I want my life to be a deodorant commercial

I would like to start this blogpost with an open letter:

Dear yesterday's mascara,
Thank you for sticking with me today. Sure, I was gross, and hadn't showered, but you didn't mind. And when I wandered aimlessly into that job fair looking sketch as f*&^ in jeans, a t and sneaks, you were there. When my self-esteemed plummeted in not one, not two, but three classes starting at 8am, you were there. Even now, 11:14pm, almost the next day, you are still with me. Like a cold sore. Except nice. Thank you.

Love,
Jaclyn

Dear today,
You sapped me of my will to live.

Love,
Jaclyn

The day started out innocent enough, minus the heinous taunt of an 8am recitation. An 8am recitation where the T.A. insisted upon taking pictures of us. To help the professor remember what we look like. In a class of 300. And when I said "this is soooooooo awkward" in a kind of cute, sultry, coffee-laden whisper...T.A. heard me! I mean, who really cares that I'm incredibly in tune with social situations, she has weird super hearing powers! Good thing I found this out early.

Rec't was followed by a 9:30 lecture...something, someone, ethics, evil, someone, people, did stuff. The spotlight effect: you always think everyone is looking at you...
And an interesting little tangent on like/love, which we only touched on but sparked memories of when I was in India, and my traveling boo kept saying "I love you." And I would laugh. And then I said I "liked" another traveling companion (as a friend) who ended up getting all pissy when I wouldn't get biblical with him (even though he was married with a kid!)-- took lots of my money, and abandoned my cute, white, female ass in Dehli. I later found out, however, that in India, like meant love and love meant like. So when I "liked" douche bag, I wanted to do him. I tried to explain the American English definitions in terms of my boo's cell phones. You like this one (random, lame phone) but you LOVE this one (his most favoritest possession--other than me). I like apples. I love raw cookie dough. I like She Didn't Know She was Pregnant. I love the l-word. I really love eating raw cookie dough while watching the l-word. Alone. So, perhaps this was why douchey mc doucherson thought I would get down with him. This is also why I am alone. Watching the l-word. And self-soothing.

Then my Intermediate Hebrew 2 class. Or, as I like to call it. A lesson in humility. I don't speak Hebrew, and I'm semi-curious as to why this JUST became an issue for me. Like all of the sudden. Like I can't do the hw even if I want to, because the directions are in Hebrew and everyone else is jotting away in their agenda books (cough...losers...cough) so I feel like an ass for being uhm, ma?????? (aka: what????????) Finally, I thought my prayers were being answered, someone else was going to confess to me (like, in confessional booths with priesties) that they didn't understand. Cue: boy I've never actually noticed before coming up to me after class..."did you understand that?" No!!!!! I shout! No! We didn't learn any of that when I took the last class two semesters ago. We didn't learn blah and blah and blahblahblah (ok, so this is real shit I was talking about here, but makes no sense if you're not cool enough to not really sorta speak hebrew. like me). "Oh," random boy responded. "I mean, I understand everything. That's the problem. This class is sooooo boring. I did Jewish Day school for 8 yrs. And was in Israel..."

And here, class, is when I really just wanted to cry, or punch someone, or drink heavily and pass out in my own bodily fluids. Alas, I just went to Kimmel, filled up my salad container to the brim, and agreed to pay the extra $0.29 because it weighed over a pound. I deserved it.

Later, I did a psych experiment. Where I literally hurt my hand from pounding on the table in anger. Multiple times. f***ing the experiment up so much that I wasn't allowed to finish. Although to be honest, I'm not sure exactly what went wrong, because the experimenter wasn't very good. At English. No judgment on her experimenting skillz.

Then I freaked out when I suddenly had a zillion things to do. Yelled at Rome, my beloved pitbull, for not being supportive of me in my panic. Walked to and from campus (30 min each way) in the hurricane force WIND AND COLD in a SHORT, BLACK DRESS in order to look professional, and was spared the shame associated with showing all of Manhattan my Hanes granny panties by enthusiastically singing along to Alanis Morisette's "Jagged Little Pill" all the way.

One more thing. I have decided to send D a facebook message. To ask for a meet. Coffee? This uncertainty is driving me mad. D has updated D's facebook. D is happy. D has a girlfriend. I'm not sure if the two are related. I hope D is happy because there are recession sales on alcohol.