Essay, Humor, Things Happening RN

I’M EAVESDROPPING

THURSDAY, STARBUCKS – I just spent twenty minutes listening to two teenager/twentysomething girls complain about their babysitting wards, specificially some kid named Soren. I kept meaning to start writing something, but I was drawn in beyond understanding. Soren dropped something on the floor and then just walked away. She would totally clean it up no problem, one girl assured, but it was the laissez-faire attitude Soren possessed that really irked her. By the way, that’s never true. It’s never that you would totally clean something up but the person was rude about it – you also don’t want to have to clean it up. But for some reason, it’s unacceptable to say, “I don’t want to clean up after you, Soren!” I laugh so hard at this fake, imaginary person who loves cleaning up after people but loves politeness more.

“Do the parents care?” “No. I mean, they get mad, but they don’t really do anything.”

I’ve been doing a lot of eavesdropping lately. Not necessarily on purpose, but it’s just been happening. I work at a moderately hipster, reasonably priced popular grocery chain. And what I’ve learned in the almost five months I’ve been there is that nothing makes you more invisible to people than working retail. People, bless their hearts, really are blind to you.

The other day, I was manning a register when, behind me, a customer was loudly monologuing about the upcoming Super Bowl. “Tom Brady’s so mentally strong,” she was trying to convince my co-worker who, bless her, does not watch football. “He’s totally mentally strong,” she shouted into the void. When I turn innocuously to catch a glimpse of her, she latched onto me. “You watch football right?” she asked without waiting for me to answer. It’s a minute later before I found a dip in the conversation to say, “No, not really.” She bore a more-than-passing resemblance to Jenna Lyons, the former creative director and president of J.Crew – slightly more mannish and full, but strangely magnetic.

Even after we’ve all affirmed that we, unlike her, do not watch football – I’ve watched one game this season – she continued to launch several rhetorical questions into the open air. Receipt in her hand, she kept going. Next customer being rung up, still she stood talking. And finally, when she said her goodbyes and pushed her laden cart out of the store.

Days later, she came to my register and started talking – mercifully, not about football. She was ranting about The Walking Dead before offering up, sans spoiler alert, “Yeah Carl was bitten.” And when I said, “Oh I don’t watch that show,” she repeated the spoiler, “Yeah, he’s the son. He’s annoying. He’s dead, well, not yet but he will be. That show’s really going off the rails.” To so brazenly offer up what was surely a pivotal twist in the series without even the slightest concern or spoiler alert – what if I were watching the show? – was shocking. When I offered up that I was currently watching The Crown, she pivoted easily and naturally. She had not seen the show but her brother-in-law was the owner of some football team and also an ambassador to the U.K. She dug up a picture of him meeting the Queen and attempted to show me several more Instagrams before the lack of Wi-Fi foiled her. She would, she promised me, show me the photos next time.

As she left, I had to fight a smile from creeping across my face. When I first escaped her football speech, I pictured what the rest of her day must look like, as I often do with customers. I pictured her talking the ear off of other mothers at drop-off; I pictured her loudly holding court at the dinner table. I pictured her as loving fiercely, but suffocatingly. But something about her vicious lack of wherewithal about name-dropping shifted my lens of her.

She just, bless, didn’t give a fuck. She wanted to name-drop, and so she did. She had opinions about The Walking Dead, so she shared them. She had an effusive admiration of Tom Brady, so she expressed it. It didn’t matter to her that no one shared in her journey; an audience was entirely beside the point. What I had interpreted as an inability to read the room was actually just blind conviction. And there’s something about bald and bold confidence that draws me to people. People so often step around how they feel, like those girls did with Soren. Instead of just saying, “Fuck off Soren, I’m not your maid, I’m your babysitter. Now clean up the floor,” she couched it in the way he (or she, the name Soren leaves the gender mysterious) handled the dropping. But I imagined that “Mentally Strong” would have no problem eviscerating Soren. And Soren would probably, eventually, be grateful for the straight talk.

People so rarely say what they mean. We’re wrapped up in manners and culture – it’s not necessarily a bad thing – but it was so arresting to see someone so unconcerned with the norms. A normal person would exchange meaningless banter at the register – their weekend, the weather, perhaps a recipe or two. But for her, all the world’s a stage.

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Essay, Humor

A TALE OF TOO SWEATY

Alternately titled “Gland to Meet You” and “Sweaty Pie”


I don’t sweat like a whore in church, I sweat like a brothel in a clown car on the sun.

Over the Easter break, my mother stuffed an Old Navy gift card in my Easter basket. I don’t eat chocolate bars (or bunnies) and I don’t eat jelly beans, so besides Peeps, gift cards are the safest bet. You could argue that I’m too old for Easter baskets, but my response is *plugs ears* “LALACAN’THEARYOU!”

Old Navy holds a special place in my family’s collective heart (we share one, like the Three Fates in Hercules, and pass it around—my turn is next Saturday). Apparently a few years ago they switched designers and that, coupled with the cheap prices and frequent sales, means that in our thrifty household, an Old Navy gift card is Gospel. My mother’s favorite activity is to pick at something you’re wearing and say, “What is this? Where is this from?”

So from Old Navy, I got three shirts. One was simple striped—boring—one was a Golden Girls homage—I’m wearing it right now and I look like the gay Mount Rushmore—and one was a black t-shirt with a Reptar patch stitched above the meat cavity where a heart usually is.

I wore the black shirt twice in one week—I washed it in between, you Judgy Judies—once to a magazine launch party and then to a bar, and once party-hopping in Allston. It’s beyond cute and tres simplistic, but with a touch of early 2000s whimsy (very much my brand right now).

Paired with nondescript chino shorts (Old Navy and J.Crew respectively on the two different nights—yes, I own J.Crew. Intimidated?), Adidas Superstars (now perfectly beaten up, but not too beaten up) and a denim jacket (Amazon), the shirt was great for going out. Simple enough to work, dark enough to be appropriate for nighttime, and an injection of fun to keep it from being monotonous. I put as much thought into my outfits as I do my political coverage—scary.

I figured the black would be perfect because dark colors are generally more forgiving of excessive sweating. This is no secret, I’ve talked about it before, but I sweat more than the average human. I don’t know what dire climate and situation my body thinks I’m in, but there really is no physiological stimulus that requires such a response. I have a theory that because I work out (is it drafty in here from the door I opened to do that backdoor brag?) a lot, my body has assumed that any situation I’m in requires a waterfall to keep me cool. I appreciate that my body is looking out for me, but it’s also kind of ruining my life.

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Source: Giphy

My sweating itself doesn’t bother me that much—it’s like, babe, we all do it—but anticipating the reaction from others about my sweating sends me into…a cold sweat. Then it becomes a vicious cycle until I pass out from dehydration. It began one day in church, when I shook hands to pass along “peace” to my sister, when she recoiled and hissed “Sweaty” in an accusation.

Whether it was the thinness (and breathability) of the cotton, or the particular shade of the black (a subtle charcoal), whether it was just a particular sweaty day for me, the individual reasons don’t matter. What matters was, on both occasions of me wearing the shirt, my body sweat began darkening the fabric, turning that charcoal-black into the black of the unforgivable void, of blackholes. Really sweaty people know that it’s not just the armpits you have to worry about, or the small of your back—that’s amateur hour. Real sweaters have the conspicuous dotting over your chest and stomach, where sweat rolls down slick skin and catches against your skin despite your best efforts to hunch your back and add negative space between your front and the shirt. To no avail.

Even after the sweatiness of Thursday, I wore the shirt Saturday because I’m optimistic and just a little bit stupid. I thought that I could scooch past my destiny, even when the omens had already appeared in my lap. And my back. And my chest. But, I’m being unfair to my own body. Sweating isn’t all bad.

But like I said, I actually don’t care about my sweating that much, besides the mild discomfort of it all. And after a few drinks and some vigorous jumping jacks, I can play it off quite nicely. Sweating? Who me? Oh I guess it’s because I just did some push-ups. You can always pass off sweat as a funky tie-dye pattern. It won’t work, but if sweating has taught me anything, it’s that you don’t quit.

 Sweating is also great for breaking the ice, and that’s not just because salt is corrosive to frozen water.

I’d like to think it’s my good looks, or my height, or my wit, but I’m intimidating to people. So being a sweaty betty is my version of a mole (a la Cindy Crawford) or eyebrows (a la Cara Delevingne) or gap tooth (a la idk various British models)—the slight imperfection that humanizes someone otherwise inhuman. When I crack jokes about being too sweaty, other (less attractive) people find that we have something in common and that I’m relatable. Sweating also keeps me humble, and if you pause at this point and say, “Hey, you’re actually not humble,” then imagine how bad I would be if I had inactive sweat glands. I would be a monster.

So that stupid Reptar shirt actually taught me a lot. It taught me that appearances don’t always matter, that illustrated depictions of prehistoric giant lizards are fraught with misrepresentations, and that charcoal black is not as forgiving as one might assume. It also saved me from embarrassing myself when the party I went to was revealed to have a (previously unknown) theme of “early 2000s”. Luckily I dress in early 2000s wherever I go. Thanks, Reptar!

Side bar: This post is going to be over 1000 words, which I was easily able to crank out about the topic of sweating, but took me several hours to reach when I was profiling a comedy website. Why am I like this?

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Essay, Humor

I LOOKED INTO THE VOID AND THE VOID LOOKED BACK: “Buffalo Exchange Amnesia”

A.k.a. I didn’t recognize somebody; Alternative titles included “I Don’t Know Her: The Danny McCarthy Story,” “Goodall for Nothing: Can’t Recognize Faces” and “Face It”.


I ran into a situation where I was greeted by someone whom I didn’t remember, and my level of unrecognition was so deep that I felt that not only had I never seen this face before, I had never seen any human face before.

Let me back up.

I was going into Allston—think Brooklyn with less gentrification and more rats—to meet up with a friend at Buffalo Exchange and get light-wash shorteralls (a decision that has garnered me much derision).

Buffalo Exchange is a slightly more-curated, one-tier-up version of Goodwill. Hipsters go there to get cheap clothing when they can’t hit the free shipping minimum for Urban Outfitters. So instead of buying some shorteralls online, and not knowing the fit or how much of a blue jean lima bean I would look like—

Side bar: If I ever make a country album, it’ll be called Blue Jean Lima Bean and I’ll have a wheat straw clenched in my teeth.

—I decided to be economically savvy. I would go to Buffalo Exchange and see if they had any shorteralls or overalls (or as I call them ‘pre-shorteralls’). I wanted a kind of folksy, “makes my own soap” Bushwick-Coachella-Rumspringa summer look. Essentially, I aspire to look as Amish as possible at all times.

And in Buffalo Exchange I had my Fifty First Dates-level of amnesia.

Buffalo was packed to the gills. A line of people looking to drop off clothing (for store credit or cash) snaked through the men’s section. After picking up several “Can’t Decide If They’re Ugly or Hip” button-downs, I shifted to the t-shirt rack. As I was figuring out if I hated myself to subject myself to this torture, someone tapped me on the shoulder, the one opposite to the line of people.

I turned towards an older man in a fedora and—I might be exaggerating but I don’t think so—a full three-piece suit. “Izeverthin here a dowla?” he asked.

I literally stared at him. “Um…”

“Izeverythin here a dowla?” he asked again, and I realized he was asking, “Is everything here a dollar?” in a thick Boston accent.

Being rude, I assumed that he didn’t get Buffalo Exchange like I got Buffalo Exchange, so with one hand—my other hand was holding several ugly button-downs—I thumbed the price tag out of the t-shirt he was looking at. “That’s the price–$9.40,” I smiled at him. But he was not satiated.

“No, the sign says a dowla,” he shook his head and pointed over his shoulder at a sign on the wall. I squinted at it: “Earth Day, Everything A Dollar.” But I still didn’t know what to say, so I made a silent “help me” plea to the line behind me of people waiting to drop off clothes.

“Everything in one section was a dollar before 3 p.m.,” a girl—dark hair, olive skin and startlingly light eyes lined in glittery eyeshadow—answered, pulling me out of my misery.

“And it’s,” I said, pulling out my phone, “3:40.”

“One dollar, that’s a good deal,” I remarked to her before turning back to the man. “Sorry.” He grumbled something about “a dowla” again before turning back into his own shopping. “Thanks,” I said to the girl.

“No problem,” she answered brightly before adding, “And by the way, nice to see you again!” and squeezing me genially on the shoulder.

aHhH!” I squeaked at her open, friendly eyes—eyes that I had never, in my entire life, ever seen before. She smiled as I managed to croak out, “You too!!”

Now, I’m very good at faces. It probably comes from being an unathletic gay kid in a Catholic grammar school, but because I didn’t have a lot of friends, I spent a lot of time observing people. And because of that, I’m generally pretty good at remembering faces, even if I’m not that good at remembering names. I’m great at remembering bizarre details—I won’t know your name, but I’ll remember that you hate avocadoes.

The reason I’m bad at names but good at faces is because whenever you’re introducing yourself to me, my mind is going rapid-fire, “I hope my palms aren’t sweaty; don’t squeeze too hard; say your name, you idiot” on and on. But the entire time, I’m staring at your face.

So as I was staring into this black hole of her face—a face I was sure I had never seen before—my mind was frantically pinballing around my recent memory to no avail. Afraid she would try to continue the conversation, I shyly shifted away to another side of the t-shirt rack and studiously avoided her glance.

The reason I was so shaken is because not only was this a face I had no memory of, but clearly she had a very strong memory of me. And since I pride myself on good facial recognition, I suddenly felt as if I wouldn’t be able to recognize any faces ever. I furtively looked around, hoping that I didn’t run into anyone else that I didn’t remember. How deep does this go? I wondered. Who do I recognize?

As I stumbled around the store looking for my friend—Would I even know her when I saw her?—I felt as if I were in a TV show where the protagonists realizes that they haven’t been remembering anything. It was Jason Bourne meets Before I Go to Sleep with a dash of Jane Goodall to taste.

Eventually I found my friend—screaming someone’s name over and over in a small store with strangers is generally a good way of finding people—and told her what had happened. All the while I looked around to make sure that the girl wasn’t within earshot. Although, admittedly, there was no way for me to know if she was or not. And if I ever ran into that girl again, I probably wouldn’t remember her face because the last time I saw her face I was in a noiseless scream. The cycle is wont to happen again so I’ll probably never know this girl.

And at the end of the day, I guess the moral of the story is that I ended up buying a pair of ripped-up $20 Levis.

 

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college, Things Happening RN

STRAIGHT WHITE MALE

Written hours after seeing a girl running on the treadmill who was an exact replica of Taylor Swift in the commercial where she’s sprinting on a treadmill like a Suburban Girl on Black Friday and listening to Drake. Blunt bangs and all. Still shaken.  

A few days ago, I started seeing someone. It’s amazing and it’s new, so I haven’t talked about it much. I’m always skeptical of love, and it’s not even been a month, but I think I can safely say that I’m in love. God! That’s so crazy to write out!!!

Part of why I haven’t said anything is because this person isn’t really my type. And that’s because it’s a “she.” GUESS WHO’S STRAIGHT.

*crickets*

YOU OBVIOUSLY DIDN’T BELIEVE THAT BECAUSE YOU’VE READ THIS BLOG/KNOW ME IN REAL LIFE.

So why is it that when a friend of mine jokingly asked me to be in a relationship with her on Facebook (because I’m hot), which I did (because I’m nice), people instantly started liking the proclamation. First, it was just a few friends. This is acceptable because I know them and she knew them and they were obviously like “Oh funny haha cute” OBVIOUSLY UNDERSTANDING THE IRONY.

Then, the likes start rolling in. On her end, I understand if people start liking the status without knowing I’m gay. I am, after all, surprisingly good-looking for someone who is this funny. But on my end, people I went to high school with (WHERE I WAS OUT OF THE CLOSET) start liking the status. They don’t know my friend, we don’t talk anymore, so they have no reason of understanding the joke. They just think that I’m straight now.

Side bar: I was the president of my PRIVATE ALL-BOYS CATHOLIC HIGH SCHOOL’s first Gay-Straight Alliance (which was mostly just a Gay Bulwark or a Homosexual Council). AND I took off all the buttons on my pants and re-sewed them on with pink thread. I mean, you wouldn’t know that unless you were undressing me and I looked like a naked mole rat in high school so that never happened. AND I wore cardigans.

I WAS OUT.

But lately, as my friend Nina has pointed out numerous times, I’ve been dressing extremely “straight” lately (sideways baseball caps, penny board and giveaway sunglasses). That, combined with my height and (again surprising amount of) hotness, turns me into a CockBlock© because people see me with ladies and assume that it’s either A) a relationship or B) a Make A Wish thing and I’m a celebrity.

Side bar: I told someone else that Nina kept calling me a cockblock because everyone thought I looked straight, and she just looks at me, takes a beat, and says, “So this is before they hear you speak, right?” BURN.

But as a new Straight White Male™, I’m still getting used to this newfound level of privilege. I jay-walk whenever I want. I can never recall a time where I didn’t have all the rights. AND I was at Starbucks yesterday during a study-break coffee time, and the girl accidentally charged me one dollar more than I was supposed to, so she comped me a whole extra slice of the lemon pound cake, which is DEFINITELY MORE THAN A DOLLAR. God, I’m swimming in privilege.

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Source: Twitter// I started going crazy while writing an essay on Walt Whitman.

In other nudes, besides me being on top of the world, I’m in the midst of finals right now. I spent so much time yesterday staring at a screen that I thought I was gonna vomit. I didn’t, and after getting home from the library I proceeded to watch an hour of Netflix. So clearly, I was fucking fine.

I’m one essay and one article done, one essay and two finals to go. It’s so hard trying to maintain being smart for this long. I almost never do work (when you look like I do and talk like I do, people basically let you get away with whatever you want), so now I’m having to make up for all the work I coasted on because of my charisma. How do regular (-looking) people do this??

I hope that you’re having a good Monday, and that someday, you’ll get to live a life as rich and easy as mine. You probably won’t, but that won’t stop me from dreaming (GOD, I’M NICE TOO? GOD DOES GIFT WITH A HEAVY HAND!).

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college, Humor, Life

THAT WAS ZEN, THIS IS NOW

Alternate titles: “THANK YOU, COME A-ZEN” or “CHEAPER BY THE DO-ZEN” or “GOOD AND ZEN-TY”.  

Written while doing laundry, while drinking discount white wine and eating “Lite” string cheese, because whoever said that millennials are lazy clearly hasn’t met me.  

I’ve had a very spiritual, holistic day, you guys. Seriously, you guys, I’m very Zenned out. Why? I’ll tell you why. I woke up at a spritely 8:30, stared blankly at my iPhone—which at 8:30 in the morning is just a slender brick of incommunicable noise—rolled over, and slept until 9:16. Then I sat up, with that same brick in my paw, and debated whether or not I should go to the gym. On one hand, I could stay in, watch the third part of Real Housewives of New York: Reunion, chillax and eat. On the other hand, if I went, I wouldn’t have to deal with the gut-wrenching and spiral-inducing shame that results from me skipping the gym. Both very reasonable, healthy options.

I opted for the latter and got myself up, walked around, laid back down in bed, got back up again, peed, preened in the mirror, decided—yet again—to not wash off my acne medication and let that werk its magic for an extra forty minutes while I schvitzed to “Clumsy” off Glory at the gym.

At the gym I did legs—aka buttz—and sped-walked home, ate a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and knockoff Trader Joe’s Frosted Flakes each, showered/shaved (my face), got dressed and realized that I was going to be late for my Zen meditation class, which is not very Zen of me.

I’ve been sweating like a mammoth this entire school year thus far, but as the temperature’s dipped a little, I’ve been hoping for a reprieve. Today would have been such a reprieve, had I not had to run-waddle half-a-mile to my meditation class—

Side bar: I keep writing “medication” instead of “meditation” and that’s very telling.

—and so I showed up, actually dripping sweat. Not just schvitzing, but full-blown Niagara Falls-ing. Zen was good, weird, but good, and I actually was able to let go of my thots—and my thoughts—for a moment, which is very weird and very not me.

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Source: Giphy// Me @ Zen

After I was all Zenned, I went to a meeting with my psychiatrist. I’m not very good at being normal at a lot of things, so even I know that I shouldn’t talk about what we discussed, so I won’t. I will say that it touched upon lyfe, love, boyz, Boyz II Men (it didn’t, I lied, forgive me?), amongst other things. As usual, after all my psychiatry meetings, I left feeling buoyed, hungry, and a little depressed—I’m all these things already, all the time.

I really like getting back into the groove of seeing my psychiatrist because A) I’m a lot, B) I’m around me a lot of the time, so I need to decompress from myself, and C) it’s healthy and helps me to be emotionally healthy and mentally “stable.” Which is, let’s be honest, pretty sexy. I also like psychiatry because I can say anything and everything goes.

Very judgment-free. Very Zen.

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Source: Giphy// Me when ppl aren’t Zen like me

After my appointment, I got coffee/lunch (again, hungry) with my friend Lottie. That’s not her real name, but I don’t give out real names and I don’t know why I picked Lottie, but I panicked and we’re here. We got lattes, I got a BLT—healthhhhhh—and we literally talked for like OVER TWO HOURS. That’s a lot of time, but we glided through it because we’re both so witty. We also look a little alike, which makes me trust her instantly.

All in all, today was one of those “mental health days” without being a “Mental Health Day” because I hate when people say “mental health days” because it’s never the people who actually need/deserve/require a “mental health day.” It’s always someone who’s, like, stressed about something small and just needs, like, a #break. It’s the same person who thinks liking to organize their binder is the same as having OCD. It’s not, and you’re an asshole.

I’m not going to engage in this negativity—I’m so knee-deep in it, I’m practically married to it at this point (AYOOO)—and also it’s literally late so I’m just gonna chop things off here and post this muthafucka.

Side bar/PS: it’s getting a little colder and I love it, because I’m an autumn person (#Virgo) and even though my body is a 7/10, my egomania is a 12/10, my self-confidence is a 5/10 and my body issues are an 11/10, so I’m glad for the chance to cover up, chastely and modestly.  

Byeeee.

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college, Humor, Life

THE UNIVERSE IS TEXTING ME AND IT’S COSTING ME A FORTUNE

Written after wearing a NASA baseball cap in Starbucks and running into a guy wearing an (acid-washed, but we all make mistakes) NASA t-shirt and saying goodbye to him as my “NASA buddy”. In related news, I’m planning a spring wedding, space-themed.  

I’m sitting on a bench in front of my college, having just ordered a “grande cold brew, with an espresso shot. Light ice” in a high, irritating voice, because if my drink order is going to be complicated as fuck, then I might as well go the full mile. Also, I didn’t get it sweetened because I firmly believe that if your order requires three specifications or more, you’re outing yourself to the world as a potential serial killer. I also put “three” because I’m trying to conceal the fact that I’m a potential serial killer for as long as possible.

I had my first “Zen Meditation” class today, and besides the mortal fear of farting into the silence, I actually found it to be a really interesting experience. We sat like pretzels—srry for appropriating dough culture—we laid down and listened to music, and we talked about shit like “being okay with mental discomfort” and finding more value in the “question, rather than the answer.” Because once you have an answer, you put yourself into a tiny little box and you die.

As I was telling my friend Shelby—remember that salty old bitch?—I feel like a lot of things in my life are getting together and producing a cosmic neon sign about my life. That’s such a millennial thing to think, by the way, that all the forces of the universe are cooperating to send some dickhead blogger a message about his post-graduate aspirations (asspirations, amiright hahaihatemyself). But let me back up.

Here are the signs the universe has been sending me (at the low low cost of $0.99 per text).

DO YOU THINK THE UNIVERSE HAS AN ANDROID OR IPHONE: 

1). Zen Meditation: Our teacher (professor? Shaman? Medicine man? Witch?) told us a lot of mdeditation is not following every thought and letting ourselves immerse in the murkiness of the unknown. He didn’t say it as eloquently as that, but I’m embellishing. So much of life is unknown, but the more you worry about it, the more you suck away at the present and lose life. Rough. Rough stuff.

2). Chelsea: I’ve been watching a lot of Chelsea Handler, and she was interviewed by Ashly Perez of BuzzFeed (wow, Microsoft Word recognizes “Ashly” but not “BuzzFeed”), and basically just talked about pursuing what you’re passionate about. That’s an easy thing for a multimillionaire to say, but she brought up Sophia Amoruso, the founder of Nasty Gal. Amoruso started out dumpster-diving for vintage stuff and selling it on eBay. She followed her passion for vintage clothing and it led somewhere lucrative. Doing things purely for money leads you to glassy-eyed, dead-souled hell.

As a graduating senior, the idea of following your dreams is scary as hell, and often gets masked by the need for “job security” and a “healthy income” and a “401k” (idk I think there’s a period in there somewhere but who knows?). our parents want to see returns on the investment they made, and so we feel this pressure (external and internal) to prove that the last four years have resulted in something.

3). Blerg: I’m taking a beat reporting class, and we had to do “mock-interviews” with a partner, research that partner online and then turn that interview into a 100-word profile. Mine was fucking well-written, and my partner discovered my fat whale of a blog. When people discover my blog, I treat it like an entertaining, but stupid, child of mine. Like I’m proud that it’s made you laugh, but I don’t want you to delve too deeply into it and see what I’ve done wrong. In the profile done on me, my interviewer said that I was “hesitant to label myself a journalist” (true) but that I had a lot to say (very fucking true). Part of my weirdness about school is that I’m not a very “journalist-y” journalist. Unbiased reporting bores me. I like drama, I like weirdness, I like being funny. I have no interest in being impartial, or ferreting out the “story.” So to have someone see my blog, arguably the most raw/polished online representation of myself, and ask what I wanted to do for a career, felt a little bit like someone bursting into me taking a shower and asking me what I planned to do about my problem areas.

FUCK IF I KNOW.

***

The interview thing happened before the Zen thing, so I feel like the universe heard my question of “Da fuck am I supposed to do” and answered with “idk but chill out dude.” Technically the question is supposed to be more important than the answer, and I’m not supposed to be comfortable in answers, so maybe the universe actually didn’t answer me, or it was a wrong number. But I’m going to take it as my own.

I don’t have any direction. I don’t have any goal. But I know what I’m good at. And if the universe/Chelsea Handler has made one thing clear, it’s that that’s what I should focus on. Following what drives my passion, what I’m good at, and finding solace in that. And trusting in that.

Did this make any sense? Should it make any sense? Maybe I should pretend that the reason it’s all rambling is because it’s actually elevated thinking and it’s not supposed to make sense and then it seems like I’m smarter than you. Yeah, I’m gonna do that. Just ignore that train of thought and focus on the fact that I’m smarter than you. Much smarter.

In related news, what do you think the Universe thinks of the iPhone 7? Do you think it’s a matte-black or jet-black kind of bitch? What kind of bitch am I? Will I ever be confident enough to get a jet-black phone? Or will I forever float in the safety of silver?

Also I can’t wait for all the horrible monster-gays to decide what phone means what sexual preference you are. I don’t even know if they updated the chart (cuz there’s definitely a chart) for the inclusion of Rose Gold. If anyone says the gays are beasts, they’re totally fucking right.

Omg I just saw someone I have a crush on and I need to look hotter but I don’t. Fuck my life.

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Humor, Life, Rambles

SISYPHUS, “SHEEPDOGGING” AND MY LUBEY THIGHS

Written after picking a scab and now I will bleed forever for a thousand moons until the oceans have dried up, the tectonic plates have cracked and man’s cities have crumbled to dust and alien life forms will come to our desiccated husk of a world and my scab will still be fucking bleeding.

I was walking back from the gym this morning (#FitFam) and as I was walking, I happened across a couple who were walking in the same direction, wearing athletic clothing. I didn’t really think anything of it, and since I have long muscular legs (ohmygod I have been chafing so much that if we were stuck in the desert together sans supplies, I could start a fire with my thighs), I quickly power-walked past them.

I’m walking, walking, listening to a podcast—okay it’s the Bitch Bible podcast which I recently subscribed to and I’m such a stereotype—when suddenly the couple comes sprinting up behind me, except I didn’t know until they sped around me like a roaring river and made me quirk. However, it was just a short sprint, so, like, twenty paces up, they stopped running and starting walking very slowly.

And I fucking realized that with my long muscular legs and thick thighs, that at the pace they were going at and the pace I was going at, I would soon overtake them (physics (?)). I guess I could’ve slowed my pace but death is imminent and I had eggs to fry for breakfast so my pace waits for no man. Praying that they were done sprinting/would drop dead, I went around as we both crossed the street.

Butthole clenched, I walked along the—now much narrower—sidewalk, tensed like I was in the g*ddamn Hunger Games, and lo-and-fucking-behold, they come sprinting past me and ten paces up, drop off into a leisurely jog.

Side bar: THIS DOES NOTHING FOR YOU. Yes, sporadic sprints will confuse your muscles and help you burn more calories, but then dropping off into a FUCKING SLOW WALK will just put you at risk for my foot into your lower spine.

If you took Ancient Greek in high school/didn’t have many friends in middle school and read Greek mythology (I was both of these), then you might’ve heard of the myth of Sisyphus. Damned by the gods for…idk, skipping out on his cable bill or something, Sisyphus was forced in the afterlife (it’s like life, but more dead) to push a huge boulder up a hill. That in itself is actually just a CrossFit workout (wow, “CrossFit” is a recognized word in my Microsoft cuz I got that 2016 download), so the gods wanted to make it harder. When Sisyphus reaches the top of the hill, the boulder rolls back down and Sissy must start again. And that’s the real punishment for Sisyphus: the futile nature of his struggle, the constant cycle, no real traction gained despite his efforts.

Walking, like a sheep hemmed in by a pair of fucking sheepdogs in Nike gear, I felt like I was trapped in my own Sisyphean hellscape. Except I would rather burn campus to the ground than get stuck in an endless cycle with these fucks.

End of the story is that eventually we came to a corner and the path diverged into two. I hovered gently behind them and decided I would take the road less traveled on, aka the road where these two fucking weren’t. I can’t handle couples in general, but I especially can’t handle being herded by a couple.

Couple of fucks.

I moved back to school on Thursday, which is why I didn’t post anything that day. Not because I didn’t have the time. I had the time. I just didn’t want to.

This might just be a ~quirky little quirk~ of someone who had a double helping of anxiety and depression (greedy, I know), but transitions (school to home, home to school, USSR to Russia—fucked me up) are especially difficult for me to process. So my first day back—Thursday—after my parents left, I busied myself before hanging out with a friend and then hanging out with another friend and watching RuPaul’s Drag Race: AllStars 2 (#spon?) to ride out the lingering anxiety of being in a “new” place even though I moved back into my old apartment and I’m a fucking senior on campus. Anxiety has no rhyme or reason or rhythm (much like myself).

It’s Saturday today, and I definitely feel a lot more calmed and grounded—fame hasn’t gotten to my head—and also the Sisyphus-sheepdog incident really made me laugh, so I decided that I was in a stable enough condition to write this.

Ohmygod side bar: I’m gonna say what, but I’m making a very big life decision within the next few weeks, and I will be revealing that when it comes to fruition. VERY EXCITING STUFF.

So that’s really it. I’ve been wearing a lot of light-wash denim lately, and the other day I wore my Birkenstocks for so long I got a blister. Also I’ve been chafing up a storm lately for some reason, and I rubbed deodorant on my inner thighs this morning (per a friend’s suggestion, that is not a usual thing I do), and it helped a little bit. But I couldn’t quite get used to the feeling of lubey thighs and that really affected my mentality for the day.

Side bar: Buy my single “Lubey Thighs” on iTunes. The full album will be dropping later this month, Diary-Ah.

#LUBEYTHIGHS

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