Author Archives: Danny McCarthy

Humor, Rambles

THE CURSE

So I fell down the stairs.

I was finishing up a tweet, ironically enough about the likelihood of me getting hit by a train while tweeting and dying, while walking down stairs. Suddenly, my world tilted as my feet slipped on the slick, rubberized stairs and I tumbled down about six steps. My phone was all scuffed from the fall. My heart was pounding, and I made a fuck-ton of a noise.

My first reaction was to finish my tweet. And then I stood up and looked around. No one had seen, and I can’t decide if I’m more relieved or pissed. Relieved because when I fall it’s like a slow-motion deflating of those wavy-armed blow-up guys at car sales—is that a thing?—and it was a slow defeat. Pissed because I wasn’t hurt and I just wanted someone to be able to bask in the glory of that hilarity with me.

I originally started this post on Tuesday—the day of the falling—but the week has slipped through my fingers like tiny sand particles slipping through a sieve with particularly porous lines. And plus, now I can fully look back on my week and confirm that I am—indeed—cursed.

On Monday—

SOS WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG POST TO LET YOU KNOW THAT A CUTE BOY WITH A NOSE PIERCING IS SITTING AT THE TABLE NEXT TO ME IN THE DINING HALL. But I’m wearing a workout sweatshirt, glasses and track pants. I AM NOT CUTE ENOUGH TO BE NEAR HIM RIGHT NOW.

—I had to move my ladder (I live in a lofted bed) to get to the dresser underneath it. To get socks. So not even worth it. And I guess when I put the ladder back, I didn’t make sure that it was fully locked in place. So I started chatting with my roommate and climbed up on my ladder to make my bed. Yes, I make my bed. I’m so good. Husband me up, rich older businessmen with no other heirs and a few years to live.

Suddenly, the ladder d—

UM HE JUST KISSED A GIRL NEVER MIND ABORT MISSION

—ropped from below me, leaving me clutching the bed and dangling. My roommate pulled the ladder from beneath my churning feet and told me I could drop to the floor. It was only like six inches, and I’m a very tall person, so it wasn’t that bad. But still, the curse had begun.

Tuesday, I fell down the stairs, and immediately ran into an attractive human, literally shaking.

Wednesday, I was getting some salsa for my quesadilla in the dining hall. I had some sweet potato fries on the same plate, and when I leaned over to get the salsa, the plate tipped and all the fries scattered into the tubs of salsa and sour cream. CURSED.

Thursday, well nothing really happened on Thursday. Or on Friday, except that CUTE BOY HAD A GIRLFRIEND. CURSED.

However, the week ended on an AMAZING note. Me and my friend Shelby—who literally insisted on being included in this post—received some shirts from the store of one of our favorite YouTubers—TRISHA PAYTAS. Former stripper, current PERFECTION, she is our favorite guilty pleasure. She also recently got a Swarovski-encrusted bicycle. AND SHE RETWEETED AND RESPONDED TO MY TWEETS ABOUT THE T-SHIRTS.

So that maybe proves that one can thrive despite a very real, basically confirmed curse. I’m so brave. I also realized that Interstellar and Gravity are both movies about space that were released very close to each other. Why did that happen? Did Interstellar do worse? Should I watch The Devil Wears Prada again, even though it’s been less than two weeks since my last viewing of it? So many questions and hardly any answers. Except “Yes” to the last one.

I guess I should sign off. This post took me an uncomfortably long time to write. Like, I started it on Tuesday. It is Friday night—turn up #turnt—and I’m just finishing it now. Sue me for having a social life; since when did being popular become a crime? Answer: Jawbreakers.

I think I’m going to get McDonalds. Cheers to making horrifying decisions!

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Inspirational, Life

THE POST I’M WRITING FOR MYSELF

It’s 1 am.

I almost considered not writing this post and even now my fingers are trying to click quietly over the keys to avoid making any noise. I’m not succeeding.

I almost considered not writing this but I’m afraid if I don’t capture the motion of these feelings now then I’ll lose them by morning. Because 1 am isn’t cute but sometimes it’s the time for writing.

I don’t think I have ever felt a single emotion singularly. I have never been completely desolate or delirious. Everything is tempered with something to a certain degree. But right now I’m feeling so many emotions strongly that I wonder if it is possible to feel multiple emotions singularly; for them to exist privately in their own moment untempered but not cancel each other out. Can that happen?

Because right now I can’t decide if I am happy or sad and I know that I am both because I want to smile and cry and the balloon in my chest is just full of air and it’s getting fuller and I want to scream to let all of it out but I can’t.

I am sad and relieved and hurt and upset and embarrassed and glad and angry all at the same time and I feel them all like stones dropping into my ocean, plunk plunk plunk one after the other saying “We’re here; we’re with you.”

I am relieved that this thing is over but I can’t let go of the fear that I’ll lose something in letting it go. It was a crutch, a painful one that make my heart crimp, but it helped me walk. Walking alone is scary because I’m as wobbly as a baby giraffe and god knows how those supermodels manage to canter on those knobby knees. Sorry, went on a tangent.

I’m writing this post for me; not for the views or the laughs. I’m using this post as a time capsule. I feel these things and they are filling me up and I want them to. I feel thick with feelings and I don’t want that to go away. I want this moment, of piercing sadness and ringing happiness, to be crystallized and tucked away so that one day when I’m okay with the letting go-ness, I can reread and think about how kaleidoscopic my stained glass soul was at 1 am on March 11.

I’m starting to see this blog for what it could be: not just a professional—okay, laxly professional—way of showcasing my writing style, but also a way of me to express and process and verbalize and hurt and love and think and ramble. Also to use beautifully tangled runaway sentences that barrel on. Because that’s what I want my writing to be: I want it to be the words that describe the pain in your chest; the words that name the breathless, wonderful, wonderfully scary air in your lungs; the words that ring around your choked-up throat. Because that’s what it is for me; it lets me do all those things and more and I’m realizing how precious that is. Because our feelings are like this holy hymn and I want them to exist in a place that allows them to exist singularly together.

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Life, Rambles

THE SPRING BREAKER

It’s been like four days since I’ve last posted, and since last week I blogged three (?) times, I’m not ashamed to admit that I miss it. Which is a good thing, right? I’m trying to get into the habit of blogging regularly, not just when I’m in a spiral.

I’m on spreak (spring break, duh) and so I have a lot of free time. Obviously there are the parties and the club appearances, but those are fictional, so during the day I’m doing basically nothing. I have eaten spectacularly bad since being home, but I have gone to the gym twice. When I was home for Christmas break, I only went to the gym the last week out of like five weeks. So going to the gym two days in a row after being home three days isn’t that bad. Right? Super-fit? Super-handsome? Super-humble?

I started watching RuPaul’s Drag Race, and caught up on the first two episodes.

My sister: What did you do last night?

Me: I just watched TV. RuPaul.

My sister: (judging look) You would.

Me: How dare you.

Normally I find it very hard to keep up with RuPaul’s Drag Race, because the queens keep changing their outfits and I can never end up telling them apart or remembering which ones I like. However, this season I have fallen in love with one of the contestants. Her name is Pearl, and out of drag she is so unbelievably hot. Out of drag, her name is Matt—I’m getting so confused about gender pronouns—and he has a septum piercing and perfect hair and he’s so deadpan I love it. So it’s very compelling to watch although I wish that the entire thing were just him. He doesn’t even have to speak. If it were just gifs of him rolling his eyes for forty minutes, that would be fine by me.

I’m sitting in the sun on my couch, and the light is striking the computer screen and illuminating the grubby dustiness of my laptop. How charming. I’m also listening to Spotify and I can’t decide if I should get Spotify Premium or not. I really want endless music on my phone, because I’m not sure how much longer I can go on shuffle mode. Additionally, the “limited skips” business is really not designed for someone as flighty as me. I’m like a sex addict: I use a song for about thirty seconds and then I get bored with it and move onto the next one. I guess I didn’t really need to say the sex addict part, I could’ve just said the second half of the sentence. Live and learn.

A bunch of people I know are in Florida and part of me is jealous and part of me is just tired thinking about walking on sand and not having easy access to soft surfaces, aka my bed. So, in other words, I’m glad I’m just chilling at home.

*Listens to Kelly Clarkson’s new album*

I have a soft spot for Kelly Clarkson because I listened to her Stronger album constantly when I was traveling in France and Italy my junior year of high school. I have this very distinct memory of being on a train through the Swiss Alps and listening to “You Can’t Win,” and it was only a few months after I had come out of the closet, so it really was striking a homosexual chord with me. I realize how bourgeoisie this entire paragraph was. We can just not talk about it.

Also, Kelly Clarkson was on one of my favorite shows, “Who Do You Think You Are?” which is a NBC (an NBC?) show about celebrity genealogy. Did you know that Brooke Shields is descended from Italian and French nobility? Like her grandmother is an Italian princess. Gwyneth Paltrow is white Barbadian, which is…interesting. I really love genealogy. I think it’s so fascinating to trace back your family history, because you can literally see what your ancestors went through if they lived in certain areas at certain points in history. GENEALOGY ROX.

I literally have no segue from this. Can you believe that people think you spell segue as “Segway”? PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUCEMENT: A segue is a seamless transition between two sentences, paragraphs, ideas, etc. A Segway is what Paul Blart rides. Also, didn’t the creator of the Segway ride off a cliff accidentally?

Speaking of cliffs—did I just do a Segway segue—I saw someone’s Instagram of the Grand Canyon. I really want to go to the Grand Canyon. I literally can’t even fathom how big it must be. You know how people use “literally” hyperbolically? I’m not using it like that; I actually cannot fathom how big the Grand Canyon must be. Are there Medium-Grand Canyons? Like where is the “Ehh, I’ve Seen Bigger” Canyon? Or the “I Guess The Camera Adds On Ten Pounds” Canyon? I require justice for canyons of all sizes; not just the grand ones.

In other world news, I watched The Devil Wears Prada yesterday (Sunday) and I have decided two things. One: There is nothing on this earth that is more satisfying/draws more of an audience than the prospect of Anne Hathaway getting a makeover. Two: The Devil Wears Prada SHOULD have ended with Andrea accepting Miranda’s offer to be on her elite team and them doing a virgin sacrifice together. I literally love the section of the movie from Andy’s makeover to right before she quits for the last time. If I could reedit it, I would make that the entire movie, have Andy go over to the dark side and join Miranda for ritualistic magic. EVERYONE WANTS TO BE US, ANDREA. Everyone.

Apparently, nothing gets me as fired up or activist-y as The Devil Wears Prada. I’m betting the U.S. government wishes the American youth cared as much about world politics as I do about Miranda Priestly’s outfits. Like, we would literally be unstoppable. Again, not being hyperbolic.

I keep using the word “histrionic” in everyday conversation and I have a sneaking suspicion that my friends are getting tired of me saying it. They’re being so histrionic.

I have a fear that someday I’ll misuse a word and someone will call me out on it and all the carefully cultivated condescension I have towards everyone about grammar and English and vocabulary will crumble. I feel like that is very much an English major’s fear.

If I’m being honest, like an hour has gone by since I wrote the previous sentence. So I think that signifies that this post is done. It was awesome. You don’t need to say it.

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Humor, Life

THE LEAVING CLASS EARLY AWKWARDNESS AND PANERA BREAD

I’m really getting into my blogging grind. Who knew that complaining on the Internet could be so cathartic/monetarily beneficial/someone sponsor me please so I don’t have to finish my degree/relaxing?

I’m currently sitting in a Panera Bread, wearing glasses and all-black, writing this blog post because I was thinking, “How can I be more stereotypically a college kid?” I’m also drinking hibiscus iced tea and it tastes an awful lot like Play-Doh. I’m also staring at a guy who is on a very long business call, and it’s sort of fascinating. There is also a very attractive frat guy sitting a few tables away from me. Such a cross-section of the human race in this Panera Bread.

I finished writing my paper at 12:30 am, and was so completely jazzed about being done before 2:30 am for the first time in four days, that I promptly treated myself to staying up until 1:30 am watching YouTube videos. And then got up at 8 o’clock to go to the gym. So going to bed late might not have been the smartest way to celebrate not going to bed super late.

I woke up and went to class, but had to leave my last class 30 minutes early. It’s a boring class, but I always go so this was the first time I was going to be doing something even remotely close to skipping. And it’s only 30 minutes early, which is more like 20 minutes because we end at 3:20 instead of 3:30. I had to leave early because I had to go and meet my advisor to get his signature on my study abroad application. After that (!!!) I walked over to the far part of campus and handed it in. And Panera is right next to the study abroad offices.

But as I’m packing up to quietly slip out of the 300-person class lecture through the exit that is located AT THE FRONT OF CLASS, my professor walks up the stairs right to where I’m sitting. Like literally so close that he can look at my laptop. But I had minimized all of the BuzzFeed articles I was looking at, so I ~technically~ had nothing to hide. But I didn’t want to have to scoot around him, because he is the kind of professor who would definitely try to strike up a conversation as I’m leaving.

So I waited until he was down on the floor on the lecture hall again, and quietly stand up. As I’m walking down the stairs, he goes (AND I CAN’T MAKE THIS STUFF UP):

“Folks, this is going to be interesting. You’ll want to hear this.”

The class erupts into laughter as I walk down the stairs. He swivels and stares at me and I am just staring back like a deer in headlights but I don’t stop walking. I think I mouthed “I’m sorry” or “Oops” or something like that, but I just kept walking and I was thinking, “Oh, shit, shit, shit, shit,” the entire time.

After handing in my papers, bring me one step closer to study abroad—I’m going to the bowels of Hell, if you were wondering. I know, I know, it’s dumb to do your study abroad in your hometown, but what can I say? I love the heat—I decided to celebrate, so obviously I went to Panera Bread. I got my favorite—tomato soup and tuna salad sandwich.

Cashier: Do you want to add a pastry for ninety-nine cen—

Me: (perhaps too forcefully) Yes.

I got the hibiscus tea because I try not to drink soda, and even though I gave up iced tea for Lent, it was hibiscus and I felt like that barely counts. It’s basically like plants in water, and that just sounds like I’m drinking a botanical garden. Which is VERY healthy to do.

I’m still feeling down from yesterday’s shitshow. But I finished both of my papers—now I just need to edit them into something gradable—and I’m almost done with my study abroad application. And I’m going home tomorrow! Spring break, hell yeah! Although I just found out that it’s snowing back home, so Lorde—yes, I meant Lorde, that was not a misspelling—knows how it will actually be a “spring break” but I guess I can deal with it.

Should I do laundry before I go home? I feel weird leaving lots of dirty clothes in my hamper for a week. Is that weird that I’m so attached to my clothes? Okay, if I’m being honest, I wore a shirt over the week that is really soft and I want it to lounge in. I’M HUMAN.

I’ve started putting all of my files into folders on my laptop, and there is something very satisfying about organization like that. Plus, it is super cool to plunk a document from your desktop into a folder, and have it be tucked up like a little digital pig in a cyber blanket.

How is it that I can write over 800 words for my blog in, like, twenty minutes, but it took me TWO HOURS to write 200 words for my paper? Update on Gawain: I basically tore him to shreds. But in a classy and refined way—which essentially means that I refrained from using curse words in a college-level British Literature paper. I am an adult!

I’m trying to think of things of substance to say, but I’ve really got nothing. And since yesterday was so heavy, maybe that’s a good thing? Like, you don’t just eat chocolate mousse for every meal. Sometimes you have to have the consommé. And I guess in the metaphor I just made, this blog is the consommé? God. Oceans yesterday and broths today. I’m really on a roll. A bread roll. Another part of a well-balanced meal!

Side bar: Taylor Swift’s “Wonderland” is incredible! I’m a sucker for any Alice in Wonderland imagery. Is that super lame? Whatever, I don’t care. It rocks, and so does Alice in Wonderland. Not in a creepy way though. In a cool, sophisticated way. Like in a neo-industrial-steampunk-Chesire cat on acid-way. Like, you know, the usual. What even is this blog post? How can there be any expectations, ever?

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Life

THE NEED FOR WEIRD SPOTIFY PLAYLISTS

There need to be weird-as-fuck, niched Spotify playlists. I just did a Spotify search for “feeling fucky and dumb but also hopeful” and nothing came up as a potential playlist. And rather than create that playlist myself, I am complaining about it on the Internet. Because I am a consumer, I am an American, and I am lazy.

I had kind of a shitty day. Actually, it’s been kind of a shitty week. And part of me is like, “Oh don’t put this on your blog, don’t show human emotions.” And part of me is like, “I’LL DO WHAT I WANT, I AM THE SUPREME OVERLORD”—which I almost just spelt as “overload”—“AND I WILL DESTROY THE GALAXY.” It’s one of those weeks where my barometer for knowing what is appropriate internet content and what is not is way fucking off. I don’t care right now. All I want to do is eat Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy, watch The Mindy Project and stab someone. In no particular order.

But no, I cannot become the slob I desperately crave. Instead, I am sitting in the study lounge, not writing my paper and listening to a playlist that does not adequately convey the fractious state of my psyche. I don’t want to write about Sir Gawain or the Green Knight. We have to respond to a critic critiquing Sir Gawain, and it is taking EVERYTHING I have to not start a rant, that would go something like this:

Like, what is Gawain even doing? He’s being a total coward, kissing Bertilak’s wife. But we are supposed to think he’s heroic because he’s exerting self-control. I exert self-control ALL the time when I don’t bully people to tears. And no one’s writing a poem about me.

It would basically just turn into a rant about me.

I know that my life is short and that even the shitty moments are good because at least I’m experiencing something. For so long, I felt nothing, and now I’m opening myself and feeling all these emotions and I’m just thinking, “Holy crap, how does anyone do this? How can we all walk around with all these emotions roiling around in us like oceans, with microcosms and algae and fucking blue whales and the entire time we’re supposed to act like we’re fine? I’ve swallowed the Atlantic and I’m supposed to be okay with that?” But I guess the whole point of feeling everything is that you feel everything and that the shitty moments are like cold currents in the ocean. They push you around and you notice them more, but they don’t make up the entire ocean. There are worlds we haven’t discovered in the ocean.

Now I’m just thinking about the ocean, and hoping that what I just wrote above was a complex metaphor and not a meta-bore.

And that’s why we need weird Spotify playlists. Because sometimes oceans feel like cold currents and you just need someone to scream-sing in your ears.

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Life, Rambles

THE WEIRD FEELING IN MY STOMACH

I just had to Google Image “gimp mask” for a tweet. And that’s a pretty accurate representation of what today has been like.

I’m drinking coffee—okay, a vanilla latte—because I stayed up until two a.m. the last two nights writing a paper. And by “stayed up until two,” I mean “stayed in the study lounge until two, and then stumbled back to my dorm.” Also, when I got back to my dorm last night/early this morning at 2:30 a.m., it was entirely dark. Like, Mariana’s Trench dark, because the power had gone out. It was freaky.

Tonight will probably be another late night. I have one more paper to write, and I have to finish my application for study abroad. I have to write a CV—“curriculum vitae”—and that just seems like the worst idea ever. It’s basically a list of all your accomplishments, and I’m guessing I can’t just copy-and-paste a compiled list of all the re-tweets I’ve gotten into a Microsoft Word document. Or can I? Can I?

I want to have everything done and finished before I go home for spring break so that I can reach my full potential and actually become a potato wedged into couch cushions. I think I can really go for the gold this year, you guys.

Side bar: If you ever want to feel weirder than you already probably do, sing “Brave” by Sara Bareilles but in the voice of Christopher Walken. I just did it, and I am forever altered by the experience.

I’m writing this post because I have a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s part nerves from getting everything done on time, part excitement for being home, and part vomit because of romantical things. Ugh, I legitimately hate that I just typed out those words. I like this human being—let’s call him Patient Zero; not because he has a weird disease, but just because I was thinking about calling him “Victim of Love” but that makes me sound like a serial killer—and I think—heavy, heavy, Mercury-heavy emphasis on “think”—that it is possible that he could possibly, maybe, potentially have some non-neutral but non-negative feelings towards me.

And so on one hand, I’m excited for that and I want to ask him to a second location—WHY AM I SOUNDING LIKE A SERIAL KILLER—and hang out. But on the other hand, there is also a very real possibility—a probability, in fact; actual I don’t know the difference; I was terrible in statistics—that he could very much not like me. I act really weird around him. Not “mentioning diarrhea or slavery” weird, but “I don’t know where to look or what to do with my hands which suddenly seem very weird” weird.

I don’t get uncomfortable often—I seem to lack the ability to be embarrassed. I think it’s because when something awkward happens, I’m too busy imagining the Tweet I’m going to write about it to actually get embarrassed. But I’m way uncomfortable around Patient Zero. I think because he’s cool, and I’m a melted puddle of sludge, and whenever he sees me, he’s probably wondering why the tall, slim, hot guy in front of him is acting like Jabba the Hutt. (I am that tall, slim hot guy who is acting like Jabba the Hutt. Also, nearly typed out “Jabba the Slut” and am now wondering if there is a stripper/pornstar with that stage name. But I am afraid to Google it because there are some things you can’t un-see.)

I’m actually feeling kind of weird writing this out, like “Oh should I not say this?” but who the fuck cares? This is a blog, not the Pentagon Papers. And writing things out, not having them roll around in my head, helps a lot. And I’ve been feeling shitty enough at times that I know I need to do anything that helps me. And this is my blog, my space to vent. And to discuss vents. Ventilation is so important, you guys.

Side bar, Microsoft wants me to correct “who the fuck cares” to “whom the fuck cares” but that just seems too pretentious, even for me.

I have a pimple on my cheekbone. Like, right on my cheekbone. And yes, it draws the eye to my high cheekbones, which are a definite plus for my face, but still, I’m not thrilled about looking like I have the Black Plague. Too soon? Also in class, I was looking at the weird dry patch of skin I have on my—perfectly sculpted bicep—and noticed two longer, darker hairs. My armhair is very blonde and fine—fine—so this was weird. Wait, now I can’t find them. Wait never mind. I found them.

Music-wise, I keep oscillating between Meghan Trainor, Kanye West, Nicki Minaj and Banks. The Pinkprint is so good, but so is Title, and nothing helps me more when I feel like ramming a car through a brick wall than “Black Skinhead.”

I was thinking today that if I end up being a writer for my life/job, how will I have enough words to span an entire life? I mean, even now I was scrambling to find an accurate metaphor before thinking of “Jabba the Hutt” to describe my behavior. But if it all goes to plan, my writing will be about my life, and as long as I keep being uncomfortable and awkward—which, considering the week I’ve had, is a definite possibility—I suppose I’ll always have material to write about. And eventually I’ll probably have kids or a dog, so then I’ll have another creature’s life to milk for product endorsements and book deals. No, but I’ll be a great parent to any humans/dogs that come into my life.

The coffee has now all been drunk, and I’m in the “nervous energy jittery shivering” phase of my caffeine fix. I regret saying “caffeine fix.” But it happened. I suppose I could delete it, but I want you to know that I’M HUMAN TOO. I MAKE MISTAKES TOO.

Side bar, Spotify is pushing HARD for me to upgrade to Spotify Premium and I just want to be like “GOD, GET OFF MY BACK” whenever they play a commercial and it just ends up being an ad for themselves.

Maybe I should go after Star Wars nerds, since I act like Jabba the Hutt. Wait, is it Star Trek? Dammit, now the Trekkies and the War-ies (?) will be mad at me for mixing it up. Now I’m definitely not going to get a boyfriend. I’ve alienated the nerds. Not that Star Wars is nerdy…I mean, it is. But cool-nerdy. Like how Drake was on Degrassi and now he’s a rapper. It’s, like, cool. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

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Rambles

THE MIDNIGHT RAMBLINGS AND BLEACHING TRAYS

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

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Essay, Humor

THE SHAMBLES IN THE DINING HALL

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.

“Yes.”

“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.

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Humor, Life

THE PATHETIC FALLACY

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).

WHAT AM I SAYING

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.

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Rambles

THE ASKING OUT AND THE SATS

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.

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