Chapter LXXV: Feminista

Image of the Day: 218A






















When I left studio today, I was walking through the hall and saw this sign. It intrigued me because of the way it was phrased. It doesn't say "WOMEN'S RESTROOM" or "WOMEN CAN URINATE HERE," but specifically draws attention to the fact that it had not always been a women's restroom, and only recently became one.

In that sense, it reminded me of the flags that unscrupulous European imperialists once stuck all over the planet, laying claim to foreign soils. My fertile imagination took this comparison to its logical conclusion...there is a cadre of militant lesbians advancing through Engineering West, conquering one bathroom stall at a time. Cal Poly today, tomorrow the world!

Case in point: When I took ARCE 211 during summer school, we were in the middle of Activity (if spending three hours in a sweltering room, never quite falling asleep can be considered an activity) one Friday and I needed to pee. I distinctly remember coming across two women's bathrooms before finally finding one on the second floor that accomodated XY chromosomes. Now it seems even that has been taken away from me.

Image of the Day II:






















Whoever made the sign used some font that is not on my computer, but that can be approximated by bolding Vrinda and tweaking the default leading and kerning.

Chapter LXXVII: Chicken of Doom

I'm writing this in case I die in my sleep tonight... I'd forgotten how wretchedly disgusting being sick is. Last night, I vomitted three times, and this morning, I had wierd hallucinations while I lay sweating in bed under five blankets. I saw red buckets being filled with sand, and and these were somehow related to the Supreme Court's decision in U.S. v. Morrison. The phrase "duckies in a row" came up a lot too.

It definitely wasn't the same as dreaming, because I was still painfully aware while it was happening. Aware of the headache throbbing right behind the bridge of my nose, the roiling in my stomach, and the fact that I was shivering feverishly like a Substance D junkie suffering withdrawal.

D is for darkness and despair.

No, I don't do drugs. The only thing I can think of is the rotisserie chicken from Albertson's that I ate half of yesterday. I knew there was something suspicious about how it's glistened under the heatlamp. I wasn't even going to buy it at first, but my shopping buddy--who thinks I don't eat enough--coerced me into it.

Thanks a lot, Nicole. Shitkabobs. I just remembered that you took home the other half of the chicken... I should call you about that.

[Update] Full recovery, etc.

Chapter LXXVI: I Once Was Lost

but now I'm found. Was blind, but now I see. After all these years of denial, I admit it...Atheism is untenable. THERE IS A GOD.




And His name is Jägermeister.

World Peace.

Chapter LXXV: Mall Rat

I've spent about 10 hours* at the Mall this week, more mall-time than in the previous two years combined. It was fun at first with all the sights and sounds, but, like a James Joyce character, I was soon disillusioned. The place quickly revealed itself as a meretricious Temple of Consumerism... Each store is a chapel attended by stylish teenage acolytes, where I make burnt offerings of my soul to the steel and plastic idol on the countertop. It gives me a slip of paper in return.

A young woman walked past me with a Mastercard's worth of Indulgences in her shopping bag, trying to buy her way out of a mental Purgatory created by TV ads and magazine covers. Far from the oasis it claims to be, the Laguna Hills Mall is just a wasteland within a wasteland. Orange County sucks (the life out of me).

I guess it's good that I got the jeans situation taken care of, if you know what I mean. Made a goodly sized dent in the short-sleeved polo situation too. The t-shirt situation's been ground into the dust since July, but then again, you can never have too many t-shirts.

Strangely, I was mistaken for an employee twice on the same day. First, at American Eagle, where a man wanted to know if the "I don't mind a little junk in the trunk" shirt was available in XL. I had seen one on the rack a minute ago, so I pointed it out to him. The second time was at a bracelet kiosk in the middle of the concourse. A pubescent white girl comes up to me, points at something, and asks, "Do you have these but like without these things you know what I mean just like you know..." I listen to her politely for about half a minute, with that look of understanding which is my secret code for I have no fucking clue what you are talking about. This was useful in my French class, where the professor only called on people with looked confused, since they "need the most practice." Anyways, when I tell the girl I don't work there, she apologizes effusively: "Oh."

Stupid things I thought about today: (1) Why are they called 'missiles' if the idea is to hit something with them? They should be called hittles. (2) One of my quondam roommates works at the physical headquarters of tennis-warehouse.com. I told him the company should change its URL to tennis-warehouse.net, for obvious reasons. He was not amused.

School needs to start right NOW.

*At least half of this was spent in the bookstore.