Pop counterculture
(11/28/12 8:14am)
For the past year, my articles have been devoted to the glorification of one thing: dorkiness.
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For the past year, my articles have been devoted to the glorification of one thing: dorkiness.
I have owned a Nintendo DS since I was 15. In completely unrelated news, I also had not kissed a boy by that time. My raunchiest love affairs were restricted to utterly literal joysticks, reinforcing my belief that navigating the male anatomy paled in comparison to navigating Koopa Troopa Beach.
Hey, so big news since we last spoke—I puked on a table at Waffle House. If you follow me on Twitter or if I have your phone number, you were probably already aware of this incident. Because when I do anything at all edgy, albeit revolting, I like to shout it from the cellular towers.
A wise man once told me, “Lindsay, stop writing about how pathetic you are.” Well, it wasn’t so much a wise man as a constant slew of friends who are equal parts supportive and bored of my middle child syndrome. Either way, I’m hesitantly obliging.
Let me preface this by admitting something: This article has no journalistic merit whatsoever. You’re about to dive head first into a pool of meaningless, delightfully embarrassing updates. Spoiler alert: I’m still not cool! “Still” being the operative word.
When I was a kid, there were two things I wanted to be in life. In descending order of importance and ascending order of practicality they were a witch and a spy. Actually, they are both of equal importance and equal impracticality. But nonetheless, I clearly had some maladjusted freak fantasies—something my excessively encouraging elementary school teachers would too kindly call an “overactive imagination.”
Okay, let me counteract all the “She doesn’t even go here!” remarks before they start. It’s true, Dukies—I am your classmate no longer. I am out doing real world things like having a job, sipping soy chais in my apartment nook and waking up sober. I’m not a college student—I’m a person.
Hey there, kiddo.
Oh the incessant inquiries passing themselves off as genuine interest: “Are you ready for graduation? What are you doing next year? So … do you have a job?”
People say college is the best time of your life. But these people are liars. These people are either nerdy high school kids looking for hope in the world, or they are President Brodhead and his poker buddies, trying to justify our tuition. But hey, I love college as much as the next white rapper (are you there, Asher Roth? It’s me… your lackluster direction in life). But I have to vehemently declare that the best time of my life was in the ’90s. A time of denim and floral print. A time of slinkies and Furbies. A time of Kenan and Kel. What’s not to love? Also, childhood was a time where sobriety and sexual inhibition were sort of expected, so I had the opportunity to really thrive. (Oh dear readers … I’ll never stop drilling the explicitly non-explicit details of my life into you!)
When I decided to be an evolutionary anthropology minor (a decision that lasted one semester), I learned about our adaptability as a species. You’ve probably figured out that I’m a somewhat ironic individual. Well, I’ll have you know that my pension for irony extends past my personality and affects my biology. My carnal behavior seems to be incongruous with Darwin’s sexpectations (I’m not exactly perpetuating the species over here). To understand the urgency of this issue, please enjoy this verbatim excerpt from my latest date:
Who gave that chubby baby a weapon and the authority to use it? It needs to be stopped. If a diapered Danny Devito approached me with a quiver, I’d kick him in the violets. Oh, those things would get REAL blue. Only under the fluffy guise of love would such tomfoolery be allowed.
Let’s talk about sex. Part of me wishes I were a sex columnist. But the rest of me knows that that would be a fairly G-rated sex column. It would be much more observatory than participatory. And not in that cool voyeuristic way. All in all, my sexcapades are relatively tame. Join me as I recap several key events that launched me into womanhood ...
You don’t have to. But I want you to. Why? Because I’m a middle child. Middle children are, by definition, attention-seeking urchins. Similar to socialites, class clowns and most Duke students. So I feel like you will relate to me. You brag about your I-banking internship or spot in line at K-Ville or how your father is the inventor of Toaster Strudel, while I publish my meaningless snarkiness. Newsflash to both of us: No one cares.