vindication

my Personal Vision class: $2550

number of times my professor told me i wasn't a good photographer: 3

my professor backpedaling after she finds out i've been published: priceless

yes, i know who robert rauschenberg is...

shocking as it is after almost completing four years of college, much of such time being spent in art history classes, i do in fact know who robert rauschenberg is, without looking him up on wikipedia.
i even wrote about him once.
amazing how i am not a total moron, seeing as i am a terrible photographer and will never find a job. absolutely amazing.


it's been a rough couple of weeks.

FYI

hearing my neighbors have extremely loud sex is not what i need when i stumble in the door at 2:30 AM after an 11 hour shift.

PLEASE STOP with the orgasmic yelling. how many orgasms can she possibly have?

(it had been over 30 minutes and the noises continued)

this is me bitter and resentful.

angry&confused

i am so ready to be done with college.
and to whom it may concern: i am not a photographer... so i'm told

beatiffic

"i saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving, hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient holy connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night..."

HOWL by allen ginsberg

higher education

i realized this week that i could never be a professor because i would always be conducting mini psychological science experiments on my students.

i wish some of my professors had my ethics.

Ba ba da da/Ba ba da da/Ba ba da da/Ba ba da da

due to a co-worker at my internship in Maine, i am unfortunately obsessed with Gym Class Heroes single, Cupids Chokehold. (its the one that says "take a look at my girlfriend..." etc. etc.)

it's a travesty. i know.

i love my macBook

so i just plug my printer into my laptop and it works and is printing within moments...

this is me, my jaw dropping, stunned, and aghast at the wonders and amazement of the apple corporation.

i should have sold out to technology a long time ago.

for people who think too much

this issue of kitchen sink includes a not so subtle article about tipping entitled "Tip, You Bastards" written by the very talented Amy Reed.

i will include, for your enjoyment, an exerpt:

"I could spit in your food, but I do not. I could do a lot of things, but instead I say 'good morning' over and over, through gritted teeth for seven years now. 'Anything to drink with that?' What Kind of cheese?' And you keep ordering the same thing over and over, and you keep bringing your kids in and rearranging tables, letting them lick the salt shaker while you talk on your cell phone, letting them throw their Cheerios and bananas all over the floor, leaving the mess for me to clean up on my hands and knees like some minimum wage Cinderella while you waltz out with your five-hundred-dollar stroller. And no, you did not tip. I could accidentally spill your soy chai latte on your designer purse, but I do not...I could spit on your bagel, but I do not. Did I tell you I'm in grad school? Did I mention my IQ? I have a fantasy. I have many fantasies that have developed while wiping down tables with bleach-drenched towels or stocking cups or making carrot juice. They usually involve humiliating medical students or men who order for their dates, but this one is my favorite. It involves two men, scientists perhaps, PhD candidates working on their theses. They've had a few afternoon beers. They are hungry. They want me to serve them. But before that they want to prove their superiority...One of them finally speaks. He pulls a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and slowly pushes it toward me. He leans on the counter and, after noticing my breasts, says smugly, 'I'll give you a hundred dollars if you can tell me the scientific name for the green sea urchin.' His friend laughs. I look the doctoral candidate in the eye and calmly tell him, 'Strongylocentrotus droebachiensis.' His mouth drops, his friend's mouth drops. I grab the bill out of his hand. The restaurant starts cheering. Each and everyone of the housewives and independently wealthy patrons has a sudden epiphany: Their waitresses are probably smarter than they are. They empty their wallets frantically, rushing to redeem years of bad tipping.

God bless you bartenders and waiters, you construction workers and gardeners, you strippers and security guards, you few who look me in the eye and ask how I'm doing, pouring dollars into my tip jar out of solidarity...God bless your memory, your thank you's. And most of all, your money."

the full article is even better. if you can spare the $5.95, i suggest you purchase the issue just for Amy Reed's wonderfully arranged words.

thanks brando comando, for letting me know about this. high five. you made my week.

P.S. always tip people who have total control over what you ingest.

baRRRRistas

i miss you,
breaking new grounds,
and your friendly baristas,
who always made me smile...





(sorry, sentient...you win atmosphere and social awareness, but lets not kid ourselves, these dudes are just a wee bit less pretentious)

on the road: delayed reaction

here are some polo-Roids of my recent trip from maine to savannah.
you will all be pleased, there were very few angela-is-a-terrible-driver incidents.
word to the wise: when you are on the road at 2AM and delirious with sleep deprivation, just stop at the first hotel you see. by the time you get to the second hotel there will more than likely be a huge smoldering hole in its roof and be surrounded by emergency vehicles. and in the words of my road trip cohort, by the third hotel, "they saw you comin"

anyway...