Once upon a time, people would meet through chance encounters, go out for a cup of coffee, and fall in love. But that was long before tall, dark, and handsome was replaced by average, pale, and doable. Quality has dropped significantly as have standards, leaving the average Jane to pick her suitor from a pool of below-average Joes. So it’s no surprise that first dates have become synonymous with last dates. The typical first date usually starts with spotting Mr. Alright at the agreed upon location. And that fairytale feeling hits you right away–it’s settling at first sight. But what really determines how a first date will go isn’t looks as much as conversation, which more often than not feels like a mundane trivia game with all the questions coming from the Useless Information category. I mean, who can really say they found their soulmate based on sharing a favorite color/movie/pen brand? (I’m a Bic-girl myself). But what really does the conversation in is hearing about supposedly unique and special traits. You say you love to laugh? You like all types of music? You even like to breathe oxygen? Thank you for establishing that, yes, you are indeed human. I had my doubts for a few hours there. So the next time you find yourself being asked out on a date, remember this: not everyone deserves a chance. Whoever said that they do was just playing wingman for an ugly friend.
Category Archives: Heathen Events
Every time I get a haircut, it looks terrible for about six weeks. Then it looks good for, like, a day, and that’s how I know it’s time for a new haircut. It’s what I call the “Haircut Cycle of Shame.” – Cory Matthews, Boy Meets World
Haircuts are tricky. You can either leave the hair salon with $75 less in your pocket and with absolutely no noticeable difference, or you can come out looking like a brand-new person with a brand-new hairstylist to hate. Either way, the results aren’t good. No matter which salon you go to, the process is always the same. Whoever is cutting your hair starts first by vehemently insulting whoever has done your hair before him (see: rule #1 in Rules for Becoming a Hairstylist). Then your stylist asks you what you want done to your hair (just to amuse himself) before he proceeds onto doing whatever he had in mind from the start. And so you put your trust into a French man whose pants are tighter than yours, and the snipping begins. A little from here, a lot from there, and 20 minutes later… Voilà! You have yourself a terrible haircut. Merci for nothing, Gaston. See you in 6 weeks.
Your major says a lot about you. It says what your interests are, how much money you will probably make, and how hard you partied in college. What it won’t say is what your future career will be. Ironic, isn’t it? Here’s a rundown of what your major actually does say about you.
Art: You enjoy making your parents cry themselves to sleep every night.
Math: You can follow directions. Congratulations.
Philosophy: You like to spend your free time pondering if a tree makes a sound if it falls in an abandoned forest. Meanwhile, a soundless tree falls on your house and you can’t afford to fix the damages because you majored in philosophy.
Engineering: You hate yourself. Tradeoff: your parents love you.
Political Science: You love the politics of getting into law school.
Latin American Studies: You like to estudiar, patinar, and not-find-a-job-ar.
Physics: You like to study the physical properties of the world to counterbalance the physical contact you don’t have with women.
English: You love books, which is great because the cardboard box you will be living in will be made out of the same material.
History classes will teach you that it was Abraham Lincoln who abolished slavery in the United States. But through some loophole in the Emancipation Proclamation, companies around the country are still capitalizing on free labor to this day. I call it being an indentured servant; you may know it as being an intern. These companies wave 2 course credits and the all-mighty “potential for a permanent position” in your face, and you just go with it and waste your summer away schlepping piles of invoices and TPS reports from one cubicle to the next. But the term “internship” keeps you under the impression that you’ll be learning valuable life lessons that will help you in your future career path. But really, if memorizing everyone’s coffee preferences in the office is considered a helpful skill, I would have been ready for a promotion at age 8. If vacuuming ever got anyone ahead in the world, my grandmother would currently be the editor-in-chief at Vogue. And if alphabetizing files was equivalent to getting my foot in the door, I’d ask you to please kindly slam that door to nowhere in my face. Can someone get a hold of Harriet Tubman and tell her to save me a seat on the underground railroad? Unless I have to pay for a boarding pass, in which case, forget I asked. Us intern folk can’t afford them fancy thangs.
It’s finally here. This is the moment you’ve worked so hard to get to all of these years. In a haze of getting no sleep from pulling all-nighters for finals and the general “a D is still technically passing” feeling sinking in, you make your way onto the stage to shake the hand of [fill in name of any old white man]. You get handed your diploma, and while still brimming with pride, you unravel the rolled up sheet of paper only to find that it’s not really a diploma at all. It’s just a blank piece of paper that you don’t even have time to admire because you’re being shooed off the stage so that the next graduating senior can have his moment of glory. So there you are, being unceremoniously shuffled out of academic life during the biggest ceremony of your academic career. It’s right at that moment when you realize your regret at not having asked the Chancellor for some cab fare, so that if you’re going to be used up like a dirty whore, you can at least have something to show for it and get home safely.
It is impossible to do without. Everyone needs that one drawer to fill with dead batteries, old gum, a broken screwdriver, the instruction booklet for the camera you broke last year, and countless other things you can’t can can’t can can’t live without. It’s your own little personal 10 x 10 hoarding secret. You keep all that random crap thinking that it’ll come in handy one fateful day. So if your neighbor ever rushes over to your house looking for exactly two and a half candles for a last minute birthday bash for her two-and-a-half-year-old toddler, you’ve got her covered. And if she needs to light them, you can lend her your nonfunctional Zippo. You’ve even got a rusty bracelet with a broken clasp and one earring (presumably of two) that you can wear if you decide to go over to that party. And you can take that one single puzzle piece as a gift. Because nothing says “Happy Birthday!” like a choking hazard.
Throughout the history of time, groups of twos have made groundbreaking discoveries, earning themselves fame, fortune, and a joint title. But if I know anything about group projects, it’s that one of the two in the group must have been carried by the other and unjustly earned recognition simply by association. I guarantee you Lewis was the one leading the journey through the United States while Clark was just complaining about the blisters on his feet and asking “Are we there yet?” the whole way through. And Jill was probably bitching to Jack about how steep the hill was until she jinxed it and Jack took a fall. And celery would just be the red-headed stepchild if it weren’t for ranch. History needs to be rewritten to show this truth; otherwise, history is bound to repeat itself, most likely in the form of an ill-matched beerpong team. Celery: “I’ll make the next cup, I promise.” Ranch: “Sure you will, Celery. Sure you will.”
Some of you may not know this, but movies are actually all just living in an awkward limbo. This is why we shouldn’t be upset when our classic favorites get butchered, raped, and murdered in the form a sequel; it’s just Hollywood’s way of opening the door for movies to enter through heaven’s gates. Here’s my list of the top 5 worst sequels of all time:
5. Sex and the City 2. Watch the horse-faced Sarah Jessica Parker on her quest to find Mr. Big; also known in layman’s terms as “bestiality”.
4. Babe: Pig in the City. Paving the way for terrible talking-animal movies for years to come.
3. Little Fockers. Because Robert De Niro wanted to be known for something more iconic than just that one little taxi movie
2. Legally Blonde: Red, White, and Blonde. Tag line says: “Join the party”. Tag line should say: “Join the line to get your money back”.
1. Aladdin: The Return of Jafar. Take a magic carpet ride off a cliff.
All of these legendary classics are coming soon to a bootleg video store near you.
They say an apple a day keeps the doctor away. But with everything from Splenda to Diet Coke to pancakes being the cause of cancer (allegedly), it’s going to take a lot more than a Granny Smith to keep you from a visit to the doctor. But no matter which doctor you go to, there’s always a recurring theme among all of their offices. The waiting area is always stocked with all the essentials to make your 45 minute wait time seem like just a brisk 44 minutes. You can use that time to check out a tattered issue of the forever classic Highlights magazine or read some old issue of Time and catch up on the current events of the decade before (We’re invading Iraq?). Once your name is finally called, you get to go in to see the doctor—well, theoretically. In reality, it’s really just a smaller version of the waiting room you just left. The doctor finally comes in half an hour later, and you get down to serious business. “Are you allergic to any medications?” No. “Any major surgeries?” Nope. “Any relatives with heart disease?” What is “No”? “Okay, great! You’re all set. Just go back out to the front desk and speak with the nurse.” Nurse: “That’ll be $100.” Can I have RIP-OFFS for $2000, please, Mr. Trebek? Oooh, I got the Daily Double!
There’s always that point in school when you start to develop senioritis–only you’re a freshman and just barely halfway through your second semester. You’re basically living Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, just without the fairies and instead it’s called Mid-Semester’s Nightmare. There are a few tell-tale signs that you’ve reached this point in your academic career:
1. You begin to wonder where you put that $200 textbook you haven’t touched since it first arrived in the mail through extra-expensive rush delivery because you felt you could not do without it on the first day of class. Turns out you could do without it altogether.
2. You can predict your professor’s outfit before he walks into class. But it’s not all that impressive seeing as how the only choices are some combination between one of his many Looney Tunes-themed ties and either a wrinkled white shirt or an even more wrinkled off-white shirt.
3. *Eyes shut* *Head nods down once* *Head nods down twice* *You’re out*
4. You begin to write down words that your British professor pronounces funny. So your notes for Lecture 13 on global poverty in the 21st century consist of: “The widespread poverty in third-world countries such as Somalia and Afghanistan can only be alleviated through schedule, vase, mayor, butter, water.” These notes are surrounded by clouds of “Mrs. Prince Harry” in hearts. Keeps the general theme going.
And it’s just going to get worse as the semester progresses. But you can be productive with that time you have in class and do things like work on improving your doodling skills or even try to become ambidextrous. Because being able to write your name with both hands will do you a lot more good in life than anything you will ever learn in a classroom.