I could make a pun about "Value" Meals right now

It is sometimes very troubling to me that all people seem to be quite crummy. [I will pause here for a few important notes: a) Obviously there are a few notable exceptions to the previous dramatic generalization b) Don't brackets look bitchin' with Courier? I can't match my clothes too well, but at least my favorite punctuation matches my favorite font] To resume...

People are oftentimes damn disappointing specimens of humanity. Now, I'm not just saying that because I read Catcher in the Rye yesterday and I'm feeling rebellious, or because I couldn't find anywhere to park this afternoon because there were too many cheerful families toting their cheerful veggies home from the Farmer's Market. Furthermore, I give you my solemnest swear that I'm not about to go off on some rant riddled with bolded words and these suckers -->!!!!! about how consumerism and superficiality is ruining Western Civilization. I certainly drink name brand soda (the elusive Ruby Red Squirt) from the cups I bought from Target too often to engage in that type of banter. After all, it's not society that makes me want to hide in my room with a stack of 19th century novels featuring heroines that overcome their social position as governesses to marry their mysterious employers...oh no, it's the people all around.

And I don't want to hear anything about (from you, stupid 2nd person anon. internet) how you can't consider people outside the context of society, because I am determined to stick to my rash statement. All I know is that I love tacky manifestations of culture in abstraction ( Rock of Love; energy drink slushies now available at 7-11; grown women dressing up in Harry Potter costume contests) while people make me want to stab myself in the face. Jesus-in-a-juicebox, I've gotten all emo, and that wasn't at all my point.

Self mutitalating digressions aside, my intent in writing this was not to catalog all of the enormous jerkwads that I encounter daily. Nay, I wanted to discuss a startling generous act visited upon me by my sister today.

I don't mean to be ungenerous myself by saying "startling;" it's just that my sister has the sort of survivalist instincts that would have scared the piss out of Darwin and all of his little finches. So imagine my surprise when she burst upon me this afternoon (finding me full of snot and secretarial rage) and presented me with lunch and a box of cold meds. I was frankly flabbergasted. Not only had she braved the awkwardness of ordering the unlisted 2-Cheeseburger Meal, but she had sprung for both the day-time and night-time pills.

There is nothing like an unexpected Value Meal to restore one's goodwill toward humanity. [Restorative powers of corny novels omitted for thematic reasons].

I see what you mean, however,

I made a relatively well-received Roots joke today. My only wish is that it were a reference to the novel and not the movie, not for reasons of intellectual integrity or a desire to see the purity of the written word furthered, but simply because I think the only thing harder to make a joke about in the early morning than Roots is Roots.

I made this joke in my discussion class this morning, a weekly three-hour marathon of early colonial one-up-manship. The format of this class is prolonged scoffing, as we all get our colonial ire up over how Puritan the Puritans really were, and take great joy in coughing politely and saying things like “I see what you mean, however…”

Being a total freak for colonial America, I get into a real tizzy over this class and pester all close friends and associates with stories of how in Puritan New England you could get the axe for bestiality if your pig birthed a baby pig that resembled you. I am additionally fond of this class because it allowed me to witness a young man moved almost to tears by his love for President Andrew Jackson (a love that seemed entirely based on the supposed ability of the prez to vomit blood on command).

Beyond this, however, I quite resent the habit of people in that class of staring earnestly into your eyes as if to convince you by force of will that their opinion on Goodwife So-and-So is really heartfelt and valid. These people don’t seem to understand that no one appreciates a face-stare; we are all just here to talk about how the Puritans favored the pumpkin as God’s elected fruit.

On a completely unrelated note, I am typing this from my workplace, and in the waiting-room sits a woman entirely unperturbed by the fact that she has a cigarette stuck behind her ear. What a greaser.

Maiden voyage into blogville

Deciding to start a blog is very serious business. Always one to rub things in, my cheapo, generic word processor just insisted that I add the word "blog" to its dictionary. There are few things that I hate more than word processors taking it upon themselves to behave symbolically.

I will admit that I've been toying with the idea of blogging rather apprehensively for some time. It seems to me that in blogging there are too many variables. For example, will this be the kind of blog where I painstakingly outline the events of my daily day? Or rather one where I only turn towards my computer when glowing with some kind of brilliant assertion or righteous rant on the state of the world ("global warming = hella")? More importantly, would I employ that feature that allows me to list what I was listening to, complete with album cover thumbnail courtesy of Amazon?

Logistics aside, there are important matters of discretion to be considered in blogging. Can I mention my friends by name? Surely a system of aliases would be too hard to upkeep. Plus, I would eventually yield to the lazy compulsion to just assign everyone a thematic name (names of huskies in Jack London novels, cheerleaders on Degrassi) and run the risk of my life looking like a trashy cross-over fan fic. What about my boyfriend? I suspect that he will come up on occasion. I guess I could just dehumanize by some vomit-worthy acronymical title, like the B.F., the Sig O., J.T.T. As for myself, I'll never be so grand and marvelous a goober as to chance addressing myself with some corny handle mid-sentence.

I suppose these questions are moderated by the number of people I direct here via pointed emailed prodding. After all, the more people I tell, the greater the chance that I will say something particularly uncivilized about someone and piss them off. Like that kid I hate in my poetry class who always wears that UCD sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up and begins every statement with "Well, I'm going to play devil's advocate..." I wish that this kid would instead chose to play on the freeway.

Finally, I struggle over the issue of blogging assumptions. I'm certainly not deluded enough to make some artsy plea of self expression. Soggy college-ruled notebooks are for creative expression (little black moleskines if you're a particular asshole) but the interweb is for exhibitionism. Blogging for soul-searching is like myspacing for humility. Or at least its vaguely related.

Despite my willingness to recognize blogging as fodder for the grasping faceless masses I'm fairly sure that I'll never be able to address them in a chummy fashion. You'll get no presumptuous "Hey guys" into infinity from me.