"the night we went insane"...summer '08, zach and brittany's wedding
(actually this is pretty standard)
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, August 16, 2008
holler at it
the famous tea-bagging video, aka kicking nick's ass
colorado dreaminggggggg
chasing the rain (the devil's beating his wife)
colorado dreaminggggggg
chasing the rain (the devil's beating his wife)
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
check ch-check check check ch-check it out
since mary and i have still not figured out how to upload the masterpiece, i've decided to put this oldie up in its stead. i know i've said i'll make more of these things, and i will - once i find a camera to steal. (yours, in fact, b.) in the meantime, i'll be holding off on the updates while i get my life together and start feeling less bitter about things. i won't ruin the surprise, but here's a teaser: in order to make it to my hot date with the u.s. embassy on time, i had to bus in to london at 5am. oh yeah...
some happier moments:
some happier moments:
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
the sundae that secured my place in the world
i make poor life choices. we all know this. i'm often getting into trouble for being too impulsive on one hand, but then procrastinating to a point that borders on sheer lack of fulfillment of an obligation on the other. so it wasn't surprising that not four days before i was to be kicked out of the stanford house and onto the harsh, cold streets of oxford that i still had no place to stay. let alone any money or baller connections to harbor me for three weeks. in truth, i was getting ready to curl up on a park bench and start selling "the big issue". but fate had a more...interesting plan in store for me. let's rewind...
BACKGROUND INFO:
we met toby on this night. i'll try to paint as good a picture i can with the finite store of images i have in my possession, but bear this one in mind for now. this night. toby. in theory, this explains a lot.
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT:
it came to light a few days later that on the aforementioned night, sonia "fancied a drink" at a later date. remember toby? well he remembered sonia, and he also remembered that drink. wtf toby? are you for real? we accept. (sonia and i came as a sort of unit, so to speak, hence the acceptance on the part of both parties - or single party, if you will.)
we were a little nervous about what the evening had in store for us...toby felt the sushi restaurant we had suggested was a bit effeminate, and sonia had already had a run-in with a friend of his. "we" were hesitant. so, true to our style, we located the nearest bottle of wine - it wasn't our's, but sitting in the study room, opened and only slightly tapped into, it wasn't really anybody else's - and set off.
THE PLOT THICKENS:
the evening was pretty relaxed. the wine provided the social lubricant we had hoped for, and all was going well. toby had brought a friend we had never met before, so things were actually going better than expected. then another guy shows up. having already eaten, we decide to go for this drink that was fancied. but what can you really drink at a japanese establishment smack in the middle of oxford? sonia and i explain to the boys the beauty of the sake bomb. ordering unhealthy amounts of sake and asahi beer - instilling preoccupation and annoyance in the heart of an all-too-knowing waitress - we prepare to drink ourselves under the table. the tray of sake glasses comes out; we choose our weapons. this is already more exciting than it's ever been. what happens in the next moment confuses us. the waitress comes out with tiny japanese sized glasses - terrible for dropping in our sake shooters and chugging into oblivion. after discovering that the shot glasses did, in fact, fit into the glasses, the tension eases a bit. we decide to proceed with the festivities, but scorn the watered down version of our epic game. how naive we were. not only did the smaller glasses prove for a higher proportion of sake to beer than is normally partaken of, but additionally, the smaller amounts of liquid failed to deliver the staggering blows that would normally slow us down, as we emerged from our glasses breathless and aching. in short, we got cocky.
THE DREAM TEAM:
the girls decide to let the boys in on the legend that is sonia and kaitlin. a more apt description would be "the dream team". vodka practically pumping through her veins, sonia scoffs at any one individual daring to take her on in a drinking contest, outlasting most mofos out there. and kaitlin - arguably lugging around a hollow leg of her own - has the skills to drink liquid faster than most normal people. in the end, we make a fine pair. the boys buy the tale, and for the rest of the evening we are known as "speed" and "endurance". i enjoy this game. i know it well. as a matter of fact, i'm seldom content to call people by their real names, as nicknames are infinitely more intriguing. on our crew date with the blues rowers a few weeks ago i met a young man named brad in a particularly loud bar. at first i thought he told me his name was "red"; a moment later i thought he said "bread". my warped thought process took over. for the rest of the evening he was "slice". (this actually caught on...) see? no wonder people find me so strange.
anyhow, i struggled hard to find some names for these dudes. the struggle didn't last long, however, because out of nowhere the newest friend falls backwards out of his chair, literally heels over head in this intimate, shoebox-sized little restaurant, landing at the feet of the two diners across the aisle. and this isn't a subtle fall either - this is a loud, shocking, make-you-stop-dead-in-your-tracks fall. i begin to laugh uncontrollably - we all find this comical. the sad thing is that i don't stop laughing. i never do - you know the idiot that laughs at a joke for ten minutes, and after finally calming down, lets out stiffled giggles at regular intervals for the next few hours? that's me. that's always me. i laugh so hard at this kid i start to cry. that's also always me. i make fun of the guy for "eating shit" - apparently a phrase unheard of 'round these parts, because it takes me two minutes to explain it. finally, i christen the boy "trip". i know, i score practically zero points for creativity, but i was too busy laughing to be more clever.
endurance and i are intent on staying true to our names for a few more rounds of sake bombs, but shortly after we take to the streets again, heading for the st. peter's college bar.
THE DREAM TEAM MAKES MORE NEW FRIENDS:
BACKGROUND INFO:
we met toby on this night. i'll try to paint as good a picture i can with the finite store of images i have in my possession, but bear this one in mind for now. this night. toby. in theory, this explains a lot.
WHAT HAPPENED NEXT:
it came to light a few days later that on the aforementioned night, sonia "fancied a drink" at a later date. remember toby? well he remembered sonia, and he also remembered that drink. wtf toby? are you for real? we accept. (sonia and i came as a sort of unit, so to speak, hence the acceptance on the part of both parties - or single party, if you will.)
we were a little nervous about what the evening had in store for us...toby felt the sushi restaurant we had suggested was a bit effeminate, and sonia had already had a run-in with a friend of his. "we" were hesitant. so, true to our style, we located the nearest bottle of wine - it wasn't our's, but sitting in the study room, opened and only slightly tapped into, it wasn't really anybody else's - and set off.
THE PLOT THICKENS:
the evening was pretty relaxed. the wine provided the social lubricant we had hoped for, and all was going well. toby had brought a friend we had never met before, so things were actually going better than expected. then another guy shows up. having already eaten, we decide to go for this drink that was fancied. but what can you really drink at a japanese establishment smack in the middle of oxford? sonia and i explain to the boys the beauty of the sake bomb. ordering unhealthy amounts of sake and asahi beer - instilling preoccupation and annoyance in the heart of an all-too-knowing waitress - we prepare to drink ourselves under the table. the tray of sake glasses comes out; we choose our weapons. this is already more exciting than it's ever been. what happens in the next moment confuses us. the waitress comes out with tiny japanese sized glasses - terrible for dropping in our sake shooters and chugging into oblivion. after discovering that the shot glasses did, in fact, fit into the glasses, the tension eases a bit. we decide to proceed with the festivities, but scorn the watered down version of our epic game. how naive we were. not only did the smaller glasses prove for a higher proportion of sake to beer than is normally partaken of, but additionally, the smaller amounts of liquid failed to deliver the staggering blows that would normally slow us down, as we emerged from our glasses breathless and aching. in short, we got cocky.
THE DREAM TEAM:
the girls decide to let the boys in on the legend that is sonia and kaitlin. a more apt description would be "the dream team". vodka practically pumping through her veins, sonia scoffs at any one individual daring to take her on in a drinking contest, outlasting most mofos out there. and kaitlin - arguably lugging around a hollow leg of her own - has the skills to drink liquid faster than most normal people. in the end, we make a fine pair. the boys buy the tale, and for the rest of the evening we are known as "speed" and "endurance". i enjoy this game. i know it well. as a matter of fact, i'm seldom content to call people by their real names, as nicknames are infinitely more intriguing. on our crew date with the blues rowers a few weeks ago i met a young man named brad in a particularly loud bar. at first i thought he told me his name was "red"; a moment later i thought he said "bread". my warped thought process took over. for the rest of the evening he was "slice". (this actually caught on...) see? no wonder people find me so strange.
anyhow, i struggled hard to find some names for these dudes. the struggle didn't last long, however, because out of nowhere the newest friend falls backwards out of his chair, literally heels over head in this intimate, shoebox-sized little restaurant, landing at the feet of the two diners across the aisle. and this isn't a subtle fall either - this is a loud, shocking, make-you-stop-dead-in-your-tracks fall. i begin to laugh uncontrollably - we all find this comical. the sad thing is that i don't stop laughing. i never do - you know the idiot that laughs at a joke for ten minutes, and after finally calming down, lets out stiffled giggles at regular intervals for the next few hours? that's me. that's always me. i laugh so hard at this kid i start to cry. that's also always me. i make fun of the guy for "eating shit" - apparently a phrase unheard of 'round these parts, because it takes me two minutes to explain it. finally, i christen the boy "trip". i know, i score practically zero points for creativity, but i was too busy laughing to be more clever.
endurance and i are intent on staying true to our names for a few more rounds of sake bombs, but shortly after we take to the streets again, heading for the st. peter's college bar.
THE DREAM TEAM MAKES MORE NEW FRIENDS:
i'm pretty sure the dream team also doled out a few more nicknames, but i don't remember them, nor do i remember these pictures. the saki bombs didn't take long to work their magic, and it wasn't long before some genius ordered me a "krosky", some really pretty green drink with six more shots of god knows what.
SPEED CRAVES ICE CREAM:
despite imbibing insane amounts of hard a, i begin to sober up fairly quickly - i wonder if sushi does this to you? very very strange, in fact. anyhow, something happens that happens quite a bit. i begin to develop an insatiable appetite for ice cream...surprise surprise. anyone reading this who knows me even a little bit will know that i am a girl who loves my ice cream. ice cream is my weakness. in fact, ice cream has this magical power over me that, when it takes hold, drives me crazy until i give into it. i start appealing to the crowd to venture over to g&d's with me. this takes a bit of convincing, as the original plan is to go out to some club. and then, some dickhead, thinking he's being all suave, gives one of the guys shit when he finally agrees to take us: "are you really going to take these girls to go get ice cream? you're so lame. take them to a club or something." no, you asshole! i want to go get ice cream. this was my idea. i set him straight and we are off. some are hesitant to step foot in the car with a guy who has been downing as many sake bombs as this one has, but i know what's truly important. i call shotgun and prepare myself for the ride.
WELCOME HOME, KAITLIN:
the five minute ride lasted an eternity. i was so close, yet so far. i needed this ice cream stat. we finally pulled up to the store, but trip had some trouble parking - i got very ticked. finally i jumped out of the car and rushed in. i was exactly where i should be. from the moment i made my first acquaintance with george and delila's a few weeks before i had been ordering the biggest, baddest creation i could find.
the brownie fudge sundae.
ice cream, fudge, whipped cream, sprinkles, a delcious brownie - dear lord, what more can you ask for? i ordered and sat down with the losers who refused to partake in anything.
the topic of my homelessness came up. trip decided to be funny and challenge me.
"if you eat that entire thing with no hands, you can stay with us."
"what, for free?"
"sure."
"trip, you are ON."
when someone offers a challenge, i usually accept. and i take my challenges very seriously. none of this half-assed shit. none of this "oh, i was just joking around" business. no. you offer one thing for another, and you live up to your word. eating a brownie fudge sundae with no hands in exchange for a free place to stay? done.
REFLECTIONS:
.
.
.
.
.
.
there's not much more to say other than i did it. i did it with confidence, poise, and speed (don't forget it). and now i can only describe the situation that i walked into as a learning experience. some douchebag stole my room the first night, i've been shuffled around between beds, i don't have much privacy...i'm pretty sure this place poses a health hazard. but the guys have been fun and i'm still "speed(y)", and you know how i revel in the nicknames. the most difficult part of all of this, however, has to be all the fools who have LEFT ME. (this mostly means you, sonj.) that and the fact that i miss my car desperately. i'm not one for staying in one place and right now i'm really needing one of my "5 hour getting lost with my homies in the mountains with the top down and the music too loud for everyone else" escapades. that or a real spring break. it's strange to think that this time last year scary mexican guys with sombreros and whistles were shoving tequila down my throat while i danced barefoot in the sand in rosarito. but this is still oxford and the love is still there.
...so are the sundaes, which will never lose their novelty.
Saturday, March 08, 2008
kaitlin the class act
as i walk down the street and observe oxford students starting to pack up their belongings to head back home over the break, i feel a burning sense of sadness - i'm gonna miss these crazy kids. i've had some time to reflect on my adventures in oxfordland, of late, and it really only makes the nostalgia all the more difficult to stomach. i could regale you with tales of my more noble pursuits, though these would be far too many to count, and perhaps less intriguing to read about. compiled is a list of experiences that often left me wondering how in the world i was able to hack it over here.
stanford welcome dinner, night 2: it was brasenose hall. it was assigned seating. now the principal of brasenose is kind of a big deal, i.e. some renowned physicist who worked on the linear accelerator, has received honors from the queen, etc. etc. naturally, they place the genuis asian girl who's taking two tutorials in math and physics next to him. how was it that the next logical step was to place me, kaitlin, the english/creative writing/makes naively inappropriate remarks student next to the man? and why in the world was i also placed next to the director of our entire program? sandwiched between two important, intimidating academics for the evening - something had to have gone wrong. it wasn't all terrible to begin with though. i held my own. principal brasenose was actually quite witty, which put me at ease. i joked back, maybe overstepping my limits a bit, but he was tactful enough to handle my very well-intended sarcastic blows. we talked about skiing, we talked about our backgrounds, we talked about how the c.s. lewis relics at brasenose weren't half as impressive as the christ church links to harry potter (to be honest, i think that's where it all started to go downhill; he looked pretty sad when i brought that up). though this appears to be taking on a certain direction of its own, rest assured that it wasn't a conversational faux pas that left me cringing at the end of the evening. oh no. near the end of the dinner i was pretty sure i had made it through unscathed. then the dessert made its way out: a delectable pear tart covered in whipped cream and accompanied by an assortment of berries and multi-colored syrups. de-lish. i set to work, sans a knife, and it was this lack of a knife that was to make all the difference. this pear tart was freaking hard as a rock. my mouth watered during the years that lay between bites, my hand started to ache as i tried breaking this thing with my fork, with my spoon, with my fork and spoon. the rest of the world became a haze, as all that existed for me was that pear tart that i couldn't for the life of me eat like a normal human being. and then it happened. my harsh yank back into reality. the fork slipped, the sound of metal on porcelain echoed throughout the hall, the pear tart flew back behind my head, leaving sprays of whipped cream all over the table cloth and my nice dress. it finally came to a halt on the floor, leaving in its wake a trail of sugary goodness and a gape-mouthed me. all i could do was stare on in horror, until the principle turned to meet my eye, observing, "sounds like you've been fighting with your food over here." i'd say that i was glad he was able to have a sense of humor about it, if it weren't for the c.s. lewis comment i had made earlier. hence, i'm thinking this was more of a low blow, a one-upmanship, especially as i had made my way onto defacing school property. and i didn't even get to eat the whole tart!
there must just be this thing with me and important authority figures, because the next formal hall that i went to was at my home college, magdalen. of course i was running late, having arrived 40 minutes into the dinner due to a delayed bus ride from london. after one of the servers kindly allowed us in, my friend and i sprinted into the hall as they were bringing out the second course. unfortunately, the only two seats left included one amidst a group of friendly students, and the other, next to the president at the high table. guess where i got to sit. he didn't pay me much heed, as several of his friends were also present - perhaps professors or tutors at the college. and lucky for me, my junior dean was sitting directly across from me so i got to talk to him for the majority of the remaining dinner. but then me and the prez got to talking. i can't remember much of what was said at all, except that after he told me he went to cambridge for his undergraduate work i called him a traitor. this seemed like a clever remark to me...at the time. when he told me, i thought of the diehard rivalry between stanford and cal, and i thought that maybe it paralleled such an oxford/cambridge rivaly. such is not the case, as the two british universities are far too sophisticated and upstanding for these types of trivial layman's games. the conversation petered off after that moment. i try to comfort myself by imagining that perhaps he didn't hear me. after all, he was having a difficult time with that earlier, and truth be told, i'm sure he just wanted to get back to his friends. but as i gradually related this tale to others, the gravity of my remark became more daunting. score one for kaitlin.
i have a broad range of interests, and so i don't like to think that there's any one experience that i'll miss out on in life. this includes some of the more foul tasks the world has to offer. it was a thursday and my friend and i were leaving student night at one of the local clubs. the entire evening had been a bit strange because a bunch of what seemed like 16-year-old boys had been buying us drinks. it felt a little creepy. so as we were finally leaving i was probably being a little too sassy as usual, joking a little too harshly with random strangers, and strutting down the street like there was no tomorrow. and then all of a sudden something caught my eye - two construction workers barracaded off with a noisy truck and a pump thrust into the ground. "what are you doing?" i asked, fascinated. "hahaha," the toothless man grinned. "just pumping some sewage." i should have turned and politely walked away at this point. but no. my response: "sweet! can i try?" "HAHAHA. sure!" the man handed me the equipment. i began to pump sewage. after a few minutes of childlike laughter, drawing attention to myself, and overall awe at my labor, the episode lost its novelty. i was quickly handed a moist towelette and sent on my way. oh, what a night.
and now for the screw-up in the social setting - the night i defaced brasenose property, part 2. it was rugby cocktail night...all-you-can-drink cocktails for 6 pounds. taglines like that only provoke me. cocktails, as it turned out, translated into giant plastic bins full of rum and coke and gin and tonic. after getting my temporary fill, kicking some major ass in chugging contests (i will stand by this statement forever...i dare any one of you to take me on), and flashing the horns for several pictures, i decided it was time for my friend and i to man the bar. i hope none of this gets back to any of the rugby guys, because i successfully snuck several bottles of cheap vodka to my friends. those sloshed rugby players were none the wiser. my friend and i then took to the floor again, as it was approaching the end of the night. then, half-naked, giant rugby player sporting st. george's cross on his chest walks up carrying the remnants of the cocktails in a plastic bin. he says something to the effect of, "you two have been good sports. help us finish this, we can't let it go to waste." i had a genuine, burning desire to help those guys finish the cocktails. i couldn't let them go to waste. but i wasn't thirsty. solution: take my cup, fill it to the brim with gin and tonic, and pour it directly on to the floor right in front of rugby player's face. i'm not sure how i got away with it, but thank god i didn't incur the wrath of the entire rugby team. i did get several hateful stares from a group of girls about ten feet away, however.
i feel as though this is probably a good place to stop. i may decide to withold further stories for another day, or perhaps i'll find within myself a sense of shame and decide to keep them hidden away forever. either way, it became clear to me this term that fools like me can survive the big, sophisticated world of british academia, despite their day-to-day fuck-ups.
stanford welcome dinner, night 2: it was brasenose hall. it was assigned seating. now the principal of brasenose is kind of a big deal, i.e. some renowned physicist who worked on the linear accelerator, has received honors from the queen, etc. etc. naturally, they place the genuis asian girl who's taking two tutorials in math and physics next to him. how was it that the next logical step was to place me, kaitlin, the english/creative writing/makes naively inappropriate remarks student next to the man? and why in the world was i also placed next to the director of our entire program? sandwiched between two important, intimidating academics for the evening - something had to have gone wrong. it wasn't all terrible to begin with though. i held my own. principal brasenose was actually quite witty, which put me at ease. i joked back, maybe overstepping my limits a bit, but he was tactful enough to handle my very well-intended sarcastic blows. we talked about skiing, we talked about our backgrounds, we talked about how the c.s. lewis relics at brasenose weren't half as impressive as the christ church links to harry potter (to be honest, i think that's where it all started to go downhill; he looked pretty sad when i brought that up). though this appears to be taking on a certain direction of its own, rest assured that it wasn't a conversational faux pas that left me cringing at the end of the evening. oh no. near the end of the dinner i was pretty sure i had made it through unscathed. then the dessert made its way out: a delectable pear tart covered in whipped cream and accompanied by an assortment of berries and multi-colored syrups. de-lish. i set to work, sans a knife, and it was this lack of a knife that was to make all the difference. this pear tart was freaking hard as a rock. my mouth watered during the years that lay between bites, my hand started to ache as i tried breaking this thing with my fork, with my spoon, with my fork and spoon. the rest of the world became a haze, as all that existed for me was that pear tart that i couldn't for the life of me eat like a normal human being. and then it happened. my harsh yank back into reality. the fork slipped, the sound of metal on porcelain echoed throughout the hall, the pear tart flew back behind my head, leaving sprays of whipped cream all over the table cloth and my nice dress. it finally came to a halt on the floor, leaving in its wake a trail of sugary goodness and a gape-mouthed me. all i could do was stare on in horror, until the principle turned to meet my eye, observing, "sounds like you've been fighting with your food over here." i'd say that i was glad he was able to have a sense of humor about it, if it weren't for the c.s. lewis comment i had made earlier. hence, i'm thinking this was more of a low blow, a one-upmanship, especially as i had made my way onto defacing school property. and i didn't even get to eat the whole tart!
there must just be this thing with me and important authority figures, because the next formal hall that i went to was at my home college, magdalen. of course i was running late, having arrived 40 minutes into the dinner due to a delayed bus ride from london. after one of the servers kindly allowed us in, my friend and i sprinted into the hall as they were bringing out the second course. unfortunately, the only two seats left included one amidst a group of friendly students, and the other, next to the president at the high table. guess where i got to sit. he didn't pay me much heed, as several of his friends were also present - perhaps professors or tutors at the college. and lucky for me, my junior dean was sitting directly across from me so i got to talk to him for the majority of the remaining dinner. but then me and the prez got to talking. i can't remember much of what was said at all, except that after he told me he went to cambridge for his undergraduate work i called him a traitor. this seemed like a clever remark to me...at the time. when he told me, i thought of the diehard rivalry between stanford and cal, and i thought that maybe it paralleled such an oxford/cambridge rivaly. such is not the case, as the two british universities are far too sophisticated and upstanding for these types of trivial layman's games. the conversation petered off after that moment. i try to comfort myself by imagining that perhaps he didn't hear me. after all, he was having a difficult time with that earlier, and truth be told, i'm sure he just wanted to get back to his friends. but as i gradually related this tale to others, the gravity of my remark became more daunting. score one for kaitlin.
i have a broad range of interests, and so i don't like to think that there's any one experience that i'll miss out on in life. this includes some of the more foul tasks the world has to offer. it was a thursday and my friend and i were leaving student night at one of the local clubs. the entire evening had been a bit strange because a bunch of what seemed like 16-year-old boys had been buying us drinks. it felt a little creepy. so as we were finally leaving i was probably being a little too sassy as usual, joking a little too harshly with random strangers, and strutting down the street like there was no tomorrow. and then all of a sudden something caught my eye - two construction workers barracaded off with a noisy truck and a pump thrust into the ground. "what are you doing?" i asked, fascinated. "hahaha," the toothless man grinned. "just pumping some sewage." i should have turned and politely walked away at this point. but no. my response: "sweet! can i try?" "HAHAHA. sure!" the man handed me the equipment. i began to pump sewage. after a few minutes of childlike laughter, drawing attention to myself, and overall awe at my labor, the episode lost its novelty. i was quickly handed a moist towelette and sent on my way. oh, what a night.
and now for the screw-up in the social setting - the night i defaced brasenose property, part 2. it was rugby cocktail night...all-you-can-drink cocktails for 6 pounds. taglines like that only provoke me. cocktails, as it turned out, translated into giant plastic bins full of rum and coke and gin and tonic. after getting my temporary fill, kicking some major ass in chugging contests (i will stand by this statement forever...i dare any one of you to take me on), and flashing the horns for several pictures, i decided it was time for my friend and i to man the bar. i hope none of this gets back to any of the rugby guys, because i successfully snuck several bottles of cheap vodka to my friends. those sloshed rugby players were none the wiser. my friend and i then took to the floor again, as it was approaching the end of the night. then, half-naked, giant rugby player sporting st. george's cross on his chest walks up carrying the remnants of the cocktails in a plastic bin. he says something to the effect of, "you two have been good sports. help us finish this, we can't let it go to waste." i had a genuine, burning desire to help those guys finish the cocktails. i couldn't let them go to waste. but i wasn't thirsty. solution: take my cup, fill it to the brim with gin and tonic, and pour it directly on to the floor right in front of rugby player's face. i'm not sure how i got away with it, but thank god i didn't incur the wrath of the entire rugby team. i did get several hateful stares from a group of girls about ten feet away, however.
i feel as though this is probably a good place to stop. i may decide to withold further stories for another day, or perhaps i'll find within myself a sense of shame and decide to keep them hidden away forever. either way, it became clear to me this term that fools like me can survive the big, sophisticated world of british academia, despite their day-to-day fuck-ups.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
welcome to britain: guard your ass
i realize that i'm slipping into random train of thought mode, but i really just need to get something off my chest. the brits. the ass grabbing. it needs to stop. i punched some guy last night because i swore to myself that if it happened again, shit was going down. i didn't want it to have to come to that, but if i'm not going to stand up for myself, who else will? apparently chivalry has died, and these fine young gentlemen are the ones perpetuating these violations in the first place. don't worry - i didn't deck him that hard; he didn't even do anything about it; it was well-deserved and this sad, lonely fucker knew it.
but i can't end without trying to rationalize why the other ladies in the house seem to let this stuff fly. is it a culture thing? surely, the ass grab could signify a quick "hello", or perhaps a "hey, you're rather fetching. let's talk a little more if you decide to make the rounds again - i'll grab your ass next time you walk by so you know it's me." (indeed, the latter situation is NOT fool proof.) i could be getting this all wrong: does the ass grab really just stand in place of a friendly high-five?
perhaps it's a drunk thing. attending a club even half sober is like removing the soft, sweet veil of ignorance. though it would seem counterintuitive, everything is just a little bit scarier. maybe i would have been okay with the multiple run-ins had i been royally shitfaced. though, i maintain that this truly isn't the case, as this is a problem i've run into before, drunk or not, and i never come out pleasantly surprised after a good feel-up - even if i was, i would probably just feign anger, looking for an excuse to fight.
finally, maybe it's a wardrobe thing. having worn nylons and a fun little dress last night, there really were very few layers of fabric that lay between me and those dirty hands, so perhaps it's just that this sudden seizing of my ass was intensified by the lack of polyester. in all honesty, i'll give the brits some credit in admiting that they really don't grab all that aggresively - it's more just a casual, inconspicuous, "just-for-the-hell-of-it" clutch. but then i'll take that credit right back, because if you are going to grab my ass, grow some balls, stop being a little pansy, and assert yourself, if you REALLY feel like it's your place to have your hand there. because otherwise, you're no better than the awkward, horny middle school boy or the old, lonely pervert creeping over in the corner.
ahhhh. why?
but i can't end without trying to rationalize why the other ladies in the house seem to let this stuff fly. is it a culture thing? surely, the ass grab could signify a quick "hello", or perhaps a "hey, you're rather fetching. let's talk a little more if you decide to make the rounds again - i'll grab your ass next time you walk by so you know it's me." (indeed, the latter situation is NOT fool proof.) i could be getting this all wrong: does the ass grab really just stand in place of a friendly high-five?
perhaps it's a drunk thing. attending a club even half sober is like removing the soft, sweet veil of ignorance. though it would seem counterintuitive, everything is just a little bit scarier. maybe i would have been okay with the multiple run-ins had i been royally shitfaced. though, i maintain that this truly isn't the case, as this is a problem i've run into before, drunk or not, and i never come out pleasantly surprised after a good feel-up - even if i was, i would probably just feign anger, looking for an excuse to fight.
finally, maybe it's a wardrobe thing. having worn nylons and a fun little dress last night, there really were very few layers of fabric that lay between me and those dirty hands, so perhaps it's just that this sudden seizing of my ass was intensified by the lack of polyester. in all honesty, i'll give the brits some credit in admiting that they really don't grab all that aggresively - it's more just a casual, inconspicuous, "just-for-the-hell-of-it" clutch. but then i'll take that credit right back, because if you are going to grab my ass, grow some balls, stop being a little pansy, and assert yourself, if you REALLY feel like it's your place to have your hand there. because otherwise, you're no better than the awkward, horny middle school boy or the old, lonely pervert creeping over in the corner.
ahhhh. why?
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
my epic return
in the spirit of wasting more time, revealing the innapropriate nuances of my life, and degrading my public image through my abrasive rants, i've decided to REVAMP THE BLOG! that's right friends...order has been restored to all of our worlds. but first, the method behind the madness: because this fun little forum was started about two years ago and quickly spiraled out of control as a space for me to complain about random shit and jot down every single trivial thought that came to mind, i've done an extensive cleanup job, deleting upwards of a hundred posts. thus, should you choose to delve into the kaitlin archives, most of what you read probably won't make sense, as it was likely connected to some other nonsensical train of thought. if i could make one suggestion, stick to the new stuff. although you'll certainly come across a few gems (cuz i'm just that awesome) you probably won't get very far because i'll have annoyed the shit out of you by about post 3. you have been warned.
i've also transposed much of my travel blog onto here because i'm not getting caught up in that thing of having to worry about both of them. unfortunately, the picture transfer didn't go as well as expected, so most of the vertical ones are all skewed and terrifying looking.
finally, i'm trying desparately hard to clean up my act and make this family appropriate, though if we're putting this on par with my family's sense of right and wrong, i'm pretty sure this will still fall pitifully short of being reader friendly.
alright people. enjoy the comeback.
i've also transposed much of my travel blog onto here because i'm not getting caught up in that thing of having to worry about both of them. unfortunately, the picture transfer didn't go as well as expected, so most of the vertical ones are all skewed and terrifying looking.
finally, i'm trying desparately hard to clean up my act and make this family appropriate, though if we're putting this on par with my family's sense of right and wrong, i'm pretty sure this will still fall pitifully short of being reader friendly.
alright people. enjoy the comeback.
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