I attract psychos.
Exhibit A: The Lebanese In-N-Out employee I dated for a month in high school. And by dated, I mean "made out in his Tonka Truck while parked on a hill behind a golf course". It was terribly romantic, especially because I wouldn't let him under my clothes. He went on to be a pool cleaner. WINNER.
Exhibit B: The guy who asked me if I worked for NASA, because if I did (and try to keep up with this logic train here) I could be the stars and he could be the Big Dipper. WINNER.
Exhibit C: Beigesauce who pushed me off a chair when his favorite football team scored a touchdown. GEM.
Exhibit D: Guy in Starbucks who, despite my repeated utterances of "I'm actually just trying to study, I can't really talk right now," proceeded to tell me about how he's cleaned up his life, gotten back on track at DeVry, and how smart I look. POTENTIAL MATE.
I really hope they never stop finding me.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Come Play With Us
From the folks who brought you "Watch where you're going, idiot!" and "Why are you crying?!" comes Look, Dummy., which is really just your stock e-faction of haters, hating on things (and occasionally writing about other shit). I know. Wait, don't leave. There are some things we like, but writing about the things one likes is no fun, and we like fun, and since it becomes increasingly apparent as life persists that the stuff-of-like pickings are sparse (I speak for myself), the preservation of fun seems pretty imperative.
This poorly written introductory post was brought to you by Marriott International. And the absence of coffee. And by two Girl Scouts who straggled from a larger congregation of Girl Scouts (why?) in the annex to which I'm adjacent, fogging up the glass door of the fishbowl whereabout I work, staring at me like the Shining twins.
This poorly written introductory post was brought to you by Marriott International. And the absence of coffee. And by two Girl Scouts who straggled from a larger congregation of Girl Scouts (why?) in the annex to which I'm adjacent, fogging up the glass door of the fishbowl whereabout I work, staring at me like the Shining twins.
Clocking Out
It was 4:13pm on a cloudy, useless day when the Girl Scouts appeared. They shuffled their untied shoes along the sidewalk, kicking the concrete with a dull absentmindedness and occasionally syncing their steps like an undisciplined platoon. The soft footsteps and sporadic shrieks distracted the secretary from her climactic game of minesweeper and recalled the silence of the office against the increasing sound of their shoes, averaging a child's size 5. She minimized her game to show a spreadsheet which contained nothing in particular; she had created it hours before to organize her monthly bills but quickly lost interest and saved it to resemble work should anyone look over her shoulder.
At the first thump on the glass door, the secretary shifted in her seat and took a great interest in the spreadsheet. The troops gathered around one another, quietly casing the building, as if they could sense which doors would reveal sensitive fathers with an extra $4, or soft-middled women easily convinced to splurge on a box of tag-a-longs. The secretary continued to concentrate on the sum formulas needed to calculate how much she would need to spend on dry cleaning this month, if she decided to dry clean any of her three pairs of slacks.
It was 4:19pm when the sticky little finger, soft and persistent, leaned on the buzzer to be let in the building; the secretary could no longer ignore the war-painted hellions as their noses breathed snowy circles of fog on the pristine glass. One of them wore a yellow sash with a sprinkling of badges which shamed the rest; her name-tag boldly declared that she was Kaylee, ranking officer. Sgt. Kaylee leaned on the buzzer again, a direct affront to the secretary whose hesitation so offended her. Devoid of any other ammunition, the secretary put up one finger begging just a moment and please excuse her she didn't see you standing there and its her first day this darned buzzer is just so complicated and aren't you sweet in your uniforms. Kaylee raised her eyebrow and leaned on the buzzer once more, holding it several beats too long in an effort to annoy the secretary out of her foxhole. A small girl with frayed pigtails stuck her finger in her nose, unashamed.
It was 4:26 when Kaylee seemed to accept defeat with a sour look and cocked hip; she signaled the platoon to move out without breaking eye contact with the defiant secretary. The afternoon would be passed in silence, and she was most pleased; that is, until a hand reached over her shoulder and pressed the "unlock" function which signaled a soft click in the door.
"Well, what do we have here?" asked Stanley from accounting. "Are we selling cookies?"
He leaned over Kaylee, bending from the hips with surprising dexterity while simultaneously reaching for his wallet. "How about a box of Thin Mints?"
Kaylee flashed her missing teeth and her freckles seemed to darken under the harsh florescent lights of the office. The little feet trampled down the halls as each door opened to receive them, a new squeal of delight or exclamation of adoration echoing out of each one.
It was 5:16 when the secretary ushered the last of them out the door, a box of Samoas tucked in her purse.
At the first thump on the glass door, the secretary shifted in her seat and took a great interest in the spreadsheet. The troops gathered around one another, quietly casing the building, as if they could sense which doors would reveal sensitive fathers with an extra $4, or soft-middled women easily convinced to splurge on a box of tag-a-longs. The secretary continued to concentrate on the sum formulas needed to calculate how much she would need to spend on dry cleaning this month, if she decided to dry clean any of her three pairs of slacks.
It was 4:19pm when the sticky little finger, soft and persistent, leaned on the buzzer to be let in the building; the secretary could no longer ignore the war-painted hellions as their noses breathed snowy circles of fog on the pristine glass. One of them wore a yellow sash with a sprinkling of badges which shamed the rest; her name-tag boldly declared that she was Kaylee, ranking officer. Sgt. Kaylee leaned on the buzzer again, a direct affront to the secretary whose hesitation so offended her. Devoid of any other ammunition, the secretary put up one finger begging just a moment and please excuse her she didn't see you standing there and its her first day this darned buzzer is just so complicated and aren't you sweet in your uniforms. Kaylee raised her eyebrow and leaned on the buzzer once more, holding it several beats too long in an effort to annoy the secretary out of her foxhole. A small girl with frayed pigtails stuck her finger in her nose, unashamed.
It was 4:26 when Kaylee seemed to accept defeat with a sour look and cocked hip; she signaled the platoon to move out without breaking eye contact with the defiant secretary. The afternoon would be passed in silence, and she was most pleased; that is, until a hand reached over her shoulder and pressed the "unlock" function which signaled a soft click in the door.
"Well, what do we have here?" asked Stanley from accounting. "Are we selling cookies?"
He leaned over Kaylee, bending from the hips with surprising dexterity while simultaneously reaching for his wallet. "How about a box of Thin Mints?"
Kaylee flashed her missing teeth and her freckles seemed to darken under the harsh florescent lights of the office. The little feet trampled down the halls as each door opened to receive them, a new squeal of delight or exclamation of adoration echoing out of each one.
It was 5:16 when the secretary ushered the last of them out the door, a box of Samoas tucked in her purse.
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