Friday, December 2, 2011

Why is My Life Not a Telanovela?




I don’t know if anyone else has this problem, but I have an inherent inability to leave a room gracefully. I honestly don’t know why I am so bad at it, but whenever I think I’m in the clear I usually run into the side of a table or can’t get the door open. Sometimes (this is a rare occurrence, something usually goes wrong before this point) I get completely out of the door, only to not notice the step, and fall flat on my face in front of passer-bys outside my dorm. This has happened at least three times this semester.
Is this real life?
Today, I managed the incredible feat (hah, feet) of pulling my own chair out from under me. Honestly, I have no idea. 
One particular day last winter, I was walking to class in heeled boots, feeling self-satisfied and generally too pulled-together for my own good, and decided to take a shortcut down some stairs. 
What I Expected.
Only, half way down I pulled a classic me and tripped on a patch of black ice. The action of me falling down the stairs, in front of a huge line pre-meds trying to get into their organic chemistry lecture, can only be described as herping the derp . 
What I got. (Well, minus the legs. Mine are not that nice.)
 Also, not one of those shits came over to see if I was okay. I’m glad no one in that line is going to pursue a career in making people feel better.
Oh. Wait.
Anyways, obviously I’m not really that great with hand-limb coordination. Which brings to me the actual story:
This summer I worked as an editorial intern at a fashion website in New York. Which is to say, I called Mary Kate and Ashley lazy hobos, and all my co-workers got mad at me. On the street where I worked there were enough organic food places to appease all of Portland, Oregon, and I was getting entirely too bored with eating things that were both good for my body and mean to my meager wallet. The golden arches of McDonalds were calling to me in all of their cheap, greasy deliciousness, and I wanted nothing more than to spend three dollars on questionable chicken.
Too real
The problem was that no one else in the office had ever brought back McDonalds. One time, someone brought back Chinese food, and everyone glared at her for at least an hour. But one day, something amazing happened. I walked back into the office after lunch break and the artery-hardening aroma of French fries hit me. There sat my boss, happily munching his McDonalds fries and burger, and that was all the permission I needed. The next day, I practically killed some tourist on the street to get my French fries, and self-righteously carried my prize back to the office. When I got there, a half-naked Brazilian model named Fernando was waiting for me.
Trust me, this does not end well. 
Possibly how my face looked at this point.
First, I dropped my McDonalds bag. Which was already embarrassing just because of how much more I know Fernando exercises than I do (abs people, abs). Then I leaned over to pick it up. Then, everything imaginable fell out of my pockets. Legitimately, it was like the Neverending Story of pockets. At this point I had two options: Sit on the floor in the midst of my broken dreams, or pull myself together and slink away under a desk and die. Instead, I sat at my desk, writing a snarky post about dicks (Anthony Weiner was a thing back then, children), and trying not to cry into my French fries. 
IN PEACE, I SAY!
Fernando spent the next four hours in Armani underwear, a bowtie, and glasses.
Stop that.

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