Fuck Classes

Classes need to suck my dick. I will whip it out right now.

So on Friday (3 or 4 days ago. whatever.) I drove 4 fucking hours to get to school a half an hour AFTER MY CLASS ENDED. The Santa Ana winds were blowing and a truck was tipped over and all the cargo was EVERYWHERE, so it took me 4 HOURS to make a 40 MINUTE trip. NOT ONLY did I have to deal with traffic, but I also had to turn in my essay 30 minutes late. To my teacher’s office. Who wasn’t there. OH. and I don’t get credit for my essay. That was the only class I had that day. I missed it and lost credit for an essay. 

That teacher kinda sucks t-rex dick in my opinion. Not only because i’m a bitter bitch (it really doesnt matter that I don’t get credit because i can just re-print the essay and turn it in at the end of the quarter as a re-do), but because HE’S A BIO-CHEM MAJOR and he’s teaching my Beginning Composition course. Does that make sense to anyone? No? Good.

He once tried to explain to us what an idiom is. He didn’t actually give a definition, though. What he said was “You wouldn’t say ‘I was caught by bewilderment’, right? You would say ‘I was caught by surprise’. That’s what an idiom is.” But it isn’t. That isn’t what an idiom is at all. An idiom is a colloquial phrase that means something other than what the words in the phrase might suggest to someone who does not fluently speak the language or understand the culture. Examples of an idiom include : The Lion’s Share, Crocodile Tears, Red Letter Day, etc.

I have raised my hand and answered so many questions in that class and gotten so many participation points that he no longer lets me speak in class. If I raise my hand, I don’t get called on. He acts like I don’t exist. The reason this is upsetting is that I wait until I am sure that no one else is going to answer to raise my hand. This means that I am the only one to give a damn or that I am the only one that knows the answer. And if I am the only one that gives a damn, why SHOULDN’T I get the participation points handed to me? If no one else cares, why does he push so hard to give everyone the full 15% of their grade that depends on participation? He isn’t a very good teacher, and I realize that’s probably because he’s just a graduate student, but what really bugs me is that he’s making this class worth nothing to anyone who’s actually in the class. So what if you get an A in the class? It doesn’t actually mean anything if you don’t have to work for it.

Bitches.

So.  Today Catherine and I skipped our psych class.  There wasn’t any particular reason to do so, we just weren’t feeling it.  We actually ended up sitting just outside our class playing Temple Run and talking to people.  It was pretty great.  It makes me wonder though: When did we all get so lazy?  We were literally right outside the lecture hall.  It would have taken less than a minute to get up, walk inside, and sit down.  And yet we sat outside and got a brief overview of one of the Barbie movies.    

Speaking of fucking classes, we just got our registration times for winter quarter.  We aren’t even registering until the end of November.  What the hell is that?  We are going to get the worst classes- all of the morning classes that everyone intelligently ignores.  Next quarter is going to suck balls, big time.  

 

I Like Big Black Hairy Balls.

Think about that statement. Let it sit in your mind for a moment. Really soak it in. Now, say it. Say it and have a straight face. Look your best friend in the eye and say it with a straight face. Don’t have a best friend? Look your dog (or cat, or turtle, or imaginary six-foot psychopath imaginary bunny friend named Frank [Yes. I went there. It happened]) DIRECTLY in the eye and let them know just how much you like big black hairy balls. In and around you mouth. Become an expert at saying this to people. It’ll improve your life greatly. I promise.

Fuck Swearing

Last night, my roommates and I decided that we would have a swear jar in our room.  And by swear jar I mean shitty little swear to-go coffee cup.  This is quite obviously going to be a problem for me, seeing as how expletives are a large part of my vocabulary.  However, once we fill up the swear jar (and by we I mean me) we’re going to have a pizza party.  The motivation is a little fucked up, seeing as how we are motivated to curse, but we really did have good intentions.  Amazingly enough, we already have $2 in the jar after only 1 night consisting of four waking hours.  

Teslaaaaaaaa. Tesla! Nikola Goddamn Tesla.

Really, the name of this post should have been Fuck Edison. Yes. Yes. TESLAAA.

I’m sorry about that, really. But I just ate and I’m really tired.

Seriously, though, Nikola Tesla was one of the greatest men to ever live and he was monumentally screwed over by Thomas Edison. If you’d like to rea  Since I know for a fact that you would all love to read more about this while laughing your ass off, I will surely include a very helpful url. Right HERE http://theoatmeal.com/comics/tesla

It’s one of the best comics ever written, in my opinion. Be sure to check out the donations page. It’s important.

Today, Mackenzie and I were starving. Not really starving, but close enough. Fortunately, Mackenzie bought the both of us pasta and salad and bread sticks. This means that I owe her $6 in quarters (for the swear jar) and one plate of pasta. Anyway, before eating that scrumptious pasta, I had only had the calories from 8 pieces of Trident sugar-free gum and any calories you might obtain through taking birth control. Which gives me a maximum of ~40 calories for the whole day until 3:30 pm. I realize that I shouldn’t complain, as thee are children all over the world who have less food than 8 pieces of gum and a birth control pill for an entire week, But seeing as I am an American that eats more in a day than an African village would in three, it was a terrible experience.

The reason i’m typing about this is that Mackenzie is currently answering questions I wrote for an interview that I was supposed to have done three days ago in preparation for an essay that’s due tomorrow. Yet another fortunate thing: I don’t have class until 4 pm tomorrow, so I can get everything done with ample time to spare. The beauties of procrastination.

 

 

In case any of you were wondering, Catherine and I are pretty goddamn awesome.  We took our first psychology test in about 20 minutes. Fuck yeah.

Fuck Wheeled Vehicles

Everyday, multiple times a day, I walk past this ramp with a sign that says “Walk all Wheeled Vehicles.”  Catherine and I began to wonder: What about wheelchairs and people on roller blades?  Are people supposed to just shrug off their various disabilities to walk their wheelchairs up the ramp?  Are people supposed to push a person in a wheelchair up the ramp?  Are people supposed to take off their roller blades to walk by the sign?  What are people expected to do?  These are the questions that haunt us at night.  Hopefully our college degrees will eventually answer these questions.  

On a completely unrelated note, Catherine has no filter from her brain to her mouth.  

On the contrary…

actually, no. I don’t have a filter. And it’s terrible. But if you were in my position, you’d understand. We were at dinner with a lovely group and The Flanderson. Flanderson is a wild creature ==> that basically looks like that. And Mackenzie LEFT ME ALONE WITH HER. I mean, it was for pasta, but still. She randomly jumped into this conversation about celebrities and autographs and how she wrote a letter to Emma Watson. Now imagine that. This wild creature is talking to you about how disappointing these breadsticks are. You’re getting used to the conversation and right when you think that you might not kill yourself within the next 5 minutes, BAM. Autographs. Now you actually have to think and attribute something to the conversation. BUT REALLY YOU DON’T. Best thing about Flanderson? You really don’t have to say anything as long as you’re paying attention to her. You don’t have to participate at all as long as everyone in the group is focusing on her. But if someone isn’t giving their soul to her, your only sentence better be “HEY, Flanderson is talking!” Anyway, back to what Mackenzie was talking about:

During the beginning of the conversation, Mackenzie, two other girls, and I sat down with Flanderson. Poor dear had the sun right in her eyes and was saying, “… so if I don’t look at anyone, it’s because–” (This is where I interject, if you couldn’t tell by the interjectory dashes) “You’re autistic.” JESUS. Why did I say that? It was so rude. But everyone at the table was trying not to laugh. If there’s an afterlife and Hell is an option, I should go ahead and book my flight now. Maybe I can send ahead and request a room close to the pool.

I doubt she’s actually autistic, but still. It was terrible. /anyway, she was totally fine. Like I said, the attention was on her, so life was fine. I really doubt she even heard me. But anyway, thank God that dinner is over. It was terrible.

Not all of it was terrible.  There was a wonderful sense of commiseration around the table (with the exception of The Flanderson).  Especially when she started talking about how Coke is infinitely better in whatever the fuck foreign country she went to last because they use real sugar instead of corn syrup.  If you were to look around the table, you would’ve seen the same expression on all of our faces.  “Why is this happening to me?  What have I done to deserve this?  I bet this is what Hell is like.” But other than that, dinner was terrible.  Actually, the cupcakes were delicious.

Fuck Traitors

Pour Macaroni into 2-cup microwavable cereal bowl. Add 2/3 cup water.

Microwave, uncovered, on HIGH 3-1/2 to 4 min, or until Macaroni is tender.  DO NOT DRAIN.  Some water remaining in bowl is desirable and necessary to make cheese sauce.

ADD Cheese Sauce Mix; mix well.  If cheese sauce appears thin, do not put back in microwave.  Cheese sauce will thicken upon standing.

In case any of you were wondering about the title, Catherine is a traitor.  I took her into my home and I offered her my food, which, as a college student, is scarce.  She then took the opportunity to sabotage my easy mac by adding water to my already watered easy mac.  She is a traitor to the cause.  She then proceeds to complain about how disgusting her meal is.  How unnecessary is that?  In conclusion, Catherine is bullshit.  She would also like me to mention that I don’t have salt or pepper.  Because obviously that should be in every dorm room.  But I digress.

You know how you think you know people until you hear gossip about them?  Like you’ve known this girl for nearly your entire life, right?  And then, all of a sudden she is a raging slut with a pension for thirty year old men beating the shit out of her in BDSM-style intercourse.  Not that that’s ever happened to me, of course.  Why would you suggest such a thing, you savage?  

Whilst deciding what to blog about today, Catherine asked me how I felt about lesbians.  The answer is I don’t.  I don’t feel about lesbians the same way I don’t feel about straight people and gay men.  I just don’t.

 

I do. I feel about lesbians and straight people and gay men. I fell quite a bit about them. But, of course, my feelings about them are limited to the ones I know. So, some gay men and lesbians and straight people I hate, and some I don’t. Other than that, do what you like between the sheets. Unless what you like is me; if that’s the case, you DO need my approval. Not that it matters considering the fact that apparently I’m a traitor to the cause. It’s not my fault that I didn’t know how much water to put into my bowl. Especially since it’s not the kind of Easy Mac that comes with a bowl that tells you how much water to put in. And Mackenzie knows very well how particular I am with my Mac and Cheese. It has to be made a very specific way, and if it isn’t made in that way, I can’t properly enjoy it. But it’s not like I made her go to great lengths to make me mac and cheese. IN FACT, she didn’t even make me the mac and cheese, I MADE IT. And then when I asked for salt and pepper, it’s like the world friggin’ ended. GOD FORBID (if you believe in that sort of thing) that someone ask for salt and pepper to make the ass-crust that you call mac and cheese taste less like Satan dipped his balls in it. But, y’know, whatever. I’m over it.

She is obviously not over it.  She’s still looking at me with this accusatory glint in her eyes as if it’s my fault she doesn’t know how to make mac and cheese like a normal person.  

Fuck Blogging

Welp, we are officially college students. Partly because we both spent our entire psychology class today browsing the internet, and partly because one of us has pink hair. If you’re wondering what that has to do with our college student status, refer to the picture above.

Also referencing the picture above, my entire hall is playing a game commonly known as “assassins.”   Each person living in the hall is assigned a target to viciously murder.  Actually, the murder is committed by either throwing a sock at them, stabbing them with the eraser side of a pencil, or placing a sticker on either their palm or the back of their hand.  There are certain safe places such as the bathroom, our individual rooms, the lounge, the dining hall, and classrooms.  Every where else is a prime spot for murder.  For places that aren’t safe, there is a safety item.  For example, having keys, wearing a cape, putting your shirt on inside out and backwards are all safety items that have been used thus far. But today my RA did something unforgivable.  He decided that the safety item of today was doing the dance from Gangnam Style.  No. Simply, no.

In other news, my life seems to have become blogging in a dark room while my roommate listens to giant bats farting.  How this happened, I have no idea.  www.giantbatfarts.com

I’m assuming that now is the time to inform all of our non-existent readers that Mackenzie lives in the resident halls and I commute. The reason this is important? Mackenzie told me to “fix” her assassin rules. Really? I don’t even live here and she wants me to explain the rules.

 

Catherine seems to have forgotten to mention that the people in this hall think that she lives here.

Mackenzie seems to have forgotten that, in reality–not the buttfuck reality that her hallmates have come up with–I DO NOT, in fact, live here.

Anyway, college has become a nuisance and we’re all about to die anyway, seeing as another supposed apocalypse is right around the corner. If anyone is interested, I quite enjoy eating cheese-steaks on these days, as they are some mighty fuckin’ delicious sandwiches and I would not mind at all if a cheese-steak was my last meal. Mackenzie, on the other hand, probably enjoys filling bathtubs with marinara sauce, submerging herself completely, and pretending she is a meatball. It relaxes her.

Hell yes it does.  I highly recommend it.

Recently, one of my friends was broken up with via text message. There are plenty of things wrong with this situation, yet there are only a few things, as the best friend of this girl, that really annoy me.

1. Why the hell do people break up over text message? Not that I think it’s wrong not to do it in person, but what if the person being broken up with has questions about why or there’s a lengthy, but necessary conversation (as necessary as a break-up conversation can be) that should be had right then and there to avoid future, uncomfortable situations? It’s a serious concern for me and I don’t know why it happens, as it’s never happened to me. I don’t understand and I need it to be explained.

2. Why do girls become so upset and obsessed over their exes? It’s both unhealthy for the girl and annoying for everyone else. Granted, there have been a few times that GUYS have done this to me and/or my friends, but it seems that girls get more publicity for it.

Which sparks ANOTHER “girl stereotype” that really makes me mad. The idea that girls leave items behind with their exes for a reason to talk to them again. I’ve had exes ask me for prom pictures, come to my house at 3 am for “a ride back home”, and try to ask out my best friends. ALL of these exes have ADMITTEDLY done this in order to talk to me again. I have never met a girl that does this, and this makes sense. It makes sense because when girls break up with a guy, they’ve already gotten over him. They realize that the relationship should end, grieve, and move on all before they break up with a guy. Guys, on the other hand, make a split decision to break up with girls. They think it might possibly be a good idea, and then they do it, all with the idea that if he wants her back, he will get her back. This is the same reason that girls are less likely to want to date the same guy more than once, though there are obviously exceptions to this rule.

I hate when people just assume that girls are these stupidly emotional creatures that go into a terribly depressed state every time a guy breaks up with them. FUCK THE WORLD.

But seriously, girls can be whiny bitches; Don’t trust anything they say.

Some kid named Brian who lives in my hall wants us to tell you that he’s cool.  He’s not.

Where The Fuck is North Dakota?

So, let’s be honest. As American college students, neither Mackenzie nor I really know where North Dakota is (Fun Fact: if the US were to launch a nuclear missile at Russia, we’d launch it from North Dakota).  Why? No one knows.  So we ask ourselves: Where the fuck is North Dakota?  We’ve been in college for approximately two weeks now and this is, without a doubt, the hardest question that has been posed to us, which is why we have started this blog.  This will basically be an outlet for us to educate others on the true nature of the “college experience” as we see it.  We are your typical go-to-class-eat-sleep students.  We don’t party or associate with sororities, but honestly, we are the funniest people we know.  Our consequent posts will consist of our daily experiences, things that we happen to find amusing, and maybe rants about the overall stupidity of the general populace.

If anyone reads this, we apologize.