Bagel Without the Cream Cheese

Some things just don't go together. We all know this. Peanut butter and jelly. Forrest Gump and Jenny. Those are just pairs we're familiar with, but there's just some things that we never want to blend, like Richard Simmons and small spandex shorts or super tall girls walking around with boyfriends half their size-some things are just plain wrong. Today I witnessed one of these instances on my way back to my dorm here in New York City, steps away from the intimidating upper east side streets.

I walked out of the college, taking my normal trek back to my seemingly distant dorm room. Sixteen blocks wasn't as comforting on this brisk Monday morning, however, since I was interrupted by light rain. Now, don't get me wrong here, I love the rain, but when I have to walk back to my humble abode wearing a heavy coat and my little ballet flats, the subway seemed like a great escape.

A few blocks later, I finally made it to the 6 subway station at 68th. Avoiding the glares of a few annoyingly wet people, I found shelter beneath the subway pass. Sliding my card into the slot, I scooted pass the metal bar walking to wait for the subway. Usually my iPod is off by this point since I find myself interested in the strange subway people around me. This time, though, I didn't want to quiet Ron Burgundy just yet. Oh, Anchorman- it's pretty much the cheese to my macaroni, the Juno to my Bleaker.

Weeks earlier I actually bought the song Afternoon Delight, not by the original, no, but by the wonderful Will Ferrell and the rest of the Anchorman cast. But as the subway pulled away from the station, I found the song's title to be far from what surrounded me. A creepy, few-toothed person faced me, laying on the once-empty subway seat. In front of me, a pair of dark eyes bore into mine, reminding me how pissed off someone can show with one look. Oh, and I forgot to mention the overall ambiance of beyond tired/depressed people surrounding me. Sorrow-filled the subway train while an amazingly retarded song of joy filled my ears.

So much for Afternoon Delight.

I'll Take Psychos for $500, Alex

Sometimes people make me wonder. How can you live in this crazy, materialistic, confusing world without going a little insane? Well, I witnessed insanity at its finest a few nights ago, and I'm sad to say, it wasn't as amusing as it may sound.

Let me explain where I live before I get into this. New York City, the Big Apple, Tourist Trap..whatever you want to call it-its the city that moves too fast. There are nannies, barely regarding the children they care for, business people weaving in and out of each other at the speed of the Bionic Woman on prozac...and then there's my crowd: iPod-distracted teenagers. Pulling our lazy asses out of our half-made beds in the morning, we finally cross the threshold into the city's buzz. Why? Just to go to classes that we're probably too tired to tolerate in the first place. But we all secretly love it. I mean, its New York City, how much better can it get right? That is, until we have to return to those very same dorms. It's then that we cross a new threshold: suitemate hell.

There's four of us in my dorm: the singer, the dancer, the sarcastic, and the bitch (my favorite). The singer grants us the gift of her beautiful voice in exactly 30 songs she composed AND sings. If only all the songs didnt sound EXACTLY the same, maybe it would be great fun to deal with, but she's tolerable. The dancer is the girl in my actual room and probably one of the people I feel most comfortable around. I could talk about the amazement of her random nature, but let's skip straight to the good stuff.

Oh, the bitch. The Long Island Bitch. How I love her so. There's the constant music thumping against my wall, interrupting my sleep and keeping me from procrastinated homework on my crowded desk. I admire dearly the graceful way she slips into the bathroom after I unlock it when I'm in my shower just to tell me to "be afraid of her". Above all, I love the way she openly expresses her need to go home every weekend just to smoke pot, to avoid past trouble of smoking in the dorm room. Now, I was pretty much taught that pot isn't the most important part of life. If I'm wrong, please care to correct me. I enjoy much less thrilling things like going to the movies, laughing as my roomate regails me with stories of falling on her ass due to the wet snow, and every female's embracing or hidden passion: shopping.

I'll leave my Citibank tucked into my proud Target-branded wallet for now, and carry on my week with the bitch at my side. Bitch and sarcastic sister, we could fight crime. But, give her an eviction and me a spring break, and no spandex stories will be created.