(no subject)
Friday night the universe almost imploded when I was at a party at the coffeeshop around the corner from Cody's and out of the dozen or so people there, three of us were named Claire. Seriously, that never happens. Even more unlikely was the fact that we all spelled our name the same way. Only on Cinco de Mayo. Before that, Cody and I went to dinner at Torerro's and it was the only time I'd even been there and had to wait. . . I guess it seems obvious that we picked a bad night to go eat Mexican food, but the problem is that once you start thinking about tacos, it's hard to be content with pizza. At the restaurant the waiter tricked me into ordering a maragarita the size of my head, and it looked like this:
Yeah, that was trouble. No, I didn't even get close to finishing it.
I'm finally getting around to the aforementioned wardrobe purging. What with moving apartments and going away for the summer and the fact that I can't really count upon my apartment dollar stretching as far as it has in the past next year, it just makes sense for me to whittle things down before the fact. Because this process is annoying and time-consuming and I still haven't let go of the deluded fantasy that someday I'll be able to fit into the tiny shorts I wore in high school again, I'm purging in stages. Stage one was completed Saturday afternoon (to assuage my guilt of having spent the better part of the afternoon laying in bed watching episodes of Veronica Mars on my laptop) and the bag I compiled to go to Valu Village was mostly filled with no brainer castaways - pants leftover from when I thought sloppy and tattered was synonymous with sexy, xxl tshirts I never wear because you could fit three of me in them, grungy grungy sweatshirts that have seen the uglier side of paperwriting at three a.m. when I was too tired not to spill tea all over myself, etc. The only mildly nostalgic item in the pile is a sweatshirt belonging to a high school boyfriend of mine, one of the many infamous boys named chris. The sweatshirt was pretty ugly to start with, and after all this time is much worse for the wear. I haven't looked at the thing in a year or two, and now it's staring at me from a pile on my floor, and for whatever reason I feel really guilty that I'd rather throw this away than return it to it's owner. I haven't spoken to this boy in over five years and he doesn't have the decency to be signed up to be spied upon on myspace. While I'm positive I could track him down easily enough by calling his mom's house (five bucks says he still lives there), all that seems a little too "High Fidelity" to me.
Speaking of things as trivial and boring as one's high school boyfriend, I can't stop writing "okay" as opposed to "o.k." I've done the research, and while it would seem that the longer, "spelled out" version would be more correct, the fact is that o.k. is a joke dating back to the 19th century, when someone at a Boston newspaper thought it was absolutely hilarious to spell things wrong and o.k. stands for oll korrect. Yeah, thumbs up to you, crazy Boston journalist. So anyways, it's a little bit funny that everyone thinks they're being high class and educated when they spell out okay, but really they're perpetuating a misspelled joke. All this would be even funnier if I weren't one of those people.
Also, as all of even my most casual of acquaintances have been told repeatedly, I'm totally into Veronica Mars these days. No big deal, right? I bought Season One on dvd because amazon had it for cheap, and the Season Two finale was awesome the other night. So yesterday I'm looking around my favorite messageboards to see what other people thought about it, and I realized that I will never have what it takes to be considered in league with the hardcore Veronica Mars fans. Why? Because real Veronica Mars fans make things like this: whoa, dudes. That's just entirely out of control.
Yeah, that was trouble. No, I didn't even get close to finishing it.
I'm finally getting around to the aforementioned wardrobe purging. What with moving apartments and going away for the summer and the fact that I can't really count upon my apartment dollar stretching as far as it has in the past next year, it just makes sense for me to whittle things down before the fact. Because this process is annoying and time-consuming and I still haven't let go of the deluded fantasy that someday I'll be able to fit into the tiny shorts I wore in high school again, I'm purging in stages. Stage one was completed Saturday afternoon (to assuage my guilt of having spent the better part of the afternoon laying in bed watching episodes of Veronica Mars on my laptop) and the bag I compiled to go to Valu Village was mostly filled with no brainer castaways - pants leftover from when I thought sloppy and tattered was synonymous with sexy, xxl tshirts I never wear because you could fit three of me in them, grungy grungy sweatshirts that have seen the uglier side of paperwriting at three a.m. when I was too tired not to spill tea all over myself, etc. The only mildly nostalgic item in the pile is a sweatshirt belonging to a high school boyfriend of mine, one of the many infamous boys named chris. The sweatshirt was pretty ugly to start with, and after all this time is much worse for the wear. I haven't looked at the thing in a year or two, and now it's staring at me from a pile on my floor, and for whatever reason I feel really guilty that I'd rather throw this away than return it to it's owner. I haven't spoken to this boy in over five years and he doesn't have the decency to be signed up to be spied upon on myspace. While I'm positive I could track him down easily enough by calling his mom's house (five bucks says he still lives there), all that seems a little too "High Fidelity" to me.
Speaking of things as trivial and boring as one's high school boyfriend, I can't stop writing "okay" as opposed to "o.k." I've done the research, and while it would seem that the longer, "spelled out" version would be more correct, the fact is that o.k. is a joke dating back to the 19th century, when someone at a Boston newspaper thought it was absolutely hilarious to spell things wrong and o.k. stands for oll korrect. Yeah, thumbs up to you, crazy Boston journalist. So anyways, it's a little bit funny that everyone thinks they're being high class and educated when they spell out okay, but really they're perpetuating a misspelled joke. All this would be even funnier if I weren't one of those people.
Also, as all of even my most casual of acquaintances have been told repeatedly, I'm totally into Veronica Mars these days. No big deal, right? I bought Season One on dvd because amazon had it for cheap, and the Season Two finale was awesome the other night. So yesterday I'm looking around my favorite messageboards to see what other people thought about it, and I realized that I will never have what it takes to be considered in league with the hardcore Veronica Mars fans. Why? Because real Veronica Mars fans make things like this: whoa, dudes. That's just entirely out of control.