Number Four Has Hygienic Issues

I have briefly touched on Number Four's lack of basic hygienic practices, in that she never washed her Circus Pants. But her battle against general cleanliness did not end there. There was a time when Number Four was struck ill. Now, Number Four had some interesting notions toward medications, but we will approach that nugget in a minute. For now, suffice it to say that she did not regularly take any medication for her illness. She eventually took enough of it to get rid of whatever was making her sick, or perhaps it abandoned her of its own volition, preferring suicide over living in such a host. But that's neither here nor there. My point of contention is that after this rather lengthy illness which involved a nasty cough and copious amounts of phlegm, Number Four did not wash her sheets that she had been sick all over. She didn't even change the pillowcase! Please note that I compulsively wash my sheets once a month. In fact, I need to wash them now, but I don't have enough quarters to do that and it is squigging me out something awful. And thinking about this is certainly not helping.

Another thing that was more evident than any of us were comfortable with (particularly Pamala) was the fact that Number Four had foot fungus. Her feet were covered in gross, black swollen blotches that she scratched red and raw. They were a testament to her summer in Costa Rica. She had various different medications for it, but she seemed to have some difficulty in actually taking them. When I was sick of hearing her whine about her feet itching (and no one can whine quite like Number Four), I told her to go put on the anti-itch cream her doctor had given her. (As yet another side note, of all the things that bother me, and there are many, the one thing that bothers me the most is when people complain about a problem they have when there is a readily available solution. "Ow, I have a headache." "Here, take an Excedrin." "I don't want to..." "Well then shut the fuck up about your headache.") She didn't want to use the medication because her friend (not even her mother/father/brother/cousin) was a Scientologist, and she told Number Four all about how taking medication is bad and wrong. I could barely contain myself. I believe I may have yelled something along the lines of "What kind of bullshit is this? You aren't even a Scientologist yourself, you're Jewish! Just take the fucking pills and you will get better!" And wouldn't you know it, she took them every day after that, because she has no actual personality or opinions of her own, she simply adopted the opinions of those around her. I think this was the root of our disdain for her. Yes, so she took the pills and applied her cream more regularly, not that it really made much of a difference in her disgusting habits with her feet. She would sit on the couch and scratch and pick at them, or rub them on the couch compulsively. And poor Pamala had to try to fall asleep every single night to the sound of Number Four raking away and her fungus-infested feet.

Comment Contest

Here's a contest for those of you who like a challenge. Each of the post titles listed below is either a song title or a song lyric. If you know the name of the song and the artist, then put it in a comment. Some are easy, but some are quite hard. All of them are actual songs. I've made links to the original posts if you want a few clues. The person who gets the most right wins a prize!

You Make Me Wanna...
Scar Tissue
Low
Love Cat(s)
Hello Mother
Ooh, You Touch My Tra-la-la
Infernal Machine!
People are Strange
A Little Less Conversation
If You Really Loved Me...
Losing My Religion (an Existential Crisis)
Evolution
Sleep Deprived
Evasive Maneuvers
Celebrate, Come On!
Just When I Thought it Couldn't Get Any Better
A Thinking Thing
It's A Mystery
Take Another Piece of My Heart
The Saints are Coming...
Happy Day Mama
We Drink and Drink and Drink and Drink and Drink and FIGHT!
Colorblind
Crash Into Me
Precious Memories

You Make Me Wanna...

The other day Pamala sent me a link to her horrible roommate's boyfriend's blog. He is possibly the most boring person on the face of the earth. Here's the conversation that ensued:

Sarah: FINALLY

Pamala: sorry
Pamala: just got home

Sarah: i wanted to talk crap about bryan's blog
Sarah: which was pysically painful to read

Pamala: so incredibly boring
Pamala: i scanned

Sarah: please go and click on view my full profile

Pamala: holy crap
Pamala: still
Pamala: falcon's eyes
Pamala: for gods sake

Sarah: what is he socrates

Pamala: no, look at the "welcome"
Pamala: holy gold
Pamala: i can't stop laughting
Pamala: wtf

Sarah: interesting happenings of his life?
Sarah: seriously??

Pamala: yeah

Sarah: ok did you look at the profile yet

(The part I'm talking about goes like this: there is a random question on the profile. His was "Please describe how you could take the peel off an apple all in one go: " His answer was "What would we do if we had the power to change human history? What would we change? Who would we stop, let go, save, kill?")

Pamala: but would you respond to how to peel an apple with a series of questions

Sarah: apparently if we had the power to change human history (time travel?) we would...peel...apples...?
Sarah: please please please look at his favorite musoc
Sarah: music
Sarah: muSUCK
Sarah: and books?
Sarah: i want to STAB something

Pamala: hahahahahahahahaha
Pamala: this is about the opposite person i would be interested in
Pamala: btw orly is coming

(Orly was my roommate senior year. She is the embodiment of awesome.)

Sarah: WHEN

Pamala: unless she backs out last minute again
Pamala: maybe saturday night

Sarah: she sent one cancellation already...

Pamala: but dave and i yelled at her over a conference call

Sarah: i can't take this back and forth, up and down

Pamala: breaks your heart a lil each time?

Sarah: and my poor heart can't take these games

(Here's where things get a little muddled, per usual)

Pamala: he is seriously incredibly horribly boring
Pamala: holy god

Sarah: it is sooooooo depressing

Pamala: i just read the questions to his answer the peel

Sarah: but then you forget why you are depressed
Sarah: and then you just are for no reason

Pamala: wait is this orly or bryan

Sarah: its like how being around stupid people makes you dumb

Pamala: b/c both make me depressed

Sarah: bryan

Pamala: okay that is what I thought

Sarah: because he is so forgettable
Sarah : i could never forget orly

Pamala: ahh its just terrible
Pamala: but its true
Pamala: yes to orly

Sarah: bryan just makes me want to kill myself

Pamala: agree
Pamala: it's just...so...bad

Sarah: i like how it was all like one week in february

Pamala: haha didn't even notice
Pamala: it's like his concentration was for one week

Sarah: this is concentration?

Pamala: well for him, i am guessing yes

Sarah: and the best part is that i KNOW that blogger has a spell check

Pamala: haha and he didn't utilize it

(You will have to go look yourself if you want to see what these are about. It's very short, but it is painful.)

Sarah: at ALL
Sarah: did you see "quant"

Pamala: ohmygod did you "sement"

Sarah: or just not quite getting phrases right

Pamala: did you see "sement"!

Sarah: i seriously felt a pain

Pamala: it makes me wonder what this world is coming to

Sarah: sement... it hurts me pam

Pamala: hhahahaha me too

Sarah: my brain...
Sarah: it is stunned

Pamala: and then he gets philosophical about the sement

Sarah: i just almost spit out wine all over my compnuter

Pamala: so bad
Pamala: it's just so bad
Pamala: i don't think i have ever been so shocked about the retardedness of a person before

(In this next bit, notice how I break out in song, and also notice how Pamala completely ignores it. Another failed attempt to woo Pam. Sigh...)

Sarah: paula?
Sarah: well that wasnt really "shocking"
Sarah: oooh usher
Sarah: you make me wanna

Pamala: hahaha i thought that too

Sarah: leave the one i'm with

Pamala: maybe...paula....no
Pamala: it's definitely brian

Sarah: start a neeeew relationship
Sarah : wit chu

Pamala: at least paula was sort memorable....not her personality per se
Pamala: but the hair
Pamala: and the pants

Sarah: and her face

Pamala: when she smiled
Pamala: or stared at us

Sarah: i swear to god i though she would try to kill at least one of us

Pamala: i thought it was going to be me

Sarah: i was the biggest bitch to her

Pamala: after the 500th time playing "you'll see" from Rent
Pamala: ahh but you would take her out

Sarah: yeah but i could have been up in my bed-nest dead for days

Pamala: hhaha this is true
Pamala: and orly doesn't pay attention
Pamala: so she wouldn't have noticed

Sarah: she would have been like sarah's sure quiet. hm
Sarah: and then move on

Pamala: just been like...hmm she must be sleeping

Sarah: she usually bugs the shit out of me
Sarah: hm
Sarah: thats what i miss about her the most
Sarah: hearing her go hm

Pamala: orly went hmmm?

Sarah: she did it really short
Sarah: kinda like huh
Sarah: but no u

Pamala: i have to pay attention
Pamala: isn't it funny how it's such the little things

Sarah: totally
Sarah: or i would be talking to her
Sarah: and she would never listen
Sarah: and i would stop
Sarah: and then she would go haaaaaaaa?

Pamala: ahh how i miss that stuff too

Sarah: i'm getting all teary
Sarah: she has to come

Pamala: i know
Pamala: she doesn't realize how much we miss her

Sarah: i swear to god i'm gonna cry when i see her next
Sarah: the emotional precipice i'm on right now?

Pamala: hahah i have totally cried over her before

Sarah: there will be tears
Sarah: this is so weird
Sarah: i've never cried over a girl before

Pamala: oh i have totally
Pamala: over friendships being lost
Pamala: over someone leaving
Pamala: totally
Pamala: i cried when orly left sb

Sarah: well i did cry when i thought you were mad at me and i didnt know why

Pamala: haha when was this?
Pamala: see do i not count as a girl?

Sarah: after game night disaster

Pamala: oh yeah that was horrible

Sarah: no i'm correcting myself

Pamala: i was annoyed at the world

Sarah: clearly

Pamala: vhateva yo

Sarah: you and orly
Sarah: thats it

Pamala: haha well I am glad
Pamala: we are important

Sarah: top o the list
Sarah: what should i write about tomorrow

Pamala: uuum your love for me and olrs

Sarah: probably

Scar Tissue

I have a lot of scars, but only a few of them are large enough to be readily visible. One of my biggest scars is hardly visible at all actually. This troubles me a bit, because each scar has it's own story. The scars are reminders for things that have happened to me. My most painful scar-story doesn't have a visible reminder, but it does still twinge and let me know it's there. I'll start with that one.

It was the night before New Year's Eve when I was ten, and my brother and I were wrestling in the living room. I don't remember exactly what happened, but somehow he was at the end of the hallway and something made him rush at me. Probably I did or said something mean to him, I remember that he looked angry. He ducked down as he ran into me and heaved up with his shoulder. I flew backwards and stuck my right arm out to break my fall, but that didn't work out so well. I ended up landing with my full weight on that arm, and that arm was extended behind me. So, go like this. Stick your right arm straight out from the shoulder, parallel to the ground, with your palm turned out, perpendicular to the ground. Now, keeping your arm level, move your arm behind you so that your palm is facing out as far behind you as you can. Keep your elbow straight (there's an elbow-locking family trait). Now imagine falling backwards and the palm of your hand hitting the ground first. I broke both bones in my forearm. On the night before New Year's Eve. I broke them so badly that they had to call a specialist to fix it. However, since it was the holidays, I had to wait three days until he was available. With a broken arm. What was even worse was when they set my arm. They never told me what was happening, and they wouldn't let Mama in with me. There were two nurses across my legs, one holding my shoulders down, one holding my elbow and the doctor had my forearm. First, they shot painkillers directly into my bones when the break was. Then they re-broke my arm and set it.

My biggest scar is the one that is barely visible. It starts on the top of my right calf and runs down the outside of my leg. I was riding a BMX style bicycle, with one of those little tiny seats. I stood up to pedal harder to get going faster, and like an idiot I wasn't careful when I sat down and I missed the seat. I sat on the back tire, which then pushed me underneath the seat. This made the bike tip over on the side, also known as my right leg. I slid up the street about fifteen or twenty feet. On my leg. I limped back to the baby sitter's house only to have my leg attacked with peroxide and a wire brush to get out the gravel.

I can skip a few scars and tell you that my elbows are mangled for almost identical reasons, except they involve a big hill and losing control of my bike.

My next biggest scar is smack dab in the center of my left shin. It's about an inch long and maybe a quarter of an inch wide. At the house I grew up in we had a pool. The pool had a jacuzzi attached to it, separated from the pool by a wall that had tile across the top, not rounded tile, we're talking right angles here. The top of the wall was below the water level, so water could flow in and out from the jacuzzi. Well, we used to play King of the Wall. I was up there one day and I was winning too. But then Mama came out and said "You better knock it off, some one's going to get hurt." At that exact moment, someone grabbed my arm and pulled my backward into the jacuzzi. My left foot slipped and my shin scraped its way down the edge of the tile on the wall, neatly slicing of a chunk of my flesh.

My oldest scar is on my right arm just above my elbow. When I was in second grade we were playing some racing game in the Multi Purpose Room. There was that heavy industrial carpet that is like plastic in there. The rules of the game dictated that shoes were illegal, so I was running full speed on this carpet in my socks. When I went around a turn, my feet slid out from under me and my elbow slid across the carpet. The scar is from the rug burn I had as a result.

My hardest-to-see scar is right at the edge of my bottom lip, right in the middle. I was riding one of these:

Except mine was red, not purple. And I think there was only one front wheel, and it was smaller. If you never had one, they were a death trap. The way you rode it was to kneel on the triangle part, kick off with your foot, and hold the handles with your head about a foot above the ground that was rushing beneath you. I was doing just that when those little bitty front wheels hit a crack in the sidewalk and stuck there. My scooter stopped. I, however, hit the ground lip-first. The scar was actually made by my tooth.

Low

May 17th
I broke up with Niall yesterday. I know that I did the right thing, but I feel so terrible. The worst thing is that I still love him, but it just couldn't work anymore. Not as a healthy relationship. All I want to do right now is go and take care of him, and I think that speaks volumes about what our relationship was becoming. I have to be selfish with this, or what I need will get subjugated, and what he needs will take over my life. I could let myself do it, take care of him and forget everything else, but in the end I would be miserable and resent him, and he still wouldn't have what he needs. I know that this is for the best, but I will never be able to forget that look on his face.

May 20th
After I spent Friday getting updates from the vet about Singe, picking her up and getting all the instructions for her medication and tips on how to force-feed a cat, I took her home and got her settled and drugged. Then I took Niall's things back to him. It was difficult even gathering them all together. They had seemed so natural where they were; the places they occupied belonged to them. Now there are empty places in my apartment to match the empty places in my heart.
Niall had some things of mine to give back to me as well and now they sit on my floor accusingly. I seem to be preternaturally aware of them. They do not belong here.
I still haven't thrown out his toothbrush. I just can't bring myself to do it.
As I went to leave Niall's, we hugged each other. There in his arms, I began to think about all the things that I will never get to do with him. It became so painful that I literally ran out the door. I went around the corner to the stairs and I had to stop and lean against the wall, fighting my tears as hard as I could. I almost went back and told him to forget everything I said and that I would take care of him, but I know that it would be a lie. There is no way that I would be able to give him what he needs, and I would kill myself trying to give it to him.
Everyone has something that they cannot deal with, and unfortunately for us, Niall has mine. I love him and I respect him, but I just don't have the strength it would take. I truly hope that some day it will not be too painful for us to see each other and that we can regain the friendship that we had. Niall is truly an amazing person and I will miss him with every thought. I would give anything for things to be different, but I cannot change what is.
Instead of letting things go on between us and years from now becoming bitter and resentful to each other, I have given us both an opportunity for something better. I just hope that he can someday see it that way too.
I also hope that someday I no longer feel as though I'm drowning when I think of him.

Love Cat(s)

My cat that I've had since the day she was born nine and a half years ago is very ill. Singe lost her appetite about a week ago, maybe ten days even. She was eating, but only a tiny bit. She was also sleeping even more than normal. Then I noticed that she seemed to be drinking a lot of water. Last night she threw up and it was just all water. I decided to take her in today after that happened. This morning she was sneezing a lot as well.

I just spoke with the vet and, according to the blood work, Singe has a very high liver value, which is bad. The vet says that she either has an infection or a gall stone, but they can't know for sure which without doing an ultrasound and a biopsy. There are a few things that we can try before such drastic measures need to be taken. The vet is giving her fluids and some medication, including an anti-nausea one. Then I get to feed her with a syringe and shove pills down her throat all weekend. Hooray. If she isn't doing better by Monday, the vet wants to do more drastic things like the ultrasound, and put her on a feeding tube for a month. I have been hearing from a few people about another vet in the area that seems a lot better. They apparently have a track record for success when other vets have said that drastic things should be done; this place seems to have better solutions. So, if Singe is not doing better by Monday, I am going to give this other vet a call and see what they think.

Happy Birthday Brian!

Hello, Mother...

Ok, I know that I just posted, but I had to share this. Mama just sent me an email, and I am still laughing at it.
And I quote:

So- I went and shopped with Sheila and Nanci yesterday at a nursury and got pretty flowers that I need to plant today.. then nanci and I went towards rosarito and shopped for hanging things to put on the gigantic orange wall between our house and the neighbors- over the bird bath. For some reason I got little suns with faces on them and now that I think about it- I don't like faces looking at me so why did I get them? I should have gotten little dolphins, turtles or frogs or anything but faces! Well the frogs and turtles would have had faces too wouldn't they? So - guess I'll try the sun faces and see if I can stand them- if not- I'll put them on the front wall facing the street so they can look at people walking by and not at me.. my brain has turned to mush... Have a good day hon love mom

This is the woman who raised me (and I love her dearly).
Perhaps this answers a few lingering questions some of you have...

Ooh, You Touch My Tra-la-la

As some of you know, this past Saturday Santa Barbara was invaded. To quote the Daily Nexus, UCSB's campus paper, "Günther’s raging sex drive overflowed like champagne in Storke Plaza on Friday, as the Swedish singer and his Sunshine Girls touched UCSB’s tra-la-la during his first-ever West Coast appearance."

It was an auspicious day indeed. Not only did he perform on campus, but it was a free concert. This had some serious ramifications, but we'll get to that later. First the fun stuff. Fans were there early, gazing toward the stage, hoping for a glimpse of His Gloriousness:

We did actually see him arrive. He snuck past where we were sitting. Pam and I were both surprised to learn that he is a rather slight fellow. Not what you would call a manly physique. There were not as many early arrivals as I had anticipated, but there were a few. Including the one and only Laurel Doersam, his "Number One Fan on Myspace!", who was apparently the sole person responsible for bringing Günther’s Empire to UCSB. Somehow.

Not only was she camped out awaiting the Pleasureman, she had a bouquet of lilies for him, which she tried to present to him during the sound check. Günther did his stoic best to ignore this drunken mess of a girl, but she still relentlessly invited him to party in I.V. after the show. After she spilled her Pepsi bottle that smelled like it had a healthy dose of peach schnapps added, she then told everyone around us repeatedly that she was "his Number One on myspace". And by repeatedly I mean that this sentence came out of her mouth about every thirty seconds. And she had that voice? You know? That kinda sounds like this? But. The greatest part about her was her "outfit". Now, I have nothing against dressing up for things (we'll get to my outfit later), but this was almost beyond reason. She had taken what appeared to be an animal-print nightie and torn a slit on the side of it. Literally. Torn. Ragged-edges-with-threads-hanging-down-torn. It sort of looked like this:

Only is was a little less clingy, more silky. And there was a lot of black lace going on at the top. And shorter. And with a slit torn up the side. Did I mention that? Because she tore a slit up the side.

Pamala and I went a different direction in our getups. It never occurred to us to get whored out. We went on a shopping trip to the one and only (not really) Susie's Deals to get Fabulousitized, and we were not disappointed. I was hoping for a bit more glitzy, but I think we hit our mark pretty well:

Even better than Pam and I were Pam's brother Matt and his friend Demarco:

Infernal Machine!

Well I was going to give y'all a nice long post with lots of beautiful pictures from the glorious Gunther show. However. My computer has decided to mutiny against the rest of the crew, said crew being myself and my camera...I may have stretched that metaphor a bit too far. Too many commercials for Pirate Master. My point is, can my computer please just do what it's told? Apparently not. Apparently it feels the need to suddenly, randomly, and with no warning whatsoever, just turn off. No "Windows is shutting down, save your shit" message. Not even The Blue Screen of Death. Just a pitiful little half-click, half-clunk noise and then it completely and utterly turned off. My feet were nowhere near the power strip. I didn't do anything unusual. We were going along, having a good time, uploading pictures to the internets, and then bang! All the good times and happiness came to a crashing halt. My computer isn't even that old! Maybe it has some sort of rapid aging disease.

Number Four Wears Circus Pants

Did you just wonder to yourself "What the fuck are Circus Pants?" It will become clear. Read on to be enlightened.

One of the first things that we learned about Number Four was that she had an unusual collection of pants. Highly unusual. She actually owned a pair of red jeans. RED. Like blood. Those were probably the most disturbing. There was also a pair of jeans, or maybe they were corduroys, that were striped in various shades of blue, with the occasional yellow stripe. The thing about the weird pants was that she would wear them with, say, a bright purple hoodie. It was an assault on the eyes, really. You would see her and just wince and look away quickly. Now, this truly might not have been that bad, but Number Four was not a small, cute girl. I'm not a skinny girl myself, but I do not walk around with gigantic portions of my flesh exposed to the elements. Somehow, even while wearing pants and a sweatshirt, Number Four would manage to walk around with a slab of about six inches of blubber on her side flapping in the breeze. It was like her clothes conspired against the world. Her pants would creep down, but only on one side, usually the left. At the same time, whatever she was covering the top half of her carcass with would slowly inch upwards, also usually on the left side. And, in complete defiance of all that is right and good in the world, she would never, ever, ever fix either article of clothing. It was baffling.

But there was one pair of pants that Number Four loved above all others; loved beyond reason. These were a pair of pajama pants that had crazy combinations of colors in vertical, wavy stripes. Sort of like these, but much brighter and more glaring colors. And paired with a bright purple sweatshirt. And with six inches of side-slab exposed. It was truly a sight to behold. The pattern and the copious amount of material needed to fit her led us to determine that they resembled a circus tent. Hence, Circus Pants. Not Circus Tent Pants, like you could logically conclude. No, Pamala, Orly and I are not bounded by such trifles as logic. They were Circus Pants. The thing about these pants was that Number Four would sleep in them every night. Which is fine. Except for two things. First, she would come home from class at around noon, sometimes even as late at two, and immediately change into these eyesores. And wear them the rest of the day. For hours. Now, I have nothing against changing into your favorite comfy pajamas when you get home. But. And this is huge. She never washed them. Not once. She would wear them on laundry day when she washed every other piece of hideous clothing she owned. But the ones that she wore for hours and hours every day, and slept in every night? Those never saw one drop of soap.

People are Strange

Apparently I should stop going to the restaurant grouping near my work. First, there was Crazy Bra Girl. Yesterday was a much shorter, but much much weirder event. I was sitting outside at a different place, finished with my lunch and talking to my dad on the phone. I had one of those Sparkling Cranberry Juices from Trader Joe's (those things are the best thing ever, seriously) that I was sipping on. I needed to write down Dad's address, so I fumbled around in my purse for something to write on. I ended up having to use a pair of chopsticks that I'd squirreled away from the day before (they were clean! Still in the wrapper!). People wonder why I do things like put chopsticks in my purse, but I was prepared people. Anyway. So there I was. On the phone with my dad, writing his address on a pair of chopsticks, confirming the address, when I looked up. In front of me was a late-forties, early-fifties man holding out a small Styrofoam cup and gesturing that I should take it. I gave him my best "What the fuck? Sir, I've never seen you in my life, what makes you think I will take this cup from you? And I am clearly on the phone and writing on a pair of chopsticks. I don't have any free hands do I now?" look. He somehow misinterpreted this look as "Why thank you kind stranger. Could you just put it there?" and he smiled and placed the cup in front of me. It was a cup full of ice.

A Little Less Conversation

I had an incident yesterday that left me flat-out stunned. I am rarely rendered speechless, but this had me literally mouth-open-nothing-coming-out-speechless. Ok, let me set the scene. After a glorious three hours on the beach with Pam, I was a bit peckish, so we went over to Mika, my go-to sushi place. It's not the greatest, but it's there and it's not bad. I headed up to order, a little sad that the guy that normally works the counter was out on break.
The girl behind the counter seemed nice enough though, asking me how I was. I replied that I was fine, who could not be on such a warm, sunny day. Which is when it began. I kid you not, within five minutes I was informed that she was, in fact, very much not fine, because she, like, had on this bra, and it was, like, too tight on her and, like, pinch her boobs, and she only had it on because she, like, went on this date last night and she hadn't had time to, like, change or anything, y'know? And, like, when it gets all hot and stuff, she, like, retains a lot of, like, water, or whatever, and so she was, like, swollen up on top of her, like, really tight bra that, like, she doesn't even know why she wore it, even though it's, like, really sexy, because guys, like, totally don't even care and she could have just, like worn a tank top and shorts, or something, and, like, he wouldn't have noticed, right?

If You Really Loved Me...

You would show it on my birthday. By getting me one of these.

How Number Four Got Her Name

Pamala's best guy friend is Dave. Dave lives with Mats (there are quite a few untold stories about these two that I've just realized should be written down for posterity. Bwahahaha...) and Jesse. One day Pamala was over at their house and she was complaining to Dave about Paula and how weird she was. Mats had only been half-paying attention when he suddenly perked up and said, "Wait, are you talking about Number Four?" Pamala was confused, but Mats often says odd things, so she was prepared to just continue. When Dave answered "Yes.", she became even more confused. And then it sunk in. "Oh my god, you named her Number Four?" They laughingly admitted that they had, in fact, christened Paula with the name Number Four.
Now, while this was initially amusing, Pamala quickly became a little worried about how extensive their numbering system was. After grilling them mercilessly, they were able to convince her that Paula was the only roommate with a number.
Apparently, Pamala, Orly and I all have some aspect of our selves that is memorable, that makes an impression that lasts past the first meeting. Paula...not so much. They could not remember much of anything about her, so they just started calling her "the fourth one", which quickly turned into Number Four.
Since Pamala, Orly and I had to live with her, we adopted this as a code name for her. We had many, many im conversations that consisted entirely of

Pamala: god i hate 4 soooooo much!!!
Sarah: i know shes so retarded!
Orly: At least she didn't flash you dorks!
All: shudder

Only with a lot more instances of how we hated her/how annoying she was/how weird she was. We even progressed so far as to refer to her by her code name in front of her. And her dumb ass never did figure it out. That we know of...

Losing My Religion (An Existential Crisis)

I have lost my faith in mints. More specifically, I've lost my trust that things that look like mints will actually be mints. You see, a few weeks ago, I wandered over to a coworkers cube and grabbed one of these out of her candy dish:I then returned to my cube and pulled out my loot, ready to enjoy the refreshing minty goodness. I unwrapped my little treasure and popped it in my mouth. And then I immediately spit it out. It was not mint. It was about as far from mint as you can get. It wasn't even cinnamon, like you might rationally also expect. Nooooooooo. It was cherry. That's right. Cherry. A candy that looks like that and tastes like cherry. Is it just me, or does that seem like an incredibly bad marketing scheme?
"We need to make a cherry candy that stands out from all other cherry candies. How do we do that?"
"Oh, I know! We could make them look exactly like mints."
"I don't know..."
"No, it'll be great! See, people will be expecting a mint, and then they'll get a cherry candy and be pleasantly surprised!"
"Brilliant!"

Now, I ask you, who in the world could possibly be expecting a mint and then get cherry and be happy about it?