Productively Unproductive

I have the strange habit of being extremely productive when I am being completely unproductive. Let me explain how this works:

First, I am assigned an undesirable task, say, calling someone I don't want to talk to, or, oh I don't know...HOMEWORK.

Second, I tell myself that I am going to work on said task.

Third, I get distracted by other things that I could accomplish instead.

Fourth, I justify accomplishing those things.

Fifth, I accomplish those things.

Yeah..... and then usually it ends up taking me until the very last minute to accomplish the unpleasant thing that I didn't want to do and I end up getting a whole bunch of fantastic other things done. 

You can call this procrastination if you want, but at least I am getting something done. I mean, I made this blog at a time that I was supposed to be studying for a statistics final, wait... hmm.... this could be a problem....

The Silence is Killing Me

You'd think that after living almost a full semester up at college that for once I would talk about how the experience has been, the crazy fun times I've been having, or something of that nature. But no. I'm just going to talk about toilets.

Okay, here's the thing. Growing up, I've always completely hated public restrooms. If I don't feel like my bladder is going to explode at the given moment, I will generally avoid using them. It's not because they are too dirty, (although in some cases this is true). Its not because I'm afraid of being assaulted by some random creeper hanging out in one....I mean...I am afraid of that.....but you get my point. No, I think the reason that I don't like public bathrooms is because they are embarrassing.

Call me strange, but I find the deadly silence of public restrooms completely numbing. Its as if I don't dare to do anything, because I will disturb the peace. And you know what? I don't want to hear anything that goes on in a bathroom. Nobody likes bathroom noises.

 And nobody likes making bathroom noises, so we all continue to sit there in our stalls, looking at the shoes of the person next to us, waiting for them to exit. When its clear they're going to be a while, you don't want to sit there awkwardly, so you pull on the toilet paper roll and clear your throat a couple times. If they still don't depart, then you just get up and leave and come back in thirty seconds, because guess what? The INSTANT you leave the bathroom and the person still in there is alone, they will do their business and be done. Likewise, you will go in as soon as you see them leave to complete the mission.

My theory here is that we are all to freaking afraid of being heard. The thing is, the solution is so simple! All that has to be done is for some other noises to be inserted into a restroom. Put freaking radio music coming from the ceiling, who doesn't want to listen to Gangam Style on the porcelain throne? Or maybe they could play some jungle ambiance.


Can you just imagine? You don't have to listen to the footsteps of people coming in, or the bodily sounds of the guy in the stall next to you. Just close your eyes...and bam! There's a freaking baboon! Look above you, yeah that's right, those are toucans.

There just needs to be something in the background to get rid of the completely dead silence in the room. I mean, it echoes for heaven's sake! They might as well hook microphones up to the toilet so that everyone can hear everything. 

But hey, its just me. If you're one of those people who just "goes with the flow," then you can just continue on with your life. Don't mind me, I'll just wait in the stall until you leave.

Colds are Curses

So not too long ago, I was fighting a cold. Colds are the stupidest little days of sickness. I mean, they aren't even legitimate illness, they exist just to annoy people. If I get sick, I'd rather have some sickness that gives me an excuse to sit in bed, watch movies, and ask people to get me food. 

Colds just suck. They come at the worst possible times (like when you have multiple tests and school projects) but they don't give you any excuses. I mean, can you imagine telling your professor, "Oh sorry, I didn't get my homework done, I was too busy blowing my nose and feeling tired"? No. Colds are stupid because you have to still do stuff even though your nose runs enough to be considered a small waterfall and you can't go five seconds without clearing your throat (plus every time you clear your throat people expect you to make an announcement or something). 

Anyway, I'm waaay too impatient to be slowed down by a cold, so when I do have a cold, I do everything I can do to get rid of it. I find those vitamins that have been sitting in the cupboard that I was supposed to be taking everyday and I catch up on them; I drink enough water to put a camel to shame; and I wash my hands with the likeness of an individual with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. But nothing speeds up the process. Suddenly I find myself taking all sorts of advice that sound somewhat reasonable, and eventually unreasonable. Eat only chicken noodle soup? Okay I'll try it! Drink a bottle of honey? Done and done. Rub cow manure in the shape of a crucifix on my bare chest? Well...

Anyway, eventually I surrender to the fact that the cold doesn't take orders from nobody. I drudge around life miserably, not ill enough to generate sympathy, but too ill to maintain the enthusiasm to complete daily tasks. Then suddenly I wake up one morning, and its a miracle. I'm healed! And I'm so happy and the world is sunshine and rainbows, and then I realize how bad I did on all my work while my brain was clouded by the cold....asdlkfj#$%^&yfksg!

Something Isn't Right

It was a dark night. An occasional car with a faceless driver flew down the street with dim headlights crossing my face. I walk briskly back to my place of residence with my hands tucked under my arms and a stern expression on my wind-beaten face. In an instant, I stumble upon a silver shoe lying beneath a faded streetlight. It was just a single shoe.









How odd, I think to myself. Where did it come from? Where is its matching partner? Then suddenly, an alarm goes off in my mind. "Walk away," I tell myself. "Just walk away."
You see, if there is one thing that I've learned from the thousands of hidden-camera shows I've viewed in my life, it's this: If something seems out of place, leave it alone.
Let's say you push the button for the elevator. The doors open and a man in a turkey leg costume stands in your midst. 

DON'T GO IN THE ELEVATOR. Try not to scream, and simply walk (don't run) away nonchalantly.

I mean, we've all seen the videos haven't we? You don't want to be the embarrassed fool who is videotaped trying to pull a super-glued quarter from the sidewalk, do you?

Of course not. So the next time you see something that seems too perfect (like a free quarter), or something simply out of place, just walk away. Save yourself the embarrassment. I mean who knows what troubles touching that shoe would have caused me...

Nose Goes

One of the most wonderful things I have discovered in recent weeks is the phrase "nose goes." This phase is stated when an unpleasant task needs to be completed, but everyone is avoiding it.
The last person to put their finger on their nose, loses.
The game generally works like this:

It just got me thinking how simple the world would be if everyone played nose goes, and the rules were binding.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It could also be applied to fictional situations:

 Even though none of my pictures technically had noses, I trust you get the idea by now.

Group Projects

 

        College is supposed to be hard, and it is. But not for the same reasons that everyone else thinks it is. Everything has been fun up to this moment. The only thorn to my rose, the only bruise to my apple, the only grape juice stain to my crisp white pants so far, has been an evil invention called "group projects."

        Group projects were invented by slackers who, some how, grew up to be educators. Group projects allow for free-loaders to ride on students that actually give a flying flip about school.
        A group containing only slackers is doomed to failure, as not one of them is motivated to accomplish anything substancial. But fate would have it that almost every group contains at least one motivated individual. Heaven forbid there be a group with more than one motivated person.

 

 

Today I was put into a group for an accursed group project. 

For this project we were required to write an essay, yes that's right, one of those things that requires ONE hand to write ONE word at a time on ONE piece of paper. But we were supposed to do it with THREE brains.


       The task was firstly made frustrating because of who I was paired with. The couple was a girl and a guy, the same age, who were so fascinated with eachother, I might as well been invisible. When it started, I suggested that I could be the "scribe" (in other words write the crap out of the essay), but Boy goes "No, let her do it. She's a girl, she has good handwriting."
      I stare at him like, "Do you not understand? I am going to write this essay because I know how to write. It's about content, not calligraphy."


       The problem is, we had a group evaluation form. So I was FORCED to be a friendly, team player.
      
       So instead of screaming "LET ME DOOO IT!!!" like my perfectionist brain told me to, I surrendered and said "Okay, she can write."

        So the essay writing began. It started with me appropriately responding to each question, desparately hoping that Girl would dictate me verbatim. Unfortunately, she followed her thoughts, creating a fluffy story that danced around the first question like a ballerina in a laser maze.

        When Girl finally stopped writing and asked where to go next with her trainwreck, Boy responded with the first words he could possibly pop out of his mouth.
         I sat deliberating about what to say, but when my intelligent lines started flowing, she had already written paragraph upon paragraph of Boy's thoughtless verbal diarrhea.

       Trying to get three brains to write one essay is like trying to fit three heads into the hole of one sweater, the sweater gets ruined, just like our essay.

        But not everyone in the group saw it for what it really was. In fact, the other two liked the essay. They thought it was good! In my mind, I knew that this was the worst piece of paper my name had ever been attached to, but I proceeded to smile and offer them compliments so that Girl and Boy would give me social points on the member evaluation form.

       The morale of the story is that group projects suck. I am a perfectionist and I need to be in control of any work that has my name on it.

  Dear Teachers, DON'T ASSIGN GROUP PROJECTS IF YOU WANT QUALITY WORK. My brain is perfectly capable of creating an essay. And any student who says they can't needs to put on their big-kid undies and grab a pencil because group projects aint goin' fly wit me.

 

Lies

So today I was eating peanut butter on my couch by myself while my dog stared into the depths of my soul (he does this when I eat).
         
That is when a brilliant idea flew into my ear canal and landed in my brain. You see, I once heard that if you give your dog some peanut butter, that he will lick and lick and make a total fool of himself as the peanut butter sticks to his mouth and he completely fails at removing it. Okay yeah, it seems mean. But he always wants my food anyway so this is what he wanted.
                                                                                                  So I gave him some....



And he ate it in one freaking gulp, I swear. He didn't even breathe, he just inhaled it like he does with every other treat we've ever given him in his whole life. And in an instant he's justing staring at me like,

I don't know where I learned this lie from, but I'm extremely deflated. This was going to be the pinnacle of entertainment of my entire day, and now it's ruined. Although, maybe I just need to give him more, say, the whole jar.

I made an art!

So recently, me and my friends decided that we should try something artsy. I know, it was very daring, considering we are not female and therefore 50% of all crafts we attempt are biologically doomed to failure and the next 40% are only attempted whilest in elementary school. But hey, we were in a daring mood, we were teenagers, we weren't afraid of anything.

Armed with a bag filled to top with a collection of century-old crayons, and endless supply of paper, and a hairdryer we were determined to make some creation that did not pain the eyes, and in this goal, I believe we succeded.

This was mine. I saw an idea like this on a website you may have heard of, its called Pintrest. After I saw this I was like, "Wow there must be a whole lot of ideas on this website I'll like."    

I was mistaken. However, I'm sure there are some non-cutesy projects that don't look specifically targeted towards housewives on that website somewhere, but I have not found them.

Anyway, I am proud of this art I made. I could keep this in my house without making any excuses such as, "Oh my five year old cousin made that for me." I might even tell them I bought it from an expensive art boutique, okay no. But seriously I'm that proud.

I hate choosing.

 For some reason, I have difficulty making choices. I over analyze everything, and as a result I get really overwhelmed.

 

 

It makes doing everything just a bit harder.

Sub-way too much.

You know, I like Subway as much as anyone else. They are great, most of the time.

I've just noticed a problem lately...

I order my sandwich and stuff and everything is just peachy and I'm almost done ordering and then I'm like...

And the worker is like...

And then in the blink of an eye, there is SO much FRIGGIN mustard on my sandwich. Its like the mustard monster had a baby on it...

And I'm thinking to myself, "Did I not just say a little bit?"

(And I look up to the first picture, indeed I did say that)

And the worker just smiles at me as I take the sandwich and sit down at a table, where I can feel his eyes watching me, HOPING with all his little heart that I enjoy his sandwich.

So I get all guilty and I'm like...

But I can't get mad. I feel like he tried so hard to make a sandwich that I would enjoy. Its like a child making some horrible blob of food for their parent but the parent eats it anyway to make the kid feel good.

But you know what? I feel good for being so nice...