Blank Paige Filled

I can’t even begin to iterate how tired I am of people asking stupid questions in class. And I’m using “stupid” in a very broad sense here to include “unrelated, unwarranted, pointless, unimportant, and beneficial to only the asker and no one else.”

It is very - and I mean VERY - obvious that you’re just trying to show everyone how creative you can be with fact patterns and relating two completely unrelated things. OMG, you’re a genius. Now please shut up so we can actually cover something this hour and not have to cram everything into the last week of class because you just had to change the fact pattern one more time.

Oh, and by the y, if it is time to go and you’ve got an assinine question that you just have to have answered, stay behind for a few extra minutes to personally ask the professor, or pull up your email and shoot him/her a message instead of keeping the entire class over 3 minutes. We don’t like it, we don’t care about your question, we’re hungry, we’re tired. In short, you’re making it hard for us to think of you in a favorable light.

I personally am a grumpy, judgmental person and will recognize repeat offenders and start funneling them over to my shit list which I upkeep and turn to often. Don’t underestimate it.

Dear Urban Outfitters & Anthropologie,

I don’t think your stuff is worth the prices you claim it is. Nevertheless, I still want it.

So, can’t we work something out? Can’t I write you an essay about how hard my life has been and is, and you give me 50% off or something? Because honestly, you’re kidding yourself if you think I’m buying this at full price.

But, since you insist, I’ll play this game. I’ll wait for the sale, or until you send me one of those 30% off emails. However, there probably won’t be any smalls left by then because you have convinced some people to pay full price with your hipster campaigning and sales people. Or those people just don’t have morals.

Either way, I’ll play the game. But I don’t enjoy it.

I went to the Dermatologist’s on my birthday, which was an interesting endeavor. I go once a year to get my moles checked and renew my acne prescriptions. This year I didn’t have any mole issues, which is a rarity. I’ve had so many hacked off because I’m a pale little thing. But I didn’t go to the beach this summer and I haven’t seen the sun in the past few months, so that should account for something.

But, anyway, my appointment was at 4:15. I wasn’t called in until 5:05. The nurse comes in and asks me what acne prescriptions I’m on. I’m telling her and it occurs to me that they should have all this on file, which she says two seconds later. So, if you can look this up, why are you asking me?

So, she goes out and a few minutes later a panel of people come in my room. There’s my actual doctor, the doctor’s assistant, and a nurse. I’m asked a barrage of questions about what I do everyday, how long I’ve been on this regimine, etc. By the way, I am a model dermatology patient. I use SPF everyday, I use all my prescriptions everyday, I drink lots of water, try to get enough sleep, and all that stuff. Despite all this, my skin has seen better days. I’m stressed, and it shows. But my dermatologist complemented me on how well my skin looked for being in law school, which I took to heart.

After about a 5-10 minute conversation, my doctor rearranges my prescriptions and leaves. I get the new prescriptions, and then I remember that I wanted to get this wart that I’ve had on my thumb frozen off. And let me just say that having this wart has been shameful and disgusting to me. So, they send in another nurse to painfully freeze off this growth - which, if you’ve never had it done before, HURTS. Two hours later my thumb was still throbbing. But, I did get a yellow crayola band-aid for my troubles.

To recap, I waited almost an hour for about 15 minutes of service that included intense questioning, prescriptions, wart freezing, and a yellow crayola band-aid.

I think that more than anything, being an only child has affected me and my personality. And nothing illustrates this more than my relationship with Barbies.

As a child, I had a million Barbie dolls. And I played with them religiously. Generally, there weren’t any other children around, so I was in my own little world with my Barbies, and I was pretty satisfied. I could completely entertain myself all day like this.

But, I was anal about the Barbies. They were all blonde, unless it was a Disney character or something, because I was blonde. One Christmas I wanted a Barbie that was a teacher and they ran out of blonde ones, so my Grandaddy bought me a brunette one. I opened it and when I saw the box I knew what it was. And then I saw that it was a brunette and I couldn’t hide the disappointment on my face. Looking back, I feel so ungrateful. But as a spoiled child I couldn’t pretend for that instant I wasn’t upset. It was more like culture shock than anything. I had just never even thought about owning Theresa. I want what I want and I get this picture in my mind of how it should be, and when it doesn’t work out I quietly pitch a fit.

I also never messed with the Barbies’ hair or jewelry or anything like that. I would switch their clothes and stuff, but overall their appearance should remain almost the same as in the box. It didn’t occur to me that other kids weren’t like this until my stepsister took down one of my Barbies’ hairstyles. I freaked out. I ripped the Barbie out of her hand and ran to my mother, demanding that she put it back. I couldn’t understand how someone could violate my Barbie like that. So after that I was pretty stingy with my Barbies, like I am with everything else.

This year, I think in an attempt to go back to my childhood, I asked for Barbies for my birthday. But not the little slut Barbies they have now - the 50th Anniversary Fashion Model editions that are made out of silkstone like the originals were. They’re gorgeous. I act like a nine year old with them - fixing the hair, fluffing out the dress. And you may think I’m psychotic and judge me, but I don’t care. I probably wouldn’t let you touch them anyway.