Monthly Archives: December 2012

It’s My Birthday, I’ll Judge if I Want To

Last night was my last class of the semester. It was also a class that has provided many frustrations and laughs throughout the past three months and I’ll miss all of the characters who brightened (and seriously dimmed) my Thursday nights. In light of never seeing many of them again, I’d like to dedicate this blog to one classmate in particular who I shall call, “Deeb” (Short for D-Bag).

On the first day of class I had the pleasure of sitting next to Deeb and reveling in his charming accent, slicked back hair and oddly placed three-piece suit. He is hobbit-sized, therefore non-threatening so I immediately struck up a conversation. He shares a name (his real name) with a 90s rocker and I made some stupid joke about the two of them. He laughed and shook his head and that was the end of our brief friendship.

Upon returning to class the following week (I’ll be honest, it was three weeks from the first encounter), I chose a seat in the back of the room and closer to some people I thought I might enjoy. I was right. The back of the room ended up being the designated “sane person” area, save for a few scattered normals in the rest of the classroom. It was from my post in the back that I would continue to observe Deeb and slowly build on my fiery hatred.

Never breaking out of his habit of over-dressing, Deeb showed up every week in a suit and sometimes added a hat from the early 2000s. He started every sentence with the word, “actually” in that odd British accent of his and had a “fun fact” for everything we never asked about. I grew increasingly annoyed at his penchant for chiming in with an “I bet you didn’t know…” factoid every class period but it wasn’t until recent weeks that I truly grew to hate Deeb.

It was brought to my attention that Deeb is not British, like he had led us all to believe. He isn’t even foreign. He’s American. He did, however, spend a semester abroad and apparently can’t shake the pretentious accent he picked up. When I heard this about him I was legitimately mad. I had said things to him in class about how people will listen to whatever he has to say because he sounds charming. He just smiled and nodded and went about his business. What a DEEB! I mean, I get that he’s short and kind of looks like Elvin, Sondra’s husband from “The Cosby Show”. I get that he might need something besides the overdressing to distinguish himself from the other uninteresting twenty-somethings wandering campus. I get it. But really? A fake accent? Come on. He may have even picked it up honestly while he was there. I get that. I pick up accents in about three minutes flat but they don’t last for the rest of my life. They stop as soon as I’m no longer surrounded by people who speak like that. Because I’m a human girl. Not a d-bag robot who has his language and speech programmed irreversibly.

Rockin' that Cosby flava

Rockin’ that Cosby flava

On top of the affected accent news, I learned that someone in class (no idea who) had been equally annoyed with the weekly onslaught of factoids and started writing them down to fact check via google after class. As I suspected, everything that comes out of his mouth is bullshit. Last night’s first quip was a lesson on how an apple contains the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee. Does an apple contain natural sugars that will turn into energy? Yes. Does an apple have caffeine? No. Absolutely not. It’s an apple. Did we ask about the possible caffeine content of fruits? Nope. We were drinking tea, however.

My final impression of Deeb was during his group’s presentation on the music of American minorities. His contribution was about Mexican and Tejano music and how that later led to country music. Fair enough. It sounded interesting. The other members of his group played clips of music to supplement their explanations and that served us just fine. Deeb decided to play an instrumental version (by choice) and sing along in poorly delivered Spanish. He sang. Out loud. On purpose. He sang. And it was SUPER awkward. I didn’t know where to look.

Thank Gos that class is over. I will miss laughing at all of the weirdos and judging in my back corner with a few select people who shared my sideways glances. But I will not miss Deeb. He made my life worse.

The End is Nigh

In case you haven’t heard, the world is going to end next Friday. I mean, like, duh. The Mayans got it right when they started that whole gold teeth trend (that’s a trend, right?) and they’ll get it right again. Still need convincing?


I just wanted an excuse to put up more pictures of Adam "Sexyhips" Levine

I just wanted an excuse to put up more pictures of Adam “Sexyhips” Levine

Just look at the pop songs that are out currently. Ke$ha knows we’re all going to die young. One Direction suggests we all live while we’re young. Rihanna thinks she’s going to evaporate into a diamond in the sky but Chris Brown would prefer if she didn’t wake him up for it. Maroon 5 insists there’s only one more night, and then reiterates that point by explaining that when the daylight comes, they’ll have to go. I can only assume they’re speaking about the 22nd of December. Because, well, I always assume that pop songs relate directly to my life and the lives of those around me. If Ke$ha, America’s sweetheart, tells me I’m going to die young, well gosh darnit I believe her.

So innocent and pure

So innocent and pure

Finally, I know the world is ending soon because I recently found myself enjoying, loving even, the newest Nicki Minaj song. Hell must be freezing over if I’m even admitting to listening to one all the way through, so yeah. I’m pretty sure One Direction has a lock on the inside info this time around. We’re goners. Let’s take their advice and get some while we’re young and alive.

They're just camping...and they brought a couch...

They’re just camping…and they brought a couch…

I, for one, plan to go out in style. With that va-va-voom, voom.

Bettie’s Birthday Week

Remember when we were younger and birthdays were celebrated in giant blocks of time? “It’s my birthday month, let’s get crazy!” The year you turn 21, is literally your birthday year, when every evening out is a celebration of your not-so-recent legal status. When you’re turning 28, however, celebrating a birthday even on the actual day is kind of a chore.

Like this, only chunkier

Like this, only chunkier

 There’s an obligation to go out because my birthday falls on a Friday this year and if I don’t go out I’ll just spend the evening fighting my cats for the last of the salted caramel gelato and crying sad birthday tears all over my laptop and the latest episode of “Freaky Eaters”.  Because it’s an obligation, though, I feel like going out and having all of these birthday expectations might result in a sadder night than the combination of Netflix and fat pants.

 I think the issue is more that friends and family get bored with caring about these never-ending birthdays and then the responsibility to make it fun lies solely on the person who is turning that year older.  I’m not complaining, mind you. I’m just as bored with your incessant birthdays as you are with mine. I’ll go have a drink near you on your special day, and I expect the same. Nothing more, nothing less. Just come sit near me and we’ll call it good. It is a Friday night, after all. It is your responsibility to tell strangers about my birthday status, of course, so that we can enjoy free drinks at their expense. And by we I mean me. But at least you didn’t have to get me a present.  

So, bloggers, there you have it. It’s my birthday on Friday and I don’t wanna! But, because I’m obligated by my own neurosis to go out, I will. And you should too. And, I mean…if you want to make a big deal out of it, I guess I wouldn’t totally hate it.