He’s Riding The Whirlwind

I so very badly want to see this book made into a movie.

Today was spent watching Lawrence of Arabia and The Mummy, after doing some homework to the musical stylings of Faruk Salama. These last twelve hours watching people romping around in deserts have given me the direction in life that I have been seeking for the past twelve years, and I have decided that when I grow up I want to be a French scholar based in Ottoman-era Istanbul comissioned to study the history of Arab warfare. Oh, and I would like to be a man when all this happens, so I may don a neat-looking keffiyeh and change my name to Omar Sharif.

I realize a time travelling machine must be procured before all else. But surely this is nothing but a mild setback (I bought a flux capacitator from the black market), because the real problem now lies in my ability to pass for a Frenchman.

Friday Night With Mr. Price

If I had one of those fabulously notorious Halloween parties to attend, I think I would don a simple black and white get-up and call myself The Dichotomy of Good and Evil. However, it is also highly tempting to go as a sulphur atom, then recruit two friends to go as oxygen atoms, douse ourselves with rotten eggs, and unite to be Sulphur Dioxide.

Unfortunately, I do not have a fabulously notorious Halloween party to attend, on account of my being neither fabulous or notorious. But fortunately for a handful of rambunctious party-goers, they are spared the grief of being on the receiving end of a lecture on dualism and covalent bonds.

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It Came From Outer Space

Someone has left a strange-looking something sitting atop a slab of aluminum foil on a counter-top in the communal kitchen. It slouches with the sadness of an abandoned baking project (a strawberry shortcake gone wrong, perhaps), but it could also easily be an invading alien life-form in utero, steadily aggregating strength while waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Either way, it must be destroyed.

How To Salvage A Poorly Thought-Out Thesis

OMG! OMG! OMG!

The Crocodile Dundee Of The Kitchen

A very competent dish-wrangler lives on the first floor of our dormitory, and this is a re-telling of how our paths crossed: my esteemed roommate N and I discovered earlier this semester that a bowl was missing from our dishware inventory. Being the fatalists we are, we shrugged it off on the grounds that we are delusional head-cases who cannot count, and only had three bowls to begin with while imagining the fourth.

Sometime last week, said dish-wrangler knocked on our door, our itinerant imaginary fourth bowl in hand. It turns out that the bowl had been unhappy during its time with N and myself, and that all it wanted was someone who could put time and effort into meeting its emotional needs; it also said something about being more appreciative about its role in our lunches, but I was not really paying attention because I was busy seeing to whether or not we were missing some silverware.

With that being said, I beg that you look after your stoneware dishes, people, or risk losing them the way we did! It is pivotal that you invest equal amounts of time into your dishes as you do people who buy you lunch. Additionally, you should refrain from fraternizing with people who will never buy lunch, because these people are probably the least likely to throw you a metaphorical lifesaver in your greatest hour of need.

Take It Slow, Take It Easy On Me

The first brush I’ve had with romance happened back in kindergarten, when my bashful affections were directed towards a boy named Maruli. I knew I did not stand a chance with him; he was, after all, the fastest runner in class—the jock, if you will—and I was the quiet girl kept within the top echelons of the social circle by the popular girls, to provide brains to an otherwise academically dull and creatively-challenged group.

As we were waiting for our rides home at the end of one fine day at school, I turned around to find that Maruli had snagged my prized Aladdin water bottle, admiring the art on the horrendous purple cylinder. Despite the tachycardia brought on by my little infatuation—he is holding on to something that belongs to me, me—I kept my head on and decided to play hard to get.

“Give it back!” I hissed, reaching out to snatch the bottle from his hand.

Bigger, taller and faster than me, he lifted an arm over his head, rendering the bottle out of my reach. He raised an eyebrow and gave me his trademark cocky lopsided smile. “What’s the problem, D?” he asked phlegmatically. “I thought I was your boyfriend.”

Needless to say, I was mortified, but somehow maintained a cool head and managed to sting back with a snappy “Ew, you’re gross!” A miracle comeback, I know, despite flushing uncontrollably and feeling incredibly flustered. Did he say he was my boyfriend? I did not recall approving such an agreement, but hey, whatever.

I last said goodbye to Maruli when we graduated second grade and have lost touch with him since (it would not have worked out, anyway), but I bet he still runs at gale force speeds. I bet he still charms oblivious lovelorn girls with that cocky lopsided smile. I bet.