Geek Cards in Hipstertown

I'm moving up in the world.

Recently I journeyed up to Portland to attend my first ever convention, OryCon33. Yup, you can now officially hand me my geek card, and I'll be on my way to assert my new status in the world, thank you, sir. It was altogether a thoroughly enjoyable, experience. I tagged along with a friend and his family, and mostly wondered around the hotel aimlessly, gawking as all the cool stuff, and thanking God I was there with friends.

I attended several interesting panels, about horror, magic and fantasy, schmoozed the Dark Horse booth for free stuff (who's a B.P.R.D. agent, with badge and everything? Oh, yeah) and admired all the nice costumes. I even played some boardgames.

Apart from a burgeoning obsession for working for Dark Horse someday, a healthy respect for the social skills my parents insisted I learn, lingering surprise at the popularity of Doctor Who, and admiration for the sheer awesome that are conventions, I seemed to have developed a new fascination with buttons. Pins. The things seedy politicians hand out to easily impressed campaign volunteers. Whatever you want to call them. I fear my friend was correct in attempting to dissuade me from buying them. I see them everywhere, now, and want them all.

Welp, lets just add this to my list of things I compulsively and obsessively collect:

• Quarter Machine knick-knacks
• Scarves
• Action figures
• Fun, or bright-colored socks
• Pens and Pencils

And now—

• Buttons

I don't even wear socks. On the bright side, though, I avoided all sex gods, and most of my collectables can be displayed on the shelf over my desk. This helps me feel less like my life is a colossal disappointment to any and all who had any realistic expectations of a successful life for me. I mean whenever I see that my mom's on facebook, or when I realize I haven't talked to my father in almost three months I just look up at my first-appearance Wolverine action figure and my Vulcan salute button and take comfort in the fact that anyone who  has already been woefully disillusioned with me won't actually be all that surprised when I announce that I've decided to take Klingon as my second language.

More helpful guides to college life to come.  

Pizza Rolls, Eyebrow, Shirking: A Sequence of Events Detailing the Questionable Balance of My Mental Faculty

Despite all the ways in which I am different from the majority of my peers (yes, I am unique,just  like everyoneelse) I am also incredibly normal, in that I suffer from a near constant sense of anxiety, usually sprouting from stress related to school, existential crises, social activity or moral dilemma. 

I find myself to have a tolerable level of anxiety, but sometimes, I spiral down from reasonably neurotic to completely and utterly and unstably deranged. These fits of uncertainty and depression usually last 1-2  weeks, ending when I one morning magically wake up feeling like I a capable adult person again.

It starts small. I become preoccupied with minor details; the wash of my jeans, how bright my desk light is, my bellybutton. My mind seems to revolve around these tiny details of my life until the higher functioning part of my brain seems to short circuit and I am left distracted. 

This leads to frustration at my lack of focus and resulting decrease in productivity. I become irritable, wrought with self-loathing over the fact that all the things I need to be doing aren't being done. I react over-emotionally to things that really don't require great levels of emotion. 

While walking to class: Why the hell is the sun out?! This is fucking Oregon in the fucking fall, there should not be sun here!

While eating some food: WHY IS THIS ONLY LUKEWARM????

Alone in my room: Why doesn't anyone like me? Oh, God.

While talking with classmates: Stop looking at my eyebrows. You're judging me, aren't you? STOP JUDGING MY UNIBROW! 

While doing homework: You know what math professor? The Quadratic formula is for snobby douches who think they're better than the rest of us. You're teaching us it, do you think you're better than us? You do, don't you?  Die in a fire.

My out of control emotions make me feel self-conscious and so to comfort myself I shun responsibility and instead do something that I'm “good” at, such as knitting a hat, or crafting a paper mache katana. I become so immersed in my project that I being to want to to be the absolute best thing I have ever made ever, thus causing me undue disappointment when it turns out that my hat or paper-starch weapon is not actually at all worth mention. In fact, my project is likely the worse thing I have ever made. I start to hate myself for even trying to cheer myself up. 

Trying to learn from my failure at house crafts, I simply give up. 

I lie in my bed, reading a book, refusing to acknowledge my huge list of mounting responsibilities.

Unfortunately this leads me to subconsciously angst about all the things that I need to be doing that I am very pointedly not doing, usually manifesting as an upsetting dream. Usually a variation of the typical spider infested room/zombie apocalypse/complete abandonment by my friends/stuck in high school situation.

 
Emotionally scarred from the nightmare, I arise insecure and distressed, and wonder about for 2-3 days in a state of inconsolable hopelessness. 

The end result of all this inner turmoil is me locking myself in a dark room, shutting out all forms of social contact, wrapped up in a blanket on a couch, watching cartoons and eating pizza rolls in my underwear. 

 

How to Make Friends with Your New Roommate: A Guide to College Life

1. Upon first meeting your new roommate make sure you assert your dominance by doing such things as squeezing as hard as you can when shaking hands, refusing to blink or look away when your gazes meet, and showing as much tooth as is physically possible when you smile. This alerts your new roommate to the fact that you are a strong individual, with the ability to protect your home, which will make your new roommate feel safe and free to trust you.

2. Immediately find two or three things about your new roommate that you find odd, or otherwise capable of being criticized, and inform your new roommate of them. He or she will appreciate your honesty and be pleased you took the time to be so observant.

3.Upon meeting your new roommates parents, assure your new roommate that you are completely sure it’s not genetic. This will tell your new roommate that you are sympathetic and kind, as well as open minded to their possible faults.

4.Play your music/x-box/t.v. loudly so that they have plenty of reason to talk to you without feeling awkward.

5. Make sure that your stuff frequently overflows into their space, to show that you are very open to sharing.

6. Invite yourself along to any outings your new roommate takes with friends. This will speed your bonding and show that you are willing to compete for her affections, while simultaneously allowing you to scope out which or her friends “need to go.”

7. Borrow his or her things without asking to communicate how much you feel at home around them.

8. If your new roommate is religiously or morally against swearing, make a driven effort to swear copiously around them to broaden their horizons and teach them to be tolerant.

9. To ease any worries he or she might have, be spontaneous and do things that will disarm them and put them at ease. Sit close to them on the couch, casually touch their faces or hands, or lounge about your room with no pants on.

Using these hints, there's no way you can go wrong. And remember, only people who are very close to each other can't live with one another. If your new roommate requests a move, this only means your efforts are paying off!

13 Things I Like: Photographs, ahoy!

This blog post is brought to you by the Healthy Dose of Bad Photographs Foundation. This charity is dedicated towards saturating your daily life on the web with poorly lit pictures taken by lazy and incompetent amateurs.

WARNING: Curious lack of sarcastic/dark humor follows.

My Favorite Things

1. My computer

What do I love? My computer. I love it!

2. My Sister

Left: Sister. Right: Me.

A wonderful addition to any family unit, providing support, sympathy and plenty of opportunities for kicking back, maxing and relaxing all cool.

3. Ilona Andrews

This husband-wife writing duo creates some pretty kick-ass urban fantasy. Humorous, exciting, sometimes romantic, their books are ripe with sword fights, shape shifters, blood magic, good versus evil, and multiple Princess Bride shout outs. My preference of for their Kate Daniels universe, but they write a bunch of other stuff, that is also quality.  Like books? Like urban fantasy? Give ‘em a try, I promise you won’t be disappointed.

4. My Scarves

I have an almost OCD impulse to collect scarves. Square ones, tasseled, silk, cotton, black, white, neutral, patterned, shiny, textured…

Last Scarf Count: 10

5. My Captain Jean-Luc Picard Action Figure

No, that’s not a light saber. Yes, that is the wrong uniform. No, it wasn’t a mistake. Yes, I know it looks like a friggin’ light saber. No, it’s not a special edition thing from his younger days. Yes, it’s from a canon episode. No, I’m not gonna cut the phaser blast off to make it look less like a light saber. Yes, it is indeed from the episode “Tapestry.” Congratulations. You are now versed in the discussion I have with every living person who is in my apartment and notices my Picard.

6. Terry Pratchett

Super funny, super talented English author who writes satirical fantasy. These are honestly the only books that have made me laugh hysterically mere sentences after they have me shedding tears and blubbering. Most of the time in public places.

7. Tamora Pierce

Tied with the other two authors on my list as my favorite. I started reading her in middle school, and have been known on occasion to fanatically cyber stalk her.

8. My Favorite Pair of Pants

My favorite pair of pants.

9. My Mother’s Rice Cooker

This is a gift from my aunts to my mother, and is perhaps the most utilized and useful appliance in our kitchen today. Second only to the microwave.

10. My Comic Books

I read comics. I love comics. I own comics. A lot of them. I re-read my comics. I buy more comics. I read those. And then I fangirl.

11. My Marvel Scene It?

I found this at a thrift store, and spend many an hour entertained my it. It is awesome, it is pleasingly difficult, and it is edifying.

12. My DVDs

I also enjoy Bottle Shock, V for Vendetta, Rio Bravo, and The Forbidden Kingdom. I do not enjoy many comedies.

13. My Toby

My cat, Toby, who I love whenever I don’t want to rip every strand of fluffy fur from his body.

Five Tips to Help You Get Good Grades: A Guide to College Life

Here are five tips from a successful second year college student to anyone having trouble getting those good grades in higher education. Follow these rules and your professors will love you!  And you are sure to get a great grade in every class!

Tip 1

Make sure you arrive late to class on a regular basis. This will show your professor that even though you obviously have better things to be doing, you still care enough about their class to get there no matter how much time you have to cut out of your daily moisturizing routine or reality TV line-up. They will appreciate your willingness to sacrifice your valuable personal time to come hear what they have to say.

Tip 2

Vigorously argue with the professor about whether or not they are correct on any and every topic covered in class. This will show that you care. That you have a burning desire to understand. However, you don’t want to question his or her expertise, so make sure that all your arguments are poorly founded and completely wrong. Your professor will appreciate the care you have for their ego. They will admire your flawless self-confidence that you so readily and enthusiastically question authority. They will be awed by your moxy. By doing this, you will be making sure that the professor will remember your name and face, so that when it comes to grading assignments the professor will remember that you were so passionate about learning that you took the time to argue for clarification on behalf of the rest of the class by allowing no statement to go unquestioned and your grade will reflect this.

Tip 3

Do not proof read papers or assignments. This shows the professor that you acknowledge that they are more savvy in their fields than you will ever be, and because of this you don’t have the right to feign expertise by turning in an obnoxious, pretentious, correctly formatted, pseudo-professional lie. They will be flattered by your obvious submission to his or her academic superiority, and take the extra time to correct your work, and edit it into a legible addition to the college world.

Tip 4

In compunction with Tip 1, alternately do not show up to class at all. This shows the professor that you have equal respect for the value of their personal time. So much respect that you are willing to pay tuition, then not show up to a class so that the professor has to spend less time teaching in class, and more time to devote to their hobbies like reading academic journals and grading papers.

Tip 5

Make sure you wait until the last minute to ask for clarification in the syllabus or on an assignment. There is no better way to show that you respect your professors valuable time, and his or her work obligations, than by waiting until the day before something is due to ask for help. This will show your professor that you respected them enough to spend the three weeks since this was assigned trying to muddle through it yourself, even though you never understood it. He or she will admire your independence and rush to get you everything you’ll need to get the assignment completed on time—they might even give you an extension!

I Dreamed a Terrifying Dream: Salamanders are Scary

I won’t speculate on the dreaming patterns of anyone reading this, but if you’re like me you only have about three or four dreams a year that your remember in any significant detail. Half of those are variations of the same four horrific nightmares that you get when you’re stressed or anxious, which have plagued you since puberty. The other half will be memorable for the sheer level of weirdness that goes on in the dream, or for their terror value. And then you get the ones that are a combination of the two. Last night I had one such dream.

It was primarily about Salamanders. Now, don’t get me wrong, salamanders are cool, and very interesting creatures, but ever since I discovered photographs of the Chinese and Japanese Giant Salamanders on the internet about six months ago, I have developed a deep-seated fear of the creatures, because honestly? They are big enough to eat me.

Hokay. So. The dream started out with me walking through my college campus and sort of randomly discovering that there was a tour group of potential students walking around, getting the guided look about campus. I started following the group because I-don’t –know-why.

Then, the tour guide announced that the group would be viewing the Native Forest and Creek Restoration Area next. Dream-Me thought “Holy shit, why did I know now that WOU had a magically sustainable forest kingdom tucked away in a small pocket of alternate dimension?” I was pretty astounded, and not a little bit impressed.

Any who, the group proceeded to walk along, taking a sharp right at that one bench across the street from the University Center and voila! We were in the Environmentally Friendly Magical Sub-Space Dimension. It was a very pretty, with lots of shiny and sparkling old growth coniferous foliage, and frolicking forest animals, with a trickling, crystal-clear creek that made charming bubbling-brook sounds as it flowed along through it all.

I was awed by beauty of it all, and became side tracked. I lost sight of the rest of the group and instead had the tramp along the bank of the creek, looking for the rest of the group shat the guide could lead me back out of this strange and wonderful place.

I was walking long for a while, getting lots of dirt all over me, when all of a sudden, BAM! A frighteningly attractive blond woman appeared from the underbrush like a ghost and walked into the creek carrying a wooden bucket. Her rather abrupt entrance and her Barbie-like physique caused me some surprise and trepidation, causing me to also step (read: trip and fall flailing) down into the creek. Also, I was suddenly barefoot, as if my shoes had been too much of a pollution-producing, child-slavery-encouraging, corrupt-capitalist-government-supporting travesty to continue to exist in is eco-terrorist’s paradise.

The woman frowned at Dream-Me and reached into her bucket, pulling out a black salamander the size of my forearm. “What on earth are you doing in the creek?” she asked me. “Only trained professionals are allowed to feed the salamanders.”

And then Dream-Me was all “WTF. Why do you have that salamander?”

And then the Supreme Barbie Look-a-like Champion let the salamander she was holding fall into the creek. It promptly wiggled away and buried itself into the pebbled creek-bed. she was all “This is a salamander sanctuary.  And only employees are allowed to feed them.”

Dream-Me was really confused and slightly scared of the impressive amount of cosmetics that caked her face. I was all “Um, I just want to get back to the tour group.”

She looked at me like I was mildly retarded, or something, and reached back into her bucket and pulled out a piece of raw and bloody meat.

I was all repulsed and confused when she then threw the meat into the creek. Then all of a sudden the creek bed beneath my bare feet began to writhe and pulse and ripple, and even more all of a sudden huge black slimy salamander limbs rose up from the creek bed, closely followed by giant, gaping, blood red salamander mouths full of dripping saliva and razor sharp fangs.

I was seized by a fit of terror, my chest all tight, my heart in my throat, frozen in place. It was worse than discovering a nest of mutant blood-sucking spiders have taken up residence on your bathroom ceiling.

All of the salamanders started trying to get to the meat and I was freaking out, and then the slimy-ness I was standing on heaved up and I fell into the mass of giant wriggly crushing salamander bodies and then I woke up.

Below I have created a graphic representation of my dream last night to summarize my narrative of the event:

The salamanders were about this size, only black. And they were scary enough that they could have started breathing fire if they hadn’t, um… been completely submerged in water. Also, I would like to assert that I don’t have hairy, hurley-burley arms in real life. In real life my arms are pasty and a little flabby. Also I wasn’t really grasping the salamanders I was screaming in horror and petrified with fear, with abolutely no intention to embrace the terror-inducing monsters.

*The original photo for my graphic represtnation was found at: http://www.buamai.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/08/bb-japanese-giant-salamander.jpg I do not own the photo nor do I intend to make money from it’s use here.

I Am Potentially a Mass Murderer of Farm Animals (or I Stood In a Line This Weekend)

This weekend I went to turn in an application at the Trader Joe’s that will be opening near my house this summer. There were many people who had the same hopes as I, as I had to stand in a line for like fifteen minutes. The first five minutes or so passed silently, with me either starring politely at my own shoes or at some undecided point on the horizon when my neck got sore. During one cycle of my horizon starring, the lady in front of me began to chat about our mutual state of rather casual dress.

I agreed that this was regrettable given the circumstances.

The lady in front then informed me that the reason she was in such casual disarray was due the fact that it was the day of her birth. I duly congratulated her on surviving another year in modern American society, as I know that this is a very challenging thing to do successfully. She agreed that it was a monumental occasion.

I fell back into my shoes when the lady in front spoke again.

She remarked on the nature of lines, and how they never seem to move very fast. This was the reason she had sent her companion to the store to provide for her a cooling and refreshing beverage, and then she shared her personal confession of addiction to an energy-producing-attribute in many soft drinks.

I shared my commiseration, as did the lady standing behind me.

After a few runs about this pattern, of one remarking and others agreeing, it came to our mutual understanding that both me and the lady in back attended Western Oregon University. Oh, what coincidence that was!

We chatted most amicably on subjects relating to this for the rest of our time standing in line.

At one point in this conversation, the topic of Majors was broached.

She shared that she was majoring in Health Sciences, with the intention to go on to a very noble career worthy of admiration and aspiration, helping the poor, the misrepresented and very small children prone to asthma.

I returned, with great reticence, that I was majoring in English, literature to be precise.

This was met with a quizzical expression and a head tilt. She queried if this would involve instruction.

I returned, with more reticence, that it would not. It would simply involve English. Literature to be precise.

The lady in back squinted at me narrowly and pertly inquired as to what I intended to do with this degree.

I returned, with more reticence yet, that I did not have a singular clue as to what use I would put my degree in English, precisely in literature.

The lady in back then looked at me as if I had suddenly grown snakes for hair and pulled a bow out of thin air with the intention of shooting something pathetic, perhaps a bunny rabbit or an elderly person.

I promptly and skillfully changed the subject by blurting out how remarkable it was the line was moving, given the tendency of lines not to move. Thankfully the lady in back seemed to be of shallow capacity for dwelling on judgment of strangers, and happily accepted the change of subject.

Sadly, this is not the first time this has happened to me. In fact, this happens quite a lot when people find out what my major is. Like the lady in back, they look at me as if I am some horrible, wretched human being who must spend her free time roaming the countryside murdering things for choosing to major is such a pointless, unproductive subject. Or they believe that I should automatically choose to be an English teacher, and are surprised and rather affronted when I have no such goals. I know this. I can see the judgment in their eyes.

Usually, I allow them to retain this assumption about my person, only because it is actually half true.

I don’t at all major in English and I do indeed spend my free time roaming the countryside and murdering things. Er.

I actually do have an idea of what I want to do with my degree, only this would elevate me to mass-murderer of countryside dwellers in most people’s eyes because it’s a little, well, odd by most people’s standards.

I want to go into publishing. I want to go into Comic Book Publishing, to be precise.*

While the aspiration may not be the most…. Attainable, I certainly intend to pursue it. Comics need more love. Comics could lead to world peace. Comics are like oxygen, comics lift you up where you belong, all you need is comic books!

Granted I might be a tad biased, being a fan and all, and granted, I feel like a shallow, greedy, potentially mass murdering person for wanting to go into the entertainment industry and wasting my potential to do “good,” but…. I love it. It makes me happy? Can’t I have a job that will make me happy?

I’m sure a great deal of the developed world would claim that I cannot. Obviously it is a near rule of physics that one must hate one’s job, much like that rule about certain gentlemen being in want of a wife…

But I digress. My comical (haha) dream is what it is. My choice of major is what it is. My choices are unavoidably going to be judged as foolish, or even pointless, by a great deal of the general populace. Honestly? They can bite me. I will prove to the world that I will be better than a pizza.** I will become a publisher/editor/writer/gopher in the comic book industry!

*You just looked at me funny, didn’t you? Yeah, well—your chickens are gonna be the first to go, buddy!

** What is the difference between a pizza and an English major? A pizza can feed a family of four. What a funny joke…. Hahaha.

College: It is hard

So this college thing. It’s kinda hard.

I know, that’s a grossly obvious understatement. Honestly, though, there’s no other adjective that fits for the experience of higher education.

College isn’t hard just academically, either. Because it is. But more so, it is a trying, stressful, nerve-wracking and endlessly exhaustive social battle that is bound to leave one insecure and not a little psychologically disturbed. Not to say that it isn’t fun, God it can be fun, but for every moment of fun you manage to squeeze out of the machine, you have ten-fold that in hair-splitting anxiety. Of course, this assertion is debatable, but examine below these common collegial situations before making judgment.

The Dining Hall: This is a place in which every college student spends tremendous amounts of time. And honestly? The College Student has no choice in this matter. The College Student is poor, The College Student is busy and The College Student is going to gain ten pounds because the only place to eat (The Dining Hall) is a cesspit populated by deep-fryers, prepackaged and sugary snacks, a veritable fount of soft drinks, all topped off with a heaping dosage of social judgment and shame.

This is a rundown of the typical experience at The Dining Hall. First, after an extraordinarily long amount of time has passed between this and the last meal, The College Student has no choice to venture out from the Residence Hall/Classroom (See below). The College Student will then enter The Dining Hall and be presented with a vision of flashy and intimidating images of edibility. Said vision will present itself in three different groups. A) the Grill—or fast food, Burger King-esque fair, tastes wonderful at the moment, but  leaves a greasy lump of self-recrimination in its wake. B) TO-GO—or the easiest, quickest choice that allows for the least amount of terror, easiest escape and highest levels of guilt springing from social-cowardice and exorbitant sodium levels. Finally, C) the Salad Bar—full of half-wilted lettuce and inspiring of brief pride in oneself, then, after instilling a patina of self-worth on the college student, creating a target for hostile judgment from the Other College Students who assume that The College Student thinks they are better than The Others.

The college student will not escape without being subject to judgment and agonizing regret.

The Residence Hall: The Dorm. The place of sleeping, or of not sleeping.  The place that is full of Other College Students for The College Student to make merry and celebrate the awesome-ness of being College Students. It is also the location at which Sex Occurs. Also, Intoxication.  And copious amounts of Hilarity Ensuing (In certain situations, Good Grades may also be a common attribute of success).

For the College Student to fit in well at The Residence Hall Sex must Occur often, Intoxication must be at least bi-weekly and The College Student must take an active part in ensuring that Hilarity will indeed Ensue. Due to the fact that an individual managing all this is both impossible and hazardous to the College Students health, the successful completion of attaining these attributes is unlikely for the common College Student. While striving to attain them, The College Student will stretch the bounds of confidence, physical endurance and psychological soundness. None of which will be intact by graduation and/or dropping out. Hence, in any social situation, The College Student will be plagued by feelings in inadequacies for the remainder of their adult lives, spurred by the experience of college.

The Classroom: This is where The College Student will do his or her “learning.” The ratio between actual learning and perpetual social agony: About 3-to-1. For every three classes The College Student attends, only one class will be contain any actual learning. Please, do not mistake this for a criticism of the instructors; this unfortunate truth is due in most part to the efforts put forth by the students. The students will either waste time attempting to impress The Others with their rapier wit (i.e. when Sex Occurs, also Intoxication and the Ensuing of Hilarity) or they will attempt to assert their dominance over the Others by displaying the knowledge previously gained by prior educational experiences. This is otherwise known as “bragging.” Any Students that do not participate in this become invisible to The Others, and then spend the entirety of the term trying to not be quite so invisible, to little or no success. In any case, this phenomena causes a colossal waste of time that is spent by the instructor both mocking the College Students for their feeble efforts as acting grown-up (all in good fun, and thrilling to watch) and by the instructor correcting the false assumptions of prior educational experiences.

Due to the pathetic state of public education, a great amount of time also has to be spared in order to teaching how to think, and in promoting individual thought via class discussion. Only a grand total of four students will ever participate regularly in these discussions (the former braggers) and only another six will ever pay very close attention to them. The rest will spend the class period surfing the web and checking Facebook. Or posting blog entries.

While the euphoria of academia is undoubtedly indulged during the college experience, and the potential for forging friendships over various felonies is nigh limitless, the exertions to this end will leave The College Student a quivering mass of raw emotions and shattered shards of psyche. Not to fear! There is plenty of hope for The College Student thanks to the fortunate fact that most employers forget what actually goes on in college and assume that graduates have actually learned things in school and aren’t bundles of Nervous Breakdowns waiting to meltdown.