If I never see a bedroom sliipper for the rest of my life, I will die a happy person.

Remember tapered pants mba guy from October 8th? I tried to make an anchor, but damnit if I don't know how to make an anchor to another webpage. Anyhoolio, taperedpants hitched a ride down the elevator with me as I was making my way back to the lab with both tea and coffee in my hand. He was in his workout getup, a little sloppy in my opinion, but still looking cute because of his scrumptious face.

He was telling me about his final projects and I asked if he was going home for winter break. He told me he was from Chicago and that his parents were in Texas, blah blah blah. Then he said something that sparked my interest. He informed me that he was staying around these parts till the twentieth. The elevator stopped and when we got off, I told him he should go out for my birthday. Do I have anything planned? No. Do I want to go anywhere for my birthday? No. But I thought the invite would add to our lovely conversation. He asked when and where, and I just replied, "I'll hit you up."

What the hell does that mean? I dunno, but I want to hit some of dat ass.

You know what I hate, when I'm having a conversation with an 'elder' and he curses. I hate it because he can curse till the cows come home, but I have to hold back my need to throw back obscenities . A professor had a hissyfit on the phone with me about something that wasn't my fault. He wanted to rant and rave about it and used the word "shit" three times. I have little desire to hear an egotistical ass use profane language when I have no relationship with him whatsoever. I do not work for him, I do not want to look at him and I do not even want to hear his name.

I like to use four letter words when I'm emotional and it's a great way of expressing my thoughts. However, I do not feel comfortable listening to an adult curse when I can't yell back. Do not curse at me if I cannot join in the blasphemy game. It's like waving a doughnut in front of a fat person. It's only time before I grab the sugary baked goody out of your stupid hands and scream, "Fuck you."

Even if I'm deathly ill, I will force myself to go to class or work. I want to go to office so that I can get all my work done and not have to use a sick day. I don't want profs thinking that I'm a slackass for staying home and not killing myself sending emails at the office. However, if I do go to work, people will be angry that I have put them at risk of catching my sickness.

Everytime I get sick,I always contemplate how to dress if I leave my apartment. Either I can do my makeup and wear decent clothes and give the impression that I look too good to be ill or I can walk into the office with my sweatpants and greasy hair and gross people out with my smell and ghoulish, but truely sick appearance.

I'll skip the makeup and shower and just put on a hat. I will retain my body odor so people won't get close to me and ask me for things.

I was in the stairwell heading to the first floor and the guy in front of me heard my footsteps so he waited and held open the door for me till I got all the way down the stairs. He turned around and did a double take and I thought to myself, "What a cute face!" He had brown hair, brown eyes, pink lips and a clean look. He was dressed in a high quality black turtleneck and straight-legged khakis. He looked northern with his dope threads and gelled hair, but I was quite hesitant to make any final judgments. See, some guys that look New Yorky, turn out to be grossly southern. The only way to truly know if the guy you are checking out is northern or southern is by inspecting his shoes.

I looked down at stairwellnewyorker's feet and prayed to myself, "Please don't be wearing those boots. Please don't be wearing those ugly southern hiking boots with your khakis."

Hallelujah! He was wearing New Yorkey bowling-looking city shoes, similar to what I was wearing. As I was staring below at his kicks and basking in the glory of his good taste in fashion, I ran into him as he stopped to get a drink from the water fountain. I caught myself before I actually made physical contact with the guy, but next time I'll be sure to put some space between me and my prey.

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Please, God. Let me have enough money for the rest of my life so that I will never have to work two jobs. This weekend I worked for my friend who needed my help at his cart at the mall. The harrowing experience of selling bedroom slippers to mall shoppers has extinguished my desire of picking up a part-time job to pay off my credit card. Just a tip to shoppers of the world: Wash you feet daily and wear clean socks. You never know when a Chinese girl will attack you, slap your leg till you take off your shoe, and shove your foot into a bedroom slipper.

Remember the part-time jobs you had when you were growing up? I began babysitting the neighborhood kids when I turned twelve. After taking my child-care class in the sixth grade, I wanted to show off my supervisor skills and earn some cold hard cash. It still boggles my mind to think that parents trusted me, a twelve year old kid, to take care of their one and a half year-old babies and three year-old brats while they were out throwing back some liquor. Damn crazy white folks.

I took care of those kids really well. I made them stay inside and watch TV while I rummaged through their pantry's to find scrumptious snacks. One of the perks of being a babysitter was taste testing new and exciting foods, items that my mother never incorporated to her grocery shopping repertoire. I miss the ho-hoes and ringdings. Hey, you know anyone in need of a nanny? I accept payments in Little Debbies.