February 29, 2004

Art, or drug paraphernalia?

My brother Ante and sister-in-law Sarah gave me a present today. It wasn't my birthday or anything like that (April 14th... everyone mark your calendars); they just happened to be strolling along a random shop aisle and found something fun and colorful they wanted to get for me. How cool is that?

Anyway, this afternoon we were all hanging out at my aunt's house for a big family birthday bash when sis-in-law Sarah runs out to the car to get my spur-of-the-moment present. Out of her back seat she pulls out this beautiful glass vase... that looks a hell of a lot like a bong. Does this or does this not look like serious pottery?

I don't smoke, but hey, I like it anyway.

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February 25, 2004

Anger

The grapevine at work... I am angry. Not the raging kind of angry. Nor the jealous kind. Just angry. I am hurt, offended, and feel as though I've been dealt a blow to head. And I hate this feeling.

Today I heard through the grapevine (this is always the way my problems start) that a professor accused a friend of mine of cheating on her paper last semester. Apparently, her writing style changed mid-manuscript, and he got suspicious that someone had picked up halfway though where she left off. And because I gave her some help in the class, he thought that someone might have been me.

I am so angry right now.

Why I am angry? After all, if I were her professor, I might have suspected me too. She was a friend, and I was assisting her. In all honesty, it seems logical enough to me. But what really upsets me is that she submitted her paper last semester. Why am I hearing this now? And not from the accuser, but from the grapevine? I see him almost every day... did he just not remember to talk to me?

Oh, sorry Drina, I forgot to mention that last semester I questioned your integrity without ever bothering to mention it when we spoke... everyday..

I'm now thinking about how I'm going to approach him. I don't know what to say, exactly. I'm not very good at these things, either. My mission in life is not to be the world's biggest drama queen. I'll leave that to Pat Robertson. But I can't let this go after how it's made me feel. I'm not a child, and I shouldn't be treated like one. I am just so angry right now. Just angry.

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February 21, 2004

Internet dating? Wha huh?

I don't get it. I really don't, as hard as I've tried. I've listened to stories, explanations, justifications, a million and one arguments... and I'm still completely puzzled about internet dating. You know, meeting someone in a chat room; moving on to private instant messages; phone calls a little later; then finally hooking up in person. Why? Why do people do that?

Yesterday I was talking to a close friend of mine (who shall remain nameless, per her request) who was considering meeting tonight with a guy she met through Cleveland.com. She's been chatting with him for a while, and has talked to him on the phone. He even gave her cell a buzz while we were at a restaurant last night. He sounds like an okay guy, and his picture is pretty cute from what I've heard (of course, whether or not it's really an un-touched photo of him remains uncertain). But I'm still having issues with her meeting him.

He could be a psycho. He could be a loser. He could be anything, and she wouldn't know until she met him. Besides the obvious danger, she could be in for great disappointment. Is it so difficult to meet people the normal way --finding them through mutual friends or bumping into them at Arabica? Has anyone else out there done this, and enjoyed their experience? From what I can see, the internet may be a great tool for a lot of things... matchmaking probably not being one of them.

Enlighten me.

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February 14, 2004

We love Love!

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February 12, 2004

Rats are cute, People!

Okay, after a negative comment or two on the last post, I've decided to upload another picture of the pinkies to show once and for all that rat babies are cute. Observe:

See? What did I tell you? Adorable, no?

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February 06, 2004

My sister Klara loves rat babies

Let me tell you about my beautiful, little sister Klara. She's 18 years old, is a student at the Ohio State University (they make you say "the") and for whatever reason, stops by my blog to make obnoxious comments like "you are the wind beneath my wings" and "Michigan sucks." Klara, do you have nothing better to do at school than litter my website with your Tourettes outbursts?

Just for you, K, I'm putting up pictures of your favorite little babies:

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February 01, 2004

My digital confessional

Forgive me, internet community, for I have sinned. I've committed the unspeakable blasphemy against this great nation in which I live. I am a despicable heretic, and deserve no pity.

I seriously don't care for NFL football.

WAIT! Wait! Put down that stone, and let me explain myself. I know, what I've said is quite shocking (and very un-American to boot), but there is, I believe, a worthy explanation for it all. Just give me sixty seconds of your time, and I'll show you that I really do deserve your mercy.

Although I'm very much an American, and care about this country more than I could possible express on my itty bitty little blog, my upbringing makes it hard for me to get so excited about watching 300 pound bulls tossing a ball back and forth. You see, I'm Croatian. My parents hopped over to the United States from this little peanut-sized country called Yugoslavia way back in the day. And in my Croatian household, soccer reigned supreme.

Sure, we watched other sports. Tennis was always popular, and even football had its place. You could very well call us Browns fans (you can't be from Cleveland and escape physical assault without at least claiming to bleed orange and brown). But as wonderful as American football is, soccer is the real "football" as far as the Croatian universe is concerned (showing my true American roots, I'm placing the blame squarely on those backward Europeans).

I think it's in my genes, or something. I bet we Euros have perfectly round soccer ball-shaped cells in our body, while the whitebread American set has the pinched-end variety. I'm sure I read it in some journal somewhere. You really can't blame me for my genetic influence. I am without choice here, people.

So, today, I will go to a SuperBowl party (I may be different, but I'm not stupid), eat some chips, and pretend to be excited about the game if only for my own safety. I guess I don't really deserve forgiveness, considering my unrepentant heart, but please try to understand. Football just ain't me. It's not in my genes, not in my blood. As a child, nobody tossed me a football, and until I turned 14 I though a pigskin was the leftover product of the Croatian center's outdoor roast.

In closing, I'd like to say that if I were raised in a different environment, perhaps loaded with different DNA, I might be a little more excited today. You could probably even find me wearing a generic team jersey from Walmart. But all these variables, they were out of my control.

Mercy, anyone?

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