One girl. One college. Three thousand guys. This blog is a blow-by-blow [yes, that was a dirty pun] account of the social (and usually sexual) misadventures of a commitment-phobic and ironically promiscuous virgin.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

guilty

Right now I am lying in bed listening to the sounds of a rainy afternoon. Wet tires rolling down JFK street. Drizzle hitting my window. The tidal wave of cars that drive too close to the curb. I have absolutely no motivation to do anything I should be doing. I have a section at 2:00 o'clock this afternoon in a building half-way across campus. The ten minute walk from my bed to section is enough of a deterrent on most days, but that coupled with the rain pretty much means I will be lying in bed all afternoon. I went to my 11 o'clock class, skipped my 10 and 12 o'clock lectures, and now I am planning on skipping my section too. Oh, and tutoring this afternoon is out of the question. What am I doing with all of these extra hours? Working on the five-page paper I have due tomorrow in my sociology class? Catching up on all of the Latin I've been ignoring for the last week? Read the book we're discussing in my sociology section tomorrow? No, no, and no. I am lying in bed, blogging.

This blog is clearly going to become a guilty pleasure, one that I will have to add to my ever growing list. Celebrity gossip magazines (and blogs of course), VH1 specials, designer jeans, and Facebook round out my top five favorite guilty pleasures.

I woke up this morning with no new text messages or missed calls, in case you were wondering. Courtney said it best when she said: "it doesn't matter what he might have texted back, good, bad or whatever, what matters is that there was no response." She then went on to remind me that sending the lyrics to the Oscar Mayer Wiener song was kind of weird, and maybe he just didn't know what the hell he was supposed to say. Whatever. I'm pretty much over it, my ego has taken bigger blows before.

Besides, I spent lunch time basking in the sight of Lefty, the current "I don't just want to make out with him" like of my life. Lefty is the one I had the intense conversation with the Friday of Halloween weekend. I decided that "Lefty" was an appropriate name for him since it's his left-handed bowl that is currently sitting in my desk. We didn't talk, but I don't really care, since I know that I could have if I had really wanted to. I spilt a glass of milk and had to clean it up and a little part of me was kind of hoping he would come over and help, afterall he was only about ten feet away sitting directly in front of me and I obviously could have used some help mopping it up. High hopes. Chivalry really is dead. Then again, Court didn't help me either and she was sitting next to me. In my fantasy world guys jump to the rescue of a girl (me, specifically) no matter how big or small the problem, but I think that holds true for most girls to some extent. Who doesn't want a dashing young gent to rush over and help her clean up spilled [...spillt?] milk? Fuck femininism, bring me a knight in shinning armor. And an Us Weekly, of course.

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