Much Ado About Nothing

“Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” -William Shakespeare

So I opened with a Shakespeare quote. I’m not exactly sure what he means by it, as is true with almost all of the Shakespeare I’ve ever read, but he’s probably onto something that transcends time in its depiction of the human condition.

I am currently enrolled in a class devoted entirely to Billy Shakespeare himself, because as you know, being well-versed in sixteenth-century English literature is a highly marketable skill. (At my last internship interview, I managed to work the phrase “if you music be the food of love, play on” into an answer about my previous work experience. Still waiting to hear back.)

The thing is, I am actually really enjoying this class. Maybe it’s because my professor swears a lot and makes references to Bud Light and TJ Maxx. Maybe I’m still caught up in a little post-London Anglophilia. Maybe I’m on the verge of a psychotic break and this is the first warning sign. But no matter the explanation, I’ve become someone that my sixteen year old self would definitely have wanted to punch in the face.

A Shakespeare fan.

In honor of this somewhat disturbing revelation, here is a brief list of reasons why Shakespeare actually kind of rocks.

The guy loved sex jokes more than Judd Apatow. For example.

Hamlet: That’s a fair thought to lie between maiden’s legs.
Ophelia: What is, my lord?
Hamlet: Nothing.

So many rad character names. (Benedick! Rosencrantz! Second Murderer!)
This stage direction, simple yet effective: [dies]
He had an impeccable sense of style.

Movie adaptations!


One of the best cheesy 90’s movies of all time, based on The Taming of the Shrew.


Amanda Bynes as the world’s least believable boy, as inspired by Twelfth Night.


Has anyone actually seen this one? I heard Paul Giamatti’s in there somewhere, and boy does Romeo have some cheekbones.

Finally, Shakespeare is the indisputable king of puns. As Mercutio of Romeo and Juliet lay dying from a fatal stab wound, he utters this beauty: “Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man.” (Grave? Grave? Get it?)

To be honest this whole post was an elaborate way of procrastinating reading Henry V. So for now, fair Internet perusers, I must bid you adieu. This has been a great and nerdy time, and I promise next week I’ll talk about something that won’t make most people want to punch me in the face.

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Ode To Hannah

You know that slightly uncomfortable feeling you get when you are, without a doubt, the only person in the room that’s not on a date? Hannah and I spent pretty much all of Valentine’s Day in that strange twilight-zone of ultimate singledom. Allow me to set the scene:

The lighting was dim and rosy, the air buzzing warmly with gooey conversation as couples grinned at each other over their plates and played footsy under the table. I weaved my way through the labyrinth of tables for two in a packed restaurant in Boston and took a seat across from my one and only valentine; Hannah. We’d had plans for dinner and a concert on the 14th for months, (we bought tickets in November, so there was no backing out of this regardless of relationship status). And it was quite possibly one of the most romantic nights of my life. So, in the spirit of loving one another, I’d like to compose a short list of things I love about Hannah Drake.

Her appreciation for fart jokes.
Her complete lack of a sense of direction (I navigated us through Boston).
How she writes loving blog posts about my car.
How she laughs at my obscure history jokes and references to various comedians.

By the end of the night, I’m guessing that about a dozen people, including the manager at the restaurant, assumed that Hann and I were dating. While we dined, we considered what our story would be if this was indeed our first date. Would be lesbians or just college-experimentation lesbians? Where would we have met? Would we hook up later that night? Probably.

Next on the itinerary was to listen to a weepy Irish band sing about breakups. Kodaline were wonderful and even more angsty on stage. If you like songs with lots of soulful ooh’s and whoa’s, then you might want to check them out. They said things like “feck it” and the lead singer got soy sauce in his eye right before they went on. One thing I realized quickly was that going to a concert on Valentine’s is a very different experience from going to a concert on any other day of the year. One couple behind me was kissing so aggressively that they were practically using me as leverage. For future reference: avoid couples at concerts unless you want to feel like you’re indirectly involved in their romantic endeavors.

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Ode to Julie’s Car

First off, I’d like to inform you all that the “nudity” tag on Jules’ last post got us the highest readership we’ve had in months. You’re a dirty bunch, Internet surfers.

That being said, we’ve decided we’re going to tag all of our posts as nudity-related from here on out, whether or not they are actually nudity-related. Everyone knows that people googling “nudity” are secretly looking for a writing blog fueled by fart jokes, and we’re just looking to give the people what they want.

I could think of a lot of creative transitions to get from nudity to Valentine’s Day, but my parents check this site pretty often, so I’ll skip all that and get straight to the point. Valentine’s Day is nearly upon us, and I’ve fallen in love.

With Julie’s car.

There are several reasons why our romance is an unlikely one.

This 2003 Honda Civic is, in Julie’s words, a shitbox. A wonderful, repaired, damaged, repaired again, silver, spunky little shitbox. (Its front door makes a startling buh-BUNK noise when you open it, and the first time I climbed into the passenger seat, I was convinced I’d caused irreparable damage.) I don’t usually go for the fixer-uppers, but this one stole my heart.
Modes of transportation-wise, cars totally aren’t my type. I tend to go for the skis. (To my darling Nordica Infinites, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry you had to find out this way. We can talk this weekend.)
The Civic and I are just so different, you know? I eat food, it needs gas. I speak English, it makes foreboding grumbling noises when it exceeds 60 miles per hour. We’re practically from different planets.

But this past Thursday, Julie’s car and I had our first date. I took the Civic for an internship interview about an hour away from campus (hey Jules, have I mentioned lately that you rock?), and we had plenty of time to bond.  Long story short, by the time we got back to campus, the car and I were smitten. I fell in love with its flaws– the gas pedal that sticks sometimes, the check engine light that won’t seem to go off no matter how many times Jules checks the engine. (Note: Jules never checks the engine.) The car might groan and buzz and occasionally thud, but that thing will get us where we’re going, goddammit. And it’ll get us there in style.

This Valentine’s Day, the love of my life and I shall be traveling to Boston for a Kodaline concert. And Jules will be there too, I guess. Three amigos, one of whom is a car, celebrating a day of love the best way we know how: feeding our concert addiction.

So whether you’re single, dating, married, divorced, looking for love or running as far away from it as you can, we hope you have a happy Valentine’s Day. (And don’t mind the nudity tag, we’re just trying to set the mood.)

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College, Goofy

Nudity and M&M’s: The Joys of Communal Living

You don’t truly know someone until you’ve seen them in their underwear. On those standards, I know Hannah pretty damn well. Before I got to college, I had a solid group of friends who I spent numerous hours with and thought I knew pretty thoroughly. Then I got to school last fall and found myself sharing bunk beds with someone I’d never met. A few things happened very quickly.

1.) I learned how to completely undress while simultaneously keeping a towel wrapped around me the entire time.

2.) I kind of stopped caring if anyone saw me naked.

One semester later I moved in with Hannah and the slow descent into madness began. We learned things about each other that can only be gleaned through total lack of privacy. I know what song she plays in the morning when we make our beds. (It’s called We Will All Be Changed by Seryn, and it’s a really nice start to your day). I know what her retainers look like because one time they got lost and we had to look around for a while. I know what type of hand lotion she uses because all three of us bought the same brand separately. Roommate telepathy. The other morning I turned around and said, “Hey, we’re wearing the same underwear except mine are pink!” And, on a whole new level, last week I walked into the room and Hannah was stark naked and talking on the phone.

“Oh hey, I’m like, pretty naked.” -Hann.

While lack of privacy can be kind of a downer, (I’ve been caught checking out my own ass in the bathroom mirror more times than I’m proud of and it’s always kind of disturbing when someone tells you that you were talking in your sleep last night), there’s a certain bond that can only be forged when you are share a 15 by 15 foot space. There’s nothing like the look of shock and mild horror you share when you realize you’ve torn through a five pound bag of M&M’s in three weeks. I’m sure many of you can attest to this. And as far as roommates go, I’m pretty lucky. Hannah and Natalia don’t really smell and they usually bring snacks from home like strawberries and goldfish.

If you need us, you can probably find us in room 434 watching crime shows and trying not to eat our weight in chocolate.

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