Last week, waiting for my class to begin, I started writing a post. But then I never finished and I got blog-writing blueballs. So let’s pray that I actually finish and upload this one.

WHAT A WAY TO START A BLOG.

I’m sipping on an iced coffee, waiting for my class to start and straight-up LIVING. Some girl just walked past me with extremely squeaky boots. And it reminded me how if I tie my bean boots too tightly, then one—not even both, which I could deal with because hello symmetry—becomes very, very squeaky whenever I walk. Also, it took me three times to spell squeaky right that time. And it took me four times to get it right just now.

I put Equal into my coffee, and I forget, is that the one that’s basically poison? I feel like someone told me that artificial sweeteners cause cancer or aliens to inhabit your body, or something of that ilk. And that is not how I’m planning on leaving this big, blue marble we call Earth. And plus I want to make sure that my body is perfectly ready for my champagne-colored, silk-lined coffin. Even though I don’t want to get buried. I want to be Weekend at Bernie-d. That was 50% a joke.

The other day I met my friend for coffee and she asked me what I had been up to recently. And my response was:

“Well, I started a new tanning lotion. So that takes up most of my time.

Today is April 1^st, and I’m a little upset that no one has pranked me for April Fool’s Day. But I’m also glad because I react violently to being pranked. Once my friend put salt in my water and in response I backwashed into his cup and poured it onto his plate. Ew, I just grossed out myself. I find it interesting that we have an entire day dedicated to tomfoolery. April Fool’s Day is essentially a lighthearted, real-life version of the Purge.

I haven’t bitten my nails in a week, and like any drug addict, I’m becoming a little antsy. I keep running my fingernails over each other and staring at them. I really want to bite them. My hands feel like they have fire-ants in them. I might have a serious addiction.

What else happened to me today?

Oh! I found a pack of cigarettes in the dining hall. Blue Camel. And I’ll be honest, it was the first time I’ve ever seen a cigarette pack up close. I know, I know, I’m so naïve. What can I say? I’m more a cocaine gal myself. But anyway, yeah I found a pack of cigarettes. The actual cigarettes were so small, and the box felt so fragile, like a prop. And on the side of the box was the Surgeon General’s warning and it literally said, “STOP SMOKING NOW.” And I kind of love how rude the Surgeon General is being. Like, what if we had Surgeon General warnings on everything? You opened up a bag of Cheetos and on the inside was a picture of the Cheetos Cheetah morbidly obese and the Surgeon General being like, “Girl, I told you so.”

With the weather warming up—and by “warming up” I mean “36 degrees and up” which is a bigger joke than my love life, and that’s saying something—I keep thinking of summer, and how READY my body is. I want to be warm. I want to wear tank tops and gym shorts and eat frozen yogurt and 7-11 Slurpees. And since I wear tank tops and gym shorts to bed all the time, I am looking forward to a life where there is literally no distinction between my daytime and nighttime outfits.

I’ll kind of miss wearing sweaters and cute pants, but at this point, I feel so suffocated that I’ll gladly give up pants entirely and wear skorts if it means that my legs get to be free. I also have no fashion imagination anymore. And if I wear another “vaguely cute blue short-sleeved buttondown” and “chinos”, I think Joan Rivers will rise from the grave and slice off my face.

Also can I just list one of my many conspiracies? I don’t think Joan Rivers is dead. I’m, like, not convinced. I also believe in extraterrestrial life and that Paula Abdul is an automaton created by Simon Cowell.

Side bar, my tall—aka “small”—iced coffee is on the dregs, and it legitimately has enough ice in it to constitute it as a veritable penguin habitat. Why is Starbucks throwing shade at me like this? I NEED caffeine, and they are playing a dangerous game.

I’m very into conspiracies. Like, I’m not sure how much I believe in black holes. Convince me, NASA. Convince me.

I’ve been very into RuPaul and drag queens and RuPaul’s Drag Race. It makes me into a better gay person and a better fucking humanitarian. I spent a solid five minutes Googling the new song that plays at the end of each episode. I found it eventually. It’s not as good as I originally thought. I find drag queens fascinating. Their pain tolerance must be literally indescribable, because not only are they cinching and wearing heels, they are also tucking to the high heavens and painting their faces for the gods. And I literally want to cry when I get a paper-cut. They’re better men than I will ever be.

I also enjoy drag queens, because they—along with strippers and porn stars—are, in my opinion, the modern champions of puns and wordplay. And as an English major, a punemployed person, and a fucking humanitarian, I appreciate that. I have two drag queen names for myself picked out, but I don’t want to say them out loud. Not because I’m embarrassed but because y’all seem shady as shit, and I know that some people—DENISE—would steal them. I don’t actually know anyone named Denise. I just feel like Denise is a shady AF name.

Class is starting soon, and honestly, we all know that I’ve peaked. In this blog, in my life, in this world. WHAT A WAY TO END THIS BLOG POST. This was amazing, from top to bottom, from beginning to end.