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The Infernal Transportation Device Called Trax

Though a new semester at the U is starting with new classes, new opportunities, and new people to meet, there's one thing that will always remain constant for me: taking Trax. Trax: a jostling transportation device that takes despondent early risers from one location to another.

 Weirdos, hobos, and  need-to-be institutionalized people often frequent this infernal place. Their favorite past times are to badger young girls named Amy and generally cause a ruckus. These vagrants also target people with headphones in, people who are trying to sleep at six thirty in the morning, and anybody who makes eye contact.

Despite the weirdos sometimes Utah becomes an even smaller world here when one of your peeps gets on Trax and just happens to sit RIGHT in front of you. A serendipitous moment where you get to actually enjoy the company of the people squished up against you on the ride home. I call this the Law of Trax.

If there is someone you know getting on Trax, the laws of the universe will push them towards you, shifting two people to finally snap together like magnets. No intention, no planning, just bada bing bada boom and they're instantly in front of you.  This has happened to me a lot so I know that Trax has this odd power to throw people together. The wizardry of Trax however does not always work out in your favor.

Which is what happened one dreary February morning. The universe was at work connecting people on their morning commutes, it's current project, me and a boy I had just gone on a date with. The problem, I never wanted to see this guy again after that date. He was arrogant and couldn't stop telling me about how he got busted for weed a few years back but was a "born-again" LDS kid. He had been a free ticket to a Mummy Museum I'd wanted to see downton and that was all. Little did I know that Trax had something else in mind. The whirring of it's engines giggled that morning in anticipation to see what would happen if it threw said boy into the path of tired Amy.

My nose was buried in a Spanish textbook, fervently reading and re-reading Spanish vocab for a quiz later that day. Que hiciste ayer? Que comiste? Que... what the heck are you doing here, I thought to myself as weed-boy sat right in from of me, his curly hair tied up in a ponytail and his belly tucked into a pantsuit. All hopes of sleeping, listening to music, or studying flew out the window thanks to my good friend, Trax.

Despite my body language saying, I never want to talk to you again and am clearly trying to study here, he was brave and ventured to reach past my piercing glare pinning him to his seat. Okay maybe I'm just a horrible person, but I just wasn't interested in Born Again Weed Boy. So the instant we hit a university stop, I stood up. He reached for me like Romeo reaching for his Juliet up above. He opened his lips and the dreaded words poured out, "Maybe we should go out again, like next Friday?"

My tired mind could think of no gentle response, and merely constructed the intelligent answer of, "Maybe," and then gave my legs the power to sprint like an Olympic athlete. I won the bronze medal for turning boys down that day. Thank you Trax for that glorious experience. I appreciate all that you do for me...

I've had a couple other choice experiences, like little children barfing on the floor of the Trax car, and then being able to watch that barf flow down the car at the urging of the jostling train. And of course the Man of Many Moles. But maybe I should keep that story in the vault for next time. Because really I don't want to take away from the message that Trax is a scumbag and loves to toy with your day. So if you ever have the chance to ride Trax, you might want to bring it an offering of oil and children's hair, just so it will stay on your side, at least for a day.

Smaller Desks, Bigger Brains

I've observed this weird phenomenon. In elementary we are given huge desks with magnificent tote trays to hide our Halloween candy and crayons in. Popularity was based solely on who had the biggest pack of crayons--the 84 pack was a dream come true. Oh the burnt umbers and royal blues to chew on!


In middle school, the desks are reduced in size and a chair is firmly screwed into the desk. Apparently chairs can be hazardous in the hands of a pubescent 7th grader filled with Totinos pizza rolls and teenage angst. Belongings are kept in lockers that you had five minutes to race to and exchange books. Little glitzy pink purses swung on every girls shoulder and every cool guy gelled his hair.

College: the desks are the size of one notebook. I'd think with more responsibility comes more desk room, but universities think otherwise.
 It's like the older you get, apparently the more adept you become at balancing all your books and taking lecture notes at the same time. This is not the case.

 I think the dean just wants to watch the world burn.

 Probably once a week in my critical theory class one of us drops the massive ten pound book onto the floor, trying to juggle notebooks, note taking, and reading on one baby sized desk. This is mortifying. For the professor to acknowledge your disturbance is even more so.

 (the third day of class my phone went off and just like in middle school my professor actually said, "If it goes off again, Amy I'll have to take it next time." I think he was trying to make a joke but it was super awkward for all of us... )

So for any prospective students visiting a college classroom, your going to see many different things:


Downward facing dog: The lazy student, only skilled at one position: placing the notebook futilely on top of the book your back has suffered to haul to school. For beginners.

Warrior 3: Balance your textbook half on your desk and half on your knee. Any limb will work as a surface actually. Optimize space and every inch of skin you've got. To ease into the pose, stretch before attempting and wear knee guards. For advanced students only.

Childs pose: For that student who just knocked off their crap from their desk. It all lands halfway across the room during the peak of the professors lecture. There is no getting up to retrieve the items unless you want to experience extreme humiliation. The only thing you can do is put your head down and hope that person three desks away will pick it up for you.

Crow: A pretzel of a move. Not for the advanced students, but for the student who just caused a tidal wave with their coffee-- knocking off their steaming  cup of joe with their critical theory textbook. The piercing glares of the classmates coerce the student to shamefully attempt this move, while cleaning up their mess, for spilling coffee all over their new bags.

Warrior 2: the late student pose; a natural saunter past the professor never works, but they try anyways, stretching their toes and extending their hands to keep their bag from falling down.

Anyways... not only have the desks been shrunken by a shrink ray, but no lockers are offered to students. Even though the books have gotten five times heavier. Oh well. Guess I'll just have to do a little stretching before class now to attempt these positions. I think I'll try warrior 3 next time.

Luncheon

* Just a tiny story I wrote for fun.

James Dean stirred his coffee with his finger and licked it. He wore a motorcycle jacket and a red hot cigarette never left his lips.

            “I know you're dying to ask,” he said, smoothing back his perfectly coiffed hair.

            “Did you curse the ‘Little Bastard’?” the man asked referring to James Dean’s car, the one he had wrecked in on the day of his death.

            “Come on, you get up here to ask this schmuck about cars? What about the horse and buggy? What about the Emancipation Proclamation, the one that I put through to affect the lives of thousands of people in America?” Abe Lincoln said, holding his large top hat between his legs. His gunshot wound was still present and looked as fresh as the day it had punctured his flesh.

            “Abe, just because you’re the most requested doesn’t mean you have to rub it in,” Meriwhether Lewis said.

            “Here we go again…” William Clark said, rubbing his throbbing temples.

            “Nobody cares that you freed those damn slaves. People just panic when they first get here and say your name because you’re the most overrated crackpot president to die yet,” Meriwhether said.

            “If you’re looking for a crackpot, there’s Kennedy over on table three!” At a table across the place, John F Kennedy kissed the hand of a sixteen year old girl with knife wounds in her back. There seemed to be a general consensus as everyone nodded and folded their arms.

            “You did mean to ask for me though, didn’t you?” Lincoln quickly said, ignoring how petty he sounded.

            The man nodded fast and begged for the four gentlemen to quiet down.

            “Now James, can I call you James? James D? Jimmy Dean?”

            “Just pick one and stick with it slick,” James said gruffly, taking a long drag on his cigarette, holding it in, then exhaling it through his nose like steam from a boiling kettle.

            “If you want to know the truth, I have had no part in haunting that car. I’d already accepted death and been admitted here before somebody told me what that genius had said to get the piece of junk sold. If I hadn’t had so much on my mind after dying, I would’ve done it myself just for the hell of it.” He leaned back and looked impressed with himself.

            “But people have died, gotten injured in your car!” the man said, pulling down his bloody hospital gown, trying to cover up the open heart surgery being performed on him moments before his death. An exposed chest was not a popular look up here.

            “My hell,” Meriwhether said. “Those people get injured because it’s only drugged up, puffed up, newly rich sleaze balls who would consider wasting money on some Hollywood Highroller’s coffin in the first place.”

            “Okay Meriwhether, you can go next if you’re just going to talk over everyone else anyways.” The man crossed his arms over his aorta and sighed. This luncheon was not going as expected.

            “Do you want to know how me and Clark here fought off an entire mob of squaws and scalped ‘em too? Or the day me and Sacajewea made sweet love under the midnight dusk of a billion shining stars?” He elbowed Clark who looked mighty tired of the whole affair. It seemed to be a sore topic between the two.

            “You mean you didn’t make the first airplane? You didn’t have anything to do with that…” The man said shyly.

            Meriwhether abruptly stood up pulling out his pistol faster than the man could keep the sweat off his brow. As the man was looking down the barrel of Meriwhether’s pistol into his bloodshot eyes, the man realized he was already dead. The pistol was no more than show. However his eyes continued to follow the pistol as Meriwhether erratically pointed it to and fro as he gesticulated in his frustration.

            “You meant,” Meriwhether started, his face growing red, then purple, “to ask for the damn Wright Brothers?”

            The whole place turned silent and everyone turned towards them. Orville and Wilbur Wright, in flight gear and goggles waved from five tables down.

            “Settle down,” Clark whispered, clamping a hand on Meriwhether’s shoulder.

            “He’s a bit cranky, hasn’t been picked in a while. You two’ve made absolutely shattering contributions to history. We may have discovered the frontier, but you two opened up a whole new one. Really excellent.” He gave a thumbs up and everyone began eating lady fingers and biscuits again.

            “I swear I want to hear all about that though Meriwhether. I just didn’t think I wanted to meet you, but now I’m sure I was entirely mistaken.”

            Meriwhether sat down and gave a smirk.

            “I discovered the western half of the US, what can I say. I’m a legend. Perhaps the greatest explorer that ever lived. But I can already tell that my words are wasted on a man like you, interested in only planes and automobiles. Disappointing really.” He huffed, staring angrily into his soup.

            “For the love of!” Lincoln said, throwing his arms up, biscuit crumbs spinning out of his mouth like projectiles upon the table. Embarrassed, Lincoln dabbed at his mouth with his handkerchief and quieted down.

            As the luncheon came to a close, Lincoln began to tell his tale, amazing the four gents there with his oratory skills and wit when Clark realized something funny. The fifth seat was empty.

            “I really misjudged you, Lincoln,” Meriwhether said in a private conversation between the two.

            “Who are we missing?” Clark said.

            The man blushed. “I really shouldn’t have requested it, but the registry said her time was about over and they might be able to squeeze her in.”

            “Who did you request from the land of the living?” Clark said, fixing his leather vest and dirty white shirt.

            Suddenly a clatter was heard on the far side of the room—a new arrival. She swaggered over with long red hair and plumped lips, injected with silicon.

            “Hey big man,” she said, sliding her hand across the man’s neck before tacking her seat.

            “Lindsay Lohan, I never thought I’d-”

            “Well here I am big guy,” she said adjusting the big fur scarf wrapped around her neck. A little fox head lay at the end of the furry mass and rested on her abdomen.

            “Anyways, before I published the Emancipation Proclamation I –” Lincoln began.

            “That’s great honest Abe. A penny saved is a penny earned blah blah blah.” Lindsay said rudely cutting him off.

            “Is there some butter in this place? Waiter!” she said, snapping her manicured claws.

            All five men groaned and scooted further out, trying to at least escape her gaudy perfume.

#

            Across the room, past the hundreds of chattering tables a new man arrived. He walked dazedly towards the light of the restaurant. He was outside, in a thick black fog with only the restaurant in view. He grasped for the door handle. Nothing moved. He looked down and yelped. He no longer had a right hand. His shirt sleeve was dried rigid with blood. Veins twisted out of his handless numb like cords twisting out of machinery. He covered the nub and opened the door. The man covered his eyes from the blinding light of the restaurant and allowed someone to drag him to the maître d as black spots still danced across his eyes.  

            “Welcome, Sir, to death. Would you like to begin your stay with the three person package—includes more time and more food to fill it with—or our most popular package, five people and a light luncheon?” He wore a penguin suit and had deep gashes in his neck. His bow tie had been died a purple black with blood.

            “Uh… I'm not sure I grasp the concept of people and packages.”

            “To say it plainly sir, if you could have any five people at one table, who would you choose?”

            The man, still perplexed, looked at the menu of people and began searching through the thousands of names and IDs.

            “Well Marilyn Monroe for starters…”

           

The Evolution of a Conversation

Just last night as I was trying to study with a friend we hit a point in our conversations where we had to stop and scratch our heads and say, "How did we get here?" Needless to say studying is hard when you have better things to talk about.

      Click on the insanity to enlarge 

Reasons Why I Might Be The Worst Roomate Evar

 This is me.
A simple girl trying to win the game of life.
Which always seemed to give me twins when I landed on one of those surprise Life Token spots. Despite my aversion to children I always took them in and let them run around my Split-level house. Eh, child services would be there in a couple weeks to collect them anyways.

(Side note: I always avoided picking the accountant as a job because they looked like insufferable, balding, weirdos who enjoyed the stress of calculating numbers.

                                                      
For many reasons, not including my dislike for youngens, I've concluded that I may just be the worst roommate ever. So here's a list cause I know every loves those things.

1. One time I made a tuna fish sandwich and ate it in my shared room. Let's just say that Tuna E. Smell hung out with us for a while.

2. I frequently stay up late doing whatever. The other night after my roommate turned off the lights and asked me as I was gazing intensely into my laptop screen what I was doing. 

     "Makin a chart," I replied evenly like this was a normal thing to be doing.

     "You always stay up doing the weirdest things," my roommate accused.

     "Yeah." I sighed in agreement. But that late night excursion produced that lovely chart below this post. I'd say it was worth it. 

3. I was the first to set off the fire alarm. Luckily since I've set it off so many times at home I knew just what to do-- flap a towel at the thing like you're a freaking matador. Luckily my cheese toast still tasted good after I extracted it from its burnt shell.

4. Sometimes I call my roommate Honey Bunch, Sugar Cup, Pumpkin, and Sweetums. But never sweetheart. I would give someone one of my fire-breathing hamsters if they could remove the word sweetheart permanently from existence.

5. I could never save Peach from Bowzer. Oh and those goomba things always ganged up on me. 
 

6. I change outfits like 5 times a day. I can't explain how or why this happens, but it does. See number 9.
7. I sometimes listen to Elvis's All Shook Up and shimmy. [ Like right now ]

8. I have a lot of weird trinkets just hanging around our room.

The Buff is from South Dakota and is one of my favorite things.
The woven octopus is something awesome a friend made for me back home.
I love Indiana Jones and that is an old popcorn bucket that I use for storage.
The dreamcatcher is something sweet I think my dad made. But as you can see Justin Bieber
in the background(from roommates side) my roommate and I's tastes aren't exactly simpatico.

9. I hate cleaning. Whenever I change outfits, remember like five times a day, I just throw them wherever. Back home I usually waited until I couldn't see the carpet anymore or I found a spider to clean up.

I really wouldn't mind just wading through piles of stuff just to get to my bed or like deep sea diving just to find my shoes. Or even wearing my room as a skirt. Oh the possibilities. 

 10. I hate cleaning my dishes. Especially since our sink smells like Yellowstone. In fact I wouldn't be too surprised if a geyser shot out of the drain... we clog it a lot. 

11. I'm very afraid of the dark. Actually back home I had a set of rules I'd follow before bed. My closet would be closed. No mirrors were allowed in there and I had a night light always on. One of the first things my roommate says to me: "I have to have complete darkness when I sleep."
....  "I was about to say," *pushes the nightlight under the bed with foot* "the same."
    She's lucky that light comes in from the porch otherwise I'd have brought out my torch of a nightlight that changes different colors. [ps my room has both an open closet and a huge mirror in it :(]

12.  I refuse to like Justin Bieber {the one hanging up in our room in that picture up above. Sigh} Taylor Swift, and country period. Although I did enjoy the film about Biebs, Never Say Never. I have respect for that little twerp.

13. I have to go potty a lot, which is more of a random fact about me, but the fact that I say I have to go potty counts against me. 

So those are my main points of why I'm a sucky roommate. I have yet to compile a list of Pros to having me a roommate.

How about I start right now.

1. My dazzling smile....

What I Miss Most

I've created a chart to describe how much I miss, or don't miss certain things from living at home. I think it speaks for itself:

If your struggling to read it, just click on it to enlarge it.