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. 

If a genie ever grants you three wishes, don't base them on a Beach Boys song

Today I moved the majority of my belonging to my new apartment in Corvallis with the help of my wonderful parents and one of my roommates. As everyone knows, moving is very difficult and very tiring. But as I lounge in my bed, relaxing and watching the Shining, I’m not thinking about moving.

I’m thinking, of course, about the Beach Boys. Specifically, the fact that you should never take practical advice from a Beach Boys song.

This thought first struck me on the way home while listening to “Wouldn’t it be nice”. Now I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that this, like most Beach Boy songs, is one of the most ludicrously happy sounding tunes you are likely to stumble upon. Just the opening bars are enough to make me want to bounce back and forth and do jazz hands (which of course, I do).

My first problem with this song becomes clear in the opening lyrics: wouldn’t it be nice if we were older?

No. As simple as that. It is not nice to be older. In fact, even as I prepare to head off for my next year of college I am spending most of my time trying to create a device to allow me to return to the age of seven. Because My Little Ponies are nice. And Barbies and dress-up and red rover and Sky Dancers (even if Sky Dancers are now illegal due to the fact they are too awesome for kids to handle. Also they smack you in the face with the force of an MMA fighter.)

Getting older? Not so nice.

But Peter Pan Syndrome aside, I still have one major problem with this song, and that is the following lyric: I wish that every kiss was never ending.

First of all, if it is never ending then there is no ‘every’ kiss. It is one kiss. The SAME kiss, going on and on forever.

Wouldn’t it be nice? NO. It would be a NIGHTMARE.

A never ending kiss would be fine for maybe the first twenty minutes. But after the first day? Week? Year?! If you last that long without dying of starvation of course. I guess you would just have to sort of wedge the food in between your lips. Or maybe you could get hooked up to an IV.

"It's been three years. Just please kill me." 

And how would you sleep? Is it physically possible to continue a single kiss while sleeping? I think not. I think you would have to stay awake, hour after hour, locked in a hellish prison of lips with someone who by that point you probably despise. And when the last star blinks out at the edge of eternity, there you’ll be, still kissing.

And wouldn't it be nice? 

I am appalled by that mouse's lack of integrity

This weekend I went camping with my family (and awesome friend Gennie) on the Deschutes River. This post is courtesy of my dad, who is extremely terrified of snakes. People usually think I get my…uniqueness from my mom because we share the same outlandish personality, but every once and a while my dad does something that reminds me that he’s as much of a weirdo as the rest of us.

“I hear a rattlesnake.”

“No dad, that is definitely a bird.”

“No, that’s a rattlesnake. He is riding a surfboard.”

“…so he’s on the other side of the river?”

“Well he came from that island but now he is coming across on his surfboard.” He laughs to himself. “I bet he has a little mouse riding in the front wearing a lifejacket.”

“Wouldn’t he eat the mouse? Why is he friends with it?”

“It is a traitor mouse. He tells the snake where all the other mice are so he can eat them.”

“Wow, that mouse is a dick.”

“And now the snake heard us all talking about where we are sleeping tonight. He’s going to crawl into your tent in the middle of the night.”

“Wait, aren’t rattlesnakes, like, the least sneaky of all snakes? It always announces itself.”

“The mouse will open the zipper for him.”

Of course it will. But I can’t help wondering how they paddled that surfboard.

Happy 51st birthday, daddy