Okay, I'm honestly done Whovianing after this one.

Doctor who GIF game. Every third.

GIF IT TO ME. :D 

Let us begin.

You hear the TARDIS materialize:

Ha! Pretty much.
Good start.

You meet the Doctor:

He asks you to come along:

I think I just peed a little from laughing. "You're naked." "OH YES!"

That's exactly what it would be like.

The first thing you see on your first adventure is:

 Oh, Daleks. I would definitely panic. No lies.

Your approach as a companion is:

Well, aren't I somethin' special, then.
"Oh, baby! I'm beating out a samba!"

You meet Captain Jack Harkness:

You run into the evil villain:

Oh, The Master. Yes, please. 

He's my favorite, even though I'd totally die in some horrible way. 

Also, why are The Master and The Doctor so great together?

You’re captured by the evil villain:

"Now then."

The Doctor finds you:

"How are you feeling?" "Oh, not so bad! Just a little bit, you know..."

Good episode. 

You defeat the evil villain:

NO. NONONO. ;A;

You return to the TARDIS:

The TARDIS has a built in dryer, now? Nice. 

Not so hard to believe. He did say there was a library and a pool. 

"Watch out for the disinfectant!" "The what?" "The disin-oh. She'll find out."

You return to Earth:

Well, that was fun. 

The Doctor asks you to continue traveling with him:

"You like it."

Yes. Yes, I do.

I hope that's exactly what he says and just how he says it.

I feel like that whole thing ended up being awesome and therefore worth posting. However, I'll post just one more GIF because it makes me laugh. It shouldn't but it does. 

Because I know what they said but all I can see is: 

"Where's your wife?" "Wasted."

Bad lip reading 101.

Whovian Blues

Here's something a little out of the ordinary. Could it be? A serious post?

"No. Well...yeah." <- I don't think I'll ever be able to hear that kind of stuff in anything but Tennant's voice, now. Same goes for "Brilliant."

Prepare yourself, I'm about to talk about feelings, and if you want funny, skip to any other post in the selection. This one doesn't have it.

Recently I've gotten involved with the Dr. Who series. I started from the beginning here in Oxford and just finished season four. Why is this relevant, you ask?

Feelings. 

If you've watched the show, you might know what I mean.

But they're so addicting. I mean apart from the episodes, the clever humor, the (let's face it) attractive menfolk. It's the feelings of anger, happiness, and deep rooted sorrow. It's like air.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm no robot. Cyberman, or otherwise. I do feel things. Lots of things. Thrill of success at the latest prank, humor in sarcastic conversation, relief and relaxation when I finally hit the pillow on a Friday night after a week of very little sleep.

But those feelings. The raw ones. Those are wonderful. Only one I've felt in a while is frustration. Not all the time, of course, but it'll breach through on occasion if under the right circumstances. Stress reigns it in. Seals it up so even that's a shell of a real emotion.

I feel, but oh, does it feel good to feel. Especially sadness. Gut-wrenching sorrow. I don't get that too often, I'm too exhausted or busy. It's healthy, it must be, because I always feel a little lighter afterwards, like some amount of stress has been lifted from my shoulders that I didn't even know existed.

It's funny in a way. Probably because it's after 3:30am and I'm sleep deprived. Heck, I'll probably get up tomorrow and wipe this post from existence. Feelings truly are something, aren't they?

Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Monticello.

So, this last week I took a class trip to Monticello and toured the elegant home of Thomas Jefferson, or TJ, as I like to call him. I didn't know I liked to call him TJ until I casually referred to him as TJ in a conversation I had with Roommate about twenty minutes ago. Even I was confused.

Maybe I knew him in the preexistence or something.

Anyways, back to the tour. I took the tour with a bunch of fellow classmates, but spent the majority of my time standing with my friend Sarah. Usually cracking jokes because I'm disrespectful. In all honesty, I found the place amazing, but my ADHD meds had worn off so I was noticing random things and struggling against the urge to secretly bump my hand against everything with a "DO NOT TOUCH" sign. I failed more than once.

In the study as we continued the tour I noticed various portraits. One included a naked girl who appeared to be trying to cover herself up, but clearly missed a spot. I remember wondering how funny it would be if she actually didn't know and the artist just didn't tell her that he could clearly see some nipplage.

"Oh, my. Am I decent enough?"

"Oh, yeah. You're good."

/lies/

Anyways, I was interrupted from my reverie by Sarah's sudden gasp.

"That's sacrilegious!"

Curious, I looked up to where she was staring and saw this painting:

Me: "What?"

Sarah: "That painting!"

Me: "That's John the Baptist. Salome has his head on a plate as ordered; it's a story from the Bible. A lot of people have paintings of it."

Sarah: "Oh. I thought that was Jesus."

It took every ounce of strength I had to try and keep from giggling the rest of the tour. I failed that, too.

Some people have no shame.

Which, in some cases, can be a very good thing. Like my lack of shame about running around like a dinosaur in public places, or rolling around on floors.

However, getting hot and heavy in a car parked outside at three in the morning, and in clear view of two people that you probably know...well. There should be a little shame there.

Roommate and I were getting revenge on a few friends for their vicious toilet-papering of my Tahoe a few weeks ago by filling the cab of their car with balloons. This meant a 2:00am stakeout, awkward moments of stargazing, and circling the premises multiple times while waiting for the coast to be clear. Kind of hard when people stay in their car for a ridiculous amount of time. It's not like we were trying to be sneaky, we were just trying to stay unsuspicious. Good thing we have Fall as an excuse for wearing hoods. They had to have known.

Once, we even decided to sneak up on the car with the intent of scaring them. At the time, we thought  it was just two girls talking.

Wrong.

We got so close to the car, too, haha. I don't know how they didn't notice. Well...I suppose I know how, but gross. Anyways, we ended up pulling our prank anyways, filling up a truck cab with balloons  until we couldn't blow up anymore due to lack of space and a slight onset of claustrophobia.

This took well over an hour. Those windows were not tinted and now I feel tainted.

Ever been sexually harassed by a clown?

I have.

Happened a few years ago.

Wouldn't have thought about it, but, after spending time at a local park with a "pay to have people try to scare you and then feel like you mortally offended them by not even jumping or reacting to their efforts" haunted trail, I did.

Seriously. I just don't get scared or startled at these events, but please don't get me wrong. I am a coward. Maybe that's a little bit of an overstatement. Plenty of things don't scare me, but still. Have me watch something silly like a Slenderman video and/or put me out in the woods in the dark and I will wet my pants everywhere.

Anyways, that strange fact ties in here somewhere...

Anyways, back home in Kentucky, we had this really sweet, haunted corn maze named "The Field of Screams." First time there I was maybe eight or nine, and a wolf man scared me so badly I fell down and peed a little. My dad, of course, found this hilarious. Not that I blame him; I only hope I'll have the ability to watch my future child share in such a traumatic experience.

In his defense, my dad did kick a mummy really hard in the barn section later that night trying to prove to me that it was only a dummy. Kudos to that guy for not reacting. He was kicked in the shin. Hard. Kudos also for being the second guy there to make me fall down in fear and pee my pants.

Anyways, that was the first time. I guess the psychological trauma allowed the growth of a fearless exoskeleton. Now I walk through those cornfields and tunnels like a boss.

Anyways, back to the clown story.

I used to go to the Field of Screams every year, sometimes more than once, with my friends. It was usually amazing. Well decorated; the actors were fantastic; corn was healthy. This particular year, not so much. There had been droughts that left the corn dry and withered, and instead of the "jump scare" that usually works fairly well, these newbies decided to basically walk out and use loud profane language. I mean, seriously. I'm not one of those people that gets worked up about that stuff, but it really made the difference between, "Oh, scary!" and, "Wow, bro. Wow. Thanks for making that so dumb." Leaving all of us feeling needlessly chastised and severely disappointed.

However, the scenery was still decent, regardless of the dying corn, so that was enjoyable.

If I remember correctly, we had a pretty decent sized group. About eight or nine of us. Including D.

Normally, I was pushed to the front because I was the only one who didn't mind risking my neck for dead nurses and dolls with chainsaws, however, as we went through the barn section somehow I ended up in the back.

I was just wandering. Not really keeping up with the group. Enjoying the scenery, you know. D and I were just barely becoming friends at that point, and I noticed that whenever the group would disappear from my line of sight, he was the only one that would eventually pop his head back into whatever room I was in to see what I was doing. At first, I felt bad because I was probably annoying him, but what the heck. I was enjoying myself.

Eventually we were in a dark tunnel and my group left, closing the door and leaving me in complete darkness. I guess the point of that room was to feel around and find the door, which would've taken me a while had D not come back for me. It was at that point I decided I'd better pick up the pace and catch up with the group. So, here's the scene. You've got D standing in the light of the only open doorway and me half-running down a thin hallway to get to him and reconnect with the rest of the gang.

I was suddenly interrupted.

Now, before I go on, I want to explain the loophole that this character put in place as vaguely as possible. Main rule: "Do not touch the actors, and they will not touch you. If you touch the actors, all bets are off."

Now, moving on.

I was about ten feet from the door when some guy dressed as a clown jumped out in front of me, placed his hands on both walls, and effectively blocked my passage. Typical getup. Painted, grinning face, foam nose, flower, polkadot suit, probably covered in blood. That sort of stuff.

Didn't scare me, but I was a little impatient to move on. The voices of my group were disappearing.

Me: "Excuse me."
Clown: "Hey, pretty lady. Why don't you touch me? Honk my nose."
Me: "Yeah, no. Not going to happen. Just let me by."
Clown: "Only if you honk my nose. I want it."
Me: "Okay, no. For one, it's against the rules. Also, you're not scaring me. You're just being really annoying."
Clown: "Don't be so feisty. C'mon; just do it."

I'll erase the rest of the conversation for the sake of brevity, but I was getting pissed off and, dang it, he just wouldn't let me pass. Couldn't even force my way by him or duck under his arms. I tried. D was still standing in the doorway watching this argument unfold as the voices of the group faded into the rest of the barn. Eventually I got so frustrated I rolled my eyes and finally reached up to "honk" this stupid clown's nose.

Immediately, I was grabbed and dry humped and whooped and hollered at all simultaneously. I panicked, pushed the guy off as hard as I could, and ran for the door.

Haha, of course D would be the only one to see that. It was humiliating and awkward. Lucky me. His eyes were probably almost as big as mine.

I guess lucky could go two ways here, though. One the one hand, not so lucky. Just embarrassing. On the other hand, if it would've been anyone else in that group, I would've never lived it down. Ever. Don't get me wrong, I told my girlfriends later what happened, but not to the full extent, and D didn't share it, really, at all.

I used to live with a cruel crowd. So, I suppose I was very lucky.

Anyways, here it is in writing to the full extent. You're welcome.

Oh, and as a bonus: new random story. Same night.

There was a small shack in the middle of the cornfield that was decorated as a demented playroom. I was pushed through first with one of my girl friends huddled against my back. As I reached the door to the other side, I stuck an arm out, pointed, and said, "Someone is going to jump out right here." Not three seconds later, BAM. A girl jumps forward and begins a scream. Problem was that when she jumped forward, she jump in exactly the wrong spot causing my outstretched finger to go right down her throat.

That was a seriously awkward moment. Both of us probably had the same disgusted, horrified expression as she slowly backed away into the shadow she came from.

I still feel awful about that.

My Spanish textbook is related to Carmen Sandiego.

Because, dang. Where in the world is it?

I have a Spanish exam in less than an hour, so I'm celebrating my lack of effort to search for the book by blogging.

Maybe it'll get bored and come out because I stopped looking.

The thought that that's my current strategy for everything, including inanimate objects, probably also proves that I would make a really shoddy babysitter.

Mer blerg ferhls nerkkerd. Very naked.

So, here's a fancy picture of a roadway to fix it.

MONOCHROME. SO VINTAGE.

No one should ever feel this stressed about using the bathroom.

That probably sounded strange. Good. I meant it.

We've covered every other subject (not really) in this blog, and darn it, I'm going to talk about bathrooms. Restrooms. Washrooms.

The Loo.

But let's not get too ahead of ourselves, here.

Where to begin... Oh. I know. The mystery door.

-insert various ghoulish 'ooo' noises and possibly the theme for The Twilight Zone-

So, this year I've moved down from the freshman dorms on the hill into a little flat complete with kitchen, bathrooms, living room, and dining area. The bedrooms are minuscule when compared with my previous residence, but the trade off is more than substantial.

So, Roommate and I moved in. Different Roommate, though. Maybe I should give her a new tag.

...Nah.

Now our house has eight girls living in it, there used to be nine, but *Squatty decided to move out. (Pay attention to that because that comes into play later.) Our room was supposed to be at the end of the hall, but due to unforeseen circumstances (namely, Squatty deciding not to follow the rules and stealing it when she showed up a day early) we ended up in the room next door. Now, in our little branch of hallway there are three doors: ours, the end room, and one that looked like a type of supply closet. It was always locked so we didn't give it much thought.

Until, one day, there was a light under the door.

The door was still locked, so we assumed maybe our Residential Advisor had gone in and left the light on. However, we became curious. What was in that room? We wandered around outside, figuring that perhaps the room had a window we could peer into. Sadly, it wasn't the case. Periodically we would try the door when no one was watching. We held stake-outs. The door stayed locked. After a while, we noticed that the light under the door seemed to go on and off without us seeing anyone come in or out of the door. Now, we decided it was possible that we just weren't watching hard enough so we intensified our methods. Still, nothing came of it.

Roommate mentioned asking the RA, but at this point, that was just too easy.

Another few days went by, and still nothing. Then came the night of a bonfire/karaoke party for all the people who were living in the different modulars. Amanda and I went and enjoyed ourselves, and as the party wrapped up we quietly stole back into our house and went towards our room. The light under the door was back. Thinking quickly and realizing we had precious little time to waste, I asked Roommate if she had a small hand mirror we could use to peer under the doorway. Excitedly, she disappeared into our room only to reappear a few moments later clutching a some sort of clasp mirror she uses in the morning to do her make-up. I stood up and motioned for her to take a look under the doorway. She crouched and stuck the mirror partway under the door, angling it to give her a decent view of the room.

I didn't have to wait long.

Roommate: "There's a toilet in there!"
Me: "...Excuse me?"
Roommate: "Here! Look for yourself!"

Sure enough, it was a bathroom. A small, continually locked bathroom. I had always thought the bathroom that we had previously been forced to use was a sort of cruel and unusual punishment, or, at the very least, designed by a man.

Reason #1. It's out in the open.

The bathroom is placed against the dining room wall and there's always a crowd of guys and girls around because people in my house are social. Disappear into the bathroom, and the whole world knows you're pooping.

Reason #2. Cramped living space.

There is one wall mirror and three sinks. I know that sounds like a lot, but when you live with eight or nine girls who need to do make-up/brush their teeth/fix acne/etc, every morning, trust me, it's very crowded.

Reason #3. Dos baños.

There are two toilets in the bathroom. This is both very handy and very embarrassing. On the plus side, two people who urgently need to pee can go simultaneously. On the negative side, when you're bladder shy, it's torture. On top of that, it's the "public bathroom" so you could theoretically be in there using the restroom or showering and a random guy could walk in.

Reason #4. The showers. Ohmigawd.

In said bathroom there are two showers that face each other. They have speckled glass doors and no curtains. You can't even put curtains in there, really. Now, normally when you think speckled glass door, you're thinking of that fine grain stuff that you can't see through. Not the case. Not the case, at all. These doors may as well be Pella windows. You can see through them with absolutely no trouble. This was thoroughly tested by Roommate and I while being fully clothed. Duo showering will never be on the menu, I'm afraid.

Reason #5. No. Just, no.

There is nothing separating the shower area from the rest of the bathroom. I walked in to wash my hands and saw some poor girl trying to use the glass door as a cover so she could strip down for the shower. Apparently the picture gets clearer the farther you are away from the glass, because, oh my. So much naked.

Apparently, unbeknownst to us, there was a small one-person bathroom across from our room and out of the way the entire time. On top of that, it was connected to the room that should've been ours. Regardless, we still should've been able to use it, but they were keeping it locked. It even has a bathtub.

Mildly frustrating, no?

Feigning ignorance, I decided to bring up the subject of the "mystery door" at our next house meeting. Roommate filled everyone in on our attempts to divulge the secrets behind the door including the mirror and the stake-outs. Everyone laughed, and we joined in, because, hey, it was pretty funny. Squatty, who I mentioned earlier, had a roommate named Sarah, who seemed pretty confused by our story about us continually discovering the door locked every time we tried the knob, and stated that she often unlocked it to make sure we could get in, and only rarely would she forget. About a minute later, Squatty laughs and confesses that she had started locking the door to keep us out since we didn't seem to know what the room was at the time and she liked not having to share it. I already had a little disdain for Squatty's attitude, but wow. That's a bit selfish, there, little one.

Regardless of our Residential Advisor's warning for Squatty, the door stayed locked until the day she moved out. Continuing in the motion of things, once she did move out, I still didn't use it much.

However, we began having assigned bathrooms two days ago due to toilet paper shortages. Seems the RA, a girl names Kambyl and myself are the only ones stocking the bathrooms, and, being women, it runs out quickly. My assigned bathroom to use ended up being the one across the hall from our door, but after becoming accustomed to using the other bathroom, I feel that whenever I use Squatty's old restroom I'm invading Sarah's personal space, and when I use the public area one I feel like I'm trespassing.

The confusion between the two has ultimately led to hold-out discomfort. I swear if I were a man, I'd rather go in a bottle than deal with it.

Le sigh.

(*Note: The name "Squatty" isn't meant as an insult. I just used it to describe her to Roommate once since I hadn't figured out her name, and it stuck. I'm still not sure what her real name is.)

To reassure my parents.

Oh my.

Truth be told I had an irritable rage-post set about plagiarism and how I recently discovered the painful effects it can have on your peace of mind when you become the victim.

BUT.

I got bored.

So here's something a little different. I was going though some files on my computer, and I found a document with snippets of conversations D and I had while I was in college my first year. It's got some pretty great stuff in there. Kinda makes me wish I hadn't wiped all my computer files that saved my various messenger chats.

Anyone who has previously written me blackmail worthy material, it looks like you're off the hook. For now.

Anyways, I still found this gem. I had just gotten off the phone with my mom after yet another desperate plea for me to give her grandchildren someday soon. She's not getting any younger, I suppose. I believe I offered to be a short-term hooker to keep her happy, but she wasn't as interested in that option as I thought she might be.

A little while later D and I had our scripture study and watched a video about Captain Moroni cornering the army of Zerahemnah and trying to offer them a way out but ended up scalping the dude and yadda yadda. We all know the story. If you don't, you should check out the Book of Mormon, it's pretty schweet. Anyways, the video also starred this wicked baller hero-Grandpa with a ton of medals and an adoring grandson. D made this observation:

D: That could be your dad, someday.

Me: Pfft. As a hero? That's my dad now.

D: Well, yeah, but he's not a grandpa, yet...friggin' Paul.

Me: And Aaron. You know, they're looking at me now, and I'm only eighteen!

D: -pause of shocked silence- You're too young for babies!

Me: I know I'm too young for babies!

D: I don't plan on impregnating you for at least five years!

Me: -pause of shocked silence- I'm glad that is a definite goal of yours.

Apparent goals for D when he gets back from his mission:

1. Impregnate Jessica.

2. Marry her in a panic, because that was mentioned absolutely nowhere in the conversation.

3. ?????????

4. Profit!