This blog needs some serious help.
Oh, like you didn't know! Of course you knew! You tell your spouse every time you accidentally read one of my posts, "That boy's blog needs some serious help."
But what to do? The blog is what it is because of who writes it. You can't really fake it on a blog; if you careen repeatedly between boring and angry, your blog will do the same. And thus is born "A Random Stranger," the world's most boring and angry blog.
Maybe I need a theme. People do well with themes. I could find something in society that no one else has noticed and then document its every instance. For example, ah hell, I don't know. All the good ideas are taken already.
I thought I could turn this into a clearinghouse of my embarrassing stories (because you know I've got a lot of them), but my embarrassing stories aren't the sort that leave you wanting more. They make you uncomfortable and anxious to leave.
Well, I'm running out of time before I've got to be somewhere, so I'd better do something. So here goes:
There's this girl who sits next to me in International Finance who might want me. Or she just might be friendly, I'm not good telling the difference. When I was a freshman in high school there was a girl who was very friendly to me, so much so that I thought I needed to tell her that I had a girlfriend. (I didn't tell her, though, because my girlfriend was only my girlfriend for 20 days. Thanks a lot, girlfriend! (Right now she would say, "But I'm your wife now, moron, so deal with it!" That's why I don't let her post on my blog. Things go more smoothly when there's only one side of the story being told.))
Anyway, I was very worried that this friendly high school girl was trying to put the moves on me, but when I've thought about it since then, I've realized that she had absolutely no reason to go after me, she was just being nice.
So this girl in International Finance might be friendly, or she might be trying to get me in the sack. Hard to say. But she saw me the other day talking to a professor, so she asked what class I was taking with him. I told her I was TAing for him this semester. She went off on that. "Oh, are you a graduate student?" Um, no. "I didn't think they let undergraduates TA." Um, normally they don't. "How do you get to do that? Do you have to apply?" Um, yeah. "I want to do that. How do you apply?" Um, you have to be asked to apply. "How do they decide who to ask?" Um, they give you a scholarship. "Oh, so you got a scholarship? Have they decided who's going to get them for next year?" Um, probably, since I was notified of the dinner next Tuesday. "I really need that. I really need money. I told [undergraduate program advisor] that, too." Um, I don't really know what to tell you. It just kept getting more embarrassing for me.
The next time I saw her, that was all she wanted to talk about again. How long have I been a TA? How many students do I have? Is it great? She talks so much for someone with such an annoying voice. And with my luck, she'll stumble across this blog, read my post, and know it was about her. Awkward. When that happens I'll be sure to blog about it, since all I've got left up my sleeve are embarrassing stories that make readers uncomfortable.