Are there openings for warrior princesses in this recession?
Or was it Xena?
I’ve recently rediscovered my love for the leather-clad warrior princess in all her shrieking, flipping, chakram-throwing, and history-manipulating wonder. And…I’ve spent the greater part of today trying to plow right on through season 3, which other die-hard Xena fans (who doesn’t love saucy gods, pseudo-lesbian relationships, and cheesy jokes?!) have deemed the best out of the 6.
Baby Banana
These days when I come home for a weekend, my parents are suspiciously nice to me. Perhaps they’ve become aware of the fact that I will be graduating in just a couple of months (that thought alone induces indigestion) and will hopefully be making some kind of steady income, so they’re set to place me in the role of their Social Security.
Despite the fact that I’m taking in all of their TLC and homecooked meals with a dash of wariness, it feels nice…but it still doesn’t feel like home.
So I was wondering what would happen if Tina Fey and Jon Stewart had a baby…a comedic genius? That would truly be a breath of fresh air in the midst of all of these people (some of my friends included) mistaking repeated quips of “That’s what she said” for witty remarks. Seriously, if I hear that one more time my brain might become defunct in protest.
Anyway, BEHOLD! Jon Fey Stewart! Err, or mini Donald Trump?
Tina Fey + Jon Stewart
Want to create you own baby?
Me in blueface.
I told Tony that I’d be diligently studying for our Marketing midterm during my 2-hour-long break but so far, all I’ve done is gossip about long distance friends’ significant others, read about Rihanna allegedly getting back together with Chris Brown (via Gawker/Lezebel), and look up the California minimum wage for 2009.
I spend about 20 minutes watching girls flow in and out of lecture room 145’s doors in their patterned rainboots and Cal sweatshirts. Then I look down at my sheer black tights from Korea that are so thin that I managed to rip them in about 4 different places in my attempt to dress myself in under 30 seconds this morning.
I sit down on one of Dwinelle’s extremely uncomfortable benches since the worn heels on my $5 boots make an awful metal scraping noise that makes all the laptop-appendaged cyborgs here give me the death glare when I wander around the halls in my dazed facey (is WP really going to underline “appendaged” but not “facey”?! T. and I custom-made that word for me) way.
sweat + oil + tears (OM NOM NOM)
I usually turn into an absolute monster in the mornings or after a nap and all of my previous roommates are privy to this information.
Today I woke up at 8:51 (although my alarm had been set for 8:00 – and yes, that means I pressed snooze about a bajillion times), took a shower, and although my original intent had been to start studying for my Econometrics midterm that’s tomorrow (absolutely fucked for that, btw), instead I’ve been staring at sleeping Tony. Not in envy, but complete adoration. I carefully scoot my body closer to his and inhale the scent of Old Spice and babies, which sounds like a ridiculous (and slightly disturbing) combination, but I swear it’s a lot nicer than it sounds.
Then I kiss his stubbly cheek and sometimes he doesn’t notice and just rolls over.
But sometimes he opens his eyes and gives me the most perfect smile and I start to think that maybe mornings aren’t so bad after all.
