I got a Flip Camera as part of the j curriculum at Columbia. They said to familiarize myself with it. This is the result of last weekend’s familiarization.

As I wait patiently in line, ogling the chocolate chip pancakes, the girl ahead of me is playing stupid with the tongs. How hard is it to slip the bottom clampy thing under a pancake, squeeze, transport to plate?

How fucking hard? Well, a challenge for her. Such a challenge, she asked the kind lady on the other side of the buffet thing to get it for her.

After this idiot cherry picks her pancakes, and I can’t conceal a scoff that she confusedly reacts to, she walks away with four of (what she thinks to be) the best pancakes that were in the tray.

I’m not picky, I don’t mind eating two of the next-best pancakes, but the idea that she was so particular about pancakes that looked almost identical to the others is exhausting, mainly because I waited for her perfection.

Okay, so she’s gone. I can get my two pancakes and bacon in peace. Okay, time to pour syrup inferentially labeled “original” onto my crowded plate.

Oh shit. She’s back. And she brought a cup. What’s she need a cup for? Milk and soda is back that-a-way. Wait, what’s she…oh my god.

This cup, though small, was filled to the top with syrup. Original syrup. My syrup. I scoffed again. (Oops.)

All that went through my mind is the ongoing cholesterol problem America faces.

I’ve got my iPod and sunglasses—clearly giving off the “don’t talk to me” vibe—when some doucher with clear sunglasses and a popped collar (yeah, a popped collar) walking dead-ahead of me notices my hurried pace and it looks to me like words are spewing out of his trap, words directed to me.

I pause my iPod and quietly, innocently mutter, “What?”

Danny McDoucher replies, “(stupid macho laugh) Are you trying to get on top of me? (stupid macho laugh)”

Out of pure bewilderment I awkwardly reply, “Uh…uh…uh…no…..” I’m also trying to figure out if this was worth pausing Colin Meloy for.

Danny must have thought I was offended or about to whip out the claws, because all of a sudden he said, “Aw it’s cool girl, it’s cool!”

Still bewildered, I reply “Uh…uh…okay(?)”. I dart to the other side of the platform, and make sure we don’t get into the same car.

The only thing that goes through my mind for the next twenty seconds is “Did that happen, and if so, what was it?”

I guess karma knew I hadn’t had a douche encounter in awhile and decided after I was rude to suburban families on Michigan who were cramping my style, it was time for payback. Damn it.

Our elevators suck, ‘kay? There are three of them and they travel slower than a Cadillac wearing one of those round yellow thingys that immobilize a wheel (I can’t think of it right now!).

There are about twelve of us on the elevator, an elevator suited for eight. As the car attempts to depart from the ground floor, the door won’t budge.

Me, with lack of tact, looked at the kid standing next to the buttons and said, “Could you not push the button? We have places to go.”

“Uh, I’m not pushing any buttons.”

Oh yeah, these elevators get stuck frequently. I forgot. I was under the impression that it would close and ascend to our respective apartments. Oops.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

Granted, I’ve lived here for only three months, so because I don’t always know where I’m going, I still consider myself a tourist.

But come on, I’m not stopping in the middle of sidewalks to take or pose for a picture with my point-and-shoot. I’m not clogging up with CTA trains with my five kids and collective ignorance.

A lady thumped her finger into my shoulder at the Monroe stop, inferring that she needed a passageway. A discreet “excuse me” would have sufficed.

It took everything I had to not turn around and say “Don’t fucking touch me.”

A girl casually talking to a guy in a nearby cubicle looks up after I’ve been patiently waiting for a minute or two. “Do you need help?”

I reply, “Uh, yeah. A little.”

Call me a bitch, but seriously, why the fuck else would I be standing there like a lost puppy?

And oh yeah, it knows 216 phone numbers and I can check Facebook with it.

As if Facebook was a good enough way to ignore my academic growth, it turns out I can get it anywhere I go. Including class.

I’m speaking of nothing other than a BlackBerry, and it’s all the rage at present.

It has so many options that my Palm Centro couldn’t afford me, such as Twitter, managing e-mail accounts (that’s right, plural), IM-ing, and of course, the aforementioned. And oh yeah, the Internet.

I can also call people with this phone.

No wonder people call it a CrackBerry

You mean I can tweet on the Red Line? What?

Damn it, CrackBerry, stop being so awesome!

Aww snap...

Sometimes ya gotta break down and go to The Office Depot for a $15 name-brand cartridge…tomorrow morning. They close at 8 p.m., I came to this realization at  8:03.

Lesson? Never buy a “compatible” ink cartridge online and shell out an extra $5 for shipping. Chances are, a $5 cartridge is too good to be true.

I clunk into Mattoon Depot on Monday morning with my motley baggage of plaid and Vegas, sitting on terminal pew with the garden variety of travelers eagerly awaiting the Amtrak when I decide to go out to the tracks, my suitcase my company.

Most of everyone follows. The train’s not here yet, guys. Okay, I’m a bit of a trendsetter. I guess this event’s not awkward, I just found it eerie.

I spy a guy with a Serengeti hat, a khaki vest and clodhopper boots. It’s the Serengeti hat that gets me.

He asked where he can buy tickets. I tell him online or by phone. He looks at me like I just bit his firstborn. I’m just trying to be helpful, guy.

We board the train. Guess who sits across the way from me. …Yup.

We stop in Champaign/Urbana where I know someone will sit next to me. Happens every time.

I’m watching Beatles Anthology on my laptop with my headphones, when a blond woman asks if my seat is taken. Because I don’t want to be interrupted during my Beatles time, by a stranger no less, I curtly replied, “NO.”

I didn’t mean to whip out the claws, but she needed a direct answer and I needed to get back to my Beatles. She ended up being very nice, after I gave her my window seat, because she displayed more interest in taking in central Illinois scenery than me.

Somewhere between Kankakee and Homewood, someone cut the most pungent diarrhea fart, and as it spread from row to row of the crowded Amtrak car, I in my infinite maturity held a fist over my mouth/nose. Dual purpose—shield the stench, hide the childish giggling.

Was the bathroom ocupado, ass ripper?

“Why did you take a month off?” you ask.

I’m lazy. That’s why.

But it doesn’t matter because I’m back with a semester’s worth of ramen. That’s right, it cost me $5.

Stay tuned.

This ain’t no April Fool’s joke, by the way.

Fo’ realsies.