mystery of why I am failing thermo is solved

29 Elm St. is usually a pretty fly houseparty, so it’s no surprise that yours truly is a teensy toasted when sleepy time rolls around. Actually, yours truly is a teensy toasted as she writes this post right now, so please forgive any spelling errors etc.

Like true gentlemen, my buddy Awesom-O and my brand-new buddy ZooYork walk me home to make sure I’m not going to get raped on Columbia, as this is a very likely scenario since I am a walking sexpot. ZooYork asks to exchange digits as we round his destination, and though once again, I am hammered, I manage to type in my number correctly into his phone (well, I made sure to confirm it by calling my own cell).

At 2:06 AM this morning, I get a text from ZooYork:

“Guess who got second place in the costume competition? I’ll give you a hint: he was dressed as Awesom-O.”

I reply:

“Haha, that kid is crazy.”

My friend Awesom-O had gone to the Kells tonight for Halloween, and I am ecstatic that his brilliant costume has paid off…as well as a little regretful at not joining him at the Kells–clearly half of Boston must’ve been there since ZooYork bumped into him too. The party must’ve really been bangin’ cuz Awesom-O didn’t even remember talking to ZooYork, and loss of memory is usually a sign of a bangin’ party.

Later on today, I notice 2 missed calls from ZooYork on my phone, and listen to a voicemail I can’t understand:

“Hey it’s ZooYork a;lsdkfja;sldkfja;sldkfj;aslkdfj;aslkdfj;aslkf microwaving some food a;sdfja;lsdkfja;slkdjfa;lsdkfj”

My phone sucks balls. So much goddamn static. The missed call is from some 510 number which isn’t ZooYork’s normal cell, so I call the unknown number first. No answer. I call his cell. He picks up:

Me: Hey what’s with the 510 number?
ZY: Huh?
Me: You called me from a 510 number.
ZY: No I didn’t.
Me: Yeah you did….wait, did you even call me?
ZY:…Today? No.
Me: Something something microwaving food? No?
ZY: What? Microwaving food? No.
Me: Huh, ok. Must’ve heard my voicemail wrong.

I check my voicemail again. Nope, it’s deffo ZooYork. Maybe this was yesterday? I check the date and time. Today at 5:30. Weird. I google “510, area code”, and discover it’s a California Bay area code, which is where ZooYork hails from.

Now I am PISSED. He is fucking with me. I will never understand those people who think it’s funny to just randomly fuck with people. It’s immature, it’s borderline mean, and it wastes a whole lot of time for both parties. I am going to call ZooYork back and give him a piece of my fucking mind.

Me: Hey, you DID call me…you left a voicemail with your first and last name dammit, I know it was you!
ZY: I didn’t call you!
Me: Why are you fucking with me?
ZY: What?! I’m not fucking with you!
Me: Yes you are, I googled the 510 number, and it’s a Bay area code!
ZY: I’m a 580 number!
Me: I KNOW, but you called me first from a 510 number, and thaaaat is a Bay area code?
ZY: …so what?
Me: So WHAT?! You’re FROM the Bay!
ZY: What?
Me: You’re from the Bay! You went to Berkeley!
ZY: I’m not from the Bay!

Oh my God, why is he mind-fucking me like this? I am about to open up a can of whoopass on this dickwad.

Me: Ok, now I KNOW you’re fucking with me…why are you fucking with me??!!
ZY: I’m not!
Me: I KNOW you’re from the Bay; you told me you’re from the Bay.
ZY: I’ve never lived in the Bay!!
Me: AAAR;LKSDJF;ALSKDJF;ALSKDFJ!!

*Pause*

ZY: Who do you think I am?

Oh. Jesus. Christ.

Me: Omg. Is this Awesom-O?
ZY: …Who did you THINK it was?

Somehow, in my drunken stupor last weekend, I assigned ZooYork’s name to Awesom-O’s number, and I have been yelling at the wrong person for no reason for the past fifteen minutes due to my own idiocy. And suddenly, I am no longer mystified by why I am failing thermodynamics. Kids, stay in school. Don’t drink and multitask.

single

As I strolled down the hall, I noticed an awkward-looking man who seemed to be waiting for something. Upon passing, I discovered he was standing in front of a single bathroom. I smiled and asked, “Someone in there?” He gave me a curt nod, his eyes glued to the door.

Not that I blame his rudeness. Unfortunately, there’s only one reason why anyone would stand and wait at a single bathroom when there’s a communal one about 2 ft. away with 5 zillion stalls. I think we all know what it is.

On approaching him a second time later, I could feel his mortification grow. Though it took all my self-restraint to keep from bursting into inappropriate laughter, I pitied the poor guy. Clearly the person occupying the bathroom had the same idea as him, and there was a high probability that the awkward man would be walking into a very stinky restroom.

Just then, the toilet flushed and a woman came out. I cannot even begin to describe the awkwardness and humiliation that can only arise from two humans taking a dump with mutual knowledge of the dirty deed. Especially when of the opposite sex. I mean, if it was two guys number 2ing they could at least high-five about it. Between a guy and girl it’s like,

Guy: Oh man I thought women never shat cuz they smell good and are perfect 24/7.
Girl: Oh noz, he knows I shat! Dammit, he was cute…there goes all fucking potential.
Guy: Dammit, she looked easy…there goes all buttfucking potential.

I walked the extra 2 ft. and strolled down to the 5 zillionth stall on the end. Yep, nothin’ better than a good ol’ fashioned single restroom to conjure up some awkwardness. Good thing I have no such qualms about pooping in public.

disclaimer

Right after the Leadership section, I need to add a disclaimer at the bottom of my resume. “In the event that you should hire me, please be advised that I am inconvenient, tactless, and likely to embarrass you.” I don’t think that would fly with the Career Office, but I’m a strong proponent of honesty being the best policy. To regular readers, you may recall my last faux pas with the short-legged supervisor from my externship in January. And to people that I’ve been sexxxy with, you may recall that I am particularly prone to UTIs (urinary tract infections). I’m just gross like that. In fact, I’ve become so prone to contracting those little bastards that I’m hypochondriac-ly paranoid about them.

“Oh shiite, I have a UTI.” So I go find my supervisor at Amgen. I don’t have a car, and it’s Friday afternoon, so my roommate and her Acura are leaving soon to party it up in LA. I need to get to a clinic before I am left stranded alone and peeing painfully all weekend. I won’t even attempt to describe the experience of telling Dr. Kiang about my problem. Explaining the situation of a UTI to anyone is embarrassing, much less to a middle-aged small Asian man who reminds me of my dad. He drove me to a clinic, and we talked about cranberry juice on the way there. It was my fourth day of work.

Despite my initial humiliation, I knew it was the right thing to do. I mean, it had to be taken care of–UTIs can get very nasty in a very short period of time if gone untreated. I felt relieved and safe carrying my little amber child-proof bottle of antibiotics home. I waited though, to take them.

In fact, I waited so long that Saturday night, I found myself stranded and alone, sitting on the toilet…and peeing painlessly without antibiotics. Motherfucker. I don’t even have a UTI.

what is art?

Like many artsy-fartsy subjects, my dance theory and composition class probes the eternal question “What is art?”. Today, we explored the notions of space: spatial relationship, negative space, positive space, tension, etc. Each person in the class directed the other three students (there isn’t an excess of dancers and free spirits here at the ‘tvte) to make various body shapes in different parts of the room. Edisa, our teacher, asked us stimulating questions as we sculpted our spatial works of art.

In one such still-life, I stood downstage with my back to the audience, and facing W., who stood upstage also with his back towards the audience. W. is the token gay man of the class, and he knelt slightly down so that I had a clear and pleasurable view of his bubble butt.

Edisa: More levels guys, more levels.
*W. bends down lower*
Edisa: What do you think would make this more interesting?

Just then, W. bends down a little farther than his pants really permit, and I get an eyeful of exactly what would make this pose more interesting. I did not realize what a blessing plumber’s crack is until I caught sight of the gorgeous black thong blatantly exposed from W.’s pants. Or I should say, G-string.

That, my friend, is interesting art.

reason #2349823487 why i’m going to hell

Since most of you reading this know me fairly intimately, it will come as no surprise to you that I am, of course, going to hell. In the fourth grade, I locked my now very good friend J. into a bathroom, giving him a bloody nose from the stress (sorry J.). I once thought up an idea for scamming people by putting out a Hurricane Katrina donation jar and keeping the funds. I still tell people I hate my mother. (If that were a lie, I would only be committing a minor infraction that could most likely be forgiven. But it’s the truth, and therefore, I am most definitely burning in hell for hating a woman who nearly died giving birth to me. I am, however, convinced that she still holds that against me sometimes.) I have selfishly broken two hearts that did not deserve to be broken on account of my ego. I hate going to funerals not because they are depressing, or because death is a horrible thing, but because it is exhausting to pretend that you are sad when you aren’t. I had to fake-cry at my own grandmother’s funeral. (Actually, it’s pretty easy once you get started though, just because everyone else is crying. The whole sheep mentality, you know.) Fun fact: I have never genuinely wept at a funeral. I have been to four; I have cried at every one.

But here’s a new one to add to the list. Imagine my first day at my externship with Grace Performance Chemicals, if you will. My supervisor is standing with his side facing me. He is wearing shoes with an enormous platform heel. I would say they bumped him up a good 3-4 inches. Thinking these shoes must be somehow related to the fact that he works in concrete, I strike up a conversation:

Me: Hey, I really like your shoes. They’re kind of cool.
Supe: Oh really? Thanks.
Me: Do they have a special purpose?

At this point, he turns to face me, and I suddenly notice that only his LEFT shoe has a huge platform heel, his RIGHT shoe is completely normal, with a flat heel. Realization dawns on me.

Supe: Actually, I had an accident when I was a kid, and that’s why one of my legs is shorter than the other.

I’m sure that Satan has a special spot for people like me.

stickin’ it to the man

Mr. Jay van Dwingelen doesn’t know it, but he is actually the unwitting accomplice of me stickin’ it to the man. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen–today, I beat the system. It was a small, almost infinitesimal victory, one might say, but by God, I’m a rebel, a regular Osbourne. Around this time of year, I always get an email from Mr. Jay van Dwingelen (ha! what a name) who invites me to a gathering for prospective MIT students to meet with current students and alumni in St. Louis, my hometown. I’m sure many of you receive similar invitations. Normally, I ignore the email because it’s held at some old dude’s house, or it’s in a big meeting room that has a lot of nothing. But this year, it was being held at Bristol’s for lunch, which is a pretty nice restaurant. My Asian cheapskate instinct immediately went DING DING DING and I RSVPed a yes. Free lunch, fully subsidized by the ‘tvte? Can’t pass that up. Anyway, I thought it might be nice to bring my best friend Mikiko Fujiwara (ha! what a name) along to stave off the hordes nerdy Asian fellas that would of course be attacking and later stalking me, a la my friend Y. Only problem was, she goes to Harvard, not MIT…but a certain girl from St. Louis named Jia Lou goes to MIT. And Jia Lou has moved to China and could not possibly attend such a function, so this worked out conveniently. (This is a lot funnier if you know both Jia and Mikiko, as most of my high school friends do.) Under her new identity, Mikey (as I call her) probably spent 40-50 bucks of MIT’s money, and recruited students for Harvard while doing so. (Nah, just kidding, but it would have been cool if she did break out the H paraphernalia right in the middle of the luncheon.) Additionally, one of Mikey’s old music buddies was at the luncheon, and we actually convinced him her name was Jia and that she went to MIT. He was quite confused for a bit, and said something like, “yeaaah…I think I’ve seen you on campus”, before she reminded him who she really was (he was chill with what we were doing…which was STICKIN’ IT TO THE MAN!). It was a good time, we made up a whole backstory for “Jia” and lied through our asses all afternoon. Mr. Jay van Dwingelen was clueless. This isn’t a very badass story or post, but I had to blog about it cuz I’m….(read title of post).

the search for danielle: background

For those of you who haven’t clicked on the comment link from my previous post, it seems that avid AsianQuickness blog reader “tania” has information on Danielle. This was surprising at first, but after examining our prior research, it should not have been. I have not yet spoken with “tania” about the contents of her comment, but I would be willing to bet that the “italian boy” she speaks of is Roberto Carli, fellow admirer of Danielle. Let me back up a little bit. In 18.03 recitation, Danielle was in general, very quiet, very reserved, but had one friend–Roberto Carli. Y. and I noticed this immediately, as it was a strange match, but we attributed the pairing to two causes: 1) both were very bright and seemed to know their differential equations, and of course smart people like to work together, and 2) Roberto must be in love with Danielle. Because who wouldn’t be? While Danielle was difficult to find, Roberto was in contrast very easy. He has a Facebook profile, and he happens to live in the same dormitory as Y., me, AND “tania”. I had forgotten that actually, Roberto lives on “tania”‘s floor. In fact, I bumped into Roberto in the laundry room yesterday, which is what initially renewed our efforts to search for Danielle again. Roberto was one lead we had not followed since neither of us knew him, and well…that’s just awkward. Although, we DID track down Peter Lee, our TA, about a year after the class, to ask him for information on Danielle, which was also quite awkward, so I think we’ve probably crossed the line of no-shame by now. This was especially hard for me, since well, I had a ginormous crush on Peter Lee back in the day, and did not want to come off creepy or stalker-ish, but a friend’s gotta do what a friend’s gotta do. As you can imagine, office hours in 18.03 were always quite fun–I was trying to keep from drooling all over my pset, and Y. was desperately avoiding eye contact with Danielle (he takes a more subtle approach to developing crushes). In my defense, I couldn’t help it. Peter liked Birkenstocks, guitars, and blue t-shirts with yellow smiley faces on them, and to me, that’s true love. Y. thought I was crazy; I thought he had no chance. No one’s really won that debate so far…but then again, we haven’t paid a visit to Roberto Carli yet.

where in the world is…

Danielle? This post is a tribute to my good friend Y., who has been searching for this girl for over a year now. He met her skydiving…they bumped into each other in the air, but when they landed, they couldn’t find each other. Y. insists I tell people this story, though the more truthful and more lame account is that we were in 18.03 recitation during freshman year, and we kept bumping into her during office hours with our TA, Peter Lee. Basically, neither of us ever talked to Danielle, and Y. decided she was “the one” after class was over. I’m not going to go through exactly how much effort has been put into this search, but let’s just say that we’ve exhausted all options. So far, we’ve been able to figure out that her real name is DongJoo Suh, and she is Korean, and most likely an ’08. Also, she’s course 18, and she originally went to Wellesley, but it seems that she has probably transferred to MIT. Oh, and she is gorgeous. Even I have to admit it, she’s got this perfect porcelain skin and at the risk of sounding like a lesbian, the most perfect pouty lips ever. Like Angelina Jolie perfect. Anyway, if ANYONE knows her, please let me know. It’s been over a year now, and we’re not sure that she really exists. I swear, this girl is impossible to find. But the things we do for true love…

lateral stiffening

So I got my Mechanics of Materials midterm back today, and I got this conceptual question wrong on lateral stiffening. So I go into my lab and ask my grad student Mo (who is uberawesome) if he knows what lateral stiffening is. Mo’s four years at Stanford and additional four years at MIT as a mech e major does not know the answer, so we Google/wikipedia lateral stiffening. Here is the first search result:
Penis – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
….and the second, and the third…there were many penises. It was a memorable grad student/UROPer moment. I decided that I love Mo when another grad student walked by and asked what we were doing, and Mo replied “surfing unintentional porn”. So in case any of you ladies have an enormous crush on a mech e student *cough*notme*cough*…you may want to consider picking him up with, “Could you demonstrate what laaaaateral stiffening is for me?” I know I’m going to try it.