I was mauled by a squad of angry pygmy goats (and other valid reasons for my lack of blogging)

Hello there, blog-land! It appears I was gone long enough for them to completely change the layout of this website...good for me. The following are things that would have been valid reasons for my absence:

• I was possessed by the spirit of a Chinese Water Dragon who made me spend all my time watching Mulan and eating tuna. Also it didn't know how to type. 
• I was mauled by a squad of angry pygmy goats. A cheerleading squad obviously, who got extremely testy after I insulted pygmy goat soccer (the soccer is regular sized, only the goats are pygmy). 
• My butler Bumbley referred to me by my first name and I spent the last few months in a dark torture chamber re-teaching him proper employer-employee etiquette. 
• I was on an extended reverse-Rumspringa to decide if I wanted to stay with this life or embrace the tantalizing glitz and glam of the Amish ways. In the end, I masterfully resisted temptation, but it was touch and go for awhile.
• I was building a really big Lego tower. 

Sadly, none of these are what caused me to slack on my blogging duties. In short, I got depressed for awhile and wasn't feeling very funny. Then I got un-depressed but remained easily distracted. Then I really did start to build a Lego tower, but I ran out of those rectangle six-y blocks, which were necessary to form a solid foundation (it is basic architecture). 

Oh my God, they aren't six-y at all, they have EIGHT! My life is a lie. 

But I have returned! Summer awaits and I am finally feeling more like my carefree, borderline inappropriate, strange little self. So if anyone is still out there, brace yourselves for the incoming madness.

Edit: Also I made a Twitter today. So if you want to hear more things I say, go for it. There is a button and everything. 

We're like Charlie's Angels, but with less crime fighting and more arguments about food

I have recently been musing upon the complexities of cohabitation. Or in my case, tri-habitation (I am 78% sure that I made that up.) To put it bluntly, living with people who aren’t your family is weird.

Since I have been living with my two best friends for the last two years at school, I have yet to experience the bone-searing awkwardness of living with strangers. Most likely I would only survive that until my small talk ran out. (How are you? Still good? That’s good…)

So in terms of living situations mine is pretty tops. I’m not one of those people who can tell excellent, cringe-worthy roommate anecdotes. But I would like to take a moment to point out the little things that people never talk about but that are completely bizarre.

To point out something obvious: Heather and Courtney (henceforth known as ‘the roomsies’) were not raised by my family. They had their own families who formed their own habits. Teeny, tiny nothing habits that you never think about until holy shit why do they do that differently than you?

For instance: did you know that breakfast pie is apparently NOT a thing? In my household, if there was leftover pie (or certain kinds of cake) it was basically expected that it would be enjoyed in the early morning.

Neither of my roommates has ever enjoyed pie for breakfast. I weep for their misfortune. Also they eat a lot of things with whole wheat and enhanced fiber. And they talk about apples the way normal people talk about brownies. (“Ooh, yeah, I love honeycrisp! Honeycrisp is the best kind!” “Me too, although red delicious sounds good right now!” “MMMM yeah it does!!!” “…have you guys even tasted chocolate?”)

But I digress. Although I could rant about their obnoxiously healthy food habits forever, that wasn’t entirely my point. I don’t think. I tune in and out of my own thoughts a bit. There is only so much ‘me’ I can handle at a time.

Another example: I’ve never owned a wooden spoon. Which is apparently a big deal or something. I don’t think there has ever been a single moment when I felt the need to have a wooden spoon. But the roomsies act as though they are the most important utensil ever to grace the earth. Wooden spoons are second only to apples.

I often call my sister and tell her about these little quirks just to regain some sense of normalcy.

Me: “People eat hotdogs in tortillas, right?”

Sister: “Of course, that’s the best.”

Me: “Ok, just checking.”

That’s something about family: they are the only ones who will completely understand and identify with every little quirk and habit you assumed were universal. Because I’ve found out that just about nothing is universal, and part of what makes family so indispensable is that they do things the way you do because they are the ones who taught you to do it in the first place. (I’m pretty sure that sentence was impossible to follow. Well, my family will understand it. BAM, point made.)

But as much as I love my family, there is something to be said for living with friends. I have managed to find at least two people who, even though they don’t agree with it, allow me to cover the stove burners in tin foil. And then are totally unfazed when I use the excess foil to make tiny animal sculptures. Or decide to dry my fingernails by prancing around the dining room to ABBA. Or yell the word “train” in response to the train whistle (it just sounds so lonely).

Me and the roomsies are extremely different on paper: A blonde, a brunette, and a red head. (We're like a television trio.) A Christian biology major who is possibly dressed by birds and other woodland creatures in the morning, an Athiest computer science major who listens to dubstep and is wonderfully sarcastic, and an Agnostic, childlike business major with a tendency towards crazy. 

But we work. Because we all use words like “roomsies”. We can turn on a strobe light in our dining room and have an impromptu rave just because studying is killing us. Because they are completely into the idea of me recreating the Wuthering Heights music video over Christmas break. (Oh yeah, it’s happening. Prepare yourselves for the overload of awesome.)

So I think there might be two kinds of families: the people who form all of your weirdness, and the people who later have to put up with it.

But I still say breakfast pie isn’t weird. Only amazing. 

It takes a lot of work to look simultaneously disaffected and like you're attending a rave in the 80s

I started writing a full post about my Halloween costume (which I may still flesh out and post if I need a way to avoid responsibilities) but for now I decided to just let it speak for itself:

I also made the costume/did the makeup of my roommate Courtney. And decided on our band name, inspired by this video from The Mighty Boosh. If only we could find some musical talent this could really be something…

We may or may not have taken over forty pictures in different badass poses...

Happy Halloween Everyone!!! 

Stop destroying my childhood, United States Mint people

The other night I was feeling extremely hyper, energetic and incredibly bored. On top of that, my roommates had the audacity to leave me all alone when I was in such desperate need of amusement. Something about needing to study or going to church or freeing giraffes from captivity or something, I was pretty tuned out.

Sweet Freedom!!!!

The important thing is that they left me at home, all alone, knowing full well that I had recently finished watching all of my British comedy shows and had no way to mindlessly amuse myself. Unforgivable.

So I wandered the apartment for awhile, sighing loudly until I remembered there was no one around to hear how dreadfully I was being treated. Then I came across a penny, which made me happy until I realized it was one of those new pennies.

Whoever made the decision to deprive future generations of the joy of discovering the teeeeny Lincoln sitting in the monument on the back of classic pennies should go sit on a cactus. It was honestly one of the defining moments of my childhood.

Bask in the glory of tiny Lincoln! He's in there, I promise. 

Disquieted by my musings on minuscule presidents (or lack-thereof), I decided to be the bigger person. I wouldn't be angry at my friends by leaving me to my own devices; I would use this alone time to show them how much I care.

Thus I wrote nice things on seven-post it’s for each of my roommates and hid them around the apartment. It was a gesture that I felt was appropriately equal parts sweet and serial killer, which is just my style.

This took me about nine minutes. Or it may have been forty. I have a really bad sense of time. The point is that after doing this I was still bored, hyper and alone. After nixing the idea of covering the light fixture in tin foil (I just couldn’t come up with a feasible reason) and writing the word “Mummy” on the bathroom mirror with my finger so it showed up when my roommate showered, I retreated to the only possible course of action.

I am speaking, of course, of this song. Listen. Watch the video. Then go watch the other pretty much identical video (except she had a white dress instead of red and is indoors). And try not to get sucked in. I dare you. It is impossible. It is simply too glorious to be ignored. WATCH KATE BUSH DO WEIRD ARM DANCING. 

My roommate did not find it quite so glorious when she finally got home. Although she may have been distracted by me singing and dancing along. She simply narrowed her eyes at me and said “you know way too many of those lyrics. What even is that?”

It is my life now Heather. It is my life. 

I like my men like I like my knives

I am not ok with these miniature versions of attractive guys that seem to inhabit my campus. You know, the type of guy who is like, “hi, I’m really good looking. By the way, I’m five-four.” This is really annoying for someone like me who is 5’10 (5’11 on a stretchy day.) This would not be a problem if I were a tiny Asian girl. Also, if I were a tiny Asian girl I would look adorable in pigtails rather than like a cocker spaniel.

Pictured: Less adorable than Asian girls

 But I digress. I am not now nor will I ever be a tiny Asian girl, and I must come to terms with that. The point is that I do not like short men, simply for the fact that they make me feel like a freaky giant Amazonian. One might say that I have a “type”. However, apparently my “type” is considered odd by some (very judgmental) people.

Confession time: I like pointy men.

Ok, at first I had no idea what that meant either. It is a term coined by my sister to describe some of my celebrity crushes. It should also be noted that she does not at all share my thoughts on what is considered attractive (she is into the giant-teddy-bear type of guy). Perhaps it would be easier to explain this with an example or three.

I want to take him to the zoo
and buy him ice cream. 

Did somebody call a Doctor? 

They still shouldn't be remaking Spiderman

I could provide many more examples, but I think you can see the trend by now. There is something undeniably…pointed about all these men. What can I say; I like ‘em dark haired and scrawny in a way that might be painful to hug. But in a hot way.

This is not to say I don’t appreciate the more traditional look of male attractiveness. Everyone loves a good set of abs, and given the chance I would literally live inside Robert Downey Jr.’s eyes. I just think that the awkward, angular gents among us have a certain charm that is undeniable.

So, I guess that explains the ‘pointy’ part of my blog title. Well, that and my knife collection. Maybe the knife thing would have been the more interesting choice to expand upon…

Also I have a Samurai sword. 

These are not my pants. Or they are. I just don't know anymore!

I had an absolutely wonderful day today. I had two classes that I enjoy and was done for the day by lunchtime (hooray for leftover hamburger helper! I won’t tell you the flavor. I'm mysterious like that.)

However, throughout my whole day I couldn’t shake an ominous, uncomfortable feeling. The feeling that I was wearing someone else’s pants.

It is important to note that these were, in fact, my pants. Allegedly. Let me explain. I own one pair of black jeans, which I haven’t worn in a while because 1) it was hot and 2) pants are for chumps. But last night I had painted my nails metallic silver (partially to feel like female wolverine), so I decided to wear my long-neglected black jeans to go with it.

As soon as I put them on I became extremely confused. They didn’t feel the same way as I remembered them. Don’t get me wrong, they fit me perfectly and were extremely comfortable. But they didn’t feel the way I had expected.

A normal person probably would have said to themselves, “you just haven’t worn them in a while. Obviously they are your pants. You’ve already spent more time than is acceptable thinking about this.”

But that’s not what I thought. What I thought was, “the stitching is totally different. No, wait, maybe not. Oh god, who’s pants could these possibly be? Did anyone come to my house and leave their pants behind? Do I even have any friends with the exact same pant size? These are definitely slightly shorter.”

And so, the Case of the Foreign Pants put a cloud of confusion over my otherwise sublime day. Yet, I got the distinct feeling that the others around me did not find this issue quite so puzzling.

Me: So, I don’t think these are my pants. I mean, I have pants like them, but these don’t seem like those ones.

Roommate: Yeah…those are probably your pants though.

Me: But…they don’t FEEL right. I mean they feel fine. Better than the other pants actually. Maybe there is some sort of pants-improvement-gnome that goes around very slightly altering your pants just to drive you crazy.

Roommate: Maybe. But probably not.

And then she left the apartment. I don't know if she's coming back. 

My mom’s response to my very long pants-related diatribe when I called her was to tell me to put it on my blog. I think just so SHE didn’t have to be the one to listen to me about it anymore.

…But seriously, those pants are definitely different. Maybe.  

I won't let you damage my self esteem mac&cheese. Not again.

Last night for dinner I had Pop Tarts and Cup Noodles (look at the package; it doesn’t say Cup of Noodles. Just found that out and it blew my mind). So tonight I thought I should have something that at least resembled a proper meal, lest I become a collegiate stereotype.

My idea of a proper meal is a plentiful bounty of hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. Because I’m a champion.

As my faithful sous-chef/roomsie Courtney was preparing the dish of noodley goodness, she wisely sought my advice. She was unsure whether to use the ‘suggested’ preparation instructions or the ‘classic’ prep.

I was a bit shocked when I looked at the box and saw that there were, in fact, two different preparation options. I think this is ludicrous, as the classic is always the better option (just ask New Coke).

But then it all became clear. The ‘suggested’ preparation had 75% less fat and 30% less calories (and thus 100% less deliciousness). I couldn’t believe it. I was being judged by a macaroni box.

“Hey listen, I’m saying this just as a suggestion, maybe use less butter? Or you know what, just put me back in the cupboard and have a salad. And then go to the gym, because you disgust me.”

Well screw you, Kraft macaroni and cheese preparation instructions. I am secure with myself. And now I’m going to add extra butter just out of spite.

Or just eat more Pop Tarts instead. Because they love me for who I am.