A few questions to be asked:

Really, how many times will I fall down the stairs until I realize dropping laundry bombs on them is a bad idea?
In case you haven't been to my townhouse, I live on the sauna floor known as the third floor. I get this sweet little landing to myself, where I can look down on everyone who comes in the house and play the fun game of "Pants or No Pants." I also get my own staircase, which has been speckled in liquor, vomit and dirt stains.

Now, seeing as the washer and dryer are on the second floor, it is entirely too much to ask for me to bring my clothes all the way back up to my room. So the roommates and I have come up with a system: drop laundry bombs throughout my staircase; I find it useful. Every morning, I just sift through the piles for what I want to wear and I'm off. But some mornings, the laundry is out to get me. I have fallen down the complete set of stairs at least four times this semester. In a mad dash to catch the bus or to make oatmeal, my tired feet slip on the pair of pants hanging ever so precariously over the step, I begin to lose balance and begin a painful descent down the stairs.

Tuesday morning, I was pretty sure I broke my toe, but it's fine (everyone can relax!). One time, I really smashed my arm and over-extended it at the same time--that one was fun. The other falls have just ended in minor bruises. Every time I see the laundry, I think to myself that I should move it and then I don't until I hurt myself. So really, will I wait until I break my arm to stop throwing it on my steps or even then will I not learn?

On a complete side note: Today, I was running up the outdoor Joyner East stairs and somehow managed to trip and face plant straight into them. So, Tuesday, I fall down the stairs and Thursday I trip up them. Either, my clumsiness is just getting out of hand or stairs really aren't my thing.


What is that smell in my kitchen?
The first step you take into our townhouse greets you with an overwhelming scent of rotten trash. Welcoming, really. Even when we don't have full trash bags hanging in our kitchen, even when the sink is empty and the counters are clean, even when the beer pong table isn't in our house, it still wreaks of garbage.

So sometimes, I like to play "What's that Smell," not nearly as fun as "Pants or No Pants," but still provides some sort of entertainment. I smell the trash bag, the pantry, the fridge, the sink, and the counters and yet nothing has led me to the answer of, what's that smell? My last idea is it could quite possibly be our carpet that has been destroyed during all of our PJ parties and beer pong sessions. And when we get our carpets cleaned in the near future, the problem may be resolved. But until that time, I ask you all to play the rousing game of "What's that Smell?" because maybe you can provide some insight to the foreign stench.


Who are the homeless people in Mendenhall?
I spent an hour in Mendenhall every day my sophomore year, just wasting time in between classes. I'd fall asleep on the leather couches watching the Price is Right (in the time of Bob Barker, not Drew Carey), as Mendenhall employees watched the TV's blaring BET and danced along. I enjoyed my hour long escape that is until they came in.

There were two regulars that came in every day. They sat in front of the TV's playing X-Files or Golden Girls and ate food from their anonymous plastic bags. The ragged old man didn't bother me, he usually joined me in watching the Price is Right and fell asleep before I did. However, I wanted to kill the old woman. She would schluff her slippers across the floor as she walked, rummage loudly through her plastic bag and then precede to making loud smacking noises as she ate.

I had completely forgotten about both of them until I started returning to Mendenhall for lunch and to watch that new, strange Mariah Carey video that is oddly playing every time I come in. As I silently ate my yogart parfait, I heard the familiar smacking and as I slowly looked left, I was met with the oppressive sight of the old woman eating her lunch. And thus, mine was ruined.

I am not completely certain they are homeless, but they are there every day, all day. The woman comes in different clothing, but all are torn up sweat pants and sweat shirts. I understand it is a public space, but should we really allow homeless people to squat it out in our facilities? I'm really just bothered because the food smacking noise will forever be ingrained in my brain and it makes me shutter. Anyone know who I'm talking about?


Why is it that everyone in my merchandising 2350 class has the IQ of somewhere around 85?
Okay, this is a major based on fashion; it doesn't require a lot of brain power. I can see why all the idiot girls would flock to it, but I didn't know they let people this dumb into college. This past Monday, a girl known to me as "Muffin Top," went on a five minute tangent on why she loves St. Patrick's Day.

It went a little like this: "I just...I just love St. Patrick's Day. I don't really know why; I just do. It's St. Patrick's Day--what could be better? I mean, it's like the greatest holiday in America. Well, really, the entire world. Like, I get to wear green. It is great."

As Muffin Top babbled through her idiocy, I banged my head against my desk. When our professor asks questions, no one ever answers and when she finally starts calling on people, each one repeats the same answer, one after another. I really think a lot of girls just thought, "Oh hey, daddy buys me Seven Jeans and I know how to coordinate shirts and throw it all together with my knock-off Chanel bag, so I should totally open my own boutique one day!" These girls are mostly freshmen, so maybe I'm being a little harsh, but I'm fairly certain in a few years ECU is going to spit out a lot of overly-dressed, clueless girls.


Is "Love in the Club" really that great of an idea?
Granted, I pathetically love all things Usher and when Burch told me he had a new song out, I frantically ran to my computer to download it. But the song is illogical, which most rap is, but Usher's songs usually are a little bit above the "rims and hos" standard of today's rap.

The entire premise is that Usher sees some hot girl and wants to fuck her in the club or "On the couch, on the table, on the bar, or on the floor," if you will. Now maybe I haven't been to enough clubs, but I'm fairly certain you're not allowed to get up on the bar and stuff some girl's turkey, even if you are Usher. And what does bag you like some groceries that you got from aisle three really mean?

Lastly, if you're going to fuck in a club, shouldn't you try to be pretty covert about it? Usher is suggesting getting naked and porking her all over the place. I've shamefully worked out to this song every day for the past month, but every time it comes on when I'm running, I ask myself "why can't they just go home?"