Muffled Disdain

I really HATE men who know how to wear a scarf. Don't know why, but a well-tied scarf on a man = INSTANT dislike.

I know ONE of the Swedes in this photo. (Hint: He's the one NOT swaddled in a big fluffy neck Twizzler)

I don't know the other two. Have never met them in my life. But that dick on the right is sooooooo on my shit list.

At about 11:00am this morning, the cleaning lady for our building found a Blackberry in one of the toilets & turned it in to our lost & found (me). Standard practice when we find someone's phone is to look through the contacts for a "mom" or "dad" and call them to tell them where their kid can pick up their expensive electronic crap they probably didn't pay for and haphazardly left in the pooper.

So I dialed the number for "mom" and was greeted with a stirring rendition of "Our God is an Awesome God" as the ringback tone. Mom didn't pick up, but I got a lengthy voicemail greeting asking me to leave my name & number and extolling that "God loves [me]" and I should "Have a blessed day!"

After jamming nails in my wrists in what I can only assume was a fit of religious fervor brought on by her kind voice-mail extolences, I left a message saying that her daughter could pick her phone up from my office anytime until 6pm tonight, except from 1-2pm because that's when I take my lunch break.

I take lunch in my office sometimes. I'll shut the door with my spinach dip or leftover coldcuts party tray from some reception we've had earlier this week, or whatever the hell else I can scrounge up from the faculty lounge, and I'll watch episodes of The Daily Show or 30 Rock on Hulu.

When I do this, I stick a sign on the outside of the door that says "At Lunch. Please return in one hour" and lock it. Inevitably, there will be someone who chooses to ignore the sign and will knock on the door anyway. Then I either have to interrupt my lunch break to take care of whatever inane bullshit request they have that they're probably in the wrong place for anyway OR I can keep doing whatever I've been doing and act like I don't hear them knocking. Usually I opt to get up and do whatever needs doing so I can get rid of them and gnaw on my Keebler Clubhouse crackers in peace.

So of course, today, like clockwork, at 1:30, right in the middle of the ONLY hour I said not to come by, I get a knock on the door. Miss phone either can't read or just doesn't care. She needs her Blackberry Goddammit!!! I'm not without sympathy for someone who wants to get their phone back, so I grab the phone, answer the door, and hand it over to her. No big deal. There are the usual profuse thanks that come with returning someone's misplaced gadgets and I tell her not to worry about it. I say goodbye and shut the door.

But before I can continue watching Jon Stewart's story about his feigned rivalry with Mario Lopez, I overhear phone girl talking to someone on her phone right outside my door. She's obviously reporting to her mom that she got the phone back because I hear her say, "...I don't know why you told me not to go from 1-2, she was in there.... I just wish someone would have kept their grubby little hands off it for 10 minutes. I mean, I'm glad they turned it in and all, but I don't think that's what they were planning to do. That's not what they had in mind." Because most thieves know that prowling the shitters in Peck Hall on the off chance someone will leave their phone behind is the most lucrative form of thievery.

Dumb bitch. You're the one who left your expensive ass phone in the toilet! Someone was nice enough to turn it in for you and you got it back less than 2 hours after you lost it. But all you can do is verbally and figuratively shit all over everyone who helped you get your crap back.
I should have called that "<3Justin" that was in your phonebook and delivered your STD test results from the planned parenthood lab.

Qualifications



by Derek Chatwood.

larger one here.


I can't seem to commit to writing well-thought-out full blog pieces, journal pieces, or any other pieces of a decent length. I've become addicted to Twitter and the 5-second release of creative juices it allows. I no longer feel the need to couch a pithy phrase or astute observation in the cushions of an entire, legitimate article of writing-- I can just splurt a single sentence out in 140 characters or less all over the face of the internet and get the release (and sometimes the validation) I crave.

This is ruining my writing skills.

It used to be that when I'd think of something particularly clever or insightful, I'd write it down in my journal or a notebook, so I could hang on to it and use it later in a piece of writing. These little nuggets of what I thought were snarky brilliance gave me a supply of clever thought to draw upon for writing and sometimes conversation. Now however, as soon as I think of anything even remotely clever, I can't wait to blow my wad all over Twitter. And once a phrase, statement, or idea is out there, it's out there. Even without the megalomaniacal delusion that anyone actually reads my Tweets, as soon as an idea leaves my mind and goes out there into the (not-so) real world, I stop mulling on it, editing it, or keeping it handy on the tip of my brain for later use.
I'd feel like a turd re-using a clever tweet in a later blog post, or in conversation, so those tidbits are just gone... used up.

All this has led me to the idea that Twitter is an electronic form of creativity-masturbation. You can get your rocks off quickly, but the process is devoid of a great deal of effort and ultimately, much less satisfying than the real thing.

I know that many of you would say that Twitter is no substitute for proper blogging or proper writing-- and you're absolutely right. It's just that the obscene amount of knee-jerk self-gratification in which I wallow on Twitter seems to be robbing me of the inclination and creative reserves necessary to write anything substantial.

Pictured above: The Doo doo Doodler