it’s embarrassing that fads such as collecting Pokémon cards were so popular, but damn it all if that kid down the street was going to take your 11-year-old girlfriend just because he had a Charizard card. It was more of an obligation to win, really.
The words shouted last Thursday were ones I never expected to hear again.
“San Diego, are you ready for some Backstreet Boys?!” I stood in the throwback concert crowd of 200 lucky fans — all there to get back at the mothers who wouldn’t take them to see the Boys when they were in middle school.
Well I just finished my last-ever Spring Break. Yes, it is depressing and yes, you should definitely feel sorry for me. But it wasn’t without its highlights. Let’s reflect:
Imagine walking down a busy street in a foreign country. It’s not a scary murder movie type of street and it’s the middle of the day, but everyone is staring at you as you walk by. Men give you the up and down and watch you for blocks until you are out of sight. Even when you make eye contact with them, they don’t stop. Women glare at you like you personally offended them; small children point and yell. Oh yes, the life of a blonde in South America.
In college, we are taught that if we work hard and do well in our classes, we will become successful. And all those hours spent in the Love Library with empty cans of energy drinks, half-eaten bags of chips and a bottle half full of Adderall will become a fond memory of our rise to prosperity.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve lived in San Diego. Although I love it here, living in one city your whole life is like only wearing your oldest pair of used underwear for months on end — it might be familiar and comfortable, but oh God is it time for a change.
So how many of you had Kansas winning it all? All of you? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
It’s one thing when your dreams of winning your bracket pool are crushed in the second round; it’s another thing entirely when those dreams are crushed by something called an Ali Farokhmanesh.
The other day, during my vigorous power walk from the trolley to Storm Hall, I had the pleasure of getting a kick out of someone else’s pain, a luxury I am not often afforded. Some poor girl was wearing a neon sweat suit — a terrible fashion faux pas in itself — with a roller backpack in tow. As if this didn’t already scream for the fashion — nay, common sense — police, the girl unsuspectingly had toilet paper trailing from her cross-trainers. While some would have pity, I blame karma for her awful fashion sense.
A gang of thugged-out foreigners stole my skateboard when I was 12 years old. It was Halloween and I wanted to be Tony Hawk or something; I don’t remember too well. But there I was, surrounded by a bunch of kids who looked like they were in their 20s, but in retrospect, were probably only teenagers.
Spring Break is less than five days away. While many of you have been planning your vacation for months, I completely forgot about the wonderful week off until a couple of weeks ago.
So how about that Mountain West Conference Tournament, eh? For those who missed it, I’m sorry you weren’t there to storm the court in Las Vegas. If only someone had advised you to make plans to be there … oh wait, that’s right, I totally did two weeks ago. That’s what you get, ingrates.
Yeah, I love to drink. Beer, tequila, malt liquor — it doesn’t matter to me. You know that guy who’s the life of the party, always laughing and having fun with everyone? Well, I’m the guy he’s sitting next to on the couch drooling, sweating beads of alcohol, on the verge of passing out in a puddle of my own vomit and urine.
Gone are the days when MTV actually played music and reality TV consisted of game shows or programs involving challenges, such as “Legends of the Hidden Temple.” It’s sad that our generation can easily recognize Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi from “Jersey Shore,” yet when shown a picture of a local politician, many people would scratch their heads and reply with, “Wasn’t he on that one show?”
I’m writing this at a kid’s birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese’s. I haven’t been to Chuck E. Cheese’s in awhile, and I remember it a lot differently. For one, when I was 7 years old I wasn’t getting hit on by single dads. Actually, I don’t recall any of the miserable adults in general. But now that I am one, I want you to meet them.
As you are reading this, I am in Las Vegas. In fact, I’ve been here since Tuesday night.
There is a good chance that by now I’m in the middle of a shenanigans-filled quest to relocate Edward somewhere in the greater Clark County area after a night no one remembers.
Ah, spring. The birds are chirping, the tulips are in bloom and the sky is an endless baby blue. Yes, springtime is the season of love. It makes me quiver in sheer delight. This is where I am right now in my quest for love: I am making a female alter ego on Facebook who will write flirty comments on my wall in my dire hope that the girl I actually like will see them and suddenly like me. Yes, the tidings of spring fare well for this one.
I tend to judge people pretty quickly based solely on their Facebook profile pictures. Why? Because I can. There may be 400 million people using Facebook, but there are only seven basic profile pictures. I can prove it. I bet yours falls into one of these categories. It’s a science.
Fellow students, I am happy to announce the Winter Olympics have finally ended. Sometime between watching U.S. figure skater Johnny Weir emasculate himself as he pranced with his fur and feather-covered costume, and the always disappointing winter cross-country, it finally hit me — the Winter Olympics are mind-numbingly dull. There must be a better way.
So you may recall, as I presume these columns are a memorable focal point of everyone’s life, that last week I wrote about a topic near and dear to my heart: drunk texting. I mentioned that sending a text saying, “I don’t know what your middle name is” is a perfect first text. That was a terrible mistake.
My brother Chuck loves Taylor Swift. He’s a 23-year-old 2nd lieutenant in the U.S. Army. When I mockingly asked him why he likes her music so much, he told me he’s secure with his sexuality.
When it comes to privacy, I like to think of myself as an old-fashioned kind of girl. There are some discussions meant to be held in public areas, and some that should be left for more personal settings, such as therapy or “The Jerry Springer Show.” However, I know for some it’s tough to know exactly where to fight with your “baby mama” about child support and what to leave out of the conversation when you’re meeting your boyfriend’s parents.
Like many of you students out there, I have what experts in the automotive field call a POS: a car that stalls while driving over the simplest of hills, goes from 0 to 60 mph in a brisk minute and a half, and has more miles on the speedometer than several third-world countries’ GDPs.
Yesterday, my esteemed colleague and hetero life-partner, Edward Lewis, turned 21 years old. To celebrate, we went out to Effin’s at midnight on Tuesday, which I suppose is technically Wednesday — whatever. My point is the first thing Edward said to me this morning was, “So, at one point last night, I was sitting on my toilet, vomiting into my bathtub.” Success.
I recently read about a guy who went to a “Star Wars” convention dressed as Mr. Spock. He was hospitalized after being beaten unconscious. Did you get that? One nerd was given a concussion when a bunch of other nerds hit him with their PVC-pipe lightsabers. That’s just sad. Actually, the saddest part was when I told my boyfriend, he responded by saying, “Well, that proves it, ‘Star Wars’ is better.”
I saw “Avatar” for the first time the other day. Here’s what happened when I walked out of the theater: I took a look around, sighed and realized how utterly mundane life was. But that only lasted for about an hour; then my life got exciting again. Because my middle name’s Adventure.
This is my seventh or eighth year in college, and I have a 2.003 overall grade point average. No joke. Not long ago I was forced to declare a major, one of those that San Diego State allows undergraduates that have less-than-stellar GPAs to pick. I figured it was time to start doing some research.
I love the Winter Olympics. I really do. But based on the lack of curling references popping up in my Facebook news feed, it seems that not everyone else shares my excitement. To be honest, I really don’t care about any event other than hockey, so how do I enjoy the games so much? Contrarianism, that’s how. Better known on the streets as, “being a hater.”
Are you a baller on a budget? Lately, I’ve been looking for ways to save money as a college student. Let’s face it, many of us are strapped for dough. Here are a few things to consider if you’re interested in getting the most bang for your buck.
I hate opening presents. You are probably thinking I am crazy right about now, but it’s true. Opening presents is quite possibly one of the most terrifying things I am expected to do in my life. And believe me, I’ve bared witness to a 6 foot by 8 foot picture of my intoxicated dad mooning the camera plastered to the side of a houseboat. So stick that in your juice box and suck it.
Noah Henry, Contributor
I had to pick up my drunk mom up at a party once. It was this huge house on a hill, with expensive statues and flourishing gardens. I showed up to round up my mom, and everyone is partying in the backyard. There’s probably 50 people, all of whom were very well-dressed and drunk. One of my mom’s friends started talking to me, slurring like she had molasses in her mouth. She was a few bottles of champagne past the recommended doseage. She was a cougar.
Men, Valentine’s Day is soon upon us. I know, I know — it surprised me too. Do you know why it sneaks up on us every year? It’s because we don’t care. It’s a stupid holiday created by women as an excuse to get us in trouble. I know whatever I do for my girlfriend this year, it won’t be creative or thoughtful enough. It’s not fair and we need to come together and put an end to the injustice. Oh wait — that’s right — I don’t have a girlfriend. Well, I guess I really don’t care then. Good luck with that one, guys!
As I raced through the store, my boyfriend close in tow, I realized this game of tag was turning into the most fun event I’ve had in a long time. As happiness flooded through my body like the warmth of a first shot at a party, I was brought back to the year 1995 — me, standing on the blacktop of my elementary school overlooking all the shenanigans taking place.
Mercedes screams success. Hondas preach efficiency. And, according to recent reports, people who drive Toyotas don’t watch the news or use the Internet. Because I have a 25-minute commute to school, I have a lot of alone time on the road to judge strangers’ personalities and life values based solely on their car. It’s not stereotyping, it’s science. Really.
All right, I know this is college. I know that all of us young adults are bent on “expressing ourselves,” “showing our individuality” or something of the sort. But good Lord, do not do that by walking around with “I have issues” written on the front of your T-shirt. That is just stupid.
If you’re like me, you spend more time on Facebook than anything else. And if you’re not like me, well then you probably have a life and a girlfriend, so congratulations on that. In fact, as soon as I finished typing that last sentence, in an act of what is probably a mild symptom of obsessive-compulsive disorder, I immediately clicked back to Facebook and hit refresh. Unfortunately, nothing had happened in the 37 seconds since I last checked. I did get a recent friend request, but I like to wait at least 24 hours before approving them. I don’t want to seem pathetic.
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