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I’m the type of person who is very easily annoyed. I can’t help but wonder if this character flaw has something to do with being the oldest child in my family, and only girl. My childhood was full of annoying boy stuff.

Attending college and being a decade older than the average student guarantees that I’m annoyed 90% of my time on campus. This makes it difficult to relate to other students. And by relate I mean TOLERATE.

Some of the things that drive me crazy are pointless conversations. Don’t these kids have anything important to discuss? Like the newest episode of “Rock of Love Bus?”

Nooo… they’d much rather talk about which guy in the dorm has herpes. Worse than the STD discussions are the questions they ask one another. “Do you understand why the bank charges me every time my rent check bounces?”  Or, “OH MY GOD DID YOU KNOW THAT GASOLINE COSTS MONEY?”

Um.

Um..

Um…

Yeah, it’s unfortunate.

Yesterday, I got stuck by two girls who did not shut up the entire lecture. It’s pretty difficult for me to concentrate anyway, so this doesn’t help. I’d like point out that I didn’t tell them to shut up, or punch them in the face. I’m really hoping I’m awarded a scholarship for not murdering them.

I guess the silver lining is that it wouldn’t be a true college experience if I wasn’t miserable part of the time. Right?

I want everyone to learn from my mistakes. Unless I hate you, if I hate you I want you to suffer the same humiliation because I’m sort of a horrible person like that.

I never bother checking to make sure there’s toilet paper in public restroom stalls before entering the stall. Call me irresponsible if you must, but I’d rather you call me adventurous.

Yes, this actually is that kind of post. Deal with it.

Yesterday at school I found a seat in class, asked the guy next to me to watch my bag and then made a quick trip to the bathroom. It was far too late when I realized there wasn’t any toilet paper in my stall. I panicked. There’s always the drip-dry option, but I didn’t want to walk into class late. I called out to the other person I could hear in the bathroom for help. She kindly obliged and handed me a wad of paper. When I walked out of the stall she was washing her hands and I thanked her again. I told her she saved me from ten minutes of the drip-dry method. She gave me a weird look and rushed out.

Kids today are so shy about taking about their vagina’s with strangers.

I finished washing my hands and walked back into class. I sat down, thanked the guy for watching my bag and then pulled out my computer to take notes. In the process I bumped the girl sitting on the other side of me. I hadn’t taken the time to look at her until that moment. Of course it was the bathroom girl. I smiled at her, but she looked away.

This is why I’ve decided to break up with Jesus. I’m sick of this sort of thing happening to me. If Jesus is indeed a savior, wouldn’t he have saved me from this sort of embarrassing situation? Seriously, he’s so fired right now.

I am now a part-time employee.

No, the economy didn’t hit the agency I work for (thankfully), but rather I made the decision to cut back my hours so I could focus on finishing my degree.

It’s been incredibly difficult working full-time while taking night classes, and I’m at a point now where the classes I need aren’t offered at night. I feel really good about my decision and haven’t second-guessed myself once. WHICH IS RARE!

Knowing I made the right decision doesn’t stop me from being absolutely terrified. I’m worried about EVERYTHING. Obviously finances are at the top of that list. Coming up with tuition and textbook money was challenging when I had a full-time job, so you can imagine it’s going to take some very creative budgeting to survive.

And the other stuff? HOLY SHIT. Will I be able to pay my rent? Buy groceries? Food for Daisy? And what about the small stuff like a decent bag to can hold all those expensive books. Or the ever-important health and car insurance?

AHHHH!

I’m so fucking freaked out. Someone give me a paper bag quick… I’m hyperventilating. And while you’re at it send food. Or hookers. Or hookers with food to feed me. Yeah, that should work. Everyone knows hookers are the solution for all of life’s challenges.

With her new found youth Daisy has been especially hyper lately.  Which is cute, certainly, but can also drive me stark raving mad.

For example, this morning she wanted so badly to play but I ignored her and climbed into the shower.  Rather than her usual morning routine of sleeping on the bathroom floor she brought her stuffed animals into the bathroom, even pushing her Hello Kitty toy into the tub.  So there, in my shower was a wet kitty.  Go ahead and make your own naughty joke here… must I do all the work around here?

Completely annoyed I ignored the dripping wet toy and got out of the shower.  In the process of putting on my robe I tripped over her elephant chew toy.  That’s right, my dog crosses party lines.  The thought made me laugh so hard that I got dressed, ignored the time and took her for a nice, leisurely walk, which resulted in being late for my morning class.

Thankfully the professor didn’t call me out on it.  Otherwise I would have been forced to explain that I’m late for class due to a wet pussy, and there’s no possible way to say something like that without sounding like a sleaze.

Last night, just as I was walking up the last flight of stairs for my math class, I received a test message from Summer asking if I wanted to play hooky and go the the Jason Mraz concert with her.

I should add that Summer, too, was supposed to be in math class.  I should also add that I don’t even listen to Mraz. I only know who he is because one of his song titles has the word pink in it.  See, random Google searches for containing the words “pink” and “song” are beneficial!

When she mentioned the tickets were in a suite that would likely be catered I turned around and walked back to my car, leaving my education behind.  FOR MUSIC I DON’T EVEN LIKE! No wonder I’m still working on my bachelor’s degree at 32.

When I fail college algebra I only have myself to blame.  Well, and Kelli, because she wouldn’t fly out here twice a week and take the damn class for me.  What a bitch that girl is.

The best part of the night was not the concert—we left after two songs—but seeing this on the door of the E-Center:

(Insert high pitch squeals here.)

Yesterday when my alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. I woke to the worst headache. I swallowed a handful of Advil and went back to sleep for a couple more hours of sleep. Skipping class wouldn’t kill me, but the headache might.

When I woke up two hours later I felt much better, but guilty for skipping class. I punished myself by shaving my legs in the shower. And none of this shaving to the knees bullshit either– I shaved from ankle to ass. I can’t remember the last time I did that. Which a) explains my lack of a love life, and b) left me wondering when did personal hygiene become a form punishment?

Last night in math class I noticed the guy in front of me had brought his LDS scriptures to class.  At first I scoffed at him.  In my mind I’m like hey dumb ass, math is difficult but God can’t help you with this shit.

Towards the end of the class period I realized out of the fifteen students he was the one that understood the theories, AND HE WASN’T EVEN WRITING ANYTHING DOWN.  Do you understand how many notes I take in a class and still don’t have any idea what’s going on?  A lot, that’s how many.

Obviously I need to buy some good luck scriptures and carry them to math class with me.  Does anyone know if they make glitter pink, strawberry scented ones?  If that doesn’t work I’m hiring God as a tutor.

The Yuppie emailed me this link today.  He thought if anything could help me pass my math class it would be video games.  I thanked him, but was quick to point out I’m not only bad at math, but I’m also bad at video games.

Knowing I’m obsessed with The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald he sent me the following:

Damn, I thought I found a solution to your problems.  Maybe if they made story problems centered around Gatsby?  If Gatsby has three times as many shirts than Nick Carraway, and 1/3 of those shirts are striped Egyptian cotton and 2/3 have French cuffs suitable for molar cuff links (They’re real teeth!  See!), and Nick has one shirt for every year that Daisy Buchanan has been alive, how many Egyptian cotton and French cuff shirts does Gatsby own?

My answer would have to be: Who cares how many shirts Gatsby owns, I just want him naked!  It’s no wonder math isn’t going so well.

Being the good friend that she is Kelli thinks she has found a solution for my financial woes.  She has decided I should move to San Diego, go to school there on student loans, and commit to teaching school long enough for the government to pay off the loans.  Not a bad idea, but I think she just wants a scooter buddy.  Which is completely selfish given the fact I’m not near ready for year round swimsuit season.

Since RLO is my closest girlfriend these days, I discussed the idea with him.

“Sarah, you realize kids are shits, right?”

“All people are shits.  I think age is irrelevant. You know this would all be so much easier if you’d a) be my sugar daddy, or b) let me sell your flower to the Internet.”

“Well you’re getting closer to being a born-again virgin. You can sell your own flower.”

“RLO, I think yours would yield a higher profit than a slightly used flower.”

“I just looked born-again virgin up and Urban Dictionary says 6 months. You are good to go. And I think your flower is in higher demand than mine.”

“I’ll sell both flowers and of course take all the profit, but at least you’ll be left with a satisfied wiener.”

He didn’t agree, but he also didn’t veto the idea, which is pretty much a green light.  It wasn’t until later, I realized it was odd RLO knew the exact timing of my last sexual escapade.  Needless to say, I’m going to find that hidden camera tonight and I’m going to give him a show to remember.

In an effort to stay awake during class last night I had three cups of coffee beforehand.  I had no trouble staying awake because my bladder was screaming at me. I quietly slipped out the back of the classroom to find the bathroom.  On my way, I noticed there was a copy of The New York Times left on the freebie student rack.  Not wanting someone else to get it I grabbed it, tucked it under my arm and walked into the ladies room.

Sitting in the hallway were two very young boys.  One turns to the other and says, “Dude, chicks do that too?  I thought only old men pooped and read the newspaper.”

That’s me, paving the way for all women to poop and read freely.