As I’m writing this, I’ve got bleaching trays in, with bleachy saliva collecting in my mouth, and I’m about as glamorous as a potato. It’s also midnight, and I’m listening to iTunes Radio, the top fifty pop songs.

PERFECT CONDITIONS FOR BLOGGING. LET’S GET TO IT. (leaves to spit into the sink, returns and pretends that nothing happened). If I ingest some of the bleachy saliva, will I die? Is that a dumb question?

Okay, Sam Smith is getting too loud, and I don’t really like his song with Mary J. Blige in it, so I’m turning it down. Wait, Shawn Mendes is next. I know he’s like twelve, and was found on Vine, so basically he has the potential to be social media’s next Justin Bieber, but “Something Big” is really good. Even if it sounds like it’s about a boner.

I don’t even know what this blog post is supposed to be. I was told the other day by a friend—let’s call her Nina—that I mention diarrhea too much. And I didn’t believe her, until someone else commented on it too. And suddenly, I’m thinking Do I talk about diarrhea too much? Is there even such a thing? And now I’m blogging about it, so maybe Nina was right, and maybe that’s why I don’t have a boyfriend. My thinking is that if someone who wants to date me isn’t hilarious enough to realize that bowel movement humor is CLUTCH, then they can bow(el) their way out of my life. No, actually, don’t leave. I’m so alone.

Ugh, now Shawn is singing “A Little Too Much,” and it’s HITTING ME HARD. Sometimes it does get “a little too much,” and I’m realizing that blogging can be helpful. Like right now, I’m stressed about school. Not like schoolwork, that bish is easy like Kraft. But I’m thinking about study abroad, and the question of what my—Ouch, my teeth hurt a little. I feel like that shouldn’t be happening. I’m gonna ignore it—my internship should be. Originally, I was like “Oh, magazine,” but then I was like, “But talk shows,” and then I started thinking about late night television, and how cool it would be to be a late night host.

You see, I have no clue as to what I should be doing with my life. I tried to be a hardcore hard news journalist, but I just felt like a phony. And I didn’t have that itch, you know, that “I need to get the story” itch that makes journalists crazy in the eyes, like an extreme couponer at Big Lot’s. Do you guys have Big Lot’s in New England? Is it “Big Lots”? Because “Big Lot’s” sounds like a biblical mafia dad.

Where was I? Oh yeah, crazy eyes and “getting the story.” Because—and if you’re surprised that I’m about to be conceited and self-centered, then you need to really reconsider how good you think you are at reading people, because I’m like the poster child for self-indulgent narcissism—I think I am the “story.” Are you surprised I said that? You’re not, and I’m proud of you for that. I’m also proud of myself—see aforementioned narcissism.

I’m really good at writing when it’s my own voice, when I care about the things I’m writing about. I LOVE being biased, and having loud opinions, and being crazy. I also love tweeting about pooping and being uncomfortable in front of cute boys—the two are not mutually exclusive—and I really hope to find a job that lets me be that person.

*“Uptown Funk” starts playing*

I still kind of have no idea what I want to do, and maybe that’s okay. It would be easier if I wasn’t surrounded by a bunch of try-hard knobs, who are all like, “Oh I want to have a “job” at a “newspaper” and “report” on the “news”” and I’m like “I want to have a “job” that lets me eat French fries at work and write a soliloquy about the emotional status of cucumbers and pickles.” WHY CAN’T WE ALL HAVE OUR DREAMS? And why are my job ideals all concerning foods?

Side bar: “Sugar” by Maroon Five (5?) is playing, and is anyone else made slightly uncomfortable by Adam Levine?

Side, side bar: I just put on moisturizer because who doesn’t love soft skin, right? And I just watched a “Bedtime Routine” tag on Youtube because I’m LITERALLY a creep, but it inspired me to take extra care with myself tonight. And so I put some moisturizer onto my hands, and instantly remembered why I never do this, because it feels like I jerked off a jellyfish.

*Taylor Swift’s “Style” plays, which isn’t one of my favorites off her album, but I don’t want to waste a skip, so I’ll let it play on*

I frittered around for so long that “Style” ended and now “Blank Space” is playing! Dreams really do come true! AND I SWEAR SHE IS SAYING “STARBUCKS LOVERS.”

Oh my god, today I have lab, and my TA is very nice, but when she answers my questions, she just talks and talks and I stop listening, and I’m like I wonder what she’s saying? Hmm, I don’t like her blazer. Oh, I should get Starbucks after this, mom just gave me a giftcard. Do you think hamsters and gerbils view each other as, like, different races or something, or do you think they’re just chill? Cousins, maybe? Oh, I should snapchat my cousin and suddenly she’s handing back my lab after answering my question, so I just Google it.

Is it weird that I wear deodorant to bed? I always do it, because I sweat a lot, and I don’t think it’s weird, but is it? Maybe it is. I don’t see why. Just because I’m lying dormant doesn’t mean my RAGING sweat glands won’t be assholes. They lose their shit constantly. My sweat glands are like professional party starters or telemarketers: they just don’t know when to quit. And my heating is wonky, so it’s the Sahara in my room—also let it be known that I used the caps lock to capitalize Sahara rather than put my finger on the shift button. Also let it be known that I did it again just now.

I know this post is basically Rosie the RIVETING, but I’m tired—not tired, just lazy—and I should go to bed—not go to bed, just lay in bed and scroll through Twitter—until I fall asleep—not fall asleep, but instead have my eyeballs pop out of their sockets from staring at the iPhone screen and I go blind—and have blessed dreams—dream about turtles wearing socks and how much that would suck.

(Also, if I post this in the morning for more views, is that super shady? I mean, you guys know that it’s midnight when I’m writing this, so you’ll know that if it goes up in the morning, I’m being a shady, self-promotional crazy person. If I post this in the morning, I’ll add a small tag below this saying something like, “Call me an oak, because I am SHADY,” or something more hilarious than that weak-ass joke.)

UPDATE: Guess who’s shady? Answer: ME, IT’S ALWAYS ME

Essay, Humor


I regularly embarrass myself. When you’ve got as little self-awareness and as high self-confidence as me, that’s a given. But I really regularly embarrass myself.

Like the other day in the dining hall. I was sitting with my friend, and it was peak-dining hall hours. It was also a snow day, and because we don’t have a lot of TVs since we’re college students, everyone ends up eating.

I had asked my friend—let’s call her Shelby—to get me a drink when she was standing. I asked for iced tea.

She leaves. I probably perused Instagram or something of the similar ilk—as I was typing out “Instagram,” I got a notification about a new follower! Hint, @thedanosaurus, hint—or stalked cute boys on Facebook. Also, side note: cute boys, stop with the privacy settings. It’s really bumming me out.

Shelby comes back, carrying two glasses, one of water and one of iced tea. She sets the iced tea in front of me. Immediately, I sense in my psyche that something is not right in Whoville. The froth ratio is way off, and this liquid is a deep oak in color, instead of its usual burnished mahogany.

But I disregard this and take a sip. And immediately flip out.

“This is Brisk,” I tell Shelby. She looks at me, not understanding.


“I asked for iced tea,” I hiss like a viper.

“That’s what I got you,” Shelby hisses back.

“No, you got me Brisk. If I had wanted Brisk, I would’ve asked for Brisk.” (I literally cannot use italics enough to adequately convey the amount of DRAMA I put into those words).

“You’re being crazy,” Shelby says.

“SUSAN, I ASKED FOR ICED TEA.” Susan is a throwback to Rich Kids of Beverly Hills, as the much put-upon mother of main character Morgan Stewart, aka my idol, aka my queen, aka my ass-spiration and aspiration.

Now, I know I sound crazy. But I swear I’m not. There is a clear distinction between Brisk (Brisk) and iced tea. Brisk comes from the soda fountain rack. Iced tea comes from the tall, brewed vats directly adjacent to the soda fountain rack. The one I use says “Unsweetened Tea” which is ironic because it is literally sweet tea. And that’s the tea I drink, just sweet enough to make your teeth ache but not sweet enough to make you look like you’re from the Appalachian backwoods—is that offensive—and it is delicious. Brisk is an abomination. Side note, I’ve been listening to a lot of Kanye West lately—it’s related, because he’s “the abomination of Obama’s nation” and also he’s good.

“You’re yelling right now,” Shelby reminds me. Thanks Shelby for the Amber Alert, but you’re the one who messed up.

“I don’t care! I’m divorcing you,” I shriek like a Fury—I’m reading Eumenides in my class, so I am all about the Furies right now—and start gesticulating wildly.

“I’m not the one who fucked up. I refuse to drink this,” and I gesticulate wildly at the glass. In my impassioned frenzy, I backhand the full glass of iced tea harder than Maria Sharapova in the 2006 US Open.

The entire contents of the glass gush onto the table and waterfall over the edge. Shelby cackles like Kris Jenner, as I dry-heave with embarrassment.

The carpet beneath us is soaked, and Shelby drops a single napkin over the mess before sitting back and watching me. I start wiping up the mess, fully aware that I was acting as psychopathic as a guest on Maury.

“I hope you’re know that you’re a crazy person,” Shelby says as she watches me mop up the liquid, the sodden mess of napkins growing exponentially. Once the Brisk—that accursed “beverage”—is gone, we sit in silence. I have ceased cry-laughing.

Side bar—was I dating myself with the Maury reference? Also side bar, since I’m so alone, I’m technically always dating myself. Solo high-five…because no one will touch me.

The rest of the lunch passes in a haze of murky embarrassment. Shelby spends the next few days reminding me of the “iced tea incident”—loudly and with great zeal—to all of our friends.

I should add that I was partially kidding about being so upset about the iced tea. I should also add that I was partially deadly serious about being so upset about the iced tea. I’m very particular, and I really don’t think that’s a bad thing. If I were Oprah, would anyone call me “psychotic” and “over-dramatic” for demanding a certain kind of iced tea? I didn’t think so, unseen audience member.

I didn’t think so.

Humor, Life


I’m sick. Like, not super-sick. I have a runny nose and an achy throat and I’m coughing up blood and guts—okay, just phlegm. But phlegm isn’t sexy; blood is sexy.

Anyway, I’m gross inside and outside, and luckily the weather has matched my mood.

There’s actually a word for it: the “pathetic fallacy.” It’s a literary tool. Cue joke: “You’re a literary tool.” But it actually is.

Side note: Fallacy isn’t a funny word. The Pathetic Phallusy sounds like a group of depressed men. Do you get it? Because…penis. But anyway, I’m sick, and when I’m sick, I get really weird.

I’m already a weird person—don’t you hate it when regular people are like “Oh, I’m so weird! I’m, like, so quirky—but when I get sick, it gets worse. I tweeted multiple times about genitals—*cough* @thedanosaurus *cough*—and while that is very much on brand, it lacked my special dose of finesse.

Also I embarrassed myself in front of a cute human.

I was getting a sandwich at the dining hall, and the cute sandwich guy was there.

Cute Sandwich Guy: What can I get you?

Me (Human Potato): Could I get egg salad on sourdough, with lettuce and—what is that?—pepper jack?

CSG: Yeah sure.

(makes sandwich—puts on too much lettuce, but that’s neither here nor there)

CSG: How are you today?

HP: I’m good. Sick though.

CSG: Oh yeah me too.

HP: Yeah, it seems like everyone is getting sick.

CSG: Totally.

HP: So unfortunate. I guess I better stop making out with people.

(gives me my sandwich)

CSG: (says nothing, just smiles).


Why do I keep making uncomfortable jokes to attractive men? It’s a nervous tic. Other nervous tics: making jokes about slavery, and biting my nails. Only one of these things is mildly appropriate, and hint: IT’S NOT THE SLAVERY ONE.

When I get sick, I also dress like a lumberjack. I was wearing some gnarly, orthopedic hiking shoes, and I was into it. Today, it was an uphill battle with myself to try and not wear track pants.

Half of my brain: I’ll wear real pants today.

Other half: But will you? Will you really? You’re too weak to do zippers. Just wear track pants. Give in.

First Half: Omg you’re so right.

I’m wearing joggers, but THE STRIFE IN MY LIFE IS REAL. Hopefully I get better soon, because with the weather and this phlegm, there is a very real possibility that I will just become a couch in a few more days.

I’ve also been drinking enough tea to make the entire country of England piss their pants. The other day, I added too much honey accidentally, and it was just Lipton-flavored heated honey.

But being sick is kind of fun. I get to have a bona fide excuse for lying in my bed and watching The Originals. I mean, I didn’t need one before. But it’s nice to have a reason. It stops people from wondering if I ever go outside. SPOILER ALERT: No comment.



Question: How am I ever supposed to ask someone out?

Answer: I’m going to die alone, re-watching episodes of Gilmore Girls until my cat gently but firmly sits on my face and suffocates me to death.

So, I’m not the best at asking people out. I’m not the best at dating. You would assume, with my flawless skin and solar flare-bright smile, that I would excel at dating. But shockingly, I am too beautiful and too charming.

No, seriously. I swear.

There’s this boy at the gym, and he is very attractive. Like, he has cheekbones that could cut your eyes out just by looking at them. That’s how sculpted they are. And my first instinct is instant revulsion, because he’s too attractive to be attractive. Does that ever happen to you? Like, you see someone, but they’re attractive so your body repels them out of some sort of embarrassment survival instinct?

That’s what my body does. The hot boy shudder.

I don’t really get crushes on “hot” guys. I like “cute” guys, ones who maybe went through a fat phase at some point, or had braces. Something to make me feel like we’re on more even footing.

But now, I do. And keep in mind, I’ve actually never talked to him. He could be a complete racist. Or he could have a voice like Rob Gronkowski—side bar, have you heard Rob Gronkowski reading his own fan fiction smut? It’s horrific—and that’s a total turn-off. But I still kind of want to ask him out.

But, barring the obvious quandary of “He doesn’t know who I am,” I have no way of really knowing if I’m hot enough to ask him out.

I wish that there were a score you could get on hotness, and you have a list of people you can ask out based on that score. If we can make thousands of people take the SATs every year, I feel like we can manage something for dating. We could call it the Sexiness Aptitude Test, or SATs for short.

I keep seeing him in the dining hall and I keep dragging various friends over to show them how attractive he is. I don’t know why I am so into self-flagellation.

Side bar, the lights in my room just flickered twice. Once is an anomaly, but twice is cause for concern. Or ghosts.

I wish that we didn’t have to do the hot boy shudder or the SATs (my SATs, not the actual SATs). I wish you could walk up to someone and just say, “Hey, you seem like you don’t have any lasting psychological scarring. Do you want to get coffee and tell me about your dog and various interests?”

Side bar again, one of the dorms on campus just lost power. PRAY FOR ME.

But anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, asking people out.

There shouldn’t be this intense pressure, but there is. And there shouldn’t be any stigma or weirdness attached to asking people out and being upfront, but there is. And that seems stupid as hell, because if schmoes like me didn’t ask babes like you out, there wouldn’t be couples like Beyonce and Jay-Z, Tom Ford and Robert Buckley, or Jessica Rabbit and…Mr. Rabbit (?). In fact, there probably wouldn’t even be a human race. Okay, maybe I’m not the best example because of the whole “two dudes can’t reproduce on their own” thing, but you catch my drift.

Asking someone out should just be that…asking someone out to another location to get to know them better. Maybe if we (me) all stopped freaking out about the process, and “What does it mean?” or “Do you think he thinks I’m weird?” we might watch a little less Netflix and be out with some cuties. Not a lot less Netflix, don’t get nervous. Just a little.



Do you ever get such silent embarrassment that you’re almost upset that no one else knows the embarrassment so that at least you could get some sort of validation?

Picture it: I’m in class.

We’re discussing some classic English literature (as one does) and my professor asks if anyone enjoyed the reading we were assigned. I raise my hand and say that I liked it. The reading was about a woman, and we were going to analyze her in the context of misogyny and gender norms in that time period.

“Did anyone like her?” my professor asks.

I raise my hand. “I did!”

(I should point out that I had not, in fact, done the reading. I was going purely on assumption and no one else was talking. When there is any sort of silence, I feel contractually obligated to fill it with babble.)

“Why did you like her?”

My mind spins, and I remember something from the author’s note before the reading—the only part of the reading I had actually completed. “I thought she was very sharp and smart. And kind of eloquent. I dig it.”

“Would you date her?”

“I think I would date anyone who is sharp and smart,” I say, after a brief moment of hesitation.

“But would you date her?

I’m not a  radical, so I don’t exactly feel like telling my 81-year-old professor that I was a man after Oscar Wilde’s heart. But he later mentions one of the characters “being described as good in bed,” so maybe I misjudged him a little bit.

Anyway, I play straight, like Jonathan Groff in Glee. See, that’s how gay I am: I actually made that reference.

But the guy next to me also likes the character, and says so. And when he is posed the same question, “Would you date her?” he gives a similarly cagey answer.

Now, I’m no Sherlock Homo, but I am pretty sure he’s also gay. And I have been advised, by numerous “authorities,” that I am shockingly alone, and as such, should “date.” The guy isn’t really my type, but I figured I could lower my standards and knock this out of the ball park.

I think about making a joke about having to fake being straight in front of the professor to him, but I can’t make the joke land, so I forget about it.

(I should mention that, of the three classes we have had together, I have gone un-showered for one, and worn track pants for two. So I really don’t know why I am so overconfident.)

Anyway, I’m just thinking about how flattered he’ll be that I am considering dating him that I completely zone out of class.


In the last few minutes of class, we’re discussing gender norms and someone brings up out how, in guy-girl relationships, the guy will typically drive in a car-type situation. The guy—let’s call him “Trevor”—mentions these fateful words.

“Yeah, my girlfriend’s parents make fun of me all the time because she always drives.”


I want to laugh-scream, but keep it in until later.

Because I am a complete and utter asshole, and for the following reasons:

1). He isn’t gay.

2). He has a girlfriend

3). I am such a supreme tool that I was “lowering my standards” to ask him out.

The situation is so absolutely, hilariously karmic that it makes me want to crawl into a bear’s mouth. It completely serves me right for being so arrogant that the person I’m deigning to consider asking out is not only completely unavailable, but also completely not a gay man. Not even bisexual. Not even bicurious.

I don’t believe in gay-dar, mostly because I subscribe to the notion that homosexuality is not indicative through certain characteristics, but also because I am so terrible at figuring it out. I asked someone out last year, not really knowing if he was gay or not, so we ended up on a date with seven of my closest friends to a children’s movie, and by the end, I gave him a fist-bump and never talked to him again.

My love life has all the charisma of Shy Ronnie: simultaneously meek and psychotically aggressive.

I’m mostly sharing this as a way to vent, but also because I think it’s hilarious, and laughing takes less energy—and less calories—than sobbing into a carton of Ben and Jerry’s.