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

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.