May 28, 2012

The Words that Get Confused with Other Words

I've seen such posts all over the interwebs addressing the issue of our society's decrepit spelling, but they never address the issues that I really have a beef with. Am I the only one who notices?

Whenever people make these mistakes, they make me think of this girl. English is a crazy language, I know, and the spelling makes no sense, but if my immigrant parents can get these words right, then so can anyone. Remember this?

You know what I mean.
"But Noor, why do you care so much?" Because A) I love language, A.5) You should love language too, and B) I used to be an English teacher. And C) With such an emphasis being placed on typed communication, isn't it important to know how to spell?

Here are a few words that people always seem to confuse with other words that aren't the word they meant to use.

In case you were wondering, I actually look like that.

What people say: "Weary/Wary"

 What they meant: "Wary/Weary"

Weary is when you're tired. Wary is when you're... hesitant. I, personally, am weary of seeing wary when I notice people meant to say wary when they said weary and weary when they meant wary. The kicker? They aren't even pronounced the same. I understand if people have problems spelling - that's totally fine - but when the word isn't even said that way... it makes me cry. Inside. Because I'm a man and men don't cry on the outside. Supposedly.


What people say: "Loose/Lose"

What they meant: "Lose/Loose"

This one kills me. Here's an adage that I just made up to help out anyone who has trouble with this: If your shit's loose, you're gonna lose it. Get it? Because if it's loose, meaning not tight, you'll lose it, meaning no longer have it in your possession. And like weary/wary, these words are also not pronounced the same way.


What people say: "Allusion/illusion/elusion"  
What they meant: To sound smart.

No one understands what the fuck you're trying to say when you use such words.

That's it for spelling. Those three are the ones that needed some review. Things like they're/their/there and too/to/two have been addressed to death by other people, and at this point, I don't even care anymore. So let's move on to...

My right side is my good side.

What people say: "Warsh"

But that word doesn't have a(n): "R" in it.

Dear the Midwest and a whole fucktonovalotta other places,



A concerned citizen.


What people say: "Expecially"

But that word doesn't have a(n): "X" in it.

"Especially" is spelled... well, like that. And that's an "S", kiddies. Remember, "S" goes ssssssss. Like... umm... like a snake! Snakes go ssssssssss. Unless they're choking. Then they go urrrkkkkkk. This rule also applies to the word "espresso". Anyway, here's an illustration.

His name is Pablo and he likes rabbits.
Poor Pablo.
Also, if anyone knows how to put pictures side by fucking side in Blogger please let me know because I wasted probably eleven minutes trying.

Moving on, here's the final lesson.

Just fyi, that's an eraser and a piece of chalk. I don't want rumors starting.

I know that punctuation has nothing to do with spelling, but I needed to say something. Don't you hate it when you see status updates or comments that look like this:

~*omg so today i totaly wante dto go to the beach with my fraaaaaands but i cudnt cuz it was so cold toddday and i rlly didt wan go to the beach when it was so cold o wel i gues thrs alwys tmrow rite hahahahlmaoroflolololololOLOLLOLOLPOPAIHJSKLHF!!K!J!!!!!*~

I sure do. Pass on the lesson of punctuation. And also the lesson of paying attention to what's being typed.

That's all. Class dismissed.

May 25, 2012

The 5 Levels of Being Pissed

First of all:

Amen, kid.
 Everyone gets pissed right? Right.

I sure do. Matter of fact, I'm pissed right now (at level 3). Why? Because none of your business. >:O

I've found through my experiences with episodes of fomenting rage that there are 5 levels of being pissed. I present them to you now. Bear in mind, I've never reached level 5, but I know it exists. And I never hope to reach it, either.

Let us begin.


Level 1 of being pissed is the initial anger. You're pretty mad, but it's controllable. You don't have the unrelenting urge to strangle babies and punt small animals, but you do have a slight eye twitch and you really just want to complain. However, things are under control as you're not lashing out and you're not visibly mad.

Level 1 is akin to how a wild bear feels all the time.

Ease of dealing with it:
It's easy to deal with level 1. A few drinks and good compnay and you'll go back to feeling normal and rainbow-shittingly jolly in no time. No big.

The good news:
It'll all be over soon. 



Level 2 is almost the point of no return. It's much harder for you to calm down and pretty much anything anyone says about your predicament when you vent to them makes you more angry, even if what they're saying holds merit. If someone doesn't agree with you, you get pissed at them too. And you're looking a bit mad on the outside. If you're not talking about what is making you so mad, you're not really talking. If you are, it's one word sentences or grunts.

Level 2 is like this girl:

You tell 'em, gurl.
Ease of dealing with it:
Not so easy to deal with level 2. It's not completely debilitating, but it definitely occupies your thoughts. I recommend a bottle of wine.

The good news:
You can still calm down, if you try.



Level 3 is the point of no return. From here on out, you're pissed as fuck. Nothing helps but time, and a lot of it at that. No amount of venting will calm you down and your face is flushing with rage, the kind that you can feel building up as it's working it's way from your spine to your cheeks. You know what I'm talking about. You're liable to burst out with incredibly obscene remarks to anyone. "Fuck", "shit", "balls", "bitch", and other shades of colorful language are 85% of the sounds coming out of your mouth. And whoever it was that pissed you off is probably no longer in your phone contacts or Facebook friends or what have you.

I'd place Lewis Black at a solid level 3.

Ease of dealing with it:
Terribly hard to deal with level 3. If left unchecked, level 3 rage will keep boiling and building up, leading you to the disastrous next levels. All you think about is whatever the fuck made you mad in the first place, if you can even remember anymore. Really, now you're just so mad at everything that any memory of the first spark is fading. You probably should avoid public places. Don't drink. It'll only be bad.

The good news:
In these times of extreme anger, you get creative. Now's the time to play an instrument or write or sing or do something to distract yourself. This is how most metal music was born[citation needed].



Oh boy... level 4. Shiiiiiiiit. Level 4 no es bueno, amigo. If you had to avoid public in level 3, you have to avoid public and yourself in level 4. Your voice has tripled in volume. At this point, as you can see in the picture, you do indeed want to strangle babies and punt small animals. Cute things just piss you off. People piss you off. Electronics piss you off. Get it? EVERYTHING pisses you off more and more and more and more and more until you blow up on the first person you see. You're like:

I wish.
 You don't wanna be talked to, you don't wanna be touched, and you certainly don't wanna see anyone who looks happy with their life. "WHY THE FUCK DID YOU JUST BREATHE NEAR ME", "FUCKING ASS PEOPLE", and "WHAT THE SHIT BALLS ARE YOU DOING SMILING AT ME?! AIN'T NOTHING TO SMILE ABOUT, BITCH" are things that will probably come out of your mouth.

Quitting smoking is an automatic level 4. If you don't know what that's like, imagine how mad you'd be if someone randomly slapped you across the face and multiply that by 1,000,000. Then, take that number to the 5th power. After that add 1. Stir and enjoy piping hot.

Ease of dealing with it:
Not easy. At all. I recommend you break glass or ceramic objects in a controlled environment. And definitely don't interact with anything that has a pulse or consume any drugs.

The good news:
Umm... you're not at level 5?



Fuck. You're at level 5? Sorry about that. If you're at level 5, you're chances of being incarcerated septuple*[citation needed]. Also, now you are capable of breathing fire and leaving a smoldering trail of devastation that is devoid of all joy and creation in your wake. If it's really bad, you also have laser vision. While these superpowers sound fantastic in theory, you must remember that you, too, are vulnerable to them, and that your control over them, like your emotions, is non-existent. Unlike the previous levels, where there was some semblance of hope to return to normal, at level 5, you're fucked. If breaking shit helped calm you down at level 4, it only serves to fan the flames of your insanity at level 5. This is your best chance ever of being on the news, but probably not the way you wanted to be.

Most mass murderers are at a constant level 5 (except Dexter), as well as crack-addicted hobos. 

Ease of dealing with it:
Can't you guess? You don't deal with level 5. Level 5 deals with you, Sovyet Rashah style. Just let it wane naturally. Lock yourself away somewhere. Go out into the desert or forest or something and don't come back for days. That's all the advice I can give you.

The good news:
There is no good news.

Hopefully you all know what I'm talking about when I say that being pissed is an all-consuming fire that instantly incinerates anything you touch. Do feel free to share what level you think you've reached before, and any strategies you have for calming down.


--- --- ---
*Spellcheck, dammit, today's NOT the day to cross me. Septuple IS a word. Look it up. Motherfuck. 
Also, thanks to this link ( for the lulsy pics used in this post. 

May 21, 2012

The BS 3 - "Noor vs. The Washer"

You should know that when it comes to technology, I'm a tad bit inept. When I was a kid, I loved technology, and I was always current on the latest trinkets and gadgets and all that, but when I turned 20 it was like all of the die-hard interest got replaced by a smog of confusion, rendering me helpless (old-man style) in the face of electronic devices. Ever since, I've had many harrowing experiences with all sorts of machines, and my time in Brazil did not get spared these such experiences.

The worst one ever was my ongoing brawl with the washer in my apartment. Commence, as my friend Merry put it, the harrowing tale of Noor versus...


The Trollmatic.
Now, being that I'm a lazy boy (if you couldn't guess), laundry is something that I dread so much that it gives me night terrors. HOWEVER when I do laundry, I go all out. I wash everything. That's the Virgo in me, I suppose.

Unfortunately, I wash everything... together. Which I know isn't good for your clothes, but whatever. No one's complained to me yet and I've been washing my clothes that way for years. Sadly, that goddamn washer back in Brazil was not having any of my shit.

So, the first time I did laundry was about... oh... a month and a half after I got there. That was the point at which all my clothes had been worn, most of them multiple times, and I was out of money to buy more clean underwear. At that point I figured, "alright... I'll do my laundry, GOD."

I walked up to that mechanical beast and promptly shoved all of my clothes in there and then proceeded to pour an obscene amount of detergent over them, because that's how it works, right? Anyway, Mr. Washer was doing his thing, and I went about my day.

I like Atlas symbolism.
Let me tell you something about Brazil: There are maybe two clothes dryers in that whole country. It's not that they aren't available, it's just that Brazilians (from what I heard) prefer to hang dry their clothes. Which I'm cool with, I've had to do that before, no big. That's not the problem. The problem is what the washer decided to do. Or rather... not do.

There I am, biding my time, minding my own business when the washer beeped, telling me my clothes were so fresh and so clean, clean. I hopped up, went over to it, peeked inside and saw that it was still full of water. I thought nothing of it, closed the lid and waited for a few minutes. When I opened it up again, it was still full of water.

"No matter", I thought, and turned the knob a little to see if maybe it just forgot to drain.

It did not.

It never drained.


... ...

... ... ...


Mad doesn't cut it, bro.
 So what did your uncle Noor have to do? Take all of his clothes out of the Trollmatic, one by one, and wring them out. ONE BY ONE.  ALL OF HIS CLOTHES. And that's not all. Obviously the washer was still full of water, and I couldn't just let it sit there, so I had to empty it out... WITH A BUCKET.

Idk, my bff Pail.

 Needless to say, uncle Noor was pisssssssed

Pictured: The Sea of Bullshit. Yeah, it's real.
The story ain't over folks. Remember, I was in Brazil for 6 months. Of course, the next day I told my supervisor and boss about the problem, since they're the ones who paid for the apartment's rent and took care of the maintenance problems. You know what my boss told me? "Tell your supervisor." You know what my supervisor told me? "Tell your boss."

You know what else my supervisor told me, when I told her I was afraid my clothes might get all moldy because of how soaking wet they were? "Oh, you should probably hang them up to dry near a window."




Anyway, even after I reminded my boss and supervisor about this dilemma about, oh, 17,845 times, they never sent anyone to fix it. So every single fucking time I had to laundry, I had to repeat that stupid fucking process of wringing out my clothes individually, then hanging them up to dry for days because they would be so wet still. AND empty the washer with a bucket.

"Well why didn't you just go to a laundromat?" You may ask. Ha. I wish. Those don't exist in Buttfucknowhere, Brazil, sweet cheeks. 

And the best part? Well, I still communicate with these people every once in a while, and recently my former supervisor told me "You were right about the washer! It was totally broken. We just thought you didn't know how to use it. It's fixed now."

My reaction?

No caption needed.
End of story.

May 15, 2012

The Thing I Said That Got Me Fired That One Time (the Second Time)

I've worked many jobs in my time. Dominant among them was serving. And I didn't serve at just one place, no. I served at like five different restaurants, working at each for no more than 5-6 months. Why? Because serving fucking sucks and no matter how many times you think "Oh this place will be better" it never is. I attribute my (initial) hatred of (most) people to my time(s) as a server. Teaching didn't help that. But I digress.

My first such abomination of a job was at a bakery/cafe/restaurant (a bacarestaurant?). The owner only had one or two of us serving at a time. The thing about this place was that not only were there tables to seat, take orders at, bus, and bring orders to, but also people in and out constantly getting coffee and delicious pastries. And the place was slammed all day because it was in the busiest part of Yuppiesville and also had a live pianist (he was such a cool dude). If you couldn't guess, it was FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE FOR ONE PERSON TO DO ALL THAT SHIT. MAN.

And the manager would just sit there and critique you with his small beady little eyes, arms crossed. His name was Mr. Boss Man *****. Everything had to be done exactly to his stupid beady little expectations. Wait... can expectations be beady? Whatever.

Anyway, my biggest problems there were a) I was late, like, everyday, which is sad because I lived across the street (see "The Checklist of Time Wasting"), and b) I could not stop eating those stupid fucking delicious pastries for the life of me. Shit like eclairs, cookies, macaroons, croissants, you name it, it was there. How could one resist? So my cheeks were always puffed out chipmunk style, crumbs all over, and my boss did not like that.

They were too delicious.

After about three weeks I got fired. The first time. Yup, that's right. I got fired twice at that job. But, the day after Mr. Boss Man ***** fired me, he called me back and was like "You need to come back to work" for whatever reason. And I was like, "OKAY! :D" for whatever other reason. Mistake.

Sooo there I was back at work, being generally awful at serving and getting a healthy mix of complaints and horrible tips left and right. I dropped so many trays and plates (in my defense, it was my first time serving) that Mr. Boss Man ***** had to have a talk with me. He called me down to his basement office, which was creepy (duh), and told me that if I dropped another anything, I'd be fired again. So most of the time, my days went by with me struggling to keep shit off the floor and out of my mouth. Which was really really really hard.

Pictured: Trying to give a shit, but failing.
But one can only eat so many delicious pastries and get so many bad tips before one decides that enough is enough. Eventually, I stopped giving a shit, thinking to myself, "He wouldn't fire me again. He hired me back!" Ha. Mistake.

I started getting quite the 'tude. I talked shit about Mr. Boss Man ***** all the time and was super lazy about waiting my tables and was an all around bad employee. But what do you expect from a 19 year old college student who had way better things to do with his time and hated his job, delicious pastries or no?

Then... Then one day I was very late. An hour and thirty-seven minutes very late. On purpose. That was how little of a shit I gave.

Of course, Mr. Boss Man ***** was livid. Because, duh, I was the only one scheduled that day. Mistake (on his part).

He confronted me and was all like "NOOR Y U NO BE ON TIME". I stared at him straight in the face, and with all seriousness said "Well Mr. Boss Man *****, as much as I would like to turn back time and not be late, I can't because my time machine is broken. Deal with it." Mis. Take.

"I think it's the flux capacitor."
Mr. Boss Man ***** was not pleased, nor did he find my joke funny. I certainly did, and was lolling to myself, doing my worst to hide it. And then I got fired. Again. I walked out of that place, kicked my heels together, and never looked back.

But goddamn do I miss those delicious pastries.


I know I haven't updated in a while. I will, I swear. I actually have all the lame drawings done for my next post. I'll try to put it up later today.

Here's a preview:

I hope that doesn't give anything away. It doesn't, actually.

Okay. So. Come back later today for the new post. It's not a BS post. It's different.


May 06, 2012

The BS 2 - "Americans Break Doors"

-A little background: I'm very awkward when I know I've done something bad/wrong/extremely stupid and I confront a person that will be really pissed when they find out I was the one who did the bad/wrong/extremely stupid thing. This is one of those situations.
-A little more background: In the town I was in, I taught English. Other Americans had been there before me to do the same thing. The last guy who was there was a"real American" blond, blue-eyed, and 6'4" and ate a lot of cheeseburgers. (according to the Brazilians, but I doubt this). 
-A final bit of background: I lived in an apartment building that had an entrance door you needed a key to open. Everyone who lived in the building used that door to get in. All of the previous Americans lived in the same apartment that I did.

I just so happened to be in Brazil on September 7th - its independence day. Just like us, they get wasted and cook out, and one of the teachers I worked with had invited me to a party to do just that. And I was like "hell yeah!".

The party mainly consisted of drinking, eating, drinking, and eating. Also lots of drunken discussions of politics and the turning point in my ability to speak Portuguese. (I'm really really good at Portuguese when I'm drunk.) And people trying to set me up with their daughters. But the party isn't the story. Being drunk, now that's the story. Well, the beginning of it.

After I got dropped off at my apartment building, I stumbled up to the door and shoved my key into it. Literally, into it. And I was like, "Oh, oops, I should probably put this in the keyhole." Only I was drunk, so my inner monologue went more like "KEY IN HOLE NOT IN DOOR DUH LOL." And so in went the key into the hole, way more forcefully than needed. Now, the thing about this door was that it was the kind of door where turning the key opens the door. And then... well, then this happened:

I'm trying to ween myself off notebook paper.
The good news was, the door opened. The bad news was, my key broke in the keyhole. And then the door closed. I was inside the building though, and my belligerent self could not have given two shits about the calamitous seed I had just planted. I waddled up to my apartment and collected my laptop so I could go use the internet for free somewhere. (There was no internet in the apartment.) And then I waddled right back down to the door I had recently defiled, pushed it open, and was about to step out when I realized "Ohhhhh... wait. I broke the key IN the keyhole, so if the door closes... it won't open. For anyone." Again, though, I was still drunk so my inner monologue went more like "LOL I BROKE THAT. I SHOULD PROB HIDE IN MY APT SO NO INTERNETS TONIGHT LOLOLOLOLOL."

And then I threw up and passed out until work the next morning.


I woke up with a start. Whereas the previous night my opinion of what I had done was "fuck the door", that morning my first thought was "FUCK, THE DOOR." I got ready for work, face aflush* already, thinking only "shit fuck shit balls dammit fuck shit damn" and scrambled downstairs. Here's how that went:

I was so shocked my nose disappeared.
The door was GONE. Someone had taken the door. It was no longer there. Poof. Magic. Abracadabra nomodoorzam. And it was all my fault. Fffuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.

"Okay, be cool" I thought. "No one needs to know it was you." I saw a neighbor person and they were like "Yeah, some asshole broke his key in the door last night" and I was like "Aw man! What a dick" knowing full well that I was that asshole.

"Alright" I thought, "ask someone at work if they know about a spare key... Tell them you lost it."

No one did. They were like "Oh, you could go to the locksmith but you need a copy of the key." Well no shit. Finally my supervisor got there, and I told her my situation. Except I lied and I said that I lost my key. She told me to find the landlord who was probably working at the grocery store attached to the apartment building and to ask her if I could take her key to go copy it. And I was like "Heh... oookay. Yeah. I'll do that."

But the problem was, the landlord knew that some asshole broke their key in the keyhole. If I went and asked her, she'd know that I was that asshole. Which wouldn't be a problem if her face didn't look like this all the time:

Her name is Patricia.
So you can see where my trepidation stemmed from. But I had no other choice. As soon as they put the fixed door back, I had no way of getting in the building. "Maybe I can just go hide in my apartment for the rest of forever." But I couldn't. By the time I got off work, the new door had already been put in place. Out of desperation, I tried using the little stub of the key I had left to open it and obviously that didn't work.

So it was either talk to Patricia or live on the street with the stray dogs and this one drunk guy. And although that sounded more appealing to me, I had to go talk to her. All my shit was in that apartment. Stupidly, I thought "I'll just lie to her. I'll say I lost my key. That'll work. Worked on everyone else today." Except for my aforementioned awkwardness.

I went to the grocery store and found her, and she looked really pissed. She saw me and glared, like always, and glared even harder when she saw that I was walking up to her, very timidly. I swore I heard her think "If this mofo talks to me, I'mma gonna roast his bones and EAT HIM." So it was time for the confrontation:

I had to roll a will save.
Me: "Uhhhh h-hi P-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-patricia... H-how are----"
Patricia: "WHAT DO YOU WANT."
Me: "Well, you see, I, uh, I lost my... I, umm... Well, I..."
Me: "M-me? Umm... No? Yes. I would be that asshole, yup. I'm... I'm really s-s-sorry. I, uhh... Oh God please don't eat me."
Me: "Wait he did?"
Me: "Oh... okay. Yes sir MA'AM YES MA'AM BYE."

And I ran. I ran so far away. And from that point on, I was oh so gentle with the key. And I stopped eating cheeseburgers. And I learned that things in Brazil don't have the durability that I was used to them having in the U.S. Especially the washers. But the story of the washer is for another day.

The end.

--- --- ---

*I want to point out that spellcheck doesn't think that aflush is a word, but it totally is.

May 05, 2012

Some cool things...

... to occupy your time.

First of all, tonight is the Supermoon, which is awesome. Please go stare at the Moon. And let me know if you also think his face looks like this:

Thank you You make my life complete.

Alright, so cool shit:

New York Times Visual DNA Quiz - Usually I hate those personality quizzes, but the format of this one is really interesting. I think it's worth checking out.

The Anime Network - I don't know how many of you are anime fans, but this site is one of the web's greatest gems.

QueenLeen StylePhile - I'll admit it; this is a shameless plug for my sister's blog, but damn does that girl know how to dress.

This gallery of long-exposure firefly photos. I just wish I would've thought of this first, haha.


Prohibition of Death - Yeah. It's a thing.

Also, this, from my beautiful little corner of the world to yours:

Credit: Yours truly.

May 04, 2012

The Brazil Saga 1 - "You're Argentinian"

From here on out, I'm calling "The Brazil Saga" stories "The BS". Just so you know.

So, I lived in Brazil for 6 months once upon a time, and never a more eventful six months did I have. I have, like, sooo many stories. This one I'm gonna tell you is one of my favorites.

The rinky-dink town I lived didn't have much to do. Like, at all. I don't understand how people live there. Here's a picture:
Pictured: The year 1537
Don't be deceived by the scenery, that place sucks. But I'll get into that another day.

On one of the last days I was there, I checked out this cake shop I'd never been to. The cake was good, but that's not the story.

I walk in, and I see this woman:
Not to scale.
Now, I don't look not Brazilian at first, but as soon as I open my mouth and start speaking Portuguese it's very obvious that I'm something that is not Brazilian.

Anyway, then I hear the following dialogue:

Pictured woman (PW): "What's this cake like?"
Lady behind the counter 1 (LBC1): (sighing) "It's a vanilla cake."
PW: "Like how much vanilla?"
LBC2: "The normal amount."
PW: "Hmm... well what about this cake?"
LBC1: (shoots an annoyed glance at LBC2) "It's a chocolate cake."
PW: "But how much chocolate?"

This went on for about seventeen more cakes until finally LBC2 looked at me and said, with a smile, "And what would you like sir?"

Me: "I just want a slice of that cake there"
LBC2: "The little blacky black cake?" (actual name of the cake)
Me: "Yes please :3"

Then I entered purgatory.

PW: (to me) "Where are you from young man?"
Me: "America, as in the United States of." (South Americans are American too.)
PW: "No you're not."
Me: "Er... yes. I am."
PW: "But you don't look American. Or sound American." (Keep in mind, (most) Brazilians think that (all) Americans are Aryan.)
Me: "Well, I'm of Arab descent, but I was definitely born and raised in the US."
PW: "No you weren't. You're Argentinian."
Me, LBC1, LBC2:
PW: "Mmhmm, yup, you're definitely Argentinian."
Me: (with a mouthful of little blacky black cake) "Nro, Ir'm nort Argerntiniarn."
PW: "Yes you are."

This goes on for a while. And then, just to move shit along, I say, "Well, I do speak Spanish."

PW: "Aha! I knew it! You're Argentinian!"
Me: "Well by that logic---"
PW: "You even have an Argentinian's accent!"
LBC1: (trying to save me) "What are you doing in this shit hole town if you're here all the way from America?"
PW: "Argentina."
LBC1: "... Right."
Me: "Oh, I'm just here---"
PW: "Look, I'm a teacher. I'm gonna help you speak Portuguese like a Brazilian. We don't like Argentinians."
LBC2: "I don't mind Argent---"
Me: "Ma'am, weren't you ordering a cake?"
PW: (in really bad Spanish now) "No, no, say like this: 'Maaaa'aaam'. Well? Go on. 'Maaaa'aaaam'. That how Brazilian make word."
Me: "*sigh* Where do I throw away this plate?"
PW: "'Maaaaa'aaaaam'"
LBC1: "There's a trash can right over here."
Me: "... Ma'aaam."
PW: "No, no, like this: 'Maaaaaaaaa'aaaaaaam.'"

This also goes on for quite some time. Then:

Me: "How much did that slice of cake cost?"
LBC2: "It's [price]." (I don't remember the price. My main concern was GTFO.)

So with a stomach full of little blacky black cake and a mindful of ignoring PW, I start G'ingTFO. Luckily, I saw this guy I knew so I struck up a conversation with him. Well, tried. PW followed me because, goddammit, she knew this guy too.

PW: "HEY! HEY GUY! Look at this Argentinian I met!"
Guy: "He's American."
PW: (to me) "You're American? Why didn't you say something?"
Me, LBC1, LBC2, Guy: 

PW: (In really, really bad English) "Nice you meet!"
Me: (In Portuguese) "I have to go."

And go I did. As fast as fucking possible.

May 02, 2012

The Checklist of Time Wasting

Those of you who know me know that I am late to just about everything in life. Except being born. I was almost a month premature. What a disappointment it must have been when my parents realized I'm neither early nor punctual to anything. 

I used to think that I couldn't explain why this happened. And I want to make a distinction: I'm constantly late, not consistently late. Being consistently late is what people call "fashionably late". That's not what I do.

Sometimes I would claim that Arabs are late like all other minorities. Or, I would say that outside forces physically prevented me from being on time. That it wasn't meant to be. And then one day, not too long ago, when you were about the same age you are right now, I realized something. Deep down, I like being late. Ladies, if I were your period, I would scare the shit out of you. Every month. Gentlemen, if I were your girlfriend's period... well, you get the point.

And don't try to pull logic out on me here. Again, I'm not consistent with my lateness. I'm whatever the fuck I feel like it at that moment amount of time late. Could be a minute, could be an hour. Could be tomorrow.

So I thought I might as well embrace it and turn it into something beautiful. Er... being late. Not your period. Or your girlfriend's period. 

And now it's an art. The art of wasting time. And like all art, it has guidelines. So, here I have compiled a checklist that will ensure that you are late... artfully.

These things all assume that you should be leaving the house now in order to be at [place/engagement/appointment] on time or early. Use with caution. 

[ ] Shower.
[ ] Brush your teeth. 
[ ] Floss, too. It never hurts to floss. 
[ ] Change your outfit.
[ ] Change back to what you were wearing before.  
[ ] Your hair probably looks bad now. Fix it. Or shave it all off. Change is good.
[ ] Check the time and shrug.
[ ] Check the internet.
[ ] Start making paper cranes. Or learn
[ ] It would probably be a good idea to write out a grocery list. Do that.
[ ] Check your email and/or snail mail.
[ ] Check the time and scoff. 
[ ] Have you taken a dump today? You should do that.
[ ] If you have a significant other, have sex. If you don't, masturbate. 
[ ] You should probably shower again now.
[ ] Brush your teeth, too. 
[ ] ... Maybe wear something different for real this time. 
[ ] Leave.
[ ] Now's a good time to stop at the gas station.
[ ] Check the time and go "OH SHIT. Oh well."

That's really all I've got. I need to go be late for something now. With finesse, of course.

May 01, 2012

The Trials of Getting a Job

So you want to get a job? Good for you. Here:

 That's for you. Proud of you! :)


Now, onto serious business. You want to get a job? Well tough shit. Getting a job is hard. Getting a job  s u c k s. Getting a job is nigh impossible. 

"Oh N, why are you so pessimistic?" You may ask, out of desperation, probably because you really want a job.

Listen boys and girls. I've been out of college for a whole year and then some. I've had one job, and it was an internship overseas. I got paid in beans and rocks. And then five months ago, I came back here to the good ol' land of purple mountains majesty, exchanged the piddly remains of my beans and rocks for leaves and drool, and have been unemployed ever since.

"But did you look for jobs?" You exhort. Yes, yes I did. 

"But did you apply to jobs?" You beseech. Yes, most certainly I did. 

"But is your resume good?" You besmirch. Verily, it is. And you don't have to be so rude.

"But---" Yes. 

"And did you---" Yes. 

"And how about---" Of course. 

"BUT! I bet you didn't---" Oh, but I did. 

"Hmm... I know! You probably didn't---" Nope, I definitely did that too. On and everything. 

"Well damn." I KNOW!!!

At this point, I feel like this: 

I've had so many calls, so few interviews, and no second interviews (or job), that I feel trapped. Trapped, specifically because a lot of the jobs I want, I can't get. 

It's either, you must be 25 or older (I'm 22) or you must have 5+ years experience doing ________ (I have little to no experience doing most ______'s). 

So then you dig into entry level positions. And what are those like? Well...

And I don't really want to do something like that. I know that beggars can't be choosers, but seriously, look at this gem I found today:

"[Car Dealership] is looking for an ambitious, detail oriented multi-tasker to join our team as a part time cashier/receptionist... In this position you will process all payment transactions for customers in our busy dealership." 

Hey, Car Dealership, guess what? I've done something extremely similar to that before. It looked like this:

So anyway. How the hell do you get 5+ years experience before you're 25 in order to get one of the cool jobs out there? That's not rhetorical. Please tell me. 

Also, I have to share that I went to a group interview today, and was the youngest person there by 10 years, which was unnerving. Out of the four of us, there was one guy who was easily in his 50s, and of course he outshone us all. I wanted to tell him "Dude. Some of us actually need a job, so, uh, can you please go back to that place where you said you've been working at for 25 years?" Between him and this one girl, Stutterella, who was erupting sunshine from every orifice, I stood no chance.

I'm sorry. I thought I went to college and paid good money for a piece of paper that had at least some return on its value, but... well... I guess reality hits you hard, bro

Anyway. Back to the internet for me. And you. Or not. I think you should go make a sandwich.

Happy sandwiches. 

Marshall knows.