you can't trust anyone. not even your own memory.

All semester, I have been watching my freshman roommate sit in the front row of my Happiness class.  She sits between another girl I know and her on-again-off-again boyfriend.

Every once in a while, I would see her and remember freshman year: things like the time she made me get her laundry out of the dryer because she didn't want to have to put on a shirt and pause Gilmore Girls (the same episode she had watched three times that day). I would see her hair and remember what her shampoo smelled like and how she used to leave her wet towels on the floor.

And then today, as I was talking to my professor about next year, she waved, said goodbye and pushed her boyfriend (who is in a wheelchair- she doesn't just shove people around willy nilly) out the door. And as she left, I saw that her backpack said "Chelsea" and heard that her voice was not my ex-roommate's voice at all. This was not my roommate. I have never spoken to this girl, let alone slept in the same room with her. This was a stranger who looked, acted and DATED exactly like my freshman roommate.

Two things:

1. You can't trust anyone. Even if you think you used to share a bathroom. Because you probably didn't.
2. Doppelgangers freak me out.

you really got me

Charleston now has a Forever 21 on King St. This bugs me a lot. They put it where there used to be a Saks, and I think the trade significantly influenced the overall feel of downtown shopping. I felt the same way when they put in a Rack Room Shoes where the Banana Republic used to be. It's just... tacky. King St is not cheap tacky, it's rich tacky. Like Tommy Bahama and Lilly Pulitzer.

Now, I don't shop at these places. That's not why it bugs me. I barely shop at all. The most I ever do is gaze into the windows at perfectly dressed mannequins and wish I had more money to throw around. Sometimes I walk in and check the clearance racks while trying to avoid the attention of the people working in the store. And still more frequently, I simply walk past each store and think about which character from Arrested Development the clothes would most suit. GOB. Lindsey. Lucille. George Michael.

When Forever 21 opened they had a free gift card promotion, so it was impossible to get into the first week. But when I finally let myself wander in there (cheap clothes! even if they do tend to fall apart and have a horrible return policy) I was astounded. It is at least THREE times bigger than the one at the mall near my house. There is a section for about five or six different "looks" including what appears to be "Americana," hobo-chic, "nautical," and neon spray paint. They have a men's section and a kids section. They have enough shoes to shoe an army of overlarge centipedes. It is, in a word, overwhelming.

The first time I went was simply a reconnaissance mission. I wandered around for a bit and left. The check out line was at least 50 people long. I wish I were exaggerating.

On Friday my mitten-quotes professor had too many technical difficulties trying to get the projector to work, so he let us out of class early. About 40 minutes early.

I decided to take a walk on this beautiful Friday morning, and found myself down at Forever 21. I puttered around for a bit, looking and touching and trying and pricing. I remembered hearing someone tell me that all these clothes are cheap because they are made by poor little children in cramped sweat shops, and I looked at the items in my hands and thought I can't buy these, that would be awful. Then I remembered what Kala told me after I talked to her about the sweat shop kids (awesome band name? or too evil?): "Maybe if you buy more of the clothes, they can pay the kids more money!"

So on that faulty logic, I left having purchased a new shirt and some cute slip-on shoes.


Later that day, while wearing my new cuteness, I got whistled at by some douchey-looking guys at Andolini's. I didn't know whether to be flattered, creeped out or indignant. It's just something that happens when you put a pizza place next to the school gym/weight room: the guys get hungry after a workout and surge with "I-can-conquer-the-world" endorphins/adrenaline and "Oh-look-at-that-chick" testosterone. It was really funny to hear them try to whistle as I walked past. It came out more like whewpppthhpoooppthh.

Question to the male species: Why do you do this? Do you expect me to hear the whistle, turn around, and say "Oh, that was for me? Thank you. You look cute as well. Let's date. May I sit on your lap while you hang out with your equally repugnant male friends? You sure do know how to get a lady."

that damn dog

For a while I have been my dog's only champion. He's pretty dumb considering his name is Einstein (which was not our choice, but I have accepted it as an homage to Back to the Future) and he isn't an inbred pure breed puppy mill product. He usually eats everything he can reach, which is a lot. Now he's been known to trot upstairs and crap in people's bedrooms. But still I loved him, defended him, and derailed my family's plans to send him to a farm.

And then today I went upstairs and I found something.

Next to my bed on the floor in the corner of my room, (placed there out of shame, I'd like to imagine) was a tattered piece of trash. A shredded bag, evidence betraying his actions in my room that day. Maybe it happened while I was at work. Or even while I sat downstairs watching Harvard Sailing Team videos on YouTube. All I know is that sometime today, he finished my bag of Peanut butter M&Ms. MY PEANUT BUTTER M&Ms. Arguably the best kind of M&Ms ever invented and a luxury I was looking forward to enjoying later that day.

I don't know if we can move past this.

It's hard to stay mad at a dog. Hm. I'd better go make sure he didn't eat my frozen pizza, the scoundrel.