Dave and I were sitting at a Starbucks eavesdropping on what sounded like an interview while we waited for Sarah to show up.
Me: “Sounds like they’re working on a start-up company.”
Dave: “Yeah, probably. You ever notice how start-ups are always meeting in coffee places? These places are littered with these people.”
Me: “Seriously. I can’t even come in to one of these places without someone trying to show me their next fucking Facebook idea.”
Dave: “I know. They should call this place Startbucks.”
I stared at Dave for a few seconds.
Me: “Holy shit, that’s good. I just got an idea. We should start a website where we make puns out of company names.”
Dave: “People would love that. It’ll go viral and we’ll be millionaires!”
Me: “Seriously! Alright, let’s talk about percent equity share.”
Just then Sarah walked in and slammed her phone on the table in front of me.
Sarah: “You can’t keep sending me texts like this.”
Me: “What are you talking about?”
She showed her phone displaying a recent text from me.
(Robbie): “This is ridiculous. Been looking for a chance to jerk it for like 45 minutes, but haven’t gotten an opportunity. Fucking church man.”
Me: “What’s the problem? I thought you might be able to relate.”
Sarah: “No, I can’t relate to feeling the need to masturbate during church!”
She put her hand over her mouth and whispered when she hit the word masturbate.
Dave: “Oh, the thing about not being able to jerk off for like 45 minutes?”
Sarah: “What the shit, you mass texted this?”
Sarah: “Jesus. Just so you know, my mother saw this before I did. Please, please stop sending me texts like this.”
Me: “OK, well that’s actually kind of funny. But message received. No more “masturbation” on Sarah’s phone.”
I airquoted, and then turned around to see if the interview was still in session. It was.
Sarah: “Now that sounds like–”
Dave: “Sarah, so clearly all you want to talk about is masturbation, but we’re kind of working on something.”
Sarah: “What?! I do not only want to–”
Me: “Seriously, you need to chill out. Is your underwear in a Calvin Bind?”
Dave: “Maybe she’s wearing Fruit of the Looney.”
Me: “Or, ‘Hey-nes my underwear is tight.'”
Sarah: “I’m leaving.”
Me: “All I’m saying is that you could anonymously email someone on Craigslist who’s showing their apartment to a bunch of people, get the address, then text them saying you’re going to fart on them or something when you get there. Then they’re freaked out that each person who comes to see it is going to purposely fart on them.”
Sarah: “…why do you think of these things?”
Me: “I’m just saying it’s something that could theoretically happen.”
Sarah: “Jesus christ. Let’s change the topic. What are you doing today?”
Me: “Oh, forgot to tell you. Going to check out a new apartment.”
It had been three months, so it was time for another move. I purposely try to move around every so often for a change of pace. Also, I refuse to clean the bathroom.
After a couple minutes on Craigslist, I found a nice place in the West Village which requested “females only.” I figured despite my bathroom avoidance, I’m still cleaner than most girls, and am much less likely to flush a sanitary napkin and clog the pipes. So I set up an appointment and headed over.
I hopped on the subway, and quickly noticed the girl sitting across from me. She had on a summer scarf and a t-shirt, which while entirely impractical, does a great job making tits seem bigger and chins seem fewer. She was perfect.
With only three stops until I had to get off, I had to act quickly. So for the next two minutes, I aggressively tried to gain eye contact with her. Unfortunately, she had taken a sudden interest in her fingernails, which I apparently wasn’t going to be able to compete with. Two stops left for me, and who knows how many for her. I needed a new plan.
Suddenly she coughed. Instinctively, I yelled across the loud subway.
Me: “BLESS YOU.”
I nodded my head at her and smiled moments before we both realized how retarded I was. She didn’t respond.
The timer was running and this girl was clearly not interested, but I wasn’t ready to give up and I also couldn’t let that misguided “bless you” hang out there any longer than it had to. So I jumped up and sat down next to her.
I noticed her blue fingernails which triggered a story Sarah told me a few weeks earlier, and because I had no other pickup lines prepared, blurted it out.
Me: “Someone been ticking the Cookie Monster?”
Sarah, I’m going to fucking kill you.
She turned and stared past me for a second before responding.
Me: “It’s a joke, sort of. My friend told me. She’s not funny. Anyways, totally blessed you for that cough earlier.”
Girl: “Uh, yeah, I heard.”
Me: “Totally stupid. Sneezes, coughs, even blessed a fart once. Barely even Catholic. You Catholic?”
Me: “Psh, me neither. Mostly. So you live around here?”
We both glanced around the subway, again confirming how retarded I was. The girl ignored my question, shifted uncomfortably, and looked at the door as the subway slowed down to a stop, and then paused for an unusually long amount of time.
Me: “Funny how those doors take so long to open, right?”
The doors opened and she jetted out. I yelled after her.
Me: “Great to meet you. Let’s hang out sometime.”
I sat for a moment running back through my performance before realizing it was my stop too. I hopped off, grabbed a pretzel, and went searching for my new apartment.
When I showed up at the door, three girls were just leaving. I glared at my competition as they passed, and then turned to smile at the person subletting her apartment in an attempt to lessen the shock of me not being a girl.
As soon as we saw each other, my heart skipped a beat.
Me: “I… I had to see you.”
The girl showed me the middle of her blue painted fingernails and slammed the door.
I whipped out my phone to text Sarah.
(Me): I’m going to fucking fart on you.
(Sarah): See, that doesn’t work because I know this is your number, I’m not showing my house, and you’re an idiot.
(Me): Sigh. Bless you.
“I seriously fucking hate this place. Why are there so many fucking people here? And how the fuck is this food so cheap?” I growled at Sarah, holding up a box of $1.99 off-brand Cheerios.
Sarah: “That blood sugar’s really hitting a dangerous low, eh?”
Me: “Fuck you.”
Sarah had agreed to go grocery shopping with me at Trader Joe’s, and I was hungry.
I’ve found that feeding myself is distantly the most difficult part of being an independent human being. It’s basically a constant struggle for survival. Three times a day I have to figure out how to get enough calories into my body necessary to sustain myself until the next meal.
It’s like playing Pokemon when your Pokemon are all either fainted or near blackout and you’re frantically searching for a Pokemon Center. Except your Pokemon lose HP for no reason, you have to pay every time you need revived, and if you black out you don’t just wake in a Pokemon Center mysteriously no longer hungry.
Me: “Sarah, I’m going to murder this woman in front of you if she can’t figure out what fucking yogurt she wants.”
Sarah hit me with a pack of granola bars.
The woman nervously pushed her cart out of the way. It had been sixteen hours since I had last eaten, which I’ve found is about as long as I can go before I start shaking and/or getting hostile.
Sarah: “If we get thrown out of Trader Joe’s because you threaten to kill someone again–”
Me: “Whoa, whoa. Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of my stomach eating itself.”
Sarah sighed and walked ahead.
Sarah: “I’m making a mental note to never respond to texts from you offering to buy me ice cream.”
Me: “I’m making a mental note to fu–”
Sarah: “Or just any texts from you at all actually.”
Me: “OK, I need to eat or I’m going to kill someone. Fuck it, I’m eating some of this fucking Jewish food right now.”
Sarah: “Robbie! Just because it’s cheap doesn’t mean–”
She turned around to see me unwrapping a loaf of Challah.
Sarah: “Oh. I wasn’t sure– it just seemed– I mean it’s fine because I’m Je– let me have a piece.”
We huddled over the cart in the middle of Trader Joe’s eating the Challah. I could feel my mood improving by the second.
Me: “This is amazing.”
Sarah: “Really is. Were those off-brand Cheerios really only $1.99? What a bargain.”
Me: “I know, right? I seriously fucking love this place.”
Dave and I recently performed at Lehigh’s open mic night. Here are some videos of the show.
This is my most recent job interview experience and column in Lehigh’s Brown and White.
It’s the spring semester of my senior year, and everyone seems to be freaking out about job searching. My friend Sarah had just gotten out of an interview and was telling me all about it.
Sarah: “…and it has a wonderful corporate culture that works to develop yo-“
Me: “I really can’t listen to you anymore.”
Sarah: “Shut up Robbie! It’s really hard to find a job in this economy.”
Me: “Are you serious? It’s stupidly easy.”
Sarah: “Right. Why don’t you give it a shot then? Then you’ll see.”
As a rule, I don’t apply to jobs on LUCIE because most of the listed jobs’ responsibilities could easily be completed by inanimate objects, but to prove my point, I put together my resume and sent it out to every job on LUCIE that didn’t require a cover letter. The next morning, I had an interview with a company in New York. I called Sarah to gloat.
Me: “Honestly, that took like fifteen minutes.”
Sarah: “It’s not a job yet.”
Me: “It will be.”
So a few days later, I suited up and headed down to the interview. I was sitting in the waiting area when a cute little blond representative from the company named Jill sat down next to me. She immediately started barraging me with questions, but strangely didn’t seem to hear my answers.
Jill: “Hi! I’m Jill, are you Robbie?”
Me: “The one and only. How’s the interviewing going?”
Jill: “That’s so fascinating! What are your interests?”
Me: “Uh… I like dressing up, interviewing, and I have a thing for well-dressed blondes.”
Jill: “That’s also fascinating! Where are you from?”
Me: “I could tell you where I’m from, but I’d rather tell you where I want to be tonight.”
Jill: “Fascinating! What is your involvement on campus?”
The conversation continued in this bizarre, attention-deficit fashion of her firing off a random question and me responding with increasingly forward come-ons until an equally attractive woman broke it up to take me into the interview cell.
Me: “Well Jill, this has been fascinating. Let’s make out sometime.”
Again not hearing me, Jill had moved on to interrogating the next candidate on her interests. I turned to the next hot interviewer, a long-legged brunette named Melissa.
Me: “Shall we?”
I followed her into the warm questioning room. I sexily removed my jacket, and tossed it on a nearby chair.
Melissa: “So, tell me about yourself.”
After the Jill fail, I figured I’d give Melissa a shot. She was a bit more composed anyways, and had bigger breasts.
Me: “People describe me as quirky, but loveable. I like to have a good time, but I’m not opposed to just hanging out and cuddling all night. But enough about me, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself, Melissa?”
I leaned forward a bit in my seat, crossed my legs, and propped my chin up on my fist.
Melissa: “We can just move on to the next question if you’d like.”
“I’d love that,” I said with a mischievous smile.
Melissa put down her notebook and clicked her pen closed.
Melissa: “I’m going to have to be honest with you. We gave you the interview before looking you up on the Internet. We found a few things that preclude you from working here, and probably anywhere.”
Me: “That’s cool. One question, can I get your number?”
Melissa: “No. Thanks for your time.”
Me: “I feel good about this.”
Melissa: “Please get out.”
I walked out of the interview room, and as I headed through the waiting area Jill subtly tapped me on the shoulder, handed me her card with her cell number on the other side, and told me to call her sometime. I took the card and headed back to my house when Sarah called me.
Sarah: “So how was it?”
The first project of my final semester was to make a short personal documentary video that tells a story from your life. This is a very real, very terrifying story about a bicycle accident I was involved in.
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New thing, join the mailing list so I can never email you. Someone told me this was a good idea.
One day over break, I received an email from The Brown and White asking me to be a bi-weekly columnist.
Brown and White: We’d like you to submit an article to be considered as a Brown and White columnist. For some reason, someone recommended you.
Me: Sure. I don’t think I’m going to write anything for you right now, but you can check out my website.
Brown and White: …uh, OK thanks.
A few weeks later, I got an email back.
Brown and White: OK, no one else submitted anything, so you’ve got the job. Please submit your article by this week.
So one afternoon, I sat down and cranked out my first published piece of writing. You can find it HERE. Also, I copied it below. I’m honestly surprised they accepted it.
With one semester left and all my business and engineering classes completed with passing grades, I had filled my schedule with the remainder of my humanities, social sciences, and free elective requirements. After three and a half straight years of technical subject matter and bell curves, I was pumped for my fluffy final semester.
On the first day of class, I was brimming with excitement. I woke up at ten o’clock and started running around my house trying to stir up some enthusiasm for morning cocktails.
Me: “Dave, want a beer?”
Dave: “What? It’s Monday morning. And we have school.”
Me: “Yeah, I know. We’re seniors though. It’s totally acceptable. Besides, there aren’t any rules against it.”
Dave: “Absolutely not, and there are definitely rules against showing up to class drunk.”
Me: “I figured you’d say that. That’s why I’ve got THIS.”
I produced a pomegranate flavored Smirnoff Ice from my pocket.
Me: “You’ve been iced, bro.”
Dave: “Get away from me. By the way, that was cool like six months ago, and it was barely cool then.”
Losing interest, I tossed the Ice and a banana in my backpack and headed off for class. I wandered around campus for a few minutes before realizing I had no idea where the building was. HU was not an official building code, and no one walking around campus was willing to speak to me. So I decided to drop the class, and instead sat in Starbucks for forty-five minutes to scope the new semester’s talent.
My next class was in Linderman, which I was immediately uncomfortable with. I’m not really into libraries, especially that one. There are always students there pretending to do work, and I often get roped into one or two hour conversations with people I don’t know very well. So I took a deep breath, put my hood up, and made a beeline for the elevator.
I luckily reached the classroom with no human interaction, but upon arrival was immediately faced by ten students sitting quietly around a table. I sat down cautiously, eyeing my new classmates. I had been in classes with the same people for about two years now, and couldn’t remember how to make friends.
“So, Linderman, eh?” I asked to no one in particular.
One student very slightly nodded in agreement to my semblance of a question.
“Righteous,” I responded in response to the slight nod, which I assumed was a response.
We sat in icy cold silence for a few more minutes before the professor walked in.
“Welcome to class!” she said with surprising excitement.
She burst into a spiel about what the class was like, what we were going to do, what we’re going to learn, etc. Pretty basic stuff. Then, she got to how the grading works.
“Now, as for how the grading works,” she said.
I simultaneously laughed and choked on my banana.
Once I caught my breath, I nudged the girl next to me, “This ought to be good.”
The girl shifted uncomfortably.
“I’m sorry?” the professor asked, looking directly at me.
I looked around confusedly, and then pointed to myself as if to say, “Me?”
I sat up, chucking to myself, “Umm, I’m sorry but I’m just a little confused. I was under the impression you kind of just gave us all A’s. Am I right guys?”
I once again nudged the girl, who this time rolled her chair out of nudging range. No one else responded.
Professor: “Well, we do give grades, but as you’ll notice, a large portion is at my discretion.”
Me: “Oh my mistake. I’m just not really sure I understand how you actually do the grading. Wait, do you guys know math?”
The professor then asked me to leave, and I headed downstairs to search through the course catalog for another class I could add. This semester was already proving more troublesome than I had planned. I whipped open my backpack to find my class schedule newspaper, and accidentally iced myself.
I took a knee, yelled “CHEERS” to a nearby table of students, and was immediately barraged with hush sounds by the entire library. This semester may still be awesome after all.
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My senior year of high school, I was nominated for the Wendy’s Heisman award. It’s basically a circle jerk promotional award that Wendy’s gives out to twelve “exceptional” students in West Virginia. This means you have to get good grades, participate in sports, and do some sort of community service. It’s difficult enough to even find twelve students in West Virginia, let alone twelve that meet those requirements. So when they told me I had been nominated, I wasn’t overly impressed.
The local news stations were going around interviewing each nominee at their school, which I thought was completely preposterous. The fact that my mediocre school and sports performances and forced community service constituted a spot on the nightly news was absurd.
Anyways, I recently found the DVD they gave us at the dinner. My interview is below, but first, here’s an example of one of the other nominees to give you an idea for who I was up against.
Next is mine. A few things to notice: the 7th grade P.E. book I grab from a random locker and intellectually skim, the fact that the newscaster has to say that “he knows it’s an honor,” and my hair.
At the dinner, some big shot from Wendy’s corporation gave me a gift certificate for $5 to spend on chicken nuggets.
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