Sunday, September 30, 2012


 Some of my friends occasionally try to get me to study in a coffee shop, without success.
They say things like, “we have the Sundays... maybe if we just go out and do our homework somewhere else we will finish it, and then eke out our last milliseconds of weekend freedom dreading the coming Monday morn on a couch in front of the television. ”
Except that I can never get anything done in a coffee shop.
Because I like listening to other peoples conversations.
I listen with rapt attention to people's mundane problems. While their friends play angry birds on their Iphone and mutter approval, I find their drama fascinating.
If my friends had these problems I would probably ignore them and practice using the force (which just might work someday so I am going to keep trying...but I find the lives of complete strangers interesting.

Whats even more awkward is when you find yourself answering the questions of people in a different conversation.
And that’s why I am not allowed at Starbucks any actually its because I had too much caffeine that one time and stole that old lady's wig..

Eavesdropping was probably more effective back when houses had eves.

Now, apparently eaves are overhang from the roof.
 I am going have to go searching for some eaves to drop from.  

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Confessions of a tween-aged ipod

IPOD: This is an ultimatum. Remove Call Me Maybe.
LIZ: no! Ipod, Call Me Maybe is a good running song.
IPOD: If you do not remove Call Me Maybe right now I will reveal all of your terrible music to the universe!
LIZ:  Egad. betrayal and blackmail, what is next Ipod? how can you despise me so?
IPOD: 3....2....1....1/2...

 BROUGHT TO YOU BY LIZ'S IPOD (and the letter h for "ha ha Liz is a sucker")

My ipod is trash.
It is a very private place.
If everyone saw the contents of my ipod I would probably not have any friends.

I have 2 Nickleback songs.
and Call me Maybe, as aforementioned.

It would probably be a fascinating social experiment to take people's ipods by force and play them on shuffle.
My friends would probably all have “Friday night lectures from Thomas Aquinas College's, “Catholic people and more Catholic people” lecture series.
Or... “The complete works of Aristotle on tape”
What lectures on a Friday night? Yes sir. You heard me correctly. Lectures. Every other Friday night. They are “mandatory” with hand quotes which means that I attended approximately one during the entirety of sophomore year.
But you know what? We are 111th on Forbes' list of 650 colleges. With 350 students.
With no internet.
Did I have to remind myself about that?
As a result of living without the internet for four years I have some joke material on Newton and Kant. Splendid.

In a spirit of further self-revelation, my ipod is a fascinating combination of musical soundtracks and songs that say mothercusser.

Whats that mothercusser?
I found a squid mothercusser!
It plays checkers mothercusser.
Oedipus literally mothercusser.

That song would go platinum baby.
Words in rap songs should be about 50% swears. I find that if the percentage of swears falls below about 50% music is no longer effective for causing me to run faster or acquire comedic cartooning ideas.

My terrible taste in music has some unfortunate side affects however, I frequently find myself blurting out snippets of catchy stupid songs by Rianna, or Lady Gaga, Katy Perry. Which is embarrassing when I am around people who I am trying to impress with my IQ (these people are people who do not know me).
 When this happens I usually attempt to convince people that my head receives radio waves... and therefore I cant help it.
Anyway I am totally cool with all that music, people are like “what rubbish children listen to these days” but there is nothing like blasting some meaningless pop music as you race back to school after having happy hour margaritas, slightly attempting not to be late to evening class, and slightly attempting not to go off the road.
It is a little funny that these people consider themselves great artists, I mean yeah they make stuff (like a lot of money) so they are artists...but great artists? That is some powerful self delusion. If you are Rianna and you think you are as good as Mozart...then, give me your money.

So there are some confessions of a tweenage ipod.

Coming up next week: some strange imitation Faust.
Sorry that there is just this truckload of text here, I was writing dance entertainment for school... please accept this libation
a picture of me as an elderly hick person: 

PS. I have the hampsterdance on my ipod. You guys remember that?

Sunday, September 16, 2012


This week for school we read Emma as a result this post sprang from my head like Athena from the cranium of Zeus.

Several reasons why living in Jane Austen’s Emma would kill me (and ruin the novel):
  1. Clothes.
    Look at those dresses and bonnets and crap. You couldn't even get away if you were a dude, even the guys had to wear fancy frilly stuffs.
  2. Nobody ever says what they mean.
    You can't really tell whether or not anyone actually likes you from what they say so you have to watch everyone's behavior like a dramatic teenage girl with hawk/x-ray vision. Leading to continual guesswork about what motive might be behind each persons slightest action. Example: Mr. Knightly seemed overly concerned with Miss Farifax's health at the party last night- EGAD! Is he in love?!?... 
    Girls spend a lot of time doing this anyway, thus they love Jane Austen.

  3. One's character is determined by their style of handwriting and ability to write letters.
    Let it be known that if I had to distinguish myself as an intelligent and educated person through personal letters, it would not work out for me.
    If I wrote a letter to my sister Grace it would probably go like this:

    Dear Grace,
      We are related.
        Love and other mushy stuff,

          P.S. This postcard is of the Easter Island heads. Isn't it really fun that ancient people went through a bunch of effort just to cuss with us? I can picture one Druid hard at work on Stonehenge saying to himself with great joy: “this will cuss with them forever”.
As you can see I have distinguished myself as a gentlewoman through copious swears.

  1. Every time Mrs. Elton calls Mr. Elton her “Lord and Master” I would barf.

Thus it is manifest that upon being trapped as a character in Emma I would go bat-cuss-crazy as is depicted in the following destruction of a tea party.

In conclusion:
Congratulations Jane Austen! everyone does actually want to hear about your weird sexual fantasies. However, I think I will stay right here thank you very much.

On a slightly related note:
I believe that a dramatic teenage girl who was given hawk/x-ray vision would make the following statements:

“My name is written on the boy's bathroom stalls at least four times. I think that guarantees that I am the most popular person at school. The homecoming crown is MINE.”

“all the benefits of x-ray vision are useless at Abercrombie and Fitch.”

Sunday, September 9, 2012

"look how smart I am"

Freshmen at lunch...ruinin' all the good times. 

Freshmen this is what you say: “what do you think about Hector in the Iliad when....blah. I think that the gods ... blah blah”
This is what I hear:
“Look I am in college. Can you believe it? I got into college and here I am. I bet I am here because I am really smart. I bet I am even smarter than you. Will you tell me how smart I am? Why are you not impressed and intimidated by me? I have been talking to you for two minutes and you still aren't singing my praises, you are nothing like my mother.”

(*kicks you down in the chest 300-style so that you fall screaming into the pit of lunch disgrace. Which is where we put people who distract us from the blissful five seconds that our lunch is lukewarm. Note: Also where we put people who clap when dishes break or force the entire commons to sing happy birthday to freshmen that we do not know and do not care about.)

I don't want to play “look how smart I am” freshmen.
Tell me about your favorite TV show,
or your hometown in Iowa,
or your irrational fear of kangaroo rats.

Now Liz, you might say, you are discouraging intellectual conversation! I thought that's what this school is all about.
Do you see the line between between intelligent conversation and “look how smart I am”?
You don't. It's nearly invisible. I don't always see it either.

Here is a litmus test,
“Am I willing to be convinced that my position is wrong?”
(a) “Yes, if I am wrong and you can show me how, I am willing to change my position.”
(b) “No I have to show the entire world that I am a fantastic genius! If you cut open my head for a lobotomy magic smart people stars will spew out of it. I speak all five dialects of Dolphin.”
If (b) you have guaranteed yourself a spot on a list of people who are annoying. Nobody wants them in section.

What do you think you are doing running around talking about the Iliad without looking at the text? Do you think you are going to learn something about Homer without him? Stop leaving him out. It makes him sad.  

Thankyou for listening.
This has been "me complaining about stuff which I am guilty of" by Liz

Sunday, September 2, 2012

"Sorry Mom" Day

Introducing a brand new holiday invented by Seize the Absurd...."Sorry Mom, Day".
The day after you party yourself into unconsciousness in celebration of your birth, stop and reflect on your state of being. If at this point you have nothing to apologize to your mother for...
 you are deceiving yourself.

First of all:
Every single one of us enters this world like an absolute cuss.
We begin as incredibly needy things that don't let anyone else sleep. If your boss kept you up all night working, you would be furious, but babies get away with that kind of behavior all the time. Jerks.
Your first action was to be a total douche.
Sorry Mom, that you had to put up with our weepy infant-selves.

In celebration of this special holiday I have some apologies:

Sorry Mom, for all those times that I promised I would walk the dog if we got one...And then I didn't walk the dog ever.

Sorry Mom that I lied about brushing my teeth.

Sorry Mom that I am not a genius. I tried my best. Ok actually I didn't.

Before I was born 23 years ago...
My parents wanted to name me "Elizabeth" and they thought that they would call me "Beth". They were worried that I might be nicknamed "Liz" which they were not fond of because of Liz Taylor, who got married a gazillion times.

Sorry Mom....I am in absolutely no way a "Beth"
I believe that Beth is a sort of alter-ego to me, a me that could have been....and so:

We will now ask a board of historians various questions about the course of history, had I been Beth and not Liz.

Ok. They killed each other never mind.
And yes Machiavelli is a historian.

Happy "Sorry Mom, Day" everybody.