Why I Haven’t Unpacked My Fucking Suitcase

It’s been over two weeks since I came back from Winter Break. Two weeks is long enough complete the hazing tradition known as sorority recruitment and for the question of “So what did you do over Winter Break?” to finally go stale, but apparently it’s not long enough for me to unpack my fucking suitcase.

F.J.’s suitcase, in all its atrocious glory.

Here’s the thing: It’s not like my suitcase is all that large, or I’m all that busy. Literally, the whole unpacking operation would probably be a five minute job, and for every moment I’ve been busy prepping for midterms or (more probably) eating wings, I have had at least another ten moments of extreme, tear-inducing boredom where I repeatedly ask my roommate “What should I doooooooooooooo?” in that whiny voice that she loves.

Authors That Would Make Bad Writing Infinitely Better

As a manipulator of the English language myself, I hold several beliefs dear to my heart. They are as follows:

1) If you are over the age of 12 and still cannot successfully distinguish when words should have apostrophes (confusing “it’s” and “its,” “your” and “you’re”), I cannot respect your education. Why are you stupid?
2) If you can’t write something nice, don’t write anything at all. I’m not talking about pleasant or polite; I’m referring to “nice” writing as the opposite of writing that is bad, boring, poorly written, wrong, pointless, confused, frustrating, or Rick Perry.

Yeah, I know. It’s radical. Of course, not as radical as Rick Perry. But let’s face it: there is some literature/film/music that simply should have been penned by someone other than the original author. In some cases, aforementioned art is a slice of brilliance that got tarnished in the current writer’s incapable hands; in other cases it is an unsalvageable failure whose only option is to get worse so as to become presentably heinous.

In fact, may I make a few suggestions?

Twilight
by Terry Pratchett*
We’d all like this series so much better if Ms. Meyer’s attempt at a love story about a girl next door (translation: exposition on How To Have A Dysfunctional Relationship) had relatable and quirky characters with different fonts for every time they spoke. P-rad knows exactly how to make a totally impossible instance (Death playing Santa Claus? Criminals becoming post-men? Women in the army and not in the kitchen?) plausible, insightful, and funny — qualities which are all completely lacking in the hands of its current author.

Miley Cyrus’s memoir, Miles to Go
by Lemony Snicket
I haven’t read the original, but here is what I imagine it will read like, “My daddy is the only reason I’m famous. My brother croakmoans uncomfortably horny music to an audience that hasn’t got boobies yet. My boyfriend is way too old for me. I like drugs.” Are you attached to any of these characters? Do you care if the melancholy wit of Lemony Snicket creatively kills them off? Me neither. Just add a narrator who regularly urges you to stop reading, a meaninglessly depressing end,** and illustrations by Brett Helquist, and we’ve got ourselves acceptable piece of literature. It might even be appropriate for children, unlike everything else about Miley. Which brings us to:

“Party in the USA”
by Adele
Face it. She’d sing it better. Adele’s been so angsty lately (trying to set fire to the rain and all. She must be so frustrated) I’d like to see her getting down and shaking those God-given gifts. We know that when a Jay-Z song is on in Adele’s taxicabs, you better believe she puts her hands up.

Freud’s Early Theories
by Tara Gillespie
If you think about it, it wouldn’t be too different: My Immortal (the world’s worst fanfiction) and Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams are both mostly about sex/mostly wrong about sex. But if our favorite “goff” wrote it, we’d have the added pleasure of trying to decipher what words were behind the awful spelling in addition to laughing at his concept of penis envy and her concept of orgasm. Maybe she’d throw in some Harry Potter references*** along with her My Chemical Romance worship, extensive description of fishnets, and use of the phrase “passively frenching.” On the negative side, there will undoubtedly be a morbid amount of it’s/its confusion, but on the plus side, as far as we can tell, Tara wasn’t on cocaine, unlike Freud.

Glee
by Tommy Wiseau
Oh hai: it’s another artist who lacks command of the English language. Be honest with yourself — you don’t watch Glee for its**** gripping storyline. Having America’s most multi-untalented artist write/direct/produce/star/fornicate in the musical TV show can only make it more interesting. You know you want more of the writing that made Tommy’s masterpiece, The Room, so fantastic — what better way than to sit down with a bowl of popcorn to a fusion of pop culture featuring quotable magnificence such as, “You ah tearing me apaht, Wachel!” and “I did NAHT hit on Kurt. I did NAHT.” Best of all, we get to hear more of his wonderfully attractive accent/speech impediment as applied to music. Which, of course, he’ll arrange and sing entirely by himself.

Unfortunately for you, I have no suggestions on how to improve your terrible English paper. And so, I leave you with the immortal words of Dr. Seuss:
You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes,
You have heinously read all Sir Twattingworth spews.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose
(Just as long as it sounds like Erman Shmavenues).

——————————————————————————————————————————
*Another soul who understands the beauty in a footnote. All I want for Christmas is his semen in a petri dish with the reproductive cells of Bristol Bacchus. Bristol, dibs on being godmother.
**I’m all for realistic children’s literature, but I was really attached to Uncle Monty. And did anyone else develop a phobia of Lachrymose Leeches in Lake Michigan?
***Godwin’s law of NU: the longer a conversation continues between two NU students, the more likely a Harry Potter reference becomes.
****Did you see that apostrophe? No, you didn’t, because it does not belong there. It belongs in the first sentence of that paragraph.

Wiz Khalifa’s “Roll Up:” A Literary Analysis

The muse quitely ponders his convoluted relationship

Some of today’s top hits make me want to do heinous things to adorable animals. We really can get enough of the Black Eyed Peas rhyming “Flow-joe” and “X-O” in “Just Can’t Get Enough,” and I’m still out hunting for the miscreant who let Selena Gomez out of the Disney dungeon in order to record “Who Says.” However, when I tune into the radio I can’t help but turn up the volume to a bass-pounding level immediately upon hearing the first deliciously melodious notes to certain songs. One of these titans of tuneage amongst sing-a-long powerhouses like “Rolling in the Deep” and “Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.)” is Wiz Khalifa’s “Roll Up.”

Cameron Jibril Thomaz a.k.a. Wiz’s voice is endearing and soulful as he tells the story of presumably male subject who is trying to explain to a female that he is dependable. Though the song is the musical equivalent to a priceless Vermeer, one major question remains in regard to the plot of its lyrical composition. Is the main character involved in a sexual relationship with his “shawty,” or is their affinity merely a platonic bond with the potential for penetration?

These are the burning questions that keep America awake at night.

From the onset of the song, Wiz Khalifa explicitly states that the female lead is in a relationship, as it is her anniversary, but “her man ain’t actin’ right.” This woman then boards an airplane to visit the narrator and the befuddlement begins. He claims, “When you at home that’s your man, soon as you land you say that’s all me,” suggesting that the narrator has the same (sexual) relationship with this woman when she visits as she does with her boyfriend at home. Yet this connection is never made clear.

In spite of this apparent conclusion, a question about the narrator’s intentions remains. The chorus does not paint the narrator as a villain who is attempting to steal his “homie” from her man, but rather a dependable guy who will “roll up” whenever this woman needs him. The narrator repeats, ” Whenever you need me, whenever want me, you know you can call me, I’ll be there shortly.” In the chorus, he makes quite clear that their friendship is the most important part of the relationship, even referring to himself as her “best friend.” Even if there is no chance of road head or Skype sex, this guy will be there for this stupid betch. If their relationship is already sexual, what does he have to gain by indulging her every whim? Why does he still promise that he will “roll up”? From the chorus it seems as though he has not yet consummated the relationship and their correspondence appears platonic, although he clearly yearn for her.

Both Khalifa's devotion and true genius are on full display throughout the song

Furthermore, the narrator utilizes buzzwords reminiscent of the sordid sexual escapades of two star-crossed lovers. When integrated into the story of the song, they initially appear ordinary, but when analyzed alone, the verses sound more conspicuous than sores on herpes-infected genitals. Words like “fucking” and “ride” refer directly to the act of intercourse, while a reference to “handcuffing” subliminally prompts listeners to think of their own steamy fantasies of light bondage. More subtly, in one line the narrator claims that this woman is “cooking eggs in the morning.” This statement could refer to the fact that she is hungry in the morning because she is ravenous after a night of passionate love making, or possibly the efforts of the narrator’s sperm to fertilize or “cook” her eggs. Based on these findings, I have come to the conclusion that these two people have engaged in sexual relations. Although this in never made explicit, the manner in which Mr. Khalifa portrays their relationship connotes a bond that could only have been formed by nights spent groping her incredibly hot and voluptuous body while Marvin Gaye’s voice drowns out screams of pleasure.

Now that’s fresh.