Her Whole World's Come Undone

Dear adoring vassals,

I have decided that I will update this “blog” every Sunday, because a) I am lucky if one notable thing happens to me during any given week and b) I am sure you do not want to stay up every night thinking “Oh, God, when am I going to get another glimpse into the brilliant mind I so adore? Please let it be tomorrow, oh please!” Now you know that every Sunday you can look forward to laughing, crying, and really growing as a person. And then after you watch Oprah, you can read this.

Now, this “blog” entry is about an issue that is very important to me. There are many “blogs” out there dedicated to social, economic, and political concerns. And with the election coming up soon, I feel that this is the best time to bring this up, because it effects tens of people everyday and that is ten too many.

Last Monday, August 18, 2008, I was walking to the bus stop at approximately 12:45pm. I had poetry class (another issue that I have been lobbying against) and did not have time to eat a proper lunch, what with waking up and having to read poems all morning (please write to your congressman immediately).

I quickly made a sandwich of pita bread and lebneh, or what us Lebanese call sandwichit lebneh. We do this so no one knows what we are talking about. Lebneh is white and has the consistency of thick yogurt, but I believe it is technically a cheese. Regardless, it is delicious and it makes a yummy sandwichie. That means sandwich. Isn’t it nice that you’re being exposed to an entirely different language?

Anyway, I was walking down Cargill Avenue listening to my iPod and eating my sandwichit lebneh. Around the middle of “Janie’s Got A Gun”, I realized I must have spread way too much lebneh on the bread. Before I could stop and resituate the roll the lebneh started falling out and I started feeling cold yogurt/cheese all around my face and fingers. Why hadn’t I brought more than one napkin? And what happened between Janie and her dad? Was there really no way to fix it? Come on, guys.

By the time I took a seat on the bus, I was confident I had wiped off all the lebneh. I bent down to take a pen out of my bag and saw a long white line down the shin of my jeans.

“Oh, silly me,” I thought. “I got lebneh all down my pants! That’s weird that it didn’t get on my thigh, but oh well! I’ll wait until I get to campus and then I’ll clean it up.” And I rode happily to school unaware that my life had just changed forever.

Later I was sitting on a bench waiting for class to begin.

I mean, later I was walking around campus looking really cool and not caring whether class was going to start or not. But then I was a little tired from being so cool so I decided to sit next to a bench near my class.

I then remembered about the lebneh on my pants, and I took out my napkin, which was now almost torn to shreds. I began to wipe the lebneh off, sure that it wouldn’t be a struggle.

Why wasn’t it coming off? Why had it hardened? Lebneh doesn’t harden. No, I’m sure I’m just not pushing hard enough.

So I wipe a little harder and a bit of the white line comes off in the napkin, much like I had wiped off some wax. That’s weird.

I brought the napkin up to my nose. Still, to this day, I cannot explain why I did this. I know what lebneh smells like. I do not know what other white substances smell like. Did I think I was suddenly a CSI detective? Part of NYPD Blue? A Charlie’s Angel? And I know I’m not a Charlie’s Angel because I never got a call back.

But it didn’t take a detective to figure this one out.

It was shit. Bird shit. A bird shat on my leg. There I was was with shit on my pants and a shitty napkin under my nose.

Suddenly, in the nausea that ensued, my life flashed before my eyes. Walking to the bus stop humming Aerosmith, bird shit on my leg. Waiting at the bus stop thinking about what to have for dinner, bird shit on my leg. Sitting on the bus trying to avoid the drunkard at the back’s reproachful glances and screams about Harold and Kumar, bird shit on my leg. I had just spent the last sixty-five minutes with bird shit ON MY LEG.

And what was worse is that it was just on the shin of my pants. Which means I had just slightly walked in the line of fire. I had walked into the bird shit. So it isn’t so much that a bird shat on my leg. I had, through my own freedom and will, subconsciously said, “You know what would look really great with these pants is some bird shit.”

I cannot wear these pants again. Call me wasteful, but I am a very spiritual person who believes that everything happens for a reason. This bird chose these pants to shit on. I don’t know exactly what this means, but I know he doesn’t shit on everybody.

Just me.

Signed,
Prudy