I've got stuff to say

Hello!

Long time no blog! But is anyone surprised? Didn't think so.

This post is going to read like one of those work memos you get at your 9 to 5 office job that you promptly crumple up and throw away as soon as it touches your fingers. Just like those, this post contains boring news that you probably won't read and that probably isn't necessary.

Basically, I'm re-branding. If you want more info on why I'm doing this, go read "Life update: I have failed you." That should clear a few things up. But, I doubt you'll want to go back and read that so I'll give you the short version. Basically, my blog used to be titled "Single and Not Ready to Mingle," but I messed up and found a really great guy in college and we're in a great relationship and blah blah blah, love and happiness. But the important part of this is that now have to re-brand myself.

Now, I've thought long and hard for the past three minutes about how I'm going to do this, and I think the best thing for me to do is just be honest about my intentions for this blog. And here it is: I've got stuff to say. Yeah, that's it. I've got a lot of thoughts running around in this anxiety-ridden head of mine and I just want to get them out there. There's no message, no theme, and no organization.

If you like the stuff I say, keep reading. If you don't, well keep reading anyway. I don't get a lot of views and every one counts.

Okay, work memo over now. I hope you didn't crumple this and throw it away. If you did, you'll probably have to get a new computer *ba dum tsss* ...okay, I'll go now.

I'll do anything for an A

     When it comes to English classes, we all know the drill. If the teacher asks for a personal essay, you drudge up the sappiest piece of garbage you can and hope they feel sorry enough for you to give you an A. One time I wrote an essay about my "heart-wrenching" rejection from The National Honor Society when I was a junior in high school and my "struggle" to be accepted the following year.....and that's the essay that got me into college. But that's exactly what everyone does. We exaggerate and lie to write some inspirational essay about overcoming a rough patch or finding ourselves or some other cliche that definitely was not the outcome of whatever incident we described in our essays. Well that's exactly what I did....expect, of course, it came back to bite me in the ass. This year I was required to take English 100, along with everyone else in the whole school because its a general education requirement. Considering I'm an English major and I consider myself to be adequately familiar with the written word I wasn't worried at all. I knew how to work the teachers and I was ready to get in my inflatable tube and ride this class like the lazy river at a water park. And it would have been smooth sailing if it wasn't for the unexpected rapids known as public speaking.  

     This English class was complete and utter bullshit. All we did was write personal essays about random things, which is actually my specialty so I didn't mind too much. But the moment I heard my teacher mention reading our essays out loud....I almost cried right then and there. The kid next to me had to poke me to get me back to reality because I was spaced out thinking about all the things that would inevitably go wrong....like probably peeing my pants in front of all of my classmates. Fortunately for me, I caught a break. Thank the Lord Almighty (sorry I haven't been to church since Easter when I was 5 - maybe when y'all get some decent bread I'll consider visiting) we had written a team essay and we could opt to read that one with our partners. And in doing so, I came up with a topic for my next essay - overcoming my fear of public speaking. 
   
    Okay, in no way shape or form did this experience help me to overcome my fear of public speaking. I read two paragraphs in front of about 20 people with two other classmates next to me, and even with those circumstances I still felt faint when I had to go in front of the class. But me, being my little kiss ass-self, decided to write my next essay on how I was truly grateful for the opportunity to go before my peers and read my own work because it "gave me the necessary push to participate more" and blah blah blah. The whole thing was a complete lie, but it sounded realllyyyyyy good......a little too good. The teacher ended up setting up a second day to read our essays....and who was asked to be the first person to read their essay to the class? Me! The day of, she approached me and asked me to read my essay in order to "inspire other students to speak up." Of course she asked in a way that I couldn't say no. I was trapped and really starting to feel the effects of my nervousness on my perspiration levels. I couldn't tell her no.....the grades for the class hadn't been finalized yet and I wanted an A. So I did what I had to do. I read my paper in front of the class. 
     
     Honestly, it wasn't that bad. I got through it in one piece without any major accidents or emergency trips to my therapist. Now, I could tell you that I'm glad I did it and how now I'm more comfortable with public speaking....but that would be another lie. I still hate it and avoid it at all costs, but it's something I know I have to do and I've accepted it. Hopefully I'll be more confident when it comes to presentations in the future, but for now I'm still a little bitch. 

Until next time, 
      Don't be a kiss ass and go eat a pineapple 

Life Update: I have failed you

To Whom it May Concern,

     I have failed each and every one of you. Firstly, by not posting ANYTHING on this blog for several months. That is a heinous crime that I hope to makeup for in these summer months. But I'm afraid I've done something far worse. I've ruined the message of my blog that all three of you have enjoyed reading (shout out to Laura, Hannah, and Sarah....please keep reading...no one else does). My brand of being "single and not ready to mingle" is a lie.....I am a lie. I, owner of this blog, have been in a relationship for three months. Please, hold your gasps. I'll tell you the story of how it all began....

     A few weeks into college I met this guy. He does not know I am writing this so for privacy's sake we are going to call him Tater Tot. Tater Tot and I seemed to hit it off pretty well....as friends. We had the same sense of humor and I thought he was hilarious. Pretty much every time I was with him I would end up doubled over from laughing so hard (I swear I grew very close to getting rock-solid abs). Sometimes I was laughing with him, and other times I was laughing at him.  But as we became better friends our conversations grew to be more than just jokes and bits. He became a source of real friendship, a friendship that was unlike any I had known. I would go to him to complain, to get advice, or just to share the weird thoughts that pop into my head (like homeless people definitely have an underground society...am I right?) And while sharing this private information with him I never felt the need to censor myself. No matter what I said or how much I talked he never stopped listening to me. (I know, he's quite the guy to deal with me....I'm in discussion with the Pope to get him canonized as a saint).
     
     Before we knew it the first semester was over and Tater Tot and I would spend about a month and a half apart. Although the physical separation was extremely apparent, we still talked every day. We talked about life and relationships and whether or not women should free the nipple...you know, the important topics. Next thing I know I can't go a day without thinking of something to tell him or wondering what he's doing. Once I realized how important he was to me, I never looked at him the same. When we got back to school I found myself wanting more than to just be emotionally close to him. I wanted to be close to him, and to my surprise, he wanted to be close to me.

    We slowly closed the physical gap between us, but continued to be oblivious to the fact we were basically dating. We spent all of our free time together, we had exhausted all major conversation topics, and we even exchanged a kiss or two. People questioned our behavior and we adamantly denied that anything was happening. It wasn't until late March, that we finally came to the conclusion that we, in fact, were more than just friends. So when we finally admitted this to other people a lot of them simply said "It's about time." It seemed like everyone else saw it before we did. 
     
     It's completely true that you can't be searching for love....somehow it just finds you. For years I've tried making things work with people that I knew weren't right for me, and that's why I thought I was perpetually single. You can't force a relationship with someone and you can't be out desperately seeking for one. This relationship was definitely unexpected, but I'm so glad it happened. Luckily for me, love finally found me in the shape of a best friend, and I couldn't be happier.


Until next time,

      Stick to your brand and go eat a pineapple

Single for the Holidays

   
     It's about that time of year where everyone around you suddenly pairs off, and you're left to face your, suddenly very inquisitive, family all by yourself. They ask the basic questions, "How's school going? What are you studying? How's work?" But then, your Great Aunt Myrtle, now loosened up from chugging about 5 glasses of eggnog, asks the question that makes you crawl into a pit of self-loathing that not even the sluttiest pair of underwear can drag you out of; "So, are you seeing anyone?" *cue immediate self- loathing* What Aunt Myrtle doesn't know is that the only time you leave your house/dorm is to go to class; and she's not pleased when you respond saying, "Oh, no not yet." You fake a smile trying to hide the fact that your dignity is slowly diminishing as more people enter the conversation. Suddenly the whole room is now only concerned with your dating life. You hear, "Oh really? No one." "Hey Jerry! Kate here isn't dating anyone! Do you think Kevin is still available?" You act like you're paying attention to their plans to set you up with a "nice fellow from their church" but really you're just imagine punching Aunt "Boozey" straight in her throat. Let's see her ask any more questions then. Well, in case you're ever in this type of situation, here are a few tips to dodge the questions as quickly as possible with as little need for alcoholic beverages as possible.


1. Tell them you're thinking about becoming a nun. You can't have a boyfriend/girlfriend if you're already married to Jesus! Added bonus: Your super religious great grandparents will be so pleased with your life choices, and you'll be a step closer to getting the good stuff in their will. Also, in case you don't want to talk at all, you can pretend you already took a vow of silence and can't speak.

2. Create a fake boyfriend/girlfriend. Moral qualms aside, lying is easy! They'll never know that Greg from the coffee shop isn't actually real. Warning: Don't be too specific and don't make the relationship too serious. That's how things get complicated.

3. Say, "Well I'm currently exploring my sexual preferences and don't want to tie myself down" I guarantee you they will leave you alone.

4. Say, "Ever since the gonorrhea incident of 2013 I've been careful in the dating field"

5. Say, "Yea, but he's married so we're keeping it on the down low" wink and then walk away

6. Say, "I won't be dating until I get the test results back"

7. Say, "Well, things are getting pretty serious with my prison pen pal"

8. Just immediately start crying and run away

9. Diversions! So many Diversions! They ask about your relationships say "Oh no I'm not in a relationship, but that reminds me! Remember that ship, the titanic. That was sad, right? Wonder how that happened..."

10. Finally, my personal favorite, throw some one else under the bus. Got another relatively young, single family member? Call them over and immediately join old Auntie Myrtle in grilling him or her on their relationship status.


Trust me. these ideas are foolproof! So good luck and remember, there's nothing wrong with being single!


                                                                        Until next time,

                                                                                         Eat a pineapple and punch your Aunt Myrtle
                                                                                                   

Death by Pedicure

     Let me preface this story by saying that I am an extremely passive person. If you wrong me in any way there is a great possibility that I will pretend it never happened just to avoid conflict. I especially never complain when someone is doing me a service, such as taking my order at a restaurant. If I was allergic to peanuts and my waitress accidentally gave me a peanut butter sandwich (instead of the chicken tenders I would most definitely be ordering in this hypothetical scenario) then I would probably get out my Epi-pen, eat the sandwich, stab myself in the leg, and then take a trip to the hospital because I wouldn't want to tell her she messed up my order. In short, I would die of discomfort before I complained that someone has wronged me.
     That being said, you can imagine what I've let slide under the rug when going to get a pedicure. Normally, whenever I go there's some form of painful incident. Whether it's pain from the "massage" as they so cutely misnamed the beating I received from a woman a third of my size; or pain from a burly man trying to get rid of the hangnail in my not-so-big toe. Either way, something always goes wrong and I always end up silently writhing in pain.
     Although these instances occur almost every time I go, I still go back with the same logic that, "It can't be worse than the last time." And every time another small Asian woman with a personal vendetta against me proves me wrong. But the last time I went may indeed be the last time. I've named it The Great Nail Clipper Incident of 2015. It started off as any normal day. I had just woken up from a 3 hour nap, after eating a helping of chicken nuggets, when my stepmother asked me if I wanted to go with her to get her nails done. I must have been still hazy from the nap because I agreed to go. We arrived at a nail salon which, for legal purposes, I will refrain from naming. I should've known I was in for it by the looks of those who were leaving. I think one lady even mouthed, "Get out now. Save your toes." But my feet were looking crusty so I said,"Screw it! Show me the nail polish!" I took a seat in the next available chair and waited for the inevitable to happen. Sure enough, the person who worked at this chair was a 70 year old bald man. Not only am I uncomfortable with men touching my feet, but I also would not trust this man to see a billboard if it was right in front of him let alone my tiny toes. 
     In an effort to relax I turn on my massage chair which felt like I was being stoned to death from behind, but I didn't know how to turn it off so I just went with it. So as this gentleman was so graciously touching my crusty feet and trying to make them less vomit-inducing, I was trying to relax in the massage chair from hell. As the pedicure moved forward he takes out the small trimming tool to cut my cuticles. I'm thinking, "Yes! Please fix these sad excuses for toes." Just as I'm praising God for this pedicure, I feel a sharp pain on my big toe. I look down to see that he has plucked a chunk of skin from my foot. I, being me, pretended not to notice and just let him due his thing, In an effort to stop the bleeding, so he could actually paint my toenails, he poured some blue liquid into my cut, which I'm sure was not safe to be travelling in my bloodstream. Aside from the blood toxicity, it also burned like a thousand fires. I, again, pretended like every thing was fine and continued to silently writhe in pain. Some time went by and the pain subsided so I began to relax again. He finished taming one of my feet and had moved on to the next one. He pulled out the same tool of mass toe destruction, and, again, managed to pull off another chunk of my skin, but on the other foot. Now familiar with the pain I did not even have to look up to see what had happened. Without moving a muscle, I waited for the burning sensation of the mysterious blue liquid. Sure enough, a thousand fires again began to scorch my skin. It was at this point that I should have said something, but now I was determined to just get through this experience without crying.
     I held my ground with the grace and dignity of anyone being personally victimized with heavy artillery; meaning, every muscle was clenched and a tear started to form in my right eye. As he put the clippers away I began to think "Well at least the worst is over now." *face palm* I said the thing you should never say! There's always something worse whenever those words are uttered. Even if I think the pain is over, there will always be another Asian ready to inflict worse. As he is painting my nails, each nail polish-covered brush stroke onto one of the afflicted toes is causing a burning sensation that I can only equate with being lit on fire. But, alas, the pain ended and I still tipped him because scrubbing feet all day must suck and he seemed like a nice enough fellow, even though he caused me so much pain. But, moral of the story is.....paint your own toenails. Unless your significant other has a foot fetish no one looks at feet that closely anyway. 

                                                       
                                                    Until next time.
                                                                      Research what that blue liquid is and go eat a pineapple

"IT'S NOT A TUMOR!" - Arnold Schwarzenegger

     Yes, I am one of those people that thinks a head ache means a brain tumor and a stomach ache means appendicitis. Whatever the worst possible scenario is, that's what's happening to me. In my lifetime I've been "afflicted" with scurvy, kidney stones, cataracts,  multiple heart attacks, and anything you can imagine that wouldn't even make sense for an 18 year old girl to have. I remember overhearing my grandmother say that a distant relative was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Me, being about 10 years old and an already suffering from anxiety and hypochondria, said, "Oh no.....I might have that." Then my grandmother had to delicately explain to me that prostate cancer was something only boys could get. I didn't understand why until I realized that prostate was a fancy doctor term for male genitalia. So at 10 years old, while all the other children were playing and eating dirt (I don't know what kids do) I was worried about getting prostate cancer *face palms past self* Eight years later and nothing has changed. Well except now I know to research diseases before openly expressing that I have them in front of my family.

     To make matters worse, I also have a fear of the doctor. I only make doctor's appointments when it's absolutely necessary and there is no way out of it. This fear probably stems from the fact that I like to live in denial. "Was that a sharp pain in my side? Let's pretend that didn't happen while I'm actually subconsciously obsess over it until I forget about it an hour later." The truth is, if there's something actually wrong with me, I really don't want to know about it. I know that sounds dumb considering if I just go to the doctor they can probably fix whatever's wrong with me instead of it festering in my body and growing worse until it kills me. But I like to live life the fun way. And yes I do mean fun. You see, now I can play all sorts of games like "What disease could this be?" and "How long do I have to live?" These games are made possible by the various sites Google has provided me from searching my symptoms. Web Md is bookmarked on all of my devices and it's my most frequented site. Which is such a mistake if you have anxiety and are plagued with thoughts of disease. At one point I needed an intervention and my family made me delete the symptom checker app I had on my phone.

     But let me explain to you my screwed up logic behind my constant need to identify with medical ailments. In my mind, I feel that if I think of all the horrific possibilities that my ailment could be, then none of those will come true. You know all of those Facebook articles you read that are about some horrific disease that takes over someone's life? Well in those articles the person affected always says, "I just never saw this coming" or "I had no idea" or something that shows the disease just came out of the blue. So in my head, I've equated that with if I can think about every worst case scenario for my ailment then it couldn't possibly be that because the worst ones always sneak up on you. So if I expect to have a brain tumor everyday then I have a better chance of it not happening. I mean, what are the odds? .....probably really high now that I said that. You have to admit.....it kind of makes sense right? Yea....probably not. Anyway, I've been thinking about this because I'm starting college and I'm required to go to the doctors. My appointment is tomorrow and, as you can tell, I'm  not looking forward to it. But hopefully they'll say I'm as healthy as a horse and I can go on living in denial and ignoring that suspicious looking mole.

                                                Until next time,

                                                            Go eat a pineapple and avoid Web Md

Let's talk about underwear..

 
     This is a very important topic to me because I LOVE underwear. I can admit that I have fallen victim to the marketing techniques of companies like Victoria Secret. I probably own a pair of underwear for each day of the year. Who needs 365 pairs of underwear besides someone who's constantly afflicted with bladder problems? And no, I don't have urination issues. I've had my kidneys checked and their doing just fine. My underwear obsession however, is not fine. But despite my dangerous frequency of underwear purchases, I do understand the craziness that is women's underwear. Men have two options; boxers or briefs. Women have 300. Bikini, boy short, thong, briefs, hipsters, and the infamous G-string. I'm pretty sure underwear started with the briefs, hipsters and boy shorts. Then after some deliberation panty makers thought, "what would make these more comfortable?" And they answered, "Less fabric!!!" So underwear got skimpier and started moving into crevices that should definitely not contain fabric. And then the panty makers thought even more and said, "You know what would make this thong even better? ...Lace!!" So they made everything out of lace and anything else they could find that showed more skin even though we wear clothes over our underwear anyhow. So now, underneath my sweatpants of course, I'm wearing a thong that's made completely out of lace so that practically nothing is covered or protected. Which is ironic because I think that was the original purpose for underwear. But nevertheless, I'm drawn to the pretty patterns and sexy lace designs even if my butthole hates me for it. 
     You can probably contribute multiple things to the creation of the various underwear types. You could blame it on our patriarchal society that thinks women should wear lingerie for their husbands since sex and cooking are the only things we are good for in life. But I wear the low cut bikinis with the lace trim because they make me feel good. It's my own little secret from the rest of the world. A secret that hopefully one day I will get to share with some lucky man who can make me dinner for a change. But for now I don't wear it to please some guy, but to give myself the confidence that society tries to take away from me on a daily basis. So screw all the slut shamers who say thongs are for whores. You wear those underwear with your chin held high and your butt looking fabulous! 

                                                                   Until next time, 

                                                                                Go eat a pineapple and bedazzle your thong.