IHOP excursion, the end of late-night discussions

A common pastime for college students involves late night conversations about religion, politics, social issues, and personal experiences. While it physically hurt to go to sleep at 3 a.m. and awake four hours later for an 8 a.m. class, the course usually lasts just an hour and the rest of the day is open for napping and repose. As a senior at the University of Arizona, I had 8 o’ clock classes four days a week but could return to my apartment and get some sleep after an evening at the bar, after party at a friend’s house, and discussion topics about what disturbed us.

You can absolutely hold late night talks post-college — If you don’t have a full-time job. Last night, my roommate, her friend, and I made a 10 p.m. trip to IHOP for sugary, high-calorie pancakes. I ordered four chocolate chip hotcakes and Monique indulged in some CINN-A stacks.

Yum!

Though tasty, the snack wasn’t energizing enough to keep me alert. When the others began chatting about religion, I was simply too exhausted to contribute much to the debate. I wish I still had the strength to add to late night talks, but the time for that has long since passed. Am I ever going to be fun again? Probably not, unless of course you factor in my too short weekends.

Maybe someday I’ll have all-nighters again! For that to happen, I’ll probably need to return to graduate school, which is both unlikely and undesirable.

The other day, I blogged about Matt Lewis’s constructive writing advice to always save an idea for the following day. The “professor” credits Ernest Hemingway for coming up with the suggestion:

“I learned never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.”

In other news:
Did you know Nicolas Cage is a vampire?
You can relax now: “Twilight” hottie Rob Pattinson is finally going to release an album.
Olivia Munn was the best part of atrocious rom-com, “I Don’t Know How She Does It”
Singer Pat Boone insists Obama was born in Kenya
No one wants to have red-haired babies
Kat Dennings still wears Target clothes and hand-me-downs

Sorry for the lack of blog posts this week. I’m trying to manage this whole sleep-deprivation nonsense. Whether or not I feel tired later, I’m going to complete a scathing write-up of that insufferable new movie, “I Don’t Know How She Does It,” so brace yourself for an epic complaint from my end.

Confession time: I want to read Snooki’s book

Congratulations, Snooki. You’ve now joined the ranks of Hemingway, Voltaire, Shakespeare, and all novelists. You wrote a work of fiction, and it was published.

I’m not going to lie: I really want to read this book, and it’s not because I find Snooki entertaining. I actually don’t watch “The Jersey Shore,” or any television for that matter. Snooki’s remarks are just too goofy, off-the-wall, unusual, and insane to ignore. You couldn’t make any of this stuff up.

Because I have graduated college and no longer encounter weirdos on a daily basis, I could really use a good laugh these days, and I feel Snooki’s book will definitely fulfill that need.

If you don’t believe me, just take a look at some of her book excerpts:

“He had an okay body. Not fat at all. And naturally toned abs. She could pour a shot of tequila down his belly and slurp it out of his navel without getting splashed in the face.”

“Yum. Johnny Hulk tasted like fresh gorilla.”

“Any juicehead will get some nut shrinkage. And bacne. They fly into a ‘roid rage, it is a ‘road’ ‘roid rage.”

“Gia had never before been in jail. It wasn’t nearly as gritty and disgusting as she’d seen on TV prison shows. The Seaside Heights drunk tank — on a weekday afternoon — was as clean and quiet as a church.”

“Gia danced around a little, shaking her peaches for show. She shook it hard. Too hard. In the middle of a shimmy, her stomach cramped. A fart slipped out. A loud one. And stinky.”

She may as well be speaking Italian. Oh wait, hasn’t she blasted people before for not being Italian enough? Oh, Snooki. Never a dull moment with this girl. If I ever make it huge in the writing world, I’d gladly write a profile on her. I know The New York Times did so already, but I’m sure her personality will be different enough in a decade that a fresh profile piece would be warranted.

Snooki, if you’re out there, ping me. I have a feeling we’d click. You’d talk, I’d laugh incessantly. Maybe you can teach me a little something about tanning, being that I’m a redhead, a.k.a. paler than Edward Cullen. I won’t lie: I’ll never reach guidette status. After all, I’m an Irish Catholic without a drop of Italian blood in my system, but I’m sure you’d appreciate my company. So come my way and make me laugh.

Florence, Italy 2009. Pasty as ever in Snooki's homeland!

 

Until we meet, I’ll just have to re-read these excerpts from your novel whenever I desperately need to giggle.