Monday, December 7, 2009

is it my shoes?

i knew it the first fucking day of school, the first fucking minute of class. i knew it the second i walked into the lab and took a seat at the table furthest from the professor, because i am one of those old people who sits in the back of the room.

as opposed to the old people who sit right up front, raising their hands every thirty motherfucking seconds to show you just how smart they are, just how much otherwise useless information they have acquired over the last thirty (or forty or FIFTY) goddamned years. you can always tell the asshole that is just so goddamned excited to have his old ass back in school, the jerk who doesn't realize that this is fucking COMMUNITY COLLEGE, that he is in class with deadbeats and losers and idiots, people who don't give a shit that he went to northwestern twenty years ago. because you know where you are now, mister? a school made out of string and hair and scraps of notebook paper. a school that still has a cafeteria. a school where $79 will buy you a credit hour and $10 will get you an eight ball from a twelve-year-old in low slung jeans posted right across from the bike racks.

i hate them, sitting there all superior in their dockers and sensible shoes and ill-fitting polo shirts, fact-checking the lecture on their laptops as the professor is fucking speaking. dicks. they usually find each other (and me) immediately, based on the fact that we aren't wearing neon pink skinny jeans and oversized plastic fashion frames with no lenses. or maybe it's because we aren't so busy texting that we trip over our extra-long scarves (in the summer) and floppy vans. or maybe they know i'm old because i don't have a skateboard tucked under my arm or because i look like i made more than thirty dollars last fiscal year.

then there are the other kind, the "returning students" who don't know how to operate a computer, let alone what the fuck the internet is. "how do i get there?!" they cry, desperately clutching your arm and looking at your flash drive like it came back with you from your last excursion to mars, expecting you to hold their hands as they walk down the interweb highway, searching the faces of each and every house for its "web address." what street is google on again?

my math class was crippled by two such dinosaurs. we couldn't get through a single equation without having to stop. and go back. to step one. again. to step one. AGAIN. and i'm not such a fucking bitch that i don't care about people who need a little extra help, i just think those people should go to office hours. or sign up for tutoring. which is free. you know, because we are in COMMUNITY COLLEGE. i didn't pay five hundred fucking dollars (plus activity fees, don't forget about those!) to listen to somebody's grandmother stumble through matrices. i apologize. i am a bitch and a whore and a jerk. but i'm an honest one, at least. shut the fuck up and go take some centrum silver.

as part of my penance for being almost thirty years old and rotting away in community college, i am tutoring. i should say that differently. because i am ridiculously smart, as well as devastatingly handsome, i have decided to impart my expansive wealth of knowledge on the next generation. and free of charge, no less! it's my sneaky way of trying to get into heaven, despite the fact that i cuss too much and drink too much and hate too much and bitch too much and help too little. real charity work doesn't go with my outfit, so god will just have to make do with this pseudo dangerous minds thing i've got going on. i hope he lets me in. i hate the heat.

i hate school.
there. i said it. i rilly do. and what's funny is that people assume that because you're smart that means you love school. not so, honeys. totally not the case. i hate it.

i made it through high school with a 3.7 gpa because some wonderful fool allowed me to fill half my schedule with goddamned "independent studies," for which i designed the rules and the parameters for my success. morons! so all i had to do was show up most days and write. i took gym and spanish and math and english and history and biology, sort of, always for honors credit, and always managing to scrape by in the A-/B+ range. and that's probably because i test really well, because i absolutely hate doing homework, so i typically refuse to do it. even now, as i pay for this education directly from my grown up bank account, i'm the bitch on the train with an algebra book teetering on my knees, trying to solve those last three equations i couldn't be bothered to do while i was busy staring at the wall doing nothing at home.

i spent so much time in the counselor's and social worker's offices that i think i must have gotten class credit for it. no one ever asked me what the fuck i was doing. ever! i sang in the choir for four years and got honors As for it. i had a million free periods. all that empty time in which to do my "independent study."and my first semester senior year i had two gyms. in both of which i did absolutely nothing. what, you mean you can't tell?

the trick was then and is now that i am SMART, and sometimes people let your smart ass get away with acting dumb. i take to languages very well (you already know i can write, plus i'm fluent in spanish, puta!) and my bullshit game is proper. sophomore year i wrote a five page paper on jane eyre that got an A and i'd only read two chapters, and i wrote it two class periods before it was due. this is terrible behavior, i know, and i'd hoped that going back to school at this advanced age would instill in me some sort of reverence for studying and learning and trying hard. alas, it simply has not.

holly says i am an asshole, and i suppose she is right, because i am arrogant and don't put any effort into my schoolwork. specifically, she said that i'm an asshole because i will sit down to write something a heartbeat before it is due, and i am obnoxious if it gets anything less than an A. not "stay after class and whine at the teacher" obnoxious, but "that stupid bitch wouldn't know a quality essay if it bit her in the snatch" obnoxious. although i rarely get less than an A on something i've written. sorry, bitches. i'm an asshole! and if you like reading this garbage, you should read something i've written FOR REAL. something without swear words that had to be researched and typed on actual fucking paper. i absolutely do not suck.

i just really hate school so much. and maybe if i wasn't getting a "power point project" or "students teach the class day" thrown at me every thirty seconds it might be a smidge better, but probably not. i leave all of my assignments until the last possible second. the ones i remember to do, that is. because try as i might, i've bought three (count them, THREE) assignment notebooks since i started school in january and i haven't written a single thing in any of them. just like in high school, and my first failed attempt at higher education, i write my assignments on my hand, on bits of scraps in my wallet, or on the inside covers of books that have nothing to do with the class i'm in at the time. which means i do them at the very last second, when it finally dawns on me that "watching 30 rock dvds" totally wasn't my homework for the evening.

my major is math, and i enjoy my math classes (when some old milkshake isn't fucking them up) because they are all about formulas and problems and assignments and exams, not fruity poster boards and shit i cooked at home for the class to sample. i mean, seriously. aren't we old? do i really need to sit through one of my classmate's poorly prepared powerpoint about how to bake a motherfucking cake? the thought that i still have SO MUCH MORE LEFT TO GO stresses me out and totally makes me tired. this semester kicked my fucking balls in. and maybe the foot and the belly and the everything else didn't fucking help, but i am 100% dead in the brains and really don't ever want to go back.

i'm a quitter. no one ever says that, right? but i totally am. i will give up right in the middle of some shit. it doesn't matter what the fuck it is. i will turn off a retarded movie halfway through, i will throw away a book in which i cannot get past the second chapter. i will leave half my dinner uneaten if it's gross. i'll quit a job i hate, quit a project i start, quit talking to people who wear me out. I QUIT. i know it's all noble and shit to be the kind of person that sticks things out, but i don't believe in that. if i hate some shit, i just stop doing it. i stop going there. and it doesn't matter. i dropped my most expensive class this semester because i hated it, because the thought of sitting in that room with those people made me want to die. it didn't matter that i'd already paid and wouldn't get a cent of my money back.
happy sam trumps all that other bullshit.

i also have champagne tastes, and taking the extra day off work these past couple of semesters has been chapping my shopping balls. and my restaurant balls. and my bill balls! com ed doesn't give a fuck that i took my ass back to school. neither does sprint. they want their fucking money. and while i could give them more than a little of it, i can't live without fancy fucking soap. sorry, babies, but i simply cannot. i wouldn't even be the same person if i was washing my ass with ivory every morning. and you can act appalled, but not a single one of you wants me any other way than the way i am.

don't you fucking worry. i'm going back. if for no other reason than i'm about to be thirty. not just thirty, but THIRTY. and i'm barely hanging on to my youth as it is. if i keep putting this shit off i WILL BE one of those arthritic old crows who can't understand how an ipod works or how to properly source a research paper. i've already signed up for a class next semester, and i might register for another. because eventually i might want to stop answering questions about cat vomit and dog shit, and apparently i need one of these little things called a "degree" to do that. pshaw.

i would be a prostitute if it weren't so fucking dangerous. i am lazy and indulgent and getting out of bed in the morning requires a lot more energy than i can muster sometimes. but dudes are so stupid and gross and my rates would be so astronomical (the soap, remember?) that motherfuckers would balk before i could even get my pants off. and then there's the risk i'd run of dudes falling in love with me after getting a little bite of my cupcake, and that would be bad for business. plus, i would never go to anyone else's apartment (i don't know where the knives are) and would be terrified to have someone in mine (what if they kill helen?!). oh, and then there's all the hiv and shit. i don't want some asshole to curdle my icing.

it's a swell thought, though. and think of all the calories i'd be burning! (speaking of helen, and calorie-burning, i took that little bitch to work for a check up last week, and found out that she is FOUR to FIVE pounds overweight! fuck me. oh my god! that's like fifty human pounds! she just loves her food so much, and i hate to deny her. you should see her eat! she lays down on the floor, i am not fucking kidding, and hugs the bowl with her head draped over the edge. so stinking cute. and the epitome of lazy fatness. she gets so mad when i restrict her food! it's like when i want a hershey bar. i'm grouchy and irritated when i can't have one, then pleasant and happy the second i do. sigh. our diet started last friday, and we've been trying not to claw each other's eyes out since.)

back to that first day of school. i don't know if it's my face or my hair or my ass or WHAT, but people always want to talk to me, and i can ALWAYS tell. even from across the room. and when the chick with the beard and the sweatpants sat a few tables away, i knew it was only a matter of time before (s)he came over to strike up a conversation. class started in august and she finally talked to me (i mean, talked talked to me) TODAY. patience of a saint, i tell you.

for our purposes here, we'll call her charles, because really, she looks like her balls are bigger than yours, mine, and every dude you've ever met in your life's put together. you know those dudes who walk around like they have a bushel of plums and an aluminum bat in their pants? quit playing like you sluts don't know. dudes whose walk is all deliberate left-to-right shifting and leaning, like their dicks weigh as much as a toddler. anyway, she walks like that! and her voice is deeper than my fucking dad's.

after class she caught me in the hall (and really, she had to RUN, i don't play when it comes to leaving), and adjusted her lady scrotum (why?) before asking me if i wanted to walk to starbucks with her. you know, because she noticed that i go to starbucks after school. now i told you before that stalking = flattery in the samantha handbook, and right before i said yes (visions of caramel macchiatos danced in my head) i thought aloud:
"what, like a DATE?"
and you know i said that shit more shitty than i'd intended.

"it can be if you want it to be."
i have to stop here and tell you that the way she said that made me think about having sex with her. where do these ladies learn to do that THING that black dudes do to you? that sexy, fuck you with my eyeballs thing? who taught her that?! spanks did it to me the night i met him and i almost melted in a puddle on the floor. and, needless to say, had sex with him as soon as the whore date stamped on our budding relationship expired.

"but i'm not a lesbian."
mincing words has never been my style. and while i wasn't yet offended (hang on for that part) i didn't want to lead shim on.

"get the fuck out of here! you're not?!"
NOW i'm offended. what a cunt. or maybe a dick?
"oh, i'm sorry, shorty, i've just been watching you all this time and i thought for sure..."
she looked pointedly down at my gorgeous japanese new balances.

"is it my shoes?!" i yelped a little too loudly. "my shoes make me look like a lesbian?!"
and all this time i was worried about my goddamned hair. my shoes are the reason i don't have a goddamned manfriend?! FUCK.

charles shrugged. "how did you do on the final?"

i just stood there, gaping. man, fuck that final! (i got an A, bitch, but that's hardly the point.) all day every day i've been walking around in lesbian shoes, and nobody effing told me! how could you? doesn't the lip gloss and the blush do anything to counterbalance the shoes? what about all of the days i take my tits out on parade? and all these tight ass jeans i can't eat dinner in? i mean, come ON. i don't smell like old spice and diesel fuel! i don't even know how to play softball!

"i can buy straight girls coffee," she said finally.
"you want one of those caramel things you always get?" sneaky stalker!

i DID want one of those fucking caramel things, but i was worried she'd then expect a sip of my caramel thing in return. and while that might not be so bad (fucking lazy ass opportunist) i don't know that i could reliably return the favor. i mean, i HATE these dudes with a fucking passion, but i don't think i'm quite there.