Load of Bollix

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7212778.stm And, for the record, my building doesn't even have a sodding vending machine.

So, its nigh on 3 am, and I am awake, like a lunatic. However, the fact that is a reasonable morning hour in Paris gives me some comfort. I am awake because I can’t sleep. Jesus, that sounds like an effing Vince Lombardi quote. (Be impressed I know who Vince Lombardi is). I can’t sleep because I am stressed out, a fact which, I am sure, is contributing to the growth of the latest spot on my face. Spot is British for zit. Like so many British words, spot sounds so much more pleasing than its Yankee counterpart, even when the meaning is gross. I have tried to adopt Brit-speak for zit in my every day confabulations; alas, single- handedly bringing another culture’s slang into the American Mainstream (if I may flatter myself to be part of such a stream) has proved difficult. I can’t sleep because I am worried about money—more specifically, my lack of it. I hate money insofar as it’s a v. easy thing to worry about, especially at 25. I could take heart that my whines are joined in chorus wi

Dear Bath, To begin my tale with the beginning of my tale I record that I left the United States (as I have been informed and believe) on the 1st of February 2004. It was remarked that the plane took off and I began to gain weight from drinking, simultaneously. Thus my adventure abroad began with an eight hour flight in which I could not sleep but kept looking at a bright light hovering near the wing of the plane, thinking, “God, that other plane is awfully close to us.” (I later realized this light was, in fact, on the wing of my OWN plane). I then arrived, one train ride and two buses later, starving and unbearably cranky. Being in this my present state of mind, I met my FOUR other roommates of which I was to spend the following months. What they made of me then, disheveled, bespectacled, and uncharacteristically mad at humanity in those crucial moments of first impression, God only knows. But here I am, again, disheveled (but clean), bespectacled, and only annoyed with humanity, nea

The Express . I don’t ever read it or pick it up. In fact, the Express man at the Braddock Road station not only knows to not bother trying to give me one, he won’t even make eye contact with me, or say “Good morning.” This bothered me for some time, but then I realized, as I often do, I was being ridiculous. (Besides, it probably has something to do with the fact that I kicked him in the balls awhile back. Ball-kicking generally ensures that empty morning formalities will cease). I don’t read The Express because it is bunk , like 99% of American media. Full stop. Strike one. Strike two: Express exists to give fat bureaucrats something to read on their way from East Falls Church to Farragut West while they are taking up more than one Metro seat. Any nonfat non-bureaucrat should oppose it on these grounds alone. Can you imagine what would happen if a place were made entirely of fat bureaucrats? (Answer: Washington , DC ). Strike the third: I read somewhere that The Washington Post c

It is fair to say that my family is ridiculous, and has been for generations, in all its branches, direct and collateral. The Irish side of the Steinberg family (short for O’Steinberg) were amazing liars. They also, like any good Irish family, could and did drink anyone under the table. One member of this branch of the family, my great aunt Blanche, was intelligent, clever, and a huge drunk. She had nudist tendencies and a close relationship with her dog, respectively. Papa Steinberg had to fetch her from jail for these tendencies on one of his first dates with Nana. It was reported that he retrieved the dog from jail, and left Blanche. Great Aunt Blanche is also the ONLY person in my enormous family that bears any physical resemblance to me. I honestly do not look like anyone in my family, least of all my parents. This just gives more credit to one of my favorite expressions-Where did I come from? Namesake? The Steinbergs proper had left Germany by April 1865, the date of one individu

I am the youngest of six children and a child of a super Catholic, broken home (explain that one to me Mom and Dad). My older siblings are all much older than me, as in, they are married and have babies and houses or both. As they are all married, they don’t have to worry about allergies or subway sandwiches like we Generation Y kids. They get to worry about regimented lawn-care and choosing names for their babies. For my part, I hate lawn care because I am both lazy and slightly allergic to grass. As far as babies go, I cannot imagine giving up alcohol and caffeine for nine months. I’d kill myself.

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