August 30, 2006
Even though I graduated a few years ago, I like to think that a part of me is still a student. I don’t have school pride or a desire to continue learning or anything so outlandish. What I do have is much less superficial: it’s my Michigan State University student ID card, which for more than six years has entitled me to endless discounts and exclusive student deals. It is true that the photo that appears on my ID is a disoriented, seventeen-year-old child version of myself who could pass for a son, and that the ID itself has been through the washer more than most of my clothing, but none have ever questioned the veracity of this decaying ID—and since these cards don’t technically expire, I’m going to see exactly how far I can take it. My ultimate goal is to transition right from student discounts to senior-citizen discounts, or even try to see if anybody will give me a double discount for being a sixty-five year-old student. Probably the bus driver I’m trying to pull this off with would never have seen anything more pathetic in his entire life and he’ll just let me ride for free. He might be right, but a free bus ride is a free bus ride, and I’ll need to get to the grocery store somehow to deposit my trashbag full of cans.
August 10, 2006
I’m very irked when somebody complains that they were bitten by a bee. Every time somebody says this I’m coerced into imaging an enraged bee landing on their arm with the intent to cause acute pain—but instead of actually using its stinger, which it has spent millions of years evolving for precisely this situation, it takes a dainty nibble with its miniscule insect mouth. What a ridiculous image you have burdened me with. While these people are tenderly messaging their bee wound I like to condescendingly explain that they weren’t bitten at all, but stung. I’ll say, “If you were only bitten, your deadly bee allergies wouldn’t be reacting like they are right now and you wouldn’t be struggling to breathe, you idiot.” Then they turn pale and lose consciousness from embarrassment of their error.
August 2, 2006
Last night I made the mistake of lying on my arm, which cut off blood flow to the area and caused my arm to “fall asleep.” Countless lies have been told about one’s extremities “falling asleep,” as if they’re just taking a little nap. “Aww. Well would you look at this. Looks like Mr. Arm needs a little shuteye. Shh, shh, don’t wake him. Poor guy’s had a big day.” Yeah, not quite—try the fact that every single pain receptor in that part of my body is being activated at once and I’ve lost the use of half my body. But I guess I deserve that for being in REM sleep and unconsciously turning onto my side, which I had no control of whatsoever. I’ll be sure to never do that again.