Pool with the people
It hasn't been that long that I've been barreling along these diagonal paths at this half-assed state school. (Harvard of the West? My whole ass. Harvard is the Harvard of the West, this is like the Var-Hard of the West. And whatever Var is, I mean it in this case to imply "self-congratulatory".)
Mostly, my cross-campus forays have either been:
A. On wide, perfectly smooth, gently curving paths that were primarily abandoned because my classmates were in Paris getting facials, or
B. On crowded pathways on steep (generally icy) hills with classmates who you can generally assume to be suicidal (and should therefore not walk behind).
The paths here are crowded with dumb-as-shit Michiganders and girls from NY and NJ, all of whom wear those simply infuriating split-skirt stretchy pseudo-Yoga things. Have I written here recently about how angry that piece of clothing makes me? Angry, angry, angry. I mean, those girls are not doing Yoga, they are spending their early Saturday mornings (a prime Yoga time) rising from the bushes, recovering from whatever they drank, and standing in line for a morning-after pill. (Which, you can only get on Saturdays here until 1pm, so get up early, girls!) The only thing that makes me angrier is seeing a pair of pants flopping out of fucking Uggs. Fucking ugh!
Whew, I have to calm down - I'm beginning to split my shirt.
Anyway, as you might imagine, I spend a lot of my traveling time here being furious. Surprise! This fury manifests in two significant ways: the glare, and People Pool. The glare is pretty easy to understand, but People Pool takes some 'splainin. (In all honesty, I've always ended up messing with personal space. When I was in the corporate world, I regularly got in revolving doors with folks. This is surprisingly hysterical, and the best way to do it is to keep a perfectly straight face - suits don't really know what to do. Usually, they'd force out a strained hello, and I'd turn my face towards them and give a low "Hey, howya doin'." Ah, good times.) Also, I feel I must defend myself - I wouldn't achieve half this much intensity of anger if these folks knew how to use the path -
There are lanes, people! Yes, I know they're imaginary, but they are a generally-recognized societal agreement. You know how you drive your car on the right? Well, that's where you should DRIVE YOUR ASS. Extrapolate, damn you!
Oh wait, people can't drive around here, either. Perhaps that explains it.
*****
PEOPLE POOL (Rules for Generalized Play)
Please note: Rules can be modified for your specific needs according to whatever is pissing you off right now (self-satisfied young mothers talking on their cellphones and pushing expensive perambulators, or sloppy, grabby couples publicly flaunting their heterosexual privilege, or slick, tanned mid-twenties business/golf types booping open their BMW SUVs - all are in need of your judgment and ire, trust me.)
Rules for the Approaching:
This is where you can have the most effect, it is also easiest (and therefore deserves the fewest points).
Splitting the field: generally the frat boys and their sisters travel in small, undulating masses - kind of like blood worms. Trust me, if they're heading right towards you, they are obliviously threatening your right to exist (or at least your right to move forward in society and realize your full potential) and they must be stopped. One point if you can split the group, extra points if one of the members is forced to the grass & extra, extra points if they don't realize that you are claiming the sidewalk and they stumble out of the way at the last moment. In addition, extra bonus if you can separate one member from the larger crowd, since then you get to eat her.
Rules for those you are Following:
People like to jabber - to each other and on the phone. And they don't care that you are in a hurry (mostly to get out of earshot and not have to absorb further inanity), they will slow down and walk close together for to better share their own drivel. I'm not saying I don't drivel - I have a drivel-aggravated eczema at the corner of my mouth from night-drivelling - it's just that I like to keep my audible drivel to myself and sometimes use it to torture my close friends or family. In light of this, keeping a blog, is, of course both paradoxical and hypocritical. It's hypodoxical...paracritical? In any case, these jabberers are so caught up in their jabber that they don't pay any mind to the traffic backed up behind them. At this point, I usually give a mighty harrumph, or stomp my foot. Yes, people, I stomp my foot like a three-year-old. Except my foot is like the size of a three-year-old, and thus has considerably more effect. Trust me, a good stomp with the right shoe makes people dive from the sidewalk like a car-bomb exploded, stammering apologies to me and to their maker. Of course, neither of us responds, and both of us are thinking: "damn sheep." Extra points if they accidently knock over a cafe table on their way down.
Hammer out a Warning:
There is a specific reason I like hard-heeled shoes: they make noise. Now, lots of shoes click...little high-heels tap-tap-tap along, making you wonder if you're trapped in "Mystery!" and about to see a coat hem swoosh around the corner. But, a big, blocky, hard heel makes a satisfying smack when it hits pavement (or tile or wood or linoleum or marble). This is a great way to warn people to get the hell out of your way, or to cross to the other side, or to get the hell back to their own side. It makes people perk up their ears, circle the wagons, or curl up in a foetal position...all reactions garner points.
*****
Mostly, my cross-campus forays have either been:
A. On wide, perfectly smooth, gently curving paths that were primarily abandoned because my classmates were in Paris getting facials, or
B. On crowded pathways on steep (generally icy) hills with classmates who you can generally assume to be suicidal (and should therefore not walk behind).
The paths here are crowded with dumb-as-shit Michiganders and girls from NY and NJ, all of whom wear those simply infuriating split-skirt stretchy pseudo-Yoga things. Have I written here recently about how angry that piece of clothing makes me? Angry, angry, angry. I mean, those girls are not doing Yoga, they are spending their early Saturday mornings (a prime Yoga time) rising from the bushes, recovering from whatever they drank, and standing in line for a morning-after pill. (Which, you can only get on Saturdays here until 1pm, so get up early, girls!) The only thing that makes me angrier is seeing a pair of pants flopping out of fucking Uggs. Fucking ugh!
Whew, I have to calm down - I'm beginning to split my shirt.
Anyway, as you might imagine, I spend a lot of my traveling time here being furious. Surprise! This fury manifests in two significant ways: the glare, and People Pool. The glare is pretty easy to understand, but People Pool takes some 'splainin. (In all honesty, I've always ended up messing with personal space. When I was in the corporate world, I regularly got in revolving doors with folks. This is surprisingly hysterical, and the best way to do it is to keep a perfectly straight face - suits don't really know what to do. Usually, they'd force out a strained hello, and I'd turn my face towards them and give a low "Hey, howya doin'." Ah, good times.) Also, I feel I must defend myself - I wouldn't achieve half this much intensity of anger if these folks knew how to use the path -
There are lanes, people! Yes, I know they're imaginary, but they are a generally-recognized societal agreement. You know how you drive your car on the right? Well, that's where you should DRIVE YOUR ASS. Extrapolate, damn you!
Oh wait, people can't drive around here, either. Perhaps that explains it.
*****
PEOPLE POOL (Rules for Generalized Play)
Please note: Rules can be modified for your specific needs according to whatever is pissing you off right now (self-satisfied young mothers talking on their cellphones and pushing expensive perambulators, or sloppy, grabby couples publicly flaunting their heterosexual privilege, or slick, tanned mid-twenties business/golf types booping open their BMW SUVs - all are in need of your judgment and ire, trust me.)
Rules for the Approaching:
This is where you can have the most effect, it is also easiest (and therefore deserves the fewest points).
Splitting the field: generally the frat boys and their sisters travel in small, undulating masses - kind of like blood worms. Trust me, if they're heading right towards you, they are obliviously threatening your right to exist (or at least your right to move forward in society and realize your full potential) and they must be stopped. One point if you can split the group, extra points if one of the members is forced to the grass & extra, extra points if they don't realize that you are claiming the sidewalk and they stumble out of the way at the last moment. In addition, extra bonus if you can separate one member from the larger crowd, since then you get to eat her.
Rules for those you are Following:
People like to jabber - to each other and on the phone. And they don't care that you are in a hurry (mostly to get out of earshot and not have to absorb further inanity), they will slow down and walk close together for to better share their own drivel. I'm not saying I don't drivel - I have a drivel-aggravated eczema at the corner of my mouth from night-drivelling - it's just that I like to keep my audible drivel to myself and sometimes use it to torture my close friends or family. In light of this, keeping a blog, is, of course both paradoxical and hypocritical. It's hypodoxical...paracritical? In any case, these jabberers are so caught up in their jabber that they don't pay any mind to the traffic backed up behind them. At this point, I usually give a mighty harrumph, or stomp my foot. Yes, people, I stomp my foot like a three-year-old. Except my foot is like the size of a three-year-old, and thus has considerably more effect. Trust me, a good stomp with the right shoe makes people dive from the sidewalk like a car-bomb exploded, stammering apologies to me and to their maker. Of course, neither of us responds, and both of us are thinking: "damn sheep." Extra points if they accidently knock over a cafe table on their way down.
Hammer out a Warning:
There is a specific reason I like hard-heeled shoes: they make noise. Now, lots of shoes click...little high-heels tap-tap-tap along, making you wonder if you're trapped in "Mystery!" and about to see a coat hem swoosh around the corner. But, a big, blocky, hard heel makes a satisfying smack when it hits pavement (or tile or wood or linoleum or marble). This is a great way to warn people to get the hell out of your way, or to cross to the other side, or to get the hell back to their own side. It makes people perk up their ears, circle the wagons, or curl up in a foetal position...all reactions garner points.
*****
posted by shagreen at 1:20 PM
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