The Blog is Back! / Just Try to Tell me this isn't blog worthy / This is why I waited for school to start before going back to blogging.

Wow! I can't believe it's actually been FOUR months since I've last blogged. I feel like you all deserve more, and I expect more from myself. Actually, The summer was a nice break and although it had plenty of blog worthy moments there was too much non-Vassar context, and I was daunted by all the backstory I would have to fill in. Also, Alot of my stories revolved around my horrible shitty job and considering how things went last time I wrote about my peers, I decided to let the stories roll off towards the horizon.

ooh, I feel rusty!

Alright, let's just jump right into things and hope for the best.

This tale is based on the part of the title of this post where I challenge anyone to tell me that it isn't a blog worthy narrative, and it goes a little something like this...

I was on a plane. Minding my own business. Reading the issue where they call Vassar the 22nd douchiest college or something, and their evidence for this is that we have a ton of lesbians. Now, I have no problems with poking fun at our sizable (but probably more accurately highly visible) gay population, but at least have it make sense. We would have been number one on that fucking list if they'd done a featurette on Kappa Kappa Trollop. Just sayin'. Besides, I think I've seen 5 lesbians maximum since school began, but maybe that's because we don't always run in the same circles. Actually I have a rant in me somewhere about how disconnected I feel from my homosexual sisters, but that's another day and another post.

Anyway, I'm crammed into my seat. I forgot to mention that when I entered the plane some walrus shaped mother fucker was firmly planted in My seat. Last time I had checked I wasn't flying Southwest and this sure wasn't seat yourself style. I meekly informed him that he was indeed in my spot and watched as he struggled to free himself from the embrace of his arm rests and shuffle over the necessary eleven inches to his own seat...next to me. I guess I wasn' surprised that he was hoping to not have to cram his fat ass in the middle seat between to queens, but this just wasn't his lucky day. When I was finally situated in my own seat (after a bit of trouble finding space for my carry on....ANNOYING! packing lighter is no longer just a convenience as more and more people are trying to elude the charge for checking bags by bringing the biggest fucking carry ons they can get their greedy little hands on...myself included) So, When I was finally in my own seat I noticed that i was being mushed up against by Mr. Walrus coo coo ca chew indeed. In order to remedy this I began the arduous task of pulling down the arm rest in an attempt to create a dam that would hold back the deluge of fat and skin that was pouring into my lap. It...kinda worked. It was an imperfect solution. There was leakage. I was looking pleadingly at the stewardesses, but to no avail. They were too occupied with figuring out where to put all of the damn carry-ons. There's also a rant about the degradation of the American Stewardess somewhere inside of me. Why is it that airlines are so fundamentally important to the maintenance of our lives of convenience and yet we love nothing more than to complain about them. Same with parents, but I digress.

So, I'm situated, a bit uncomfortable, and constantly struggling to maintain what little space I have while jaba snores away. Having finished my magazine, I dip into my bag of goodies, bypass the gameboy, and go straight for the gold. My silver 13" macbook felt cool and smooth in my grasp. Its gentle sloping edges felt nearly as wonderful as the manboob that I was currently using as a pillow. I struggled a bit with the clumsy latch mechanism keeping my tray table upright, and had further difficulty getting my computer to fit the nicely on the tray. I cursed the airline for having smaller than average tray tables because I had never had a problem having my petite computer fit on any previous tray table. petite is a theme in my life. I open the computer and am really puzzled by how cumbersome it is. My muscles had no memories of this silver behemoth. Before I could think too hard about my misgivings, the screen burst into life and I was greeted by a smiling blond woman on a webpage with alot of green that looked very businessy. At first, my heart leapt with joy. This airline had go go sky air net or whatever it's called! That wonderful service where you're able to get internet for the duration of the flight for a small and unquestionably worthwhile fee. But my jubilation quickly evaporated. This was no happy ending, it was only the beginning.

To be continued...

Just kidding!

I quickly realized that this was not the home page for some magical airplane internet, but instead it was the most recently viewed page on a computer that most assuredly wasn't mine. Yes, that it correct. I had somehow boarded a plane with the wrong computer, and now I was in the air, cut off from all communication, freaking the FUCK out. I was bugging. I don't bug. but i did, so I guess i do. After the intial shock and horror that follows the discovery that your computer is god knows where with god knows who, I stumbled upon yet another thrilling find. There as not a word of English to be found on the entire machine. After a quick language lesson and a bit off snooping I discovered that I was now in possession of the computer of a Belgian Millionaire. Yup that's right. Only in my life. I browsed his countless photos learning about the family trips to Portugal, Kenya, Venice, China, Prague, Florida, Scotland, some tropical islands, and I think Mars. This computer was like a window to the world. The icing on the photographic cake was, of course, none other than angel baby. Who is this mysterious angel baby? you might be saying to yourself. Luckily, Bob Treffers has the answer. Angel Baby is a creature of unparalleled divinity and grace. Angel Baby is the suspected grandchild of the owner of the computer, and Angel Baby is FAT! Oh, and Angel Baby is photographed in a muted Sepia wearing fake Angel wings while a dismembered hand cups its ass. But it's totally not child porn. IT REALLY ISN'T SO DON'T ARREST ME OR BOB TREFFERS! but especially not me. I feel like it would be gross breach of trust and privacy if I were to share these glorious pictures with the world, and although I am sorely tempted, I just can't bring myself to do it. Instead, just close your eyes imagine a sumo wrestler. Good. Now shrink it down to baby size and make it dutch. You're getting there. Now glue on a pair of hideously tacky fake angel wings. Done! I present to you...Angel Baby. Really you have to see it I might have access to these pictures and all it takes is a personal visit and I'll give you a private screening.

Although I can't speak fluent Dutch, my familiarity with computers allowed for a thorough, precise, and unabashed investigation of personal files, e-mails, internet history, and of course photographs. And you know what? It's lucky I'm such a lurk, because I was able to find this man's name, e-mail address, the facebook account of his son, and many more potential avenues of communication, and all in just one stressful ass plane ride.

I got in touch with Daddy Warbucks with high hopes of a long lasting relationship resulting in a fabulous Belgian internship this summer. While that didn't happen I did get him to send my computer back home, which arrived just yesterday! And once my mom confirmed that my computer had arrived in one piece I feel perfectly comfortable sending his back in a week or so.

The End

I love that story, don't get me wrong, but I found it difficult to tell in an entertaining manner. I hope I succeeded. Maybe it's because I've spoken the tale so many times that it kind of lost its magic. Well, I have nineteen minutes before class so instead of diving into my next great adventure, I'll disclose a small but exciting new detail in my life. I am a sports writer for the misc.!!! Can you believe it? Who would have thought that chubby ol' me would have ended up doing anything that even began to push against the furthest boundaries of the world of athletics. And guess what? I love it.

Basically I decided I wanted to write for the Misc. Mostly because Carrie does it and I wanted to be editor in chief so that I could be her boss. This plan quickly presented itself as slightly impossible (for a plain yellow pumpkin to become a golden carriage) so, instead I approached the current editor in chief and told her that I would be writing for the misc. I jokingly added that I'd be a sports writer. Well, this made her eyes light up brighter than a thousand sequined ball gowns in the sun, and I just couldn't say no. I can't wait for word of this to get back to my highschool, where I went out throwing punches against an poorly conceived, alienating, and just plain mean athletic requirement policy. Look what happens when you're not being Forced to do something. It's amazing. Suck it David Mahler! You grimy old fascist! (I hope he googles his name and finds this!)

Another short story to fill the time that is quickly escaping is a fun little assignment for my Fairy Tales class. The Assignment is to craft a pair of magical shoes. We are to make a shoe that inspires us and then after our artistic muses are mollified we are to take somewhere between 5 baby and two giant steps back and come up with a short fairy tale to accompany the shoes. Luckily, I have already crafted a fabulous pair of magical shoes in the form of the glittering, mirrored heels that I created for the drag show. This isn't exactly ground breaking blogging, but I'm excited to wear them to class and to share the premise of my story with all of you. The idea is that the shoes belong to a grumpy king with a secret. The secret, of course, being that he's a horny little homo but risks losing the kingdom and the doting affection of his infinitely ignorant wife. So, he slips o the magical shoes in order to transform into a a gal who looks loose and easy and he fucks all the hot boys in the kingdom. The End. I think I'll get an A.