An Open Letter to The Adminsitration

March 30, 2007

To Whom It May Concern:

My name is SinnesterSaint and I live in West Campus Suites. This year I paid over $7000 to live in the newest dorm. To clarify, that is more than I pay in tuition. I would have the exact figure for you but true to form, I am being screwed by this incompetent administration/institution. Please try this link and you may find the exact figure (http://reslife.truman.edu/halls/west/services/registration/).

I am writing this letter to inform you of the many instances that this institution has found a to extort money/nickel and dime me.

1. I live on the first floor and I can consistently count on the fact that I will lose $1.50 when I try to use the “NEW” washers/dryers on MY floor.
2. For two weeks now, the vacuums have been out of order. Answer me this, why doesn’t the new dorm have new vacuums? Furthermore, why can’t new vacuums be bought when the old ones are OBVIOUSLY broken?
3. The mail is never delivered at a consistent time/ in timely fashion. Why does it take one week for a letter to travel from Columbia, MO to Kirksville, MO. I am better off telling the sender of the letter to drive an hour and half here and HAND DELIVER the letter than to send it in the mail.
4. The racketeering of parking tags here is criminal. Do NOT sell more parking tags than you have parking spots. The parking system should operate much like it did when I was in high school where a parking tag guaranteed you a parking spot. This way I do not spend $50 on a parking sticker and another additional $50 in parking tickets because of the inevitable fact that I WILL park illegally due to a complete and utter lack of parking spots.
5. Dirty glasses in the cafeteria. When I say dirty glasses I mean glasses with orange juice pulp left over from the previous user. That is ridiculous, unacceptable, unsanitary, and not up to health codes I bet. For those of you who have not been checking your glasses please do and you wonder why your roommate got mono.
6. Sodexho/ the blackout hour/C-Store mark ups. Enough said.

In summary, I have dealt with these issues for five years now and this is the breaking point. For all of you who still have to go here this is for you. I am a paying customer of West Campus Suites. As a paying customer I demand these changes and the respect of the “company” that runs it. This is a slow form of psychological warfare and I can’t take it anymore.

Sincerely,

SinnesterSaint

West Campus Suites 1208 B

(don’t try to send me regular mail as I won’t receive it until after I’ve graduated)

The Kirksville Drop

The Kirksville Drop

I realized that no matter how hard you try to erase time spent in a small Missouri town from your memory, somewhere, deep down inside, the lessons you learned will be there, just waiting for the right moment to remind you of the years in Kirksville. This became BLINDINGLY apparent to me as I was "pulled over" for alcohol the other day in North Chicago.

I use the term "pulled over" only loosely because I was actually just walking with an open container of alcohol. I am walking to the train with ONE bottle of Miller Lite (or a Lachey as my friend Ana calls them) and my roommate also had a bottle of beer. Here is the first Kirksville versus Chicago difference. I am drinking Miller Lite, a cheap domestic. My roommate, never having gone to Kirksville, is drinking Heineken.

Next thing we know I see a cop car slowly pull a u-turn and start coming our way. Kirksville versus Chicago difference number 2: I IMMEDIATLY know the cops are going to stop us. My roommate is more optimistic saying, "they are prolly just going to that bar fight". And indeed, there was a visible fracas about two blocks up, but as ANY small town college student knows, they cops don't care about that. They just care about YOU.

The cops stop, flash their lights, sirens and direct a spotlight towards us. As I am walking to their car, I lower my beer to it is against my thigh and slooowly drop in on the ground so it doesn't make a noise. This is what I will refer to as the Kirksville Drop. Kirksville v. Chicago No 3: my roommate just keeps his beer and walks up to the cops still carrying it.

This story goes on and on, culminating with the cops threatening to take us to jail and then "letting us go with a warning". And it ends with me picking up my beer and drinking it.

But here are the rest of the differences.

Me (Kirksville)- Rude to the cops, they are out to invade your privacy and take advantage of people my age not knowing their rights. Refuse to answer any question other than your name.

Roommate (Chicago)- Helpful. He thinks the cops are there to "serve and protect".

Me: Rants about it for a half an hour. This is UNBELIEVABLE! Who do they think they are?
Roommate: Shrugs. Could've been worse.

Me: Fuck the Police.
Him: At least I had my ID.

Old Style

My favorite bar in Chicago is a hole-in-the-wall neighborhood pub that I refer to as Old Style. The actual name of the bar is BLANK (I don't want a rush on the bar, or it would lose its undeniable charm). Why do I call this bar Old Style? There is no signage apparent for the actual name of the bar, only a GIANT sign out front that advertises the beer. So be it. I ask my friends "Hey, wanna go to Old Style tonight?" And they say NO! Because there isn't anything posh or current or even great about it. It is just a dark, smelly bar that the majority of the times I have been in it, there has been a live dog there also, either sleeping on the floor or eating pretzels.

Why do I love it? Well, first you can't beat the price. Every Thursday I am in there binge drinking and my tab is never more than 30$. For Chicago, this is EXCELLENT. Also, I am always there for at least 4 hours. Free shots, doubles when I said singles, beer after beer and it is cool if I throw up there. Also, once the bartender offered me a joint. Just sayin'.

It is the kind of bar you don't ask questions. The juke box is full of Steve Miller Band and The Cars. No one talks to anyone but the bartender. It is the perfect place to drink to forget. This is not an after party, or a pre-party or even a party bar. You just go there, with a friend or two, never more than this because there are NO tables. Just a bar. You go and you reminisce or plan or just sit. If you want to get crazy, you play a game of darts. Or Check out the juke box. Or take that joint the bar tender offered you. But that is it. No more, no less.

Just how Old Style is Old Style? So Old Style that the bar tender last week asked for my number. And when I gave it to him, he wrote it in a little black book. I'll be back there next Thursday.

Why the Red Line Scares Me

The Red Line, if you are not from Chicago, is more appropriatly called my some "the AIDS wagon". It ferries people from the farthest south in Chicago to the farthest north and runs 24 hours a day. These are the things I witnessed in Chicago on the Red Line within a week of moving here:

people playing "three card monty"
a man try to grope an teenage boy
another man see this attempt and punch the guy in the face
a girl have a seizure

Pretty heavy stuff. The Red Line operates in four shifts:

8-9 AM. Rush hour. This is the worst time to ride because the train is packed with yuppies who couldn't care less about anything but themsleves. Also, lots of bags (breficases, gym bags, purses, Sephora bags with lunches in them). This makes it even more crowded.
5-6 PM. Rush hour again. Ditto above. Only everyone is tired so it is a little worse.
8-10 PM. People going out. Mostly hipsters and girls dressed inappropriately for dinner. Lots of cell phone chatter at this time.
12 AM- ??. People coming back home. Look out for hobos (my mom's boyfriend maybe?) and vomit.

So I have become a veteran of the Red Line. I don't make eye contact, if someone speaks to me, I pretend not to hear and I always have reading material, and iPod and my cell phone out. Nothing really bother or shocks me anymore.

This morning however, I became concerned with a fellow passenger. This man had a beard. Unusual for the morning rush hour crowd of lawyers, assistants and consultants. Two, this man is wearing combat boots. Three, this man is wearing a camo/Army style jacket. Four, this man is tapping his fingers and feet nervously. Either this man had too much Starbucks (unlikely) or he is planning something. I am extremely wary of this gentleman.

Then I notice what he is reading. A dog-eared and underlined copy of American Psycho. Ummmm?

Here is a quote from said book:

"My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy. I think my mask of sanity is about to slip."
At the next stop, I switched cars. I think that was the best decision I have made all day.

A Little Girl on Girl Action

"Hi, I'm Kara!" "Oh, I'm Emily" (awkward pause followed by everyone taking a sip) and then conversation moves on.

This is the same scene in countless bars when girls meet each other. During that awkward pause we're all thinking "WTF? Should I shake her hand?" This is the most awkward thing that socially normal girls experience on the weekends. God forbid you try to extend your hand for the handshake. You'll end up playing an awkward version of patty cake followed by some nervous laughter. Immediately thereafter we all want to leave the scene. This craziness must end!

I hereby instate the universal protocol for an introduction between two females.

Step 1: State your name.
Step 2: Smile

That's it! Stop feeling awkward! There's no reason for it! You don't know her! You are not required to do anything else! You just met her and you will not hook up later! If you wish, you may add a third step.

Step 3: Compliment her on something she's wearing so she doesn't think you're a bitch.

Okay, now go forth and seek your hookups and greet girls appropriately. Who knows, maybe you'll have another girl to dance on the bar with at the end of the night.

Jesus, these two can't even get it right.

An Open Letter To The Washer/Dryer Company of My Building

To Whom It May Concern:

I live on the first floor of the new dorm on campus. I'm having an unacceptable experience with the laundry service in the building. EVERY TIME I do laundry, I lose money! I don't drop it on the floor and it rolls under a machine/gamble it away/swallow it. No! I instead insert my precious quarters into your pretend washer/dryer. Are you trying to run a company? or are you racketeering poor college students out of their hard to acquire quarters?

THREE times I have called and let you know that the machine is out of order. Each time you have assured me that I will receive a refund and that the machines will be fixed. Each time you fuck up fail! To date, I have lost approximately $5.50 in your poor excuses for machinery. I am demanding this money in full with additional interest, fees and pain and suffering. The total is now $100. It should never take SEVEN goddamn hours to do laundry! Part of that $100 is a result of you paying me for my extra work.

In summary, I hate you and your God awful company. I will be reporting you to the Better Business Bureau. I hope that your company, especially all of the lying whores employees who answered my phone calls get accidentally lynched against a burning cactus while I drive away in your ridiculously expensive cars that you bought with my quarters get the message.

Sincerely, FUCK YOU,
SinnersterSaint















I'm better off with these.

Why I Moved Out of My Mother's House

After College, I had plans, like many twenty-somethings, to milk my parents for as long as I could. I figured I had until I was 27 to really motivate myself to find a career and move out. Arrested development is sweeping the nation and I intended to be a part of it. Unfortunately, this did not work out for me. Here is a re-enactment of what happened when I relayed these plans to my mother:

Me: I think I am going to move home after college.
Mom: Great! I missed you so much. It will be nice having some help with the rent also.
Me: Um, rent? Like $100/month right?
Mom: I was thinking $450.

(aside: I know for a fact my Mom pays $600/month rent. So, basically, this was bullshit as she was trying to pawn over half her rent off on me)

Me (now screaming): I AM BEING PUNISHED FOR BEING SUCCESSFUL!!! IF I WERE PREGNANT YOU WOULDN'T MAKE ME PAY RENT!!
Mom: Are you pregnant?
Me: No.
Mom: Then its $450.

In short, fuck that. If I am going to pay $450/month and have a roommate, it is not going to be in my hometown, and not with my mother. So I moved out. Great. And I pay $450 to live in a basement apartment with two messy guys. Totally worth it.

Sometimes I miss my mom though. And her omelette's. But other times, I think moving out was like getting every Christmas for the rest of my life all at once. Here is a pre-moving out tale to prove my point:

One Thanksgiving I come home and I am putting my clothes away when I see a gun in my closet. I am a little freaked out. I don't know anything about guns. As far as I knew my Mom didn't have a gun (and she is the last person who SHOULD). So I calmly ask my Mom, "Mom, why is there a gun in my closet?" My Mom's reply?
"Well, my friend {redacted} was arrested for felony drunk driving and when you are convicted of a felony you can't have guns as a part of your probation. So she gave it to me for safe-keeping and I don't know how to work it, and I don't know if it is loaded, so I put it in your closet because I was kind of scared".

WTF?

Story 2- I get home for a weekend in college and am getting ready to take the 36 hour nap that I need to recharge from finals and I see stamped on my sheets MCFARLAND PSYCHIATRIC HOSPITAL. This just happens to be the state run insane asylum. So I ask my mom, "Where did you get these sheets?" She says "I don't know" and quickly walks away.

Looking back on these incidents, I am pretty relieved I moved out when I did, I thought these incidents were the apex of crazy for my mother, who is not crazy, just blindly well-intentioned.

Apparently not. Because I just met Hobo Tom.

Who is Hobo Tom? Hobo Tom is the man my mother met while she was volunteering at a rehab center and subsequently fell in love with a man who was drying out there. And he is homeless. At this point people always ask me why? Why is he homeless? And the liberal in me wants to blame it on social injustice and declining services for the poor and socioeconomic conditions under the Bush Administration. But then the "he is dating my mother" part of me takes over and I say, because he is a lying meth addict. Which I don't even know is true. So, my mom is all in love and calls me last night and I make the mistake of asking about Tom:

Me: Mom, how is Hobo Tom? (yes I call him that to my mom's face).
Mom: Fine.
Me: Still homeless.
Mom: Not exactly.
Me (feeling nauseous): AWESOME! Where does he live?
Mom: With me.
Me: IHATEYOUBYE!

In conclusion, moving out was the smartest thing I ever did. Because if I had stayed at home I would now be sharing a bathroom with a man who might dig through my garbage in front of me and eat it. Or hit me with a 40 oz bottle of PBR for not giving him a quarter.





Hobo Tom, Smiling because he is with my Mother