burst
I forgot to mention two classic exchanges from yesterday's graduation mini-party. One was between my dad and me.
Dad: How do you get a WVU graduate off of your porch?
Me: How?
Dad: Pay him for the pizza.
Me: hehe. Funny, but I think I've heard that applied to Pitt graduates as well.
Dad: Stephen King?
Me:….
Dad:….
Me: ?
Dad: ?
Me, slurring: More champagne?
The other isn't so much of an exchange as it is a recurring theme. My grandmother insisted on calling my friend Jwan by the name Tyrone. She does that a lot, just makes up names for people. She calls Frank “Stush.” She called Clint, my old boyfriend, Ellwood. We have no idea how she came up with that. I think with Jwan the formula in her head was something like: black person + non-caucasion name – my recollection of his name x oh, just pick some stereotypical black name, Patsy, you'll probably be right = Tyrone. Of course, these names tend to stick so Jwan will forevermore be known as Tyrone. It could have been worse. She might have decided to call him Maliqua or Busta or something.
In other news, I finished writing that piece for Pulp. I was pretty unhappy with it. I just couldn't concentrate. argh. not much more to say about it than that.
I'm hoping that grades will be posted on Pitt's website tomorrow. I really want to know what I got in my Nonfiction 2 class and what my final QPA is. I just know it's going to be a 2.99. again, argh.
My room is an absolute hellhole right now. My mom decided to pile even more furniture in there, specifically the crappy particle-board K-Mart bookshelves that were formerly residing in this room. Our combined book collections are on those shelves…and on the floor…and beside the bed…too many books. Most of them are mine. I keep telling my mom that she needs to get all of that Danielle Steele/Oprah's Book Club stuff out of my room because it's making me look bad. I work pretty hard at maintaining a very elite book collection. Plus, you can tell which books of mine were Christmas presents from her and my grandmother. Stuff like “My Sergei: A Love Story” by Yekaterina Gordeyeva (the ice skater), “The Leonardo DiCaprio Album” (pictures, masturbatory material for girls and boys ages 12-whatever), “Chicken Soup for the Soul, Vol. 6,000,000,000,” and so on.
My CDs are in a shambles. I'm so ashamed.
