The Soul of Wit

IT IS A TRUTH UNIVERSALLY ACKNOWLEDGED that even the most cynical and disillusioned first-year college student, after nine weeks of seemingly unceasing and pointless classes, must feel a glimmer of hope at the prospect of a break. No matter how quickly she knows that the week will pass, or how many midterms she knows await her upon her return, she cannot crush that precious little sprig of anticipation. She also knows that writing about herself in the third person is pompous and insanely annoying, but the Jane Austenesque opening was too much of a temptation for her. She will stop. Now.

As a rule, I don't loathe Spring Break to the extent that I do Thanksgiving (don't ask!), but it has never been one of my favorite breaks. It is ridiculously short, not to mention ill-timed. (Midterms the week after?! Whose idiotic idea is that?) Perhaps some students can chain themselves to their desks at home and study, while others can go out and enjoy themselves without a care for schoolwork. I, on the other hand, fully expect to be straddling the abyss of guilty lethargy that falls in between those two extremes, applying myself to neither the pursuit of knowledge nor the pursuit of pleasure. I know this. And yet I am counting the days (five to go).

The shadow of hope is disappointment, but I can't seem to talk myself out of hoping. Not one of my shining moments, I must say, since I can usually 1) convince myself of anything, and 2) depress even the most ecstatic person with a few moments' conversation. But that is neither here nor there. In fact, I am neither here nor there. My mind is just teeming with the multitude of things I want to DO over Spring Break, ignoring the fact that half of them probably won't GET done.

I want to sleep in my own bed, in my own room, with my own bathroom across the hall. I want to try out some new recipes: Pizza from scratch! Mocha cream cake! Crème brulée in dark chocolate boxes with white chocolate and raspberries! (Flame torch, baby!) I want to visit Uni and drop by the Spectrum and Fashion Island and South Coast Plaza. I want to break in the two pairs of fabulous sandals I bought over winter break and never wore - stilettos own the world! Do I even have to mention that I want to read Harry Potter, or is the AIM profile tribute enough of a sign? And watch Lord of the Rings and play Tomb Raider II (Tiff, we're going to beat that damn game after eight years!) and practice piano for the first time in months! Ugh, could I sound more enthused?

Oh, whatever. I surrender. I'm looking forward to Spring Break. There, I said it. Now I'll just leave everything up to Murphy's Law. So what if I'm going to hell in a handbasket? "If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all." In other words, let the disappointment begin!

Posted by Revati Nafday at 05:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

NOTE: Acknowledgments and Extenuating Circumstances

If you recognize portions of the following entry, it's probably because a version of it appeared in the May 2005 issue of University High School's student-run newspaper, the Sword & Shield. Even with the big-ass disclaimer that accompanied it, the article was a little bit outrageous; sometimes I really do wonder how it got printed. (I think the fact that I was the managing editor and one of my best friends was the editor-in-chief might have had something to do with it. Oh, and that we're both girls. But more on this outside the parentheses.)

So, here's how it went down. The Focus topic was "Perfection," and there was supposed to be a cute little section on the perfect guy and the perfect girl, from the perspectives of the respective opposite sexes. Your average, sickeningly adorable balderdash, right? Sure, until somehow, the most primitive, misogynistic, boorish excuse for a guy EVER was assigned to describe the perfect girl.

Typically, the problem didn't come to our attention until the day before the paper was to be printed, and by this time, we didn't have many viable options. Printing that obscene article side-by-side the sweet, sappy counterpoint written by the girl was out of the question, but cutting both articles at the last minute was equally impracticable. One article had to be rewritten, and the responsibility fell to yours truly.

I was stressed, upset, insomniac - but no excuses. I feel that I should apologize for my unthinking immoderation and...oh, who the hell am I kidding? This piece still makes me cackle and clap my hands in fiendish glee! Call it the feminazi take on "A Modest Proposal." If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen, love, because I'm bringing out the flame torch. If you feel like creme brulee, however, read on.

Rather than allow further ruin of our world as we search - in vain - for the perfect man (read: oxymoron), we have instead decided to bypass all restrictive laws and simply sacrifice all men in favor of an ideal world.

Mass genocide - although appealing - is not feasible: we just don't have the womanpower. In addition, we are severely constrained by the unfortunate reproductive truths of our species. How then, you ask, can we rid the world of these incompetent vermin?

Allow us to humbly present for your consideration the Roach Motel Model (RMM): men check in, but they can't check out. In this highly efficient scenario, men are held captive in underground chambers (informally called the Motel) and utilized only for breeding purposes.

The logistics of rounding up all males for confinement aside, the RMM's plan of action is easily organized and enacted. Following is an excerpt of the constitution under which this system would seamlessly function.

Article I. No man shall be categorized or "tagged" without due process of the law. Once determined, categories are subject to amendment based on observation of appearance and/or behavior.
Incoming specimens are subject to a number of specific tests that determine their intelligence and attractiveness. They are inventoried and segregated based on these numerical results (See Article II); they cannot be discriminated against arbitrarily - only under the provisions of said test results.

Article II. Men, like children, should be seen and not heard. Furthermore, they should only be seen if they are good-looking.
Room distribution is determined under the stipulations of Article II. Men are rated by a team of aesthetic experts on a subjective scale: grotesque, unbearable, average, pleasant, or superior. Those designated as "superior specimens" in five of the seven essential categories (eyes, hair, physique, lips, smile, bone structure, and general poise) are housed in glass cells with variable lighting that is designed to accentuate their best features. Intelligent but unattractive men are kept in opaque-walled but tastefully decorated rooms in which they will be able to pursue their academic endeavors in peace. On this note, men who lack any redeeming qualities can find both purpose and healthy exertion on the massive exercise wheels (comparable to those of guinea pigs) we have developed to compensate for any energy shortages that may result.

Article III. In most cases, breeding shall be conducted artificially.
If the woman in question so desires, she can apply to the Bureau of Population Control and request an exception. Her claim shall be judged rigorously on the merits of her argument and on the ability of the Motel to provide the necessary accommodations for natural conception. Under no circumstances can a specimen deemed unattractive and unintelligent be permitted to contribute to the gene pool.

We issue a call to all women (and perhaps the very minute population of realistic men) for suggestions that we can incorporate into the ever-evolving RMM. Stay tuned for updates!

Thanks to Katherine W. and Kate M. for their contributions to the original article.
Any errors, revisions, or deviations are mine.

Posted by Revati Nafday at 04:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Like compressed springs, tightly wound people fill the air with anticipation. You expect that eventually, they will slacken their standards, or - if you're lucky - roll off their pedestals like so many spools of thread and unravel before your eyes.

Now, I'm a soi-disant good girl - squeaky clean in every imaginable sphere (except, perhaps, the imagination). So naturally, on those rare occasions that I take off my invisibility cloak and subject my lifestyle choices to public scrutiny, I'm an obvious target for the corrupters. (Yes, you.) And I must say, they're not as dimwitted as they used to be, which is kind of a pity. I mean, my "I-can-make-you-feel-so-stupid-that-you-want-to-jump-off-the-campanile" glare is gathering dust, so I'm waiting for someone to pull it out of retirement by suggesting that I do something just because "Everyone's doing it!"

No, it's second semester now, and those truly obtuse specimens have been weeded out by natural selection (they passed out in a gutter and, like Edgar Allan Poe, never got up again). The "fittest," on the other hand, survived to learn the fine art of subtlety. Slyness is the vogue nowadays - unfinished statements designed to mess with my mind until I finish them in the desired fashion. I deserve to relax after midterms...so I should go out. No one can imagine what I would be like at a party...so I should go to one. All good girls have a wild side...so I should let mine out of its cage. Isn't that right, you tricksy little devils? (GOLLUM! GOLLUM!)

Sorry to disappoint, kids, but you're probably not going to see me dancing on tabletops any time soon. I'm more of a pole-dancing girl, myself. SERIOUSLY, though, I've got a very finely honed resistance to peer pressure: I surround myself with people and things through which I can live vicariously! Simple, yet ingenious. I get to encourage destructive behavior without self-destructing. I get the intoxication without the hangover, the savory morsels of scandal without the bitter (morning-)aftertaste.

With the right building blocks, anyone can build this fortress. First of all, you need a primary vessel, preferably someone that you talk to regularly, who will go have all the wild experiences and then share them with you. (My roommate - check!) Be the devil on this person's shoulder; convince her that she can have guilt-free escapades because you’re being boring enough for the both of you. It's a win-win situation!

This is all well and bad, but you might need reinforcements (on Friday and Saturday nights, especially). You may have a real person having fun for you, but you can't see it happen. Thus, your secondary line of defense is imaginary people having fun that you can watch. (Sex and the City - check!) That's right: movies and television are your pick-me-ups of debauchery and depravity.

These fortifications ought to hold up, but once in a while, you'll feel them crumbling underneath you. All that you have left to stand on, then, is a semblance of superiority. Let people think that you're good for all the right reasons - that you believe in moral absolutes and have principles from which you would never stray. It's amazing what a power-trip I get out of knowing that I could shock all my would-be corrupters with a mere fraction of what I'm capable of. You think I'm so righteous...I'd love to let loose just to see the looks on your faces, but I don't think you can handle it.

You might wonder, and rightly so, why I'm exposing my plan of defense; after all, now the corrupters will know what they're up against. The truth is, I don't think it makes a smidgen of a difference. I'm immovable, untouchable, and proud of it. Feel free to keep working on me, though - I've always enjoyed watching others fail.

Posted by Revati Nafday at 04:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

My Esteemed Readers:

Perhaps, in some distant past that you only acknowledge as your own when alone or inebriated, you had an imaginary friend, or two, or twelve. Maybe, like me, you proudly proclaim your inner schism: I had three husbands (all divorced, the first remarried), several best girl friends, and at least two alter egos (that still surface from time to time). Whatever the case, it doesn't matter. None of this has prepared you for the ordeal ahead.

You, my dear lovebuckets, are going to go further than any have gone before. You are going to traverse nine circles of lunacy. You are going to become my imaginary friends.

I've been feeling for some time a lack where my friendly illusions once were, you see. No offense to any of my real friends, but more than a semester away from home has led me to some interesting conclusions. The bottom line is, making friends is a difficult business, and even once you've got them, they don't always live up to expectations. Of course we forgive them - they're our friends, after all - but it's a vicious cycle: the more friends we have, the more mistakes weigh us down. And since the human capacity for forgiveness is not infinite, some day a little rubber ducky will make us snap. We'll "forgive" them to their faces and resent them behind their backs, thus negating the friendship that we were trying to uphold in the first place.

Not only do imaginary friends cut these emotional costs dramatically, but they provide benefits as well. Need a sounding board? It's not like they've got problems of their own. If you tire of them - POOF! - they don't exist. Want them back without having to humble yourself and apologize? Oh, they were just on vacation in Morocco. They heard it was lovely this time of year.

In fact, they'd be just about perfect if we hadn't all grown up in a society that, much like Uncle Vernon, disapproves of imagination.

Now see how Revati rises to the occasion. I may have lost my imagination to the black holes of physics, chemistry, and biology, but I shall make the Internet suffice. Writing a blog is much like talking to John or Charles or Rubin - I can't see you, but I can pretend you're there.

So, let's do this, shall we? I hereby revoke your outer existence and resurrect you as a figment of my imagination. And that pretty much takes care of the initiation. From here on out, if my methods puzzle (or offend), feel free to think of me as God: I work in mysterious ways (and my word is law). The parallels, I feel, don't end there, but I'll save the gobstopping irreverence for a future entry. Oh yes, and...

ABANDON EVERY HOPE, YOU WHO ENTER.
(Welcome to revatinafday.net!)

Posted by Revati Nafday at 03:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)