Is it…

1. not settling an issue
2. not having or showing the ability to make decisions quickly and effectively
3. your bff steve

One thing (of many, of course) that most of my friends make fun of me for is that I am always changing my major. I wanted to do a lot of things throughout high school, and when I started to think about college, I had to start thinking about majors. I phased through business, chemistry, psychology, math, and advertising. Then, on a whim, I decided I wanted to be a superstar film maker. This began my college search, where I was looking at communication schools so I could pursue either film or advertising.

Then I had a reality check and decided to just go with advertising.

During the application process, my dad convinced me that I didn’t want to be an Ad major, I wanted to be a Business major seeking a job in advertising. He had some logic and it made sense, so I listened and applied to every college’s business school. Upon tearfully turning down the school of my dreams and painfully accepting a bid for Temple (which I now so dearly love/hate), I decided I was over being in business and I wanted to pursue engineering because I love the dollarz. So, I changed my declared major before I even arrived. When I got there for orientation, I decided I was over engineering and wanted to just be undeclared for a hot second. I was undecided for only that hot second though, because soon into the first semester, I was a sociology major.

Then, I had some doubts after my first year of Sociology, and I wanted to return to the Communications/Ad major. I eventually came back to Sociology, which is where I am now. With a double major in Economics.

Basically: I had no idea what I wanted to do. More basically: I still have no idea. Well, I have some idea: a major or two that I’ll stick with. (FOR NOW.) But I’m still kind of all over the place about a job. My ideas for what I want to do stem largely from my own interests but have definitely been subjected to popular culture along the way. Put simply, kick ass TV stars sometimes influenced what I wanted to do at one point or another. Since I had no idea what I wanted to do, I could at least mold my life after these people who have such funny lives! When I was big into Will & Grace, I wanted to be a lawyer. Queer as Folk, I wanted to be an ad exec. Weeds, I wanted to be a dealer. Desperate Housewives, I wanted to be a housewife.

Now I’ve just started watching Ugly Betty from the beginning, and I want to be the ugly clumsy assistant that works for a fashion magazine. Like Anne Hathaway from the Devil Wears Prada, too.

Or, more realistically, I want to be a cat. Eat all day. Sleep all day. Lick my asshole.

Requirements for a future career: EXCITEMENT + CASH MONEY. Oh, and whatever job I have, BlackBerry use must be essential.

Oh yeah, and when I was little, I wanted to have magical powers like Matilda.

We’re on our third film in Blacks in Cinema. The first was “Imitation of Life,” one I’ve seen three times now. It’s a really fantastic portrayal of racist ideology of the 1930s, complete with mammy and tragic mulatto. The second was “Intruder in the Dust,” which strayed from the mammy and instead told of a biased justic system, unfairly accusing a black man of a white man’s murder.

This class is mildly interesting at best because we don’t really discuss much about the movies. Rather, we just go from movie to movie. We’re now watching a musical of some sort. I have no idea what’s going on, but everyone in it seems really excited. I think that’s why I like musicals; people can get excited about just about anything. Sometimes I wish my life were a musical. It would make explaining policies at eBay much more interesting.

In fact, I just left my job at eBay. Hours weren’t as ideal as I thought they would be. My error–not his.

Speaking of racism, one of my last days working there, I was researching a lot of Barbies to see the best way to group and sell them. I came across a “glamorous gala barbie” or something similar–I don’t remember the exact name. Underneath that, it said “African American.” Not that surprising, as Mattell is known to make different versions of each Barbie for different races and ethnicities.

I opened up the box, and laying there was what appeared to be a tanned white Barbie. And I thought, isn’t that really racist? After all, the “Barbie” itself was modelled after a white woman. So, is just changing the skin tone of a figure so obviously created to resemble a white woman racist? But then I thought: would it be more racist, then, to alter the physical features of the doll to make her “more black?” After all, are the features of white and black women really THAT different? I don’t think so. But, even so, I have a hard time accepting that it’s okay to just paint a white doll, dress her in stereotypical African garb and call her black.

Or maybe I’m just being too rough on Mattell? They’re trying their best to be inclusive, and they have to pick one way or the other. I guess they just thought the latter was better.

Sort of similar to Mrs. Butterworth’s magical transformation from a black mammy to a white grandmother.

No, not really.

Though I’ve moved all of my stuff in, I haven’t really been living at my new apartment yet. For a few reasons:

1. I must always be with Kitty.
2. Kitty is at Jeff’s apartment. (See #1)
3. They’re not done fixing up the apartment. They just put in all new tile in the bathroom and put a new door to the bedroom, but they’re still going to put in all new cabinets in the kitchen! So, I don’t want Kitty around while they’re in and out, all sorts of leavin the door open. So, he’s at Jeff’s. (See #2 and #1)

So, basically, I’m hanging on the cabinets, and then Neferkitty can move in.

I’ve already arranged pretty much everything. All I have left to do is throw the kitchen together: putting dishes and stuff where they belong, setting up the microwave and toaster somewhere, buying and shelving food. My dad went and surprised me with a whole lot of stuff for my kitchen the day before I moved in. This included some new things, like a brand new toaster and microwave, but he also gave me the dishes and silverware that we used like 10 years ago in Buffalo. STILL GOOD SHIT, YO. I was just surprised at the amount of stuff he got me. It’s good to have parents who love me and help me out.

(As I write this, Kitty is having a hardcore ecstacy fit.**)

Also, I met the girl who lives in the front apartment on the second floor of my building (I have the rear apartment.) Get this: she lived in the house right next to me on the street I just moved from! And we both moved because of roommate issues! And we moved basically at the same time! Soooo super crazy. We’re going to be best friends now. She told me to knock on her door whenever I’m bored. It’ll be so fun! We’ll sit around on our computers or dance to bad music or drink like Joe Sixpacks, reminiscing (bitching) about former days.

I played a ton of Star Ocean today on my vintage PlayStation 1. Rock on, bad graphics. I think I’m going to invest in a used PS2 from GameStop. If I just stay one platform behind the newest, that’ll be just okay for me.

Perhaps this time, I’ll do a video blog of my new place? Only if Tina wants me to.

** Ecstacy fit: sprinting around the house and attacking oneself in circles at rapid speeds.

I’ll be hauling all of my stuff back into a Uhaul (or a PhillyCarShare truck) in two short days, again, after only four months of living on Smedley. Like I did the first time I moved, I made a few attempts at throwing out as much as possible. This was sadly only limited to a few receipts lying around, some junk mail (bills and such), and some rendered useless memories of what had been. Packing itself seemed easier this time: CDs & DVDs & books in one super-heavy box again, shoes in another. Well, that’s really all I own. This time, I wasn’t able to come across anything interesting that I had long-since forgotten about, because, really, it’s only been four months, even though my memory often fails me even at the simplest of hours.

My parents and younger siblings are coming to help me move. Coming with them are my weathered La-Z-Boy and my trusty Playstation (PSX, kids–no PS2 here.) I could go into the ususal “simpler games are better”/”they just don’t make games like they used to”, and while they are definitely valid in my mind, they’re also just excuses for my refusal to upgrade to newer gaming technology. There are so many games I have yet to play on the PSX! And I just bought a used copy of the “rare” Playstation game Star Ocean: The Second Story, because I’m that much of a loserrrr. That’ll be sure to eat up hours upon hours of needed study time! I get really attached to my video games–like really involved and invested in these fictional and often mythical characters. So, I like game franchises that allow me to pick up on the story in the second or third game. Hence, SO2. Other game franchises that I am really invested in are Tomb Raider (an all time favorite), Crash Bandicoot, Metroid, and of course, the Legend of Zelda. (Why do I say “of course”, you ask? Only a select few know and will not leave it in the comments here, because I will surely delete it. KTHX.)

So, anyway, I’m going to try to make it a quick and simple move. It’ll be the first time Kristen gets to meet the kitty, so she’s like super stoked, yo. Finally, Neferkitty can settle down in one home, and he won’t have to be carted around from house to house. (Though, I’m sure he will miss his #1 torturer and French alter-ego.) I’m sitting in Jeppy’s bed writing this blog, and for ONCE, he’s not doing his nightly sprints up and down the stairs, around and under the bed, and through the doors. Sometimes leaping over the bed. I’m sure the athletics will start once to turn out the lights and try to sleep. When I want to play with him, he says no. When I’m trying to sleep, he wants to play. When I don’t want to do my homework, he’s nowhere to be found. When I want to do my homework, he decides I’ve been doing too much:

HOW COULD I SAY NO?

Just last week he discovered his tail, and since, he’s been chasing himself in circles like a dog would, attacking his tail. The worst part is that this often happens in the middle of the night in the middle of the bed where he often sleeps. Most of his naps take place on or around shoes. He likes the smell of feet. But he also sleeps in this position in the bed, sprawled out and taking up 90% of the bed.

THOSE ARE TOTALLY MY SHOES.

We tried to teach him that he wasn’t allowed to sleep on the bed, but we eventually gave up, because… well, he wouldn’t give up. And just how can you resist this cuteness!?!

HE COULD GET AWAY WITH ANYTHING. SRSLY.

This was going to be a post about moving. But it turned into video games and kitties. About 90% of the images on my phone are of my cat. I’m on the way to becoming a crazy cat lady. Now all I need is a blanket or quilt with his face on it. And sixteen more cats. Well, maybe just fifteen more. Yeah, 15 more kitties.

When I was in elementary school, I was about as gay as a Hairspray DVD. I rotated between my three favorite shirts: a hand-made Pokemon t-shirt that was gifted to me as birthday present, a giant panda shirt from the DC zoo, and a Titanic movie-poster t-shirt. Almost every day I wore overalls, a gold chain necklace, and a Claddagh ring. My favorite colors were pink and purple. For second, third, and fourth grade, the background colors of my school pictures were either of those two colors.

In sixth grade, I moved from Buffalo to a suburb of Philadelphia, and I began my quest to fit in. This began with changing my name from Steven to Steve and my favorite color from purple to green. My school background colors were now green, blue, or gray. I wore t-shirts normal for an 11 or 12 year old boy and rid myself of the black and silver reversible tank top that still plagues every single picture of my last day in New York. Not only did I lose all of the jewelery, but also altered wearing my watch front my right wrist to my left because my mom courteously (or curtly) reminded me that “girls wear watches on the right!”

I continued dressing to fit in for the rest of middle school and for half of ninth grade. When I came out of the closet on Christmas Eve my freshman year of high school, everything changed again. I began dressing as if to make up for all the years I dressed “straight.” I wore rainbow this, rainbow that. I wore super-tight super-fabulous clothing that my mom often said would fit my sister. (It wouldn’t.)

Since then, I phased out green as a favorite color and returned to my childhood favorite of purple. After all, it was really always the only color for me, most certainly. Only recently though have I been really gearing up my collection of purple. Now, armed with purple slip-on Vans, a purple trash bag jacket from American Apparel, and a large array of purple t-shirts, collared shirts, and button-downs, I am ready to embrace the new school year, a new me — again. (Purple Steve?) When my mom came to visit for dinner the other day, she didn’t wait a second to let me know how lowly she thought of both the shoes and the jacket. “They would have looked better in black,” she snapped. And without apology.

Walking down Broad Street near Oregon the other day, I was wearing the fantastic and unapologetic purple Vans. Regardless, the (black) girl walking past me thought it was cute enough to comment. “I love your shoes!” she said. All I could muster in the flicker of the moment was “Uh.. thanks!” Of course, later I remembered that it is THE SHOE that is indeed the key to friendship. I should have pursued her, but it was much past the critical friend-making moment.

A few days later, I was wearing the purple Vans again, with a purple collared t-shirt from H&M and a pair of blue plaid shorts. I looked either brilliant or simply like a tool. Another (black) girl walking in my direction approached me, grabbed a piece of my shorts, and wildly exclaimed, “I love your shorts!” She didn’t really mention per se any of the purple, but that was what really caught her eye, I know. She didn’t stop for long, and soon she was walking briskly behind me, into a deep abyss of regret and sadness.

I really suck at making friends with strangers, I’ve decided. I’m hoping that the annoyingly purple trash bag jacket from American Apparel will catch another (black) girl’s eye, and maybe I’ll have a bit more courage to be a super creepster then. We’ll strike up a beautiful everlasting friendship based solely on the shoe. Or perhaps something more substantial…

Like a MacBook. Or a BlackBerry.

I was never one for making friends smoothy. I lack entirely all class. My pick up lines are limited to “I like your shoes” and “We’re best friends, right?” In fact, most of my friends have been acquired through other friends or random encounters where other people told me the liked my shoes. In the fall semester of my freshman year, I was knee deep in replicated Louis Vuitton, which included a messenger bag and a matching wallet and pair of shoes. Sitting through a riveting lecture on the perks of being a homosexual, I tried to exude my lavish sense of fake fashion by excitedly tapping my new shoes and constantly opening and closing my man purse, looking for a condom perhaps. I must have caught at least one eye. A decidedly spunky girl my age approached me after class and gave me the classic “I like your shoes.” Bashfully and painfully awkwardly, I accepted her complement and took the opportunity to make a new friend.

The encounter between Kerry and my fake shoes was the simplest attempt at making a friend I’ve had. Other episodes involve me stealing other people’s friends or antagonizing them until they give in to my charm and self-proclaimed wit.

A few weeks ago, I got a job at the gratuitously expensive copy and ship center FedEx Kinko’s. I had the revelation that I could ask out people on “friend dates” and decided to put the thought in action. After passing up two opportunities to befriend an adorable young copy connosseiur, I was becoming a little disenhearted. Soon after her second visit, another girl of comparable age and delight approached me for a Full Service order. In an obvious attempt to show her my friendliness, I offered to bind her stacks of paper for her immediately. “Just thirty minutes,” I told her. “You can stay here or come back, and I’ll have it ready for you!” I exclaimed, excitedly with the intent of later gathering her good graces in hope of being invited back to her place for a quick romp or some wine and cheese.

She smiled and said she’d return in a bit. So I went right to work on punching holes in her paper and winding coils up the sides. I was quicker than she, as she didn’t return in “a bit.” I got caught up in helping a bunch of other customers who lacked the mental capacity to place their awkward family photos face down on a scanner and press the daunting “Start” button. I don’t know why it’s so difficult for people to use the Self Serve copy machines. They are endowed with graphically intuitive interfaces and large colorful buttons that beckon user friendliness and ease of use. Perhaps it’s just the general population of Philadelphia has been left unbeknownst to the glory of Copy & Print.

Some time later, another girl came in with a stack full of packages, much less amiable and desirable than the first. She was unable to fill out any of the shipping forms correctly and pestered me with annoying questions I was unable to answer. And when people ask me questions that I know not yet of the answer, I get annoyed because I then have to go find someone who has the answer. After directing her to the “Name” and “Address” fields, I began scanning her packages and preparing them for shipment with much attitude on my part. I sometimes find it necessary to let people know I’m annoyed with them. This is either due to my refusal to keep anything a secret or my neuroticism that prevents me from being a normal human.

I finished her last package and waited for her to turn to leave. Instead, she stared blankly at me and said, “And the books I had you bind?”

Oh shit. It was the same girl. How could I not tell? How could I not remember the stringy brown locks and the freckled wrinkles that spanned her face? Why couldn’t I recall the friendship that was grounding beneath my feet just thirty some minutes before?

I’ll either attribute this one to my onsetting Alzheimer’s or Jesus’s plan to leave me friendless. Perhaps both. And anyway, she still wasn’t Dierdre.

Juliette Lewis inspired me to bring back the high-five! And now I’m officially in love with her.

But that’s not really what this post is about. Nor is it about my three week hiatus from blogging. I’m not going to go in depth about my fabulous week in the Outer Banks with the family (though I may eventually edit together a collection of videos from the trip), nor will I go too far into detail about the other two weeks of work! (Yes, I finally have a job at FedEx Kinko’s as a Production Coordinator. Yes, that means that I copy, enlarge, scan, and print. And I bind and coil. And laminate. And cut. So much fun! And I’m working again at iSold It On eBay! I looooove my job at FedEx. So much)

Anyway:

While working one day at FedEx, a really cute girl came in, and since I was only a trainee, not knowing much about the job, I giggled my way through half-explaining things to her. Sure, she understood that I was new. (Because I told her.) But, I could tell by the fantastic three minute interaction we had that under different circumstances, we could have been best friends. Or even… BFFs.

But how would I even begin to become BFFs with a random girl who came into FedEx Kinko’s? She wasn’t even using Full Serve where I may have been able to slip her my phone number in with her finished copies, or where I could have given her a wink and some private side conversation when she came back to pick them up. (Though, I’m sure that’s against FedEx code anyway.) She came for Self Serve, to copy her own stuff, save some pennies. Let’s call her Dierdre.

To my surprise, she came in again a few days later. I think she remembered me, but I chickened out and didn’t do anything. What would I have done?, you ask. I’m not sure I even know.

Well, here’s my question: You can ask out someone to go on a date, for sex, for love interest, for dating. It’s understood. It’s protocol. You’re allowed to do this with anyone you meet. But with friends, you’re limited to friends of friends or friends from class or friends from work. Rarely do you randomly become friends with people on the street. Or customers in FedEx Kinko’s. So limiting!

Here’s my proposal: I’m going to start asking out people to be my friend. Ask them out as if it were a date, but for friendship. That way, I can get to know them without getting too heavily involved. It’ll be a revolution! Think of all the friends I could have! Think of all the different people I can meet!

There are so many people I pass in a day that I just imagine I would click so well with. I scheme different ways that I can entangle myself in various situations with these strangers, put myself in a situation with them: because that’s really all it takes. “Accidentally” bump into a blue-eyed hipster on the street, spill my coffee on her, and there I have the perfect conversation. Apologize relentlessly, flash a wide-eyed smile, and then offer to make it up to her. “Gee, well, let me buy you a new coffee!” I’d say. “Why, sure!” she’d exclaim. We’d proceed to the nearest Cosi or Starbucks or what have you, and we’d entertain some thrilling stories and chatty small talk

And perhaps soon, Dierdre will return, and I’ll have the courage to finally ask out a girl.

Maybe I’ll document my quest. With a video camera… Or not. Or yes!

I’m going to the Outer Banks, North Carolina.

FAMILY VACATION, YO. I’ll be gone the entire week. Back on the 12th!

No promises.

RAINDROPS ON ROSES AND WHISKERS ON KITTENS.

1. WHEAT HAMBURGER BUNS

2. RAINY NIGHTS

3. SCARY SPICE

4. PURPLE

5. CAJUN CHICKEN LINGUINI ALFREDO