Category Archives: Life

Inspirational, Life

THE TANK TOP AT THE GYM

I wore a tank top to the gym on Sunday—yesterday, I guess. I’ve only actually worn a tank top to the gym once before. And it was a huge deal then. And it’s still kind of a huge deal for me now.

The idea of a tank top at the gym seems so innocuous you’re probably wondering why this is even worth a blog post. And to that I say, “Um, is this your blog? Get off my back, Barbara.” And I mean it, Barbara. Stop intercepting my mail.

I know it seems like a small thing. I wear tank tops all the time. Almost to my detriment. But wearing a tank top to the gym is outside of my comfort zone. Not even stepping outside of my comfort zone. More like goddamn LEAPING out of my comfort zone. But I have a lot of body image problems. I started going to the gym for a boy. I kept going because I felt like if I stopped, I was this heaving beast. And I’ve come to a place—or I’m beginning to begin to broach a place—where I can be comfortable with my body.

Hence the tank top.

The guys at the gym who wear tank tops are brawny and golden and hot AF. I’m a slim—obviously gorgeous—pale, hipster-type. For a long time, I felt very uncomfortable at the gym. I wasn’t benching as much as the other guys. I wasn’t rocking a six-pack that a Laundromat would be jealous of—get it? Washboard abs. I’m making a laundry joke. GOD, BARBARA—I wasn’t a bronzed Greek god. If anyone ever called me a Greek god, it’d be because I’m Hades, lord of the Underworld. Which is sort of chic.

But I wore a tank top to the gym and it was one of the most empowering moments of my life. Is that too monumental?

It was monumental because I could see the muscles in my body moving and rippling. And I don’t mean to be all like, “Oh, look at my muscles, bro” and have a pissing contest. I don’t mean to imply that I am completely ripped. But I have been going to the gym for over a year now, and I have definition. And I think I forget that sometimes when I’m wearing t-shirts to the gym. But wearing a tank top forces you to see your body as it works out. And I felt proud of my body. Not in a way “I’m swole” way. But proud of what my body can do.

My body is strong and whole and it carries my air-catching lungs and blood-pumping heart and entirely strange brain. I think we forget that our bodies are crazily cool. I feel—and I’m sure I’m not alone—so constantly measured against impossible standards. And that wears me down; it makes me believe that this body is fallible and broken and something in needing of fixing.

I’m doing a body-positivity, body-art photo series for my journalism class where I have people write out messages—some sexual, some not—that they have received that objectified or dehumanized them. And then I photograph them. And because I have integrity, I included myself in the photoshoot. And that was so goddamn scary because I was only in boxers. And the photos will only be shown in my class. But when I was hunched over in my bathroom, as my friend—let’s call her Thea—photographed me with words like “Talk like a boy” and “Beg for it” scrawled over my body, I was self-conscious. How could I, with my white stomach and jiggles, show this to my class? What nerve did I have?

And that stayed with me for a few days until I presented the photos. No one jeered, no one freaked out that I didn’t have a six-pack. People were just impressed with the words and my honesty. And when I was photographing my models in various states of undress, I didn’t find them repellant for not being perfect. All I was thinking about was how brave and honest and powerful and wonderful and cool they were.

So let me say something. Our bodies are the vessels that carry our fractious, kaleidoscopic souls. They let us touch and feel and bleed and break and repair. They let us do all these things and they are imperfect, sure, and they might not measure up to an airbrushed magazine. But our bodies have experience. They have evolved over thousands of years. They are roadways of arteries, tapestries of skin, branches of limbs, that extend out and forward.

I was talking to my friend—let’s call her Lily—about body standards. She’s actually sitting next to me as I type this. She has no idea. How cray.

Anyway, we were talking and I mentioned that I heard something that goes something like this: “You wouldn’t talk to your best friend the way you talk to yourself.” We wouldn’t tell our friends that their fat rolls are horrible; that those freckles are unattractive; that their eyes should be bigger. We celebrate and we sing of their beauty.

So let me be your best friend if you can’t. Let me angle the blade away from your fractious soul and give you time to grow new skin. You are beautiful. That body that you are pinching and prodding is doing exactly what it needs to do: let you live. If you’re reading this, you are breathing with lungs that are contracting and flexing.

Sometimes I cannot take my own advice. But I think I will go to the gym in a tank top more often. To remind myself that my body is good enough. That my skin is pale but like porcelain. That my freckles are from a sun that warms the earth and lets plants grow. That my hair is unique and coppery. My body is strong and it’s because I decided to make it strong. I gave myself these muscles through hard work and sweat and—let’s face it—a lot of complaining on Twitter. But I did it. The gym stuff. Not the Twitter stuff. I mean, I did the Twitter stuff. REGARDLESS.

This post is written basically just for myself. Because writing things out—especially life-affirming, body-positive things—even if you don’t believe them, makes them more concrete. I might not be able to look at myself and be body-positive 100% of the time. Maybe not even 60% of the time. But I’m writing this because I want to say, “Yes, I stand behind this ideal. Yes. I believe in this even when I don’t believe it. Yes.”

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Inspirational, Life

THE SHORTS AND SPRING AND SOPHOMORES

I’m wearing shorts. Yes. Yes.

I’m sitting on a bench in the hallway, and my ankle knobbles are pressed against the uncomfortable surface, and I’m trying to angle them away. What is the official term for ankle knobbles? I don’t even know if I want to know.

I’ve been up since 6:00 a.m., when I had to crawl out of bed like something out of Splice—you thought I was going to reference The Grudge, didn’t you?—and get ready for a train to take me from my homeland—my bed at home—to my other homeland—my bed at school.

I have five weeks left of school, and I can taste summer, warm and light, on my tongue, on my skin. But I won’t fully celebrate until there are leaves on the trees. I always find the process of waiting for leaves to bud to be the most agonizing of all processes, aside from waiting for the microwave to beep or for that last minute on the washer to be done. One day, the trees are dead things, black bark and skeletal branches. Then they are frosted in pale green buds. And then, one day, they are covered in lush, sexy leaves. Yeah, I said “sexy.” Those leaves are sexy, green and soft and shady.

Usually, I don’t really care about summer that much, but I am jonesing for this one. I think it’s because of the winter Boston has had. This is the first time I’ve worn shorts outdoors since September, and my knees are like, “YAAAS.”

I’ve only got five weeks left of being a sophomore in college. In fact, in five weeks, I’ll never be able to call myself a sophomore in anything. I’ll just be a soft moron—a pudgy idiot—and that’s a weak joke, I’m sorry.

I just lied; I’m not sorry.

But that is so crazy. Why didn’t high school go by this quickly? By the end of sophomore year in high school, I felt like I had aged a hundred years. I had lost all my baby fat—in my face, I’m still porky other places (nonsexual)—and had grown about a foot. I looked like a completely different person. In college, all I’ve learned is that I can’t keep mixing patterns.

I feel like I’ve become a badass in these last two years. Not, like, a real badass. Like, I would never go on a motorcycle, or litter without feeling guilty, or cheat on a test. But a badass in that I know have opinions. I didn’t really have opinions in high school; I was too focused on being a bitch and stalking—I mean, having healthy crushes on—cute boys. I was so fake that any opinion I could’ve possibly mustered up would be pre-fabricated and as fake as my summery glow—it’s Jergens tanning moisturizer. But now I’ve stopped being a bitch—I’m just a straight-up asshole now (only sometimes, I swear)—but I can have real opinions because I can be real.

Does anyone else feel like that? Like high school was playacting and college is this rough terrain that scrapes and bruises and tears away at those costumes? Not in a bad way, but in a good way. In a way that allows me to shed and molt and about twenty other metaphors for growing up.

I started reading David Sedaris. And I’ve been listening to Bea Miller. And these two things—one old, one young—fit very well with me right now. David Sedaris is kind of who I want to be, but he’s old and still doesn’t seem to have his life together—which is a fucking blessing—and he’s still being crazy. But he’s done more drugs than I’ve done/will probably ever do. And Bea Miller, I’m fairly certain, is a toddler but her songs are so good! “Young Blood” and “Fire N Gold” are slaying me right now.

Today is the first day of the “100 Days Project” that my friend—let’s call her Nora—told me about. And I want to do it but what do I do? Poems? Haikus? Could that be hai-cool? Maybe I should just do 100 days of bad puns. But I feel like I would make it to about day 20 when an enraged Instagram follower punches me in the face for putting them through such terrible comedy. I don’t want to come-die.

Okay, I’ll stop.

I lied. I’LL NEVER STOP.

Also, Bea Miller was born in 1999. She is younger and literally more successful than I will probably ever be. JUST KIDDING. I’m gonna be so successful. People with big egos always reach success, right? That’s what Keeping Up With The Kardashians and The Real Housewives franchise has taught me. O Andy Cohen, guide me onto the path of success.

This blog has sufficiently come apart at the threads, so maybe let’s wrap up? Yeah? Okay. You hang up first. No, you. No, you. No, y—

*line has been disconnected*

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Life

THE POST THAT STARTS WITH BLUE BALLS AND ONLY GETS WORSE

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 1st, 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.

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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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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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