We bet that if you had a dime for every time someone told you to stop chewing on your fingers, you’d be able to hire the entire cast of Jersey Shore to dress up as hobo clowns for your next birthday.
Actually, they would probably do that for free.
Regardless, nail biting is pretty gross, but it gets even worse when you start peeling away at your poor cuticles. Before you know it, you’re getting blood all over your Blackberry as you try to text for help.
Well, help has arrived! Stress can drive us to do some unsightly things, but gnawing away at your paws doesn’t have to be one of them. Follow this helpful list of tips to keep you from chewing up your digits and spitting them out.
•Put your fingertips in frozen Carbonite, a la Han Solo at the end of Empire.
•Paint your nails and cuticles with cyanide.
•Encase your mouth in a stainless steel cage.
•Dress up your elbows up as delicious ribeye steaks, so you want to nibble on those, instead.
•Stab your hand to the table with a kitchen knife so you can’t bring your fingers up to your mouth.
•Cut off your finger tips.
•Teach your cuticles jujitsu in order to defend themselves from an onslaught of attacks from your teeth and tongue.
•Sit your mouth and cuticles in a room with a therapist to hash out their destructive relationship.
•Paint each nail to look like The Beatles because, think about it… you wouldn’t ever put Ringo Starr in your mouth, would you?
•Staple your mouth shut and eat through a straw in your nose.
•Watch The Notebook with your cuticles. After that, you’ll cherish every moment you have together and you’ll never want to bite down on them again.
•Become a hand model for designer finger pants (pants that you wear on your fingers, that’s what).
•Enter your cuticles into the countywide 4H Finger-Ends Growing Competition and go for that blue ribbon!
•Sharpen your cuticles to razor sharp edges.
•Gargle with muriatic acid to dissolve your teeth and tongue.
expect the unexpected and get ready to party.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
How To Tell If You're Dating a Hipster
1. When he kisses you, steampunk music erupts from the warehouse next door, as if by magic.
2. His recipe for vegan potato chowder includes a dash of James Franco.
3. Your crush can’t read the recipe for steel cut groats without his Buddy Holly glasses on.
4. Your man is super enlightened about feminist issues, and calls his mom “Maureen” and his dad “A corporate affront to man’s natural state.”
5. Despite never using sunscreen, your date retains a soft complexion the color of beeswax candles.
6. Your boyfriend calls the space between his beard and bangs “the meeting place,” or “Austin, TX,” for short.
7. The local diner has no ketchup on the tables. Instead, pipettes of truffle oil.
8. Your boyfriend’s shirt size is plaid one-size-fits-all-hipsters.
9. You find cairns of river rocks stacked around the house, directing hikers between the vegetable patch and quiet beanbag room.
10. Instead of dishwashing liquid, there is a single cut grapefruit on the sink, to be rubbed gently over eating surfaces after use.
11. Instead of wearing pants, your date wraps his legs in denim bandages each morning.
12. Your date made his own rocking chair. Out of old typewriters.
13. Your boyfriends bicycle has no gears or brakes, or seat, or handlebars, as he likes to keep things “pure.”
14. Your crush is going for a bachelor of arts from Washtub Bass College in Burlington, Vermont.
15. When you try to put your arm around your date, his slim shoulders shrink inward, until you are left hugging an organic broom from Ecuador with a hipster-fro.
16. Your boycrush is working on an “untitled” film project. When you peek at the project on his MacBook Air, it turns out to be called “Mr. Baseball” and stars Tom Selleck.
17. He liked you before it was mainstream.
2. His recipe for vegan potato chowder includes a dash of James Franco.
3. Your crush can’t read the recipe for steel cut groats without his Buddy Holly glasses on.
4. Your man is super enlightened about feminist issues, and calls his mom “Maureen” and his dad “A corporate affront to man’s natural state.”
5. Despite never using sunscreen, your date retains a soft complexion the color of beeswax candles.
6. Your boyfriend calls the space between his beard and bangs “the meeting place,” or “Austin, TX,” for short.
7. The local diner has no ketchup on the tables. Instead, pipettes of truffle oil.
8. Your boyfriend’s shirt size is plaid one-size-fits-all-hipsters.
9. You find cairns of river rocks stacked around the house, directing hikers between the vegetable patch and quiet beanbag room.
10. Instead of dishwashing liquid, there is a single cut grapefruit on the sink, to be rubbed gently over eating surfaces after use.
11. Instead of wearing pants, your date wraps his legs in denim bandages each morning.
12. Your date made his own rocking chair. Out of old typewriters.
13. Your boyfriends bicycle has no gears or brakes, or seat, or handlebars, as he likes to keep things “pure.”
14. Your crush is going for a bachelor of arts from Washtub Bass College in Burlington, Vermont.
15. When you try to put your arm around your date, his slim shoulders shrink inward, until you are left hugging an organic broom from Ecuador with a hipster-fro.
16. Your boycrush is working on an “untitled” film project. When you peek at the project on his MacBook Air, it turns out to be called “Mr. Baseball” and stars Tom Selleck.
17. He liked you before it was mainstream.
Beauty Tips for the Cheap & Lazy!
We all have a comfortable, day-to-day makeup routine—but every now and then, don't you just wanna pull a Hermione and do a slow-motion staircase entrance lookin' smokin' hot? Don't you want to get aggressive with the fancy-face, even if it's just for the Yule Ball?
Sure, we get the intimidation factor. One minute, you're rocking your trusty lip gloss like a vandal. But the next? You turn into an alien who's like "What are these tubes and bottles and brushes? Why do I only have two hands? Where am I? Must destroy humans."
Here are some tips you might find helpful before you end the entire human race in a fit of rage.
Read Making Faces by Kevyn Aucoin.
It's a book, you guys! You'll like it. Seriously—with my hand on Little Women, I swear to you—everything I know about makeup I learned from this book. Kevyn Aucoin (may he rest in peace and glitter) was a celeb makeup artist and also basically Dumbledore. There's a lot of step-by-step instruction that showcase real women (yay!). But in the back, it gets good. He breaks down a handful of looks that give a nod toward historical moments in makeup ("The Biba," an homage to the 1960's London fashion line and "The Starlet," helping you nail the pout of a true glamour girl). Don't be weirded out—even if you don't go all the way, you'll learn a little something from each. And if all else fails, it'll make a Friday night at home more fun.
Get a magnifying mirror.
It's so much easier to do eyeliner when you can see your face real big. You can get really close to your lashline. It's just science. Just don't try to tweeze your eyebrows in it or it will lead to disaster. Speaking of eyebrows …
Use Anbesol to numb them before you start plucking.
That's all I have to say about that.
Hey there, fairy face.
Highlighter changes everything—don't be afraid. White liner, for example, is a really good tool to wake things up around the eyes. Apply a little on your brow bones, inner corner of the eye, and/or underneath your lower lashes and blend, blend, blend. Blend some more. Keep blending. Voila! No one will ever know you were up late reading all the Wikipedia entries about Degrassi.
Also, let's talk about shimmer.
Shimmer the right way and you look lit by candles wherever you go. Follow this map: tip of the nose, bow of the lips, top of the cheekbones, brow bones. Just a dab.
And speaking of illumination: true facts.
No one looks good in fluorescent lighting. No one. Not Klum. Not anyone. Be ok with it.
What can brown do for you?
Everything! Seriously, smoky blacks and charcoals on the eyes are super dramatic, buuut they can also make you look like you went 10 rounds with Manny Pacquiao (a boxer). Browns are way more forgiving. Layer on brown eyeliner plus taupe and copper eye shadows to amp up your normal eye routine.
Brighten up.
Don't overdo it, of course, but every now and then before a big night out, I put a drop or two of Visene in my eyes. I end up looking less like a sleep-deprived vampire and more like a human, with feelings and a heart and all that! I've been known to use a little on overly red zits, too.
Contrast is queen.
If you go heavy on the eyes, lighten up on the lips, and vice versa.
Know yo' self.
I learned my face by doing (and messing up) my own makeup like a ton of times. I have barely any eyelids. I am basically translucent. My lip line is complicated. The point is this: Every book and magazine in the world can tell you how to apply it or what might be in for the season, but in the end, you know what looks good on you (Sorry, purple lipstick. I'll pass.)
PS: One more thing to know.
You're just as pretty without makeup, so there's that too
Sure, we get the intimidation factor. One minute, you're rocking your trusty lip gloss like a vandal. But the next? You turn into an alien who's like "What are these tubes and bottles and brushes? Why do I only have two hands? Where am I? Must destroy humans."
Here are some tips you might find helpful before you end the entire human race in a fit of rage.
Read Making Faces by Kevyn Aucoin.
It's a book, you guys! You'll like it. Seriously—with my hand on Little Women, I swear to you—everything I know about makeup I learned from this book. Kevyn Aucoin (may he rest in peace and glitter) was a celeb makeup artist and also basically Dumbledore. There's a lot of step-by-step instruction that showcase real women (yay!). But in the back, it gets good. He breaks down a handful of looks that give a nod toward historical moments in makeup ("The Biba," an homage to the 1960's London fashion line and "The Starlet," helping you nail the pout of a true glamour girl). Don't be weirded out—even if you don't go all the way, you'll learn a little something from each. And if all else fails, it'll make a Friday night at home more fun.
Get a magnifying mirror.
It's so much easier to do eyeliner when you can see your face real big. You can get really close to your lashline. It's just science. Just don't try to tweeze your eyebrows in it or it will lead to disaster. Speaking of eyebrows …
Use Anbesol to numb them before you start plucking.
That's all I have to say about that.
Hey there, fairy face.
Highlighter changes everything—don't be afraid. White liner, for example, is a really good tool to wake things up around the eyes. Apply a little on your brow bones, inner corner of the eye, and/or underneath your lower lashes and blend, blend, blend. Blend some more. Keep blending. Voila! No one will ever know you were up late reading all the Wikipedia entries about Degrassi.
Also, let's talk about shimmer.
Shimmer the right way and you look lit by candles wherever you go. Follow this map: tip of the nose, bow of the lips, top of the cheekbones, brow bones. Just a dab.
And speaking of illumination: true facts.
No one looks good in fluorescent lighting. No one. Not Klum. Not anyone. Be ok with it.
What can brown do for you?
Everything! Seriously, smoky blacks and charcoals on the eyes are super dramatic, buuut they can also make you look like you went 10 rounds with Manny Pacquiao (a boxer). Browns are way more forgiving. Layer on brown eyeliner plus taupe and copper eye shadows to amp up your normal eye routine.
Brighten up.
Don't overdo it, of course, but every now and then before a big night out, I put a drop or two of Visene in my eyes. I end up looking less like a sleep-deprived vampire and more like a human, with feelings and a heart and all that! I've been known to use a little on overly red zits, too.
Contrast is queen.
If you go heavy on the eyes, lighten up on the lips, and vice versa.
Know yo' self.
I learned my face by doing (and messing up) my own makeup like a ton of times. I have barely any eyelids. I am basically translucent. My lip line is complicated. The point is this: Every book and magazine in the world can tell you how to apply it or what might be in for the season, but in the end, you know what looks good on you (Sorry, purple lipstick. I'll pass.)
PS: One more thing to know.
You're just as pretty without makeup, so there's that too
The Five Stages of a Really Bad Haircut
I’m coming off a really bad haircut, guys. You know, the kind where the hairstylist decides to go the “please chop off twelve inches and make me look androgynous” route? The kind where you can only stare gloomily into the mirror and contemplate universal suffering? The kind that just can’t grow back fast enough? That's the kind of haircut I am currently recovering from.
So that we may all commiserate as fellow victims of the infamous Really Bad Haircut, behold the following steps:
Stage One: The Pre-Haircut Excitement. This is going to look awesome. I mean, it looked good on Mila Kunis, so I’m sure the same principles hold true for me. Hm. I’m hearing a lot of snipping. Why am I hearing so much snipping? Craning my head to look and—oh, sorry. Yeah, I’ll stop fidgeting. (But that is a lot of snipping.)
Stage Two: The Moment of Truth. And we’re done! Turning back to face the mirror… and—the chair’s stuck, but don’t worry about it, Lisa the Unhelpful Hairdresser, I’ve got this—and now we’re turning, and… oh. Oh my God. Oh my GOD. What is this? Is that a dead animal perched on my head? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, LISA? WHAT THE #$%& HAVE YOU DONE?
Stage Three: The Aftermath. I’ve actually created a new word to describe my anger. I call it rage-fuming. It’s meant to describe a level of all-consuming rage that scorches your innards with twelve different varieties of hellfire. I mean, seriously, does “I just want a trim” really mean, in the secret underground society of hair maintenance, that I want her to lob off a foot of hair and make a wig out of it for underprivileged hobos? But look on the bright side—at least I got to pay oodles of cash for a haircut that makes me look like a hermaphroditic pageboy. I hate you, Lisa. I am making a voodoo doll of you, Lisa, and I’m throwing it in front of an oncoming semi.
Stage Four: The Shut-In Phase. Sobbing. I am sobbing hysterically. That’s it, people. Life’s over. Get your duffel bags and nonperishables and head for the nearest underground bunker, because a haircut this bad shouldn’t be allowed to exist. It’s clearly a sign that the apocalypse is coming. In other news, I’ve recently eschewed all human interaction. It’s just easier this way. Now I don’t have to preface every conversation with a disclaimer: “Yes, I got a haircut. No, this was not what I had in mind. Yes, in fact I have considered just walking around with a bag over my head but at this point I’m actually looking forward to dying alone. Thanks for asking.” I’m considering getting a wig. I wear hats even in my sleep. Sometimes for fun I sit and stare at the wall and whisper, “Where did it all go wrong?”
Stage Five: And Now We’ve Come Full-Circle. Okay, WHAT? I woke up this morning, accidentally glanced in the mirror en route to my daily five-hour sob fest, and my hair looked… acceptable? What is this blasphemy? When did this happen? Did Lisa sneak in through the window at night and fix it? Is she a wizard? Should I do something about the five hundred crickets I let loose in her car? Better yet… should I go back? Maybe she could do something with my bangs…
So that we may all commiserate as fellow victims of the infamous Really Bad Haircut, behold the following steps:
Stage One: The Pre-Haircut Excitement. This is going to look awesome. I mean, it looked good on Mila Kunis, so I’m sure the same principles hold true for me. Hm. I’m hearing a lot of snipping. Why am I hearing so much snipping? Craning my head to look and—oh, sorry. Yeah, I’ll stop fidgeting. (But that is a lot of snipping.)
Stage Two: The Moment of Truth. And we’re done! Turning back to face the mirror… and—the chair’s stuck, but don’t worry about it, Lisa the Unhelpful Hairdresser, I’ve got this—and now we’re turning, and… oh. Oh my God. Oh my GOD. What is this? Is that a dead animal perched on my head? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, LISA? WHAT THE #$%& HAVE YOU DONE?
Stage Three: The Aftermath. I’ve actually created a new word to describe my anger. I call it rage-fuming. It’s meant to describe a level of all-consuming rage that scorches your innards with twelve different varieties of hellfire. I mean, seriously, does “I just want a trim” really mean, in the secret underground society of hair maintenance, that I want her to lob off a foot of hair and make a wig out of it for underprivileged hobos? But look on the bright side—at least I got to pay oodles of cash for a haircut that makes me look like a hermaphroditic pageboy. I hate you, Lisa. I am making a voodoo doll of you, Lisa, and I’m throwing it in front of an oncoming semi.
Stage Four: The Shut-In Phase. Sobbing. I am sobbing hysterically. That’s it, people. Life’s over. Get your duffel bags and nonperishables and head for the nearest underground bunker, because a haircut this bad shouldn’t be allowed to exist. It’s clearly a sign that the apocalypse is coming. In other news, I’ve recently eschewed all human interaction. It’s just easier this way. Now I don’t have to preface every conversation with a disclaimer: “Yes, I got a haircut. No, this was not what I had in mind. Yes, in fact I have considered just walking around with a bag over my head but at this point I’m actually looking forward to dying alone. Thanks for asking.” I’m considering getting a wig. I wear hats even in my sleep. Sometimes for fun I sit and stare at the wall and whisper, “Where did it all go wrong?”
Stage Five: And Now We’ve Come Full-Circle. Okay, WHAT? I woke up this morning, accidentally glanced in the mirror en route to my daily five-hour sob fest, and my hair looked… acceptable? What is this blasphemy? When did this happen? Did Lisa sneak in through the window at night and fix it? Is she a wizard? Should I do something about the five hundred crickets I let loose in her car? Better yet… should I go back? Maybe she could do something with my bangs…
Lottie Gets Her Creep On
It may surprise you to know that in my time, I’ve creeped upon a boy or two. (Or three or four.) But I’m strictly a harmless Facebook stalker. And okay, sure, in high school I was known to abuse my library helper privileges so I could look up the schedules of cute guys to orchestrate hallway meet-ups. Who hasn’t done that? Only once did I stray from my general strategy of Internet creeping to dabble in the art of actual creeping. And it wasn’t even my crush.
It was Valentine’s Day, and we were in middle school. Valentine’s Day kind of sucks in 7th Grade, because everybody looks really awkward and store-bought cards are no longer mandated, and actual declarations of affection are either displayed in note-passing form or not at all. Anyway, my friend Keira had a MASSIVE crush on this guy we’ll call Squidward. I always felt he had a Squidward-like persona. Keira apparently found this kind of thing attractive, because she put together an anonymous homemade card and coerced me into giving it to him.
“You want me to what?” I said for at least the fourth time.
“Slip it in his backpack at the end of the day,” she repeated. “Seriously. This is a good plan.”
“Keira, do I look like the kind of person who could pull that off gracefully?”
“You don’t need to be graceful,” she said. “You just need to be sly. Tap into your secret stealth mode.”
“I don’t have a stealth mode,” I said, slamming my locker shut and predictably dropping all my books and binders in the process. “I have two modes: clumsy and clumsier.”
She held up the valentine—it was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen—and said, “Please?”
I sighed. Just because I thought Squidward was a sad sack of gloomy didn’t mean I had the right to ruin Keira’s Valentine’s Day. I awkwardly gathered all my crap up off the floor, snatched up the valentine, and said, “Fine. But you owe me a Fruit Roll-Up,” because Fruit Roll-Ups in middle school were basically currency.
The end of the day rolled around, and I scoped out Squidward’s locker. He was pulling out books and shoving them in his backpack with reckless abandon. So as not to seem like a total creep, I tried to blend in with the tide of students bulldozing their way to the buses. I started getting nervous. How the hell was I supposed to do this? I was a 13-year-old klutz. I had not mastered the art of stealth. And Squidward was rummaging around in his disaster of a locker and sighing a lot, but he wasn’t exactly placing his backpack in the greatest position for secret Valentine drop-offs.
The final bell rang. My palms were sweating. My face was hot. I had to do something. And then—while I was sweating and my face was all red and my heart felt like it was running a marathon—Squidward stuck his head all the way in his locker, feeling around blindly for whatever earthly object had been sucked into the vortex. His backpack was slumped on the floor like it was waiting for me. Perfect. It was now or never. Do or die.
I darted forward. I whipped out the valentine. I stuck it in his backpack. And just as I was inwardly congratulating myself on the ninja-like swiftness with which I had completed this mission, Squidward yanked his head out of his locker. He saw me. He did a double take. He was fully justified in doing that double take, I think, because I was still standing there with my hand in his backpack.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
I didn’t even shoot for damage control. I simply left the card, yanked my hand out of his backpack, yelled “BYE!” and raced down the hallway. It didn’t even occur to me until I wrote this that he probably assumed the card was mine, which now explains all of the awkward encounters we had throughout Sixth Form, in which he saw me and then sprinted in the opposite direction. Oh, to be young and a creeper.
It was Valentine’s Day, and we were in middle school. Valentine’s Day kind of sucks in 7th Grade, because everybody looks really awkward and store-bought cards are no longer mandated, and actual declarations of affection are either displayed in note-passing form or not at all. Anyway, my friend Keira had a MASSIVE crush on this guy we’ll call Squidward. I always felt he had a Squidward-like persona. Keira apparently found this kind of thing attractive, because she put together an anonymous homemade card and coerced me into giving it to him.
“You want me to what?” I said for at least the fourth time.
“Slip it in his backpack at the end of the day,” she repeated. “Seriously. This is a good plan.”
“Keira, do I look like the kind of person who could pull that off gracefully?”
“You don’t need to be graceful,” she said. “You just need to be sly. Tap into your secret stealth mode.”
“I don’t have a stealth mode,” I said, slamming my locker shut and predictably dropping all my books and binders in the process. “I have two modes: clumsy and clumsier.”
She held up the valentine—it was the most adorable thing I’d ever seen—and said, “Please?”
I sighed. Just because I thought Squidward was a sad sack of gloomy didn’t mean I had the right to ruin Keira’s Valentine’s Day. I awkwardly gathered all my crap up off the floor, snatched up the valentine, and said, “Fine. But you owe me a Fruit Roll-Up,” because Fruit Roll-Ups in middle school were basically currency.
The end of the day rolled around, and I scoped out Squidward’s locker. He was pulling out books and shoving them in his backpack with reckless abandon. So as not to seem like a total creep, I tried to blend in with the tide of students bulldozing their way to the buses. I started getting nervous. How the hell was I supposed to do this? I was a 13-year-old klutz. I had not mastered the art of stealth. And Squidward was rummaging around in his disaster of a locker and sighing a lot, but he wasn’t exactly placing his backpack in the greatest position for secret Valentine drop-offs.
The final bell rang. My palms were sweating. My face was hot. I had to do something. And then—while I was sweating and my face was all red and my heart felt like it was running a marathon—Squidward stuck his head all the way in his locker, feeling around blindly for whatever earthly object had been sucked into the vortex. His backpack was slumped on the floor like it was waiting for me. Perfect. It was now or never. Do or die.
I darted forward. I whipped out the valentine. I stuck it in his backpack. And just as I was inwardly congratulating myself on the ninja-like swiftness with which I had completed this mission, Squidward yanked his head out of his locker. He saw me. He did a double take. He was fully justified in doing that double take, I think, because I was still standing there with my hand in his backpack.
“What are you doing?” he demanded.
I didn’t even shoot for damage control. I simply left the card, yanked my hand out of his backpack, yelled “BYE!” and raced down the hallway. It didn’t even occur to me until I wrote this that he probably assumed the card was mine, which now explains all of the awkward encounters we had throughout Sixth Form, in which he saw me and then sprinted in the opposite direction. Oh, to be young and a creeper.
How to Make Studying Fun! (Okay, Maybe Not Fun, But Tolerable, At Least)
Why is studying so tediously torturous? Why hasn’t anybody invented some sort of technology that will insert the knowledge directly into our brains for easy access? I have confidence that this will happen one day, but until then, here are some tips to help make the minutes seem less like agonizing hours of hellish torment:
When your teacher tells you to read pages 34 through 9,450… read them aloud in your favorite accent. There's just something about British/Spanish/New York mobster accents that makes reading the textbook feel like an adventure.
Make funny songs! When I had to memorize the periodic table of the elements, I made them into a song that went to the tune of “Bennie and the Jets.” (I can't remember it, but it definitely went something like, "B-b-b-bromine and tellurium.") That song was one of the most revolutionary undertakings of my freshman year, and I would have done great things with it if I hadn't misplaced the McDonald's napkin I wrote it on.
Try to explain the material to somebody else. Trying to teach the material will trigger those memory mechanisms in your brain, so round up your best friend, your little sister, your mailman, and your friendly neighborhood taxidermist. Take hostages if you have to, then force them to memorize mathematical formulas. You'll be ready for your math test, and they'll unwillingly have learned that sine equals opposite over hypotenuse. Everybody wins!
Make acronyms. For instance, HOMES is a great way to remember the Great Lakes in America. It's also a great way to remember "hairy old men eat sausages." You're welcome.
Make associations. Example: in my psychology class, I had to know that the cerebellum portion of the brain has to do with balance. I associated the word “cerebellum” with a certain character from a certain vampire novel who couldn’t so much as take a stroll through the woods without falling over. And three years later, I still remember it. (I also somehow made an association using “the hypothalamus” and “hippos,” but that one didn't stick.)
Eat Macaroons. They’ll help. There’s no scientific basis to support this, but they’re so mouthwateringly delicious they have to be good for something.
When your teacher tells you to read pages 34 through 9,450… read them aloud in your favorite accent. There's just something about British/Spanish/New York mobster accents that makes reading the textbook feel like an adventure.
Make funny songs! When I had to memorize the periodic table of the elements, I made them into a song that went to the tune of “Bennie and the Jets.” (I can't remember it, but it definitely went something like, "B-b-b-bromine and tellurium.") That song was one of the most revolutionary undertakings of my freshman year, and I would have done great things with it if I hadn't misplaced the McDonald's napkin I wrote it on.
Try to explain the material to somebody else. Trying to teach the material will trigger those memory mechanisms in your brain, so round up your best friend, your little sister, your mailman, and your friendly neighborhood taxidermist. Take hostages if you have to, then force them to memorize mathematical formulas. You'll be ready for your math test, and they'll unwillingly have learned that sine equals opposite over hypotenuse. Everybody wins!
Make acronyms. For instance, HOMES is a great way to remember the Great Lakes in America. It's also a great way to remember "hairy old men eat sausages." You're welcome.
Make associations. Example: in my psychology class, I had to know that the cerebellum portion of the brain has to do with balance. I associated the word “cerebellum” with a certain character from a certain vampire novel who couldn’t so much as take a stroll through the woods without falling over. And three years later, I still remember it. (I also somehow made an association using “the hypothalamus” and “hippos,” but that one didn't stick.)
Eat Macaroons. They’ll help. There’s no scientific basis to support this, but they’re so mouthwateringly delicious they have to be good for something.
5 Awesome Love Stories That Actually Happened
Are you a single person, who thinks they'll be alon forever? Trust me, I get it; sometimes it's hard to remember that your true love it out there somewhere waiting for you, especially when everyone around you is sucking face and being showered with teddy bears made of chocolate strawberries. But I think I might have something to cheer you up: unlikely love stories that really happened. Like Pyramus and Thisbe, who pulled a Romeo and Juliet (but with less poison and more bloodthirsty mountain lions), and Shah Jahan, who had the Taj Mahal built for the love of his life. (Take that, Kim and Kris. Your scathing tweets do not amuse me.) In light of the spirit of Valentine's Day, here are 5 love stories that don't contain any vampires but more than make up for that by being, well, true.
Prince Edward and Wallis Simpson. Edward was flat-out gorgeous, a lady’s man, and heir to the British throne. Wallis was American, on her second marriage, and not particularly easy on the eyes. When they met at a fancy dinner party, the conversational juices weren’t exactly flowing. Edward probably had his elbow in the dip and Wallis probably told him to get it the hell out. It wasn’t until later that the romance took off in a flurry of dinners, secret affairs, and flying rumors. Edward disbanded his harem of mistresses when he fell in love with Wallis “I Make the Rules” Simpson, but he didn’t stop there. Everyone in the royal court was nervously wringing their hands and saying, “She’s a fling, right? Please tell us she’s a fling. She’s a divorcee, Edward! A DIVORCEE! Also she’s a Nazi sympathizer and possibly a gold-digging temptress, but did you catch the bit about THE DIVORCE?” And yet Edward went right ahead and did the thing for which their love story is so widely known: he ABDICATED THE THRONE FOR HER. Abdicated. The. Throne. You say your boyfriend got you chocolates? That’s sweet, but next time see if he can manage to chuck the Crown Jewels right out the window in the name of love. (PS. Madonna just made a movie about their affair.)
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Queen Victoria was the longest-reigning monarch in British history—she spent sixty-three years on the throne, and FORTY of those were spent mourning Albert after his untimely demise. She spent forty years wearing black until her own death, and she never truly recovered from losing him—this is the stuff Nicholas Sparks novels are made of.
Napoleon Bonaparte and Josephine. These two took the "true love" ideal and did it completely backwards; they married for convenience, and then fell hopelessly, passionately, and turbulently in love. They weren’t even briefly loyal to each other—they committed adulterous acts left, right, and center. It wasn't even the rampant cheating that led to their matrimonial doom; Napoleon was a little busy creating an empire, and Josephine couldn’t pop out a child no matter how hard she tried, so the two split up. But when Josephine died, it's said that Napoleon retrieved violets from her grave and kept them in a locket that he wore for the rest of his life.
Prince Salim and Anarkali. Prince Salim of the Mughal Empire fell in love with a slave girl, Anarkali. His dad wasn't cool with that, and made no secret of it. Instead of, I don’t know, giving his son a stern warning and a slap on the wrist, Salim's father threw Anarkali in jail. Salim reacted as any rational son would when his father lays down the law like that; he declared a full-on war. The good intentions were all there, but he lost spectacularly, and he was given a choice: give up Anarkali, or submit to the death penalty. Salim chose Option B like a good little star-crossed lover, but here the story takes a twist—Anarkali secretly met with Salim's father and asked if she could die in Salim's place. Daddykins thought that was a swell idea and even agreed to let the lovebirds have one last night together. The next morning, Anarkali drugged Salim and strolled out to meet her maker with her head held high, whereupon she was buried alive. It’s believed that her tomb still exists to this day in Lahore, Pakistan, as a testament to the waterworks of every secret romantic out there.
John and Abigail Adams. These two were the DREAM TEAM. Like the little nerdboy he was, John Quincy Adams fell in love when he saw Abigail with her nose in a book. (All together now, let’s swoon.) The two tackled issues of slavery, as well as that whole American Revolution thing, and Abigail was so politically active that she became known as “Mrs. President.” The thing was, they weren’t just an old married couple; they were life partners and best friends, and when she died, her last words were purportedly, “Do not grieve, my friend, my dearest friend. I am ready to go. And John, it will not be long.” Should we sob now? Let us sob.
Prince Edward and Wallis Simpson. Edward was flat-out gorgeous, a lady’s man, and heir to the British throne. Wallis was American, on her second marriage, and not particularly easy on the eyes. When they met at a fancy dinner party, the conversational juices weren’t exactly flowing. Edward probably had his elbow in the dip and Wallis probably told him to get it the hell out. It wasn’t until later that the romance took off in a flurry of dinners, secret affairs, and flying rumors. Edward disbanded his harem of mistresses when he fell in love with Wallis “I Make the Rules” Simpson, but he didn’t stop there. Everyone in the royal court was nervously wringing their hands and saying, “She’s a fling, right? Please tell us she’s a fling. She’s a divorcee, Edward! A DIVORCEE! Also she’s a Nazi sympathizer and possibly a gold-digging temptress, but did you catch the bit about THE DIVORCE?” And yet Edward went right ahead and did the thing for which their love story is so widely known: he ABDICATED THE THRONE FOR HER. Abdicated. The. Throne. You say your boyfriend got you chocolates? That’s sweet, but next time see if he can manage to chuck the Crown Jewels right out the window in the name of love. (PS. Madonna just made a movie about their affair.)
Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. Queen Victoria was the longest-reigning monarch in British history—she spent sixty-three years on the throne, and FORTY of those were spent mourning Albert after his untimely demise. She spent forty years wearing black until her own death, and she never truly recovered from losing him—this is the stuff Nicholas Sparks novels are made of.
Napoleon Bonaparte and Josephine. These two took the "true love" ideal and did it completely backwards; they married for convenience, and then fell hopelessly, passionately, and turbulently in love. They weren’t even briefly loyal to each other—they committed adulterous acts left, right, and center. It wasn't even the rampant cheating that led to their matrimonial doom; Napoleon was a little busy creating an empire, and Josephine couldn’t pop out a child no matter how hard she tried, so the two split up. But when Josephine died, it's said that Napoleon retrieved violets from her grave and kept them in a locket that he wore for the rest of his life.
Prince Salim and Anarkali. Prince Salim of the Mughal Empire fell in love with a slave girl, Anarkali. His dad wasn't cool with that, and made no secret of it. Instead of, I don’t know, giving his son a stern warning and a slap on the wrist, Salim's father threw Anarkali in jail. Salim reacted as any rational son would when his father lays down the law like that; he declared a full-on war. The good intentions were all there, but he lost spectacularly, and he was given a choice: give up Anarkali, or submit to the death penalty. Salim chose Option B like a good little star-crossed lover, but here the story takes a twist—Anarkali secretly met with Salim's father and asked if she could die in Salim's place. Daddykins thought that was a swell idea and even agreed to let the lovebirds have one last night together. The next morning, Anarkali drugged Salim and strolled out to meet her maker with her head held high, whereupon she was buried alive. It’s believed that her tomb still exists to this day in Lahore, Pakistan, as a testament to the waterworks of every secret romantic out there.
John and Abigail Adams. These two were the DREAM TEAM. Like the little nerdboy he was, John Quincy Adams fell in love when he saw Abigail with her nose in a book. (All together now, let’s swoon.) The two tackled issues of slavery, as well as that whole American Revolution thing, and Abigail was so politically active that she became known as “Mrs. President.” The thing was, they weren’t just an old married couple; they were life partners and best friends, and when she died, her last words were purportedly, “Do not grieve, my friend, my dearest friend. I am ready to go. And John, it will not be long.” Should we sob now? Let us sob.
The Ten Stages of Being Sick
Let's face it; the Sinus Infection Fairy is making the rounds, and no one's getting off easy. Everyone’s sick right now. And if you’re not now, YOU WILL BE SOON. The sensation of being a disease-ridden sack of gloom is all too familiar to me. In fact, it’s a well-documented phenomenon that begins thusly:
Stage One: You feel the faint traces of a stuffy nose. You rationalize that you can’t be getting sick because you have plans on Friday. You’ve got a date. You’re walking your neighbor’s llama-giraffe hybrid. You’re playing Sudoku and eating fried chicken alone in your room while watching Deadliest Catch. These are all things that clogged sinuses will RUIN. So of course you’re not getting sick. It’s allergies. You’re allergic to snow. Sometimes.
Stage Two: Paranoia sets in. You begin to wonder if you’re getting a fever, or if the room is just too hot. Is your runny nose a result of sobbing at the end of Homeward Bound, or are you coming down with something? And your throat hurts so badly it feels like you're swallowing fire, but that could be a coincidence, right?
Stage Three: You can still get out of this. You've been struck by the mentality that if you wash your hands to the point of skin removal, you’ll be able to eradicate this germy intruder. You’ll rally the antibodies by eating lots of yogurt and carrots, and soon whatever wimpy virus DARED to challenge the impenetrable force that is your immune system will be SORRY INDEED.
Stage Four: By now you can’t deny it; you’re sick. You briefly wonder what traitorous acquaintance of yours couldn’t be bothered to cover their damn mouth, and you begin plotting an epic scheme of revenge that will make them regret ever spewing their germs in your general direction. But then you sneeze forty times in a row and lose interest.
Stage Five: You are confined to being within five feet of the tissue box. You’re not leaving your house for anything short of a fire, and even then you might make a quick pro/con list first.
Stage Six: You look back fondly on the days you used to breathe through your nose. You wish you’d appreciated your nasal passages before. You’ve been wearing the same pajamas for three days and YOU’RE NOT STOPPING NOW.
Stage Seven: “Well,” you think in a daze of feverish delirium, “I lived a good life.”
Stage Eight: By this time you’re convinced you have tuberculosis with just a touch of bacterial meningitis. Also you have a headache, so that’s probably a brain tumor.
Stage Nine: You’ve resolved yourself to a life of blowing your nose every two minutes and generally feeling like the grossest human being in all the lands. People everywhere will stare in horror as you try to integrate into normal society. You’ll be known as a medical anomaly—that one person who got a cold and then never got better, but also didn’t get any worse. You'll remain a stagnant sufferer of the sinus infection for the rest of your days.
Stage Ten: And then one day—one day you’ll wake up and realize you’ve been getting better for a while now. You can BREATHE. Your ears have popped. Your throat no longer feels like a scalding wall of flames. Suddenly colors seem so much brighter, and everything seems possible, and it’s like being BORN AGAIN, and from now on you'll appreciate each and every day that passes disease-free.
Stage One: You feel the faint traces of a stuffy nose. You rationalize that you can’t be getting sick because you have plans on Friday. You’ve got a date. You’re walking your neighbor’s llama-giraffe hybrid. You’re playing Sudoku and eating fried chicken alone in your room while watching Deadliest Catch. These are all things that clogged sinuses will RUIN. So of course you’re not getting sick. It’s allergies. You’re allergic to snow. Sometimes.
Stage Two: Paranoia sets in. You begin to wonder if you’re getting a fever, or if the room is just too hot. Is your runny nose a result of sobbing at the end of Homeward Bound, or are you coming down with something? And your throat hurts so badly it feels like you're swallowing fire, but that could be a coincidence, right?
Stage Three: You can still get out of this. You've been struck by the mentality that if you wash your hands to the point of skin removal, you’ll be able to eradicate this germy intruder. You’ll rally the antibodies by eating lots of yogurt and carrots, and soon whatever wimpy virus DARED to challenge the impenetrable force that is your immune system will be SORRY INDEED.
Stage Four: By now you can’t deny it; you’re sick. You briefly wonder what traitorous acquaintance of yours couldn’t be bothered to cover their damn mouth, and you begin plotting an epic scheme of revenge that will make them regret ever spewing their germs in your general direction. But then you sneeze forty times in a row and lose interest.
Stage Five: You are confined to being within five feet of the tissue box. You’re not leaving your house for anything short of a fire, and even then you might make a quick pro/con list first.
Stage Six: You look back fondly on the days you used to breathe through your nose. You wish you’d appreciated your nasal passages before. You’ve been wearing the same pajamas for three days and YOU’RE NOT STOPPING NOW.
Stage Seven: “Well,” you think in a daze of feverish delirium, “I lived a good life.”
Stage Eight: By this time you’re convinced you have tuberculosis with just a touch of bacterial meningitis. Also you have a headache, so that’s probably a brain tumor.
Stage Nine: You’ve resolved yourself to a life of blowing your nose every two minutes and generally feeling like the grossest human being in all the lands. People everywhere will stare in horror as you try to integrate into normal society. You’ll be known as a medical anomaly—that one person who got a cold and then never got better, but also didn’t get any worse. You'll remain a stagnant sufferer of the sinus infection for the rest of your days.
Stage Ten: And then one day—one day you’ll wake up and realize you’ve been getting better for a while now. You can BREATHE. Your ears have popped. Your throat no longer feels like a scalding wall of flames. Suddenly colors seem so much brighter, and everything seems possible, and it’s like being BORN AGAIN, and from now on you'll appreciate each and every day that passes disease-free.
Exam Day: An Exercise in Murphy's Law
According to Murphy’s Law, anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and nowhere is this more evident than in the mind-bending, hellish nightmare of stress that is exam day. Let us examine a typical instance of said nightmare under Murphy’s Law:
You will wake up late. Let’s not even kid around about this one. You’ll discover, in a spectacularly groggy daze, that a) you set your alarm for PM instead of AM, and b) this is very bad, and c) you just lost a solid 45 minutes of prep time, and d) what the hell are you still doing in bed? All of these realizations will collide in your brain at exactly the same moment, so you’ll nearly strangle yourself with your sheets trying to leap out of bed, and the layout of your own room will be completely unfamiliar, and you’ll blunder around for a bit in an adrenaline-addled craze of terror. Also, you’ll probably fall flat on your face at one point, so prepare for that, maybe by wearing a helmet at all times.
You will have nothing to wear. Forget cute clothes, or even borderline acceptable clothes; everything in your closet will suddenly morph into the seasonally inappropriate concoctions of a social suicide mission.
You’ll forget something. You’ll be halfway to class when you realize you forgot something vitally important, like your calculator, or your right hand. It’s at this point that you will have a difficult decision to make: go back and risk being late, or trek onward and try to do without.
You’ll be late. It doesn’t matter if you went back or continued to trek; you will be late, and the sooner you accept your role as the obligatory disheveled mess who bursts through the doorway ten minutes after the bell, the better off you’ll be.
You will not have a #2 pencil. This will suddenly become a life-or-death matter upon which rests the fate of the entire world. You won’t have a #2 pencil, or you’ll have a no-name brand of mechanical pencil that doesn’t specify whether it’s a #2. You’ll ask the people around you, and they will not have any extras. They will, however, be happy to offer you some obscure mechanical pencil that may or may not be of the #2 variety. So that’s generous.
You’ll sit next to that person who knows everything. While you’re feverishly looking for a single answerable question, the guy next to you will be engaged in some serious rapid-fire page-flipping as he somehow answers twenty questions simultaneously.
You will forget everything. All those hours you spent slaving over the textbook will suddenly mean nothing. Your mind will go blank. You will realize that knowledge of shih tzu puppies, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Glee are occupying space in your brain that could otherwise have been occupied by exam material. Nothing on the exam will look familiar; in fact, the questions will look like Egyptian hieroglyphics. You might as well go right ahead and punch yourself in the face to bring it all home.
The good news here is that, realistically, all of these things probably won't happen to you. At some point in your life, a few of them will. But all of them? At one time? Probably not. And once you're sitting there in class with (hopefully) a #2 pencil in hand, and you look back and realize you managed to get here without falling on your face or spontaneously catching fire, you'll be able to focus on the exam and (hopefully) pass with flying colors.
You will wake up late. Let’s not even kid around about this one. You’ll discover, in a spectacularly groggy daze, that a) you set your alarm for PM instead of AM, and b) this is very bad, and c) you just lost a solid 45 minutes of prep time, and d) what the hell are you still doing in bed? All of these realizations will collide in your brain at exactly the same moment, so you’ll nearly strangle yourself with your sheets trying to leap out of bed, and the layout of your own room will be completely unfamiliar, and you’ll blunder around for a bit in an adrenaline-addled craze of terror. Also, you’ll probably fall flat on your face at one point, so prepare for that, maybe by wearing a helmet at all times.
You will have nothing to wear. Forget cute clothes, or even borderline acceptable clothes; everything in your closet will suddenly morph into the seasonally inappropriate concoctions of a social suicide mission.
You’ll forget something. You’ll be halfway to class when you realize you forgot something vitally important, like your calculator, or your right hand. It’s at this point that you will have a difficult decision to make: go back and risk being late, or trek onward and try to do without.
You’ll be late. It doesn’t matter if you went back or continued to trek; you will be late, and the sooner you accept your role as the obligatory disheveled mess who bursts through the doorway ten minutes after the bell, the better off you’ll be.
You will not have a #2 pencil. This will suddenly become a life-or-death matter upon which rests the fate of the entire world. You won’t have a #2 pencil, or you’ll have a no-name brand of mechanical pencil that doesn’t specify whether it’s a #2. You’ll ask the people around you, and they will not have any extras. They will, however, be happy to offer you some obscure mechanical pencil that may or may not be of the #2 variety. So that’s generous.
You’ll sit next to that person who knows everything. While you’re feverishly looking for a single answerable question, the guy next to you will be engaged in some serious rapid-fire page-flipping as he somehow answers twenty questions simultaneously.
You will forget everything. All those hours you spent slaving over the textbook will suddenly mean nothing. Your mind will go blank. You will realize that knowledge of shih tzu puppies, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Glee are occupying space in your brain that could otherwise have been occupied by exam material. Nothing on the exam will look familiar; in fact, the questions will look like Egyptian hieroglyphics. You might as well go right ahead and punch yourself in the face to bring it all home.
The good news here is that, realistically, all of these things probably won't happen to you. At some point in your life, a few of them will. But all of them? At one time? Probably not. And once you're sitting there in class with (hopefully) a #2 pencil in hand, and you look back and realize you managed to get here without falling on your face or spontaneously catching fire, you'll be able to focus on the exam and (hopefully) pass with flying colors.
Words We Don't Have in the English Language
Let's face it—there are some actions, emotions, and ideas that the English language just can't convey. And where English drops the ball, other languages have provided that cathartic miracle of having just the right words for weirdly specific situations that most of us are familiar with... such as:
Koi No Yokan
Language: Japanese
Meaning: The feeling after meeting someone for the first time that the two of you are going to fall in love.
Example: I’m pretty sure if I could finagle a way to get Shia Lebeouf and myself in the same room, this would happen. I can almost guarantee it. I would say, “That sensation you’re experiencing at this very moment is called koi no yokan,” and he would say, “Is this a kidnapping? My people can afford the ransom, I swear. Please stop grabbing my face.”
Mamihlapinatapai
Language: Yaghan
Meaning: This refers to a wordless but entirely meaningful look between two people, both of whom desire something but are unwilling to initiate it themselves.
Example: I just now told my mum, “You know this recurring issue we keep having? There’s a word for it. It’s called mamihlapinatapai,” and she said, “Wow,” and then we both continued to stare at the overflowing trashcan, desperately wishing the other person would take care of it.
Tingo
Language: Pascuense (Easter Island)
Meaning: The act of taking objects from a friend by “borrowing” them until they have nothing left.
Example: Once in 2nd Grade, this audacious little hell-raiser called Brett gradually “borrowed” each of my French fries until they were all gone. I don’t know why I didn’t realize he was going to eat them; I guess I just assumed he was going to make a French fry tower and then graciously return them to me. Was this a common enough occurrence that it warranted its own term? You’ve got to wonder if there are lesions of thieving so-called “friends” running rampant on Easter Island, stealing French fries and shattering dreams.
Backpfeifengesicht
Language: German
Meaning: Literally “a face in need of a fist.”
Example: Brett the dream-killing French fry-stealer.
Kummerspeck
Language: German
Meaning: This refers to weight gain as a result of emotional overeating, literally translating to "grief bacon."
Example: There were times after Harry Potter ended wherein I could (and did) engage in “grief bacon” like the champion of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream-eating couch potatoes, sobbing things like “DOBBY” and “WHY.”
Shemomedjamo
Language: Georgian
Meaning: This is when you’re technically full, but the food is so mind-bogglingly delicious that you keep eating—despite all sorts of bodily signals that your stomach is just not equipped for that much food consumption. It literally translates to “I accidentally ate the whole thing,” as if someone were accidentally propelling food into your mouth over the course of a meal with a small catapult.
Example: My life.
Koi No Yokan
Language: Japanese
Meaning: The feeling after meeting someone for the first time that the two of you are going to fall in love.
Example: I’m pretty sure if I could finagle a way to get Shia Lebeouf and myself in the same room, this would happen. I can almost guarantee it. I would say, “That sensation you’re experiencing at this very moment is called koi no yokan,” and he would say, “Is this a kidnapping? My people can afford the ransom, I swear. Please stop grabbing my face.”
Mamihlapinatapai
Language: Yaghan
Meaning: This refers to a wordless but entirely meaningful look between two people, both of whom desire something but are unwilling to initiate it themselves.
Example: I just now told my mum, “You know this recurring issue we keep having? There’s a word for it. It’s called mamihlapinatapai,” and she said, “Wow,” and then we both continued to stare at the overflowing trashcan, desperately wishing the other person would take care of it.
Tingo
Language: Pascuense (Easter Island)
Meaning: The act of taking objects from a friend by “borrowing” them until they have nothing left.
Example: Once in 2nd Grade, this audacious little hell-raiser called Brett gradually “borrowed” each of my French fries until they were all gone. I don’t know why I didn’t realize he was going to eat them; I guess I just assumed he was going to make a French fry tower and then graciously return them to me. Was this a common enough occurrence that it warranted its own term? You’ve got to wonder if there are lesions of thieving so-called “friends” running rampant on Easter Island, stealing French fries and shattering dreams.
Backpfeifengesicht
Language: German
Meaning: Literally “a face in need of a fist.”
Example: Brett the dream-killing French fry-stealer.
Kummerspeck
Language: German
Meaning: This refers to weight gain as a result of emotional overeating, literally translating to "grief bacon."
Example: There were times after Harry Potter ended wherein I could (and did) engage in “grief bacon” like the champion of Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream-eating couch potatoes, sobbing things like “DOBBY” and “WHY.”
Shemomedjamo
Language: Georgian
Meaning: This is when you’re technically full, but the food is so mind-bogglingly delicious that you keep eating—despite all sorts of bodily signals that your stomach is just not equipped for that much food consumption. It literally translates to “I accidentally ate the whole thing,” as if someone were accidentally propelling food into your mouth over the course of a meal with a small catapult.
Example: My life.
Four Ways to Walk In Late to Class
Let me guess—being late to class is the one thing you thought you could pretty much do on autopilot. There’s no trick to it. There’s no handbook. You simply stumble into class tardy, and suddenly all heads swivel in your direction, the teacher stops talking long enough to grab the attendance list and put a big asterisk next to your name, and you become that kid. But there’s more than one way to embody the heart and soul of That Kid Who’s Late to Class. In fact, there are four distinct characters you can be when the time inevitably comes:
1. The kid who bursts into the classroom at full sprint. This is that guy who's booking it down the hallway like a hero in an action movie trying to outrun a fireball. He's throwing people out of his way, face contorted with the look of the hunted. His life—nay, his very existence—has narrowed down to this one objective of timeliness. When he finally bangs the door open and inadvertently causes the whole lesson to screech to a halt, he’s not just sweating but somehow raining sweat, and also possibly crying.
2. The kid who slouches in with swag. This guy is late to class and doesn’t give a damn about it. His demeanor is dripping with the swagger of a guy who does not just eat his Fruit Loops for breakfast but defeats them handily. He also probably backflips out the door every morning into a stolen ice cream truck, then parks it in the teacher’s parking lot like a badass. Being late to class for him is not so much a mild inconvenience as it is a rite of passage into the glory of juvenile delinquency.
3. The kid who slides in inconspicuously. Ostensibly, this is the kid you want to be. He slips through the door as silent as a ninja in the nighttime. He causes no disturbance. His presence is barely remarked upon. The teacher does not spare him so much as a glance as the lesson continues uninterrupted. The students register vaguely that there’s a new addition to the amoebic blob that constitutes their classroom setting, but they simply welcome him indifferently to the blob and life goes on.
4. The kid who tries to slide in inconspicuously and fails. This guy aspires to be the inconspicuous blob-joiner, but he ruins it by doing all the wrong things. He tries to quietly close to the door behind him and instead slams it shut. He drops his backpack and the contents immediately scatter across the globe. He tries to grab a seat but his sights are set on one in the middle of a row, so he must climb over at least fifty people while also stepping on their things and smacking them in the face with his bag on the backswing. He craves the anonymity of being inconspicuous, but alas, he will always be the door-slamming, backpack-dropping entity of misfortune and tardiness.
What's your late-arrival style? Alas, I always end up as Numero 4.
1. The kid who bursts into the classroom at full sprint. This is that guy who's booking it down the hallway like a hero in an action movie trying to outrun a fireball. He's throwing people out of his way, face contorted with the look of the hunted. His life—nay, his very existence—has narrowed down to this one objective of timeliness. When he finally bangs the door open and inadvertently causes the whole lesson to screech to a halt, he’s not just sweating but somehow raining sweat, and also possibly crying.
2. The kid who slouches in with swag. This guy is late to class and doesn’t give a damn about it. His demeanor is dripping with the swagger of a guy who does not just eat his Fruit Loops for breakfast but defeats them handily. He also probably backflips out the door every morning into a stolen ice cream truck, then parks it in the teacher’s parking lot like a badass. Being late to class for him is not so much a mild inconvenience as it is a rite of passage into the glory of juvenile delinquency.
3. The kid who slides in inconspicuously. Ostensibly, this is the kid you want to be. He slips through the door as silent as a ninja in the nighttime. He causes no disturbance. His presence is barely remarked upon. The teacher does not spare him so much as a glance as the lesson continues uninterrupted. The students register vaguely that there’s a new addition to the amoebic blob that constitutes their classroom setting, but they simply welcome him indifferently to the blob and life goes on.
4. The kid who tries to slide in inconspicuously and fails. This guy aspires to be the inconspicuous blob-joiner, but he ruins it by doing all the wrong things. He tries to quietly close to the door behind him and instead slams it shut. He drops his backpack and the contents immediately scatter across the globe. He tries to grab a seat but his sights are set on one in the middle of a row, so he must climb over at least fifty people while also stepping on their things and smacking them in the face with his bag on the backswing. He craves the anonymity of being inconspicuous, but alas, he will always be the door-slamming, backpack-dropping entity of misfortune and tardiness.
What's your late-arrival style? Alas, I always end up as Numero 4.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)