Standards Are For People Who Have Options

It's the End of the Road.

2011-10-13T12:43:00.001-05:00

Hey everyone,

I could pretend to say that "with a heavy heart, I must inform you all that our time together here has come to an end". But that's not strictly true.

I'm not doing this with a heavy heart - in fact, I'm the happiest I've been in a long time. I'm pursuing my dreams, I have great friends that support me, and I have an amazing man that loves me. It's for this reason* that I'm writing this post.

I'm deleting this blog effective November 1st.

I once said that "standards are for people who have options" and while I stick to that mantra, I've got a lot more options than I did two years ago and I'm simply not the same person I was then. All good things come to an end, and this was a great thing.

However, just because "Standards Are For People Who Have Options" will be gone doesn't mean that I'll be gone from the interwebs.

In fact, I've moved over all the content from this blog to http://brittneywinters.wordpress.com and when I decide to pay WordPress the cost of 4 Starbucks Vanilla Lattes a year (approximately $17), it'll be my own domain with my name all over the shit (yes, I am a narcissistic bitch, so what?!).

I'll be blogging there from here on out so...I'll catch you on the flip side.

Love,
Brittney

*Well, this reason and this reason: Blogger's new layout confuses the shit out of me.

I'm happy for Beyonce, but...

2011-10-11T09:39:00.001-05:00

I’m going to hand in my “sassy black female” card and say that I want angry…or at the very least, single, Bey back. I can’t do anything with this happy music stuff she’s got going on. That said, all this grumbling will likely subside as “Countdown” sinks its hooks into my brain. I’m already humming it to myself.

Halloween Costume This Year?

2011-10-09T22:19:00.000-05:00

I'm a mouse. Duh.

MEAN GIRLS FO' LYFE, YO!

I Want To See This Movie

2011-07-15T00:28:00.002-05:00

14. Letter to My Favorite City

2011-07-12T02:02:00.000-05:00

Dear Chicago,

Tourist trap. Beloved nonetheless.

I give you a lot of shit, but you're quickly growing on me. Despite growing up in your shadow in various Chicago suburbs, I never really visited you much, unless I was going to the Taste of Chicago or to relatives' homes in areas where most of the time, I feared I would wake up in a hospital with a GSW to the ass.

And then I went to college on the East Coast, where I quickly fell in love, lust and infatuation with NYC. Chicago, I'm sorry, but you've got nothing on the hustle and bustle of The City. The City That Never Sleeps went well with my insomniatic days nights of my undergraduate career and my free-wheeling search for life, love, and the pursuit of happiness in my pants. But those days have changed. I have changed.

Two years ago, I graduated college and with that, I visited you again with a couple of my friends and I got to see you through new eyes. I got to see what other people see when they visit you for the first time, because I was seeing you for the first time through eyes not jaded by the desire to get the hell out of town because I tend to run from all that is familiar, thinking that familiar is synonymous with painful memories. What's funny is the fact that since I rarely visited you as a child and never as an adult, I'm as much a tourist within your city limits as anyone else. My friends and I discovered new places abound during our time exploring, places that I never knew existed and have since become cherished hole-in-the-wall locales that I only share with those that I care about.

Nestled in Wrigleyville.

A year ago, I walked your streets with a (different) friend, as we explored some parts of the city during one of his many business trips to the area. It was cold and I was unhappy (as I tend to be when it's cold) and I expressed my desire to leave. It wasn't you, Chicago, it was me. I wasn't happy where I was (living at home, following a career trajectory I absolutely detested). But walking those empty streets at 10pm on a Wednesday (why is it so dead in winter here?), I realized that while Chicago might not be what I wanted, it might just be what I needed. I described the city as "NYC's chill little brother", and I've come to realize that maybe that fits me more now than NYC.

My friends (the vast majority, anyway) live in NYC, but none of them really love the city. They love the accessibility. They love the fact that they can walk out their door at any time of day or night and find something to do. They love that their friends are there. They love the street cred from being from New York City. But I don't think they love the city itself. Don't get me wrong, I love NYC -- always will. The creative spirit in me is drawn to the dichotomies and paradoxes that such a city represents. But I don't know if I could flourish in that environment indefinitely.

Tell me this isn't beautiful.

You, Chicago, give a person space to breathe and are a microcosm of cultures in and of yourself. There's Gold Coast for the taste of the high life, there's Wrigleyville for those fratty nights where all you want is cheap beer and cheaper laughs, there's Lincoln Park for when I feel particularly pretentious, there's everything in this city...as long as you know where to look.

I'm learning to look. And I think we may be getting better acquainted in the future.

TTFN, Chicago.

I'll be back again soon.

13. Letter to My Closest Friend at School

2011-07-07T06:23:00.000-05:00

Ah Sophia,

By default, this honor goes to you. And by "honor", I mean, "Happy fucking birthday, my favoritest sister from a Mexican mister!". I think the blogging gods (read as: my fantastical procrastination skills) lined up today with this particular letter prompt.

I love you, girlypants. I love everything about you. Your sarcasm, your sci-fi-bi-furious writing skillz, your ability to leap over social constructs with a single bound, your inability to shut the fuck up when you're ahead.

I miss you like whoa, Queen of the Twatwaffles. I know that you're all happy and shit in California, but could we work something out where we can be all happy and shit in the same geographical location? Maybe you wanna apply to some of the same Ph.D programs as me once we finish our respective master's degrees and we can room together again? Maybe? I promise chicken pot-pies and 3am convenience store sammiches, in addition to terrible teeny-bopper movies and much sarcastic quipping through the whole thing (100 year old virgin vampire? Bitch, please. We both know that supernatural peen was allllll over the annals of history. And would it kill Kristin Stewart to smile? She's paid to mack on hotties.)

You know we need MOAR UFF THEES!

You're easily the only woman in the world for me. Unless that British Rosie Jones model-chick comes over. In which case, you can watch. She's hot as hell. I think you would approve. Google her. You'll know which one I'm talking about. I digress.

Wifey-kins, I don't know if I ever thanked you for almost single-handedly getting me through senior year. Between our war on Tufty, our shared disbelief of the random oddities of our other roommate, pot-pie dates, thesis buddy-sizing, and you giving me rather pragmatic love advice ("Tell that son of a bitch he can go fuck himself and stop going to church if he's going to be there! ...His dick must have superpowers for you to put up with this."), I don't know what I would have done without you.

I can't wait until the next time we see each other in person. It calls for fatty foods, good beer, and multitudes of awesome. Until then, pot-pie Skype date? It'll have to wait until like, next week after I get paid, 'cause, per usual, I am Brokey McPoorBitch.

Love you tons and happy birthday!
Wifey

12. Letter to My Sibling (Super Late, I Know)

2011-07-07T02:49:00.004-05:00

Dear Brandon,

I feel weird writing to you because you're sleeping next door...and because it's rare that we have a real conversation. This is partially because you're four years younger than me and mostly because within about 5 minutes of almost any conversation, you manage to say something so ludicrous that it makes me want to throw something at your face.

I get that it's your sense of humor and then I remember that you're currently all of 19 years old. I barely tolerated 19 year olds when I was 19. We're also about as different as can be. I'm a petite bookworm and you're an enormous jock.

Despite all our differences and our general lack of successful communication, we're becoming, dare I say it?, friends. You're my little brother and I love you more than you'll ever know, but up until relatively recently, I haven't liked you very much. You're a pain in my ass and you break all my stuff and you steal my lotion and call my boyfriend names even though you've only met him twice and are holding a grudge because my last boyfriend broke my heart. Then again, you also are my bitch buddy who will complain loudly and exuberantly about all the crazy shit our parents get up to...(WHAT THE HELL IS MOM PLANNING FOR OUR CHRISTMAS SURPRISE?!??! WHAT IS IT?!? THE CURIOSITY IS KILLING MEEEEEE!!!). You get where I'm coming from when I complain about our house and everything that goes on in it and that's pretty cool.

So kudos, baby bro, on growing up a little bit and sorta becoming someone I could have a beer with (when you're of age. I ain't enabling your burgeoning experiments with booze, you little alchy. Do that shit at school.).

See you in the morning/afternoon/whenever either one of us emerges from our room,
Britt

Misadventures of a Video Store Clerk: The Booty Warrior

2011-07-02T02:57:00.005-05:00

This literally JUST happened to me, so excuse any lack of cohesive narrative. I have to tell this story while it's fresh in my mind and I'm still in a state of disbelief so as to get every genuine reaction that I've felt tonight.

I work at a video store. To those of you that are asking: "Those still exist?", yes, they do and I work in one. Sit down, shut up and listen.

A lot of strange things happen in the video store. I've been working there on and off for about a year, and I'd thought I'd seen a lot of what goes on: stolen videos, mismatched movie cases, irate customers who lie about whether or not they turned in their movies on time (the computer does not lie, people. It simply does not lie.), damaged items with questionable rental histories, etc.

I was wrong. Tonight has to have been one of the most fucked up nights I've ever had.

Steph, Genna, and I were minding the store tonight at around 11pm, when Steph was putting out some movies and heard strange sounds coming from our "back room" (read as: porn area). She came back to tell Genna and I about what she'd heard and Genna went to investigate. She returned with a skinny black dude, holding a video and told us a tale that was as ridiculous as it was hilarious.

Apparently, she found this kid, who was now standing in front of us, nervous as hell, in the back biting the security pins out of our DVD cases to steal the porn. She found a bunch of busted up, empty cases and chewed on pins and caught the kid in the act of biting at the pin of the movie she took from him.

Found: A shit-ton of these, bitten and empty.

Now, every summer, it seems, we find a ton of broken, empty cases and stolen movies, but this was the first time we'd actually caught someone in the act, much less caught someone who came quietly up to the front of the store and had been biting the pins out. With his teeth. Steph, Genna and I looked at each other and gaped at our porn thief, who was still standing there, and informed him that we'd have to call the police. He stood quietly with a blank stare on his face, sweating profusely. As soon as Steph picked up the phone, however, homeboy took off running. Genna started to chase after him, but I yelled at her to let him go...obviously this guy was both crazy and desperate and there's no telling what a pin-biting porn thief would do while being chased or detained by someone smaller and infinitely less stupid than he.

The cops showed up as we were calling our managers and the other nearby branches to let them know what had happened, and we got the dubious pleasure of showing Shorewood and Joliet's finest what movies were missing, as well as the movie our thief had left behind.

This is where it gets even more hilariously awkward. The titles stolen included gems such as (and my memory's not perfect on these titles, but you'll get the gist):

Buttwoman Returns
Awesomely Anal
Top Heavy Sluts
Big Booty Bitches #7
Cum in 60 Seconds or Less

And the movie left behind (and this is the actual title) was:

Jon and Kate Fuck Eight...A Parody

We and the police got a real kick out of this while they were dusting for prints and taking DNA samples...because this idiot had to have been drooling all over the cases in order to get the security pins out. The cops got a ton of good fingerprints and I hope that they catch this kid. They did, however, give me full license to dive-tackle the kid if he's ever stupid enough to come back to our store...I eagerly await the day. I'm gonna bring some nunchaku and pepper spray to store behind the counter.

I'm just waiting for your bitch-ass.

My mind is just boggled at the idiocy of this kid. If I ever got to talk to him again, after I dive-tackled him and maced the shit out of him, this is what I would say:

What the ever-loving hell? First of all, why the hell are you stealing porn from a video store? The interwebs is full of pr0n that is free for the taking! What is wrong with you?! And I'm sure your booty fetishist ass can find more than enough bodacious babes online...just Google "ass" with SafeSearch OFF.

Second of all, if you're going to steal porn from our store, please, for the love of God and all that is sanitary, DON'T BITE THE CASES! Do you have any idea how much powdered semen is probably all over that stuff? Do you enjoy the taste of another man's baby gravy? You nasty...just all KINDS of nasty. Nasty ass nasty. Just foul, yo. That is just disgusting. Use a goddamn screwdriver or something.

Third, Jon and Kate Fuck Eight? Really, though? Really? I will never look at TLC the same way again.

Fourth, why didn't you run in the first place? Why'd you stand there and let us all get a really good look at you? If it came down to it, we could even pull the records of the people who rented from the store during that period of time and they could identify you.

Finally, you're an idiot. And you kind of made my night. But really, don't come back. Like, ever.

The moral of this story is: Don't steal porn from video rental chain stores. Just go online. It's cheap, easy and fast. For those of you in search of NSFW fun that doesn't involve paying or stealing from your local video rental chain, here's a few websites that you can go to for good, dirty fun:

And since this guy just really loves the booty, here's a clip of a man who appreciates a fine derrière just as much as Bitey McPornFace:

P.S. If you live in the Plainfield/Shorewood/Joliet area, this guy was black, about 5'10", maybe about 150lbs, 16-18 years old and last seen in a red graphic tee and black baggy jeans. Last spotted sprinting like a thoroughbred horse (or possibly just a black man outrunning the cops...take your pick) south on Route 59. Ugly bastard, too.

11. Letter to My Future Employer

2011-06-23T02:25:00.000-05:00

Dear ________ University,

Thank you again for hiring me. It gives me great pleasure to know that I'll be joining your faculty in the fall of [insert year when I finally finish grad school] and I look forward to teaching at your prestigious institution.

Teaching hasn't always been my dream career; however, time, experience and many a failed venture has taught me that this is what I was meant to do. I'm at my happiest and most productive when I'm reading, writing and discussing ideas - which I am excited to partake in at _________ University.

I'm particularly excited about the prospect of introducing a new course at the university, delving into young adult literature and the impact it has on disseminating cultural ideals to the masses. I don't think there are many classes that study Twilight, Harry Potter, and The Song of the Lioness quartet out there, and I'm curious to see how the course will be received.

Thanks again for the opportunity to teach and learn at your institution. I'll see you in the fall!
Dr. Brittney Winters

10. Letter to Someone I Work With

2011-06-22T12:54:00.000-05:00

Dear Coworker,

I refuse to write to you by name because I work with you so often, but I'd like to take the time to thank you for being so awesome.

Not only are you reasonably attractive and fairly witty, you also have a work ethic that makes it a real pleasure to work with you. I know that if the schedule gods pair us up on a shift, shit will get done and it will get done fast. Unless we get slammed and we end up still at the store at 2 in the morning, joking about the ridiculous porn titles we have to put away or just chit-chatting about nothing. Even if we don't get our asses handed to us by rabid customers (or even when we do), we still find fun things to talk about to pass the time.

I find your attraction to cougars nothing short of hilarious and I find myself looking for attractive older ladies to send your way. I think about setting you up with someone, anyone really, because, for the love of God, Coworker-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, you spend way too much damned time at the store. You need a woman in your life to keep you at home because there is no reason for you to be at the store at least once a day, even when you're not working! And there's even less reason for you to get behind the counter and help customers or run movies from the dropbox when you're not working! GO HOME.

Seriously, though. Go the fuck home, dude. Seriously.

Jesus, dude, GO HOME ALREADY.

I'll probs see you later this week. Don't let me forget that I owe you for buying my dinner the other night.

See ya soon!
Brittney

9. Letter to the Last Person I Hugged

2011-06-21T13:40:00.009-05:00

Dear L,

I can't wait for our mini-roadtrip this week. Thanks for coming with me to Michigan for my graduate assistantship orientation...I really will enjoy having company on the 3.5 hour drive for a 1 hour orientation only to drive another 3.5 hours back. I hope we can find some shenanigans and misadventures to get into after the orientation is over, otherwise this will be kind of a wash.

I probably should have called you to remind you that it will be raining the entire time we're gone. I already reminded you to bring CDs for the driving soundtrack -- or suffer the wrath of my ~~terrible~~ eclectic taste in music, but you'll probably forget, so pop music it shall be! I wonder if we'll get the chance to take a look at my future apartment for the fall - it'd be nice to get a better feel for where I'll be living and where you might or might not be visiting.

Ah, rainy day road trips.
(courtesy of CherryOrchid)

I really wish you were coming back to Michigan with me in the fall, but your stubbornness and belief that you don't need to finish up your program is forcing us into a long-distance-relationship again. All I know is that you better be making some serious moves while I'm gone, because I know that my game will be on another level by the time I finish up this degree. I need you to be successful for your own sake, and for ours.

Anyway. I'll see you in a little while.

Love,

Brittney

8. Letter to a Food I've Been Craving Recently

2011-06-20T18:54:00.001-05:00

Dear Buffalo Wings,

I want you in the worst way. I want you all up in my mouth, covering my face with your spicy, sticky essence. I want your sauces all over my fingers, under my nails and in every possible wrinkle and fold on my knuckles, just so I'll have something to suck on to savor for later.

I don't even understand why I want you so badly. I don't even like chicken wings, but add some mild-to-spicy sauce and some bleu cheese (not ranch!) dressing on the side and maybe a beer or three, and sweet baby Jesus in a manger, I am lost to you.

So fucking delicious.
(photo courtesy of highlimitzz)

I keep procrastinating on having you, my delectable dish, because I am cheap and I am lazy. There's a Buffalo Wild Wings not even 6 miles from my house, but since I tend to work on Tuesdays and Thursdays (when you are at your cheapest), I don't go. I should just create my own sauce and make you myself.

...What's that, you say? ...Oh hai there, recipe from Food Network!

Looks like I'll be having my wicked way with you soon enough...

Tastefully yours,

Brittney

7. Letter to a Band/Singer

2011-06-19T02:14:00.004-05:00

Dear Gwyneth Paltrow,

You really shouldn't count as either a band or a singer, despite your marriage to the frontman for Coldplay. However, your turn as Holly Holiday has won me over in spite of my general distaste for actors turned singers (I have the exact same level of distaste for singers turned actors, so you're not alone in this category of judgment).

I can't not love this song. I also can't not love your performance in "Country Strong" -- admittedly, I refused to watch the entire movie after I read the ending on Wikipedia, but I'm forced to see the trailer for it every single day at work while it plays on repeat in our trailer reel in the video store.

All in all, Gwyneth, I kind of love you. I'd even consider legally purchasing your album, should you come out with one. Le sigh. Looks like my standards are falling -- or you're just that damn lovable.

xoxo,
Brittney

6. Letter to a Store

2011-06-18T01:57:00.016-05:00

Dear Walmart,

I honestly don't know what to do with you. From all accounts, you're a terrible organization and are responsible for so many human rights and organized labor law violations that I wouldn't be surprised if you kept Johnny Cochran's ghost on retainer for future lawsuits. Almost every other day, there's another lawsuit against you or another complaint. Every single day, you play host to some of the most outrageous people on the planet. Walmart, have you ever seen the website "People of Walmart"? Because if you have, you should have instituted some sort of dress code before servicing customers. If you haven't, institute some sort of dress code before servicing customers.

Walmart is the only place I can go where I can see a 60-year-old woman in capri jeggings and a mink coat at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday in the middle of April. It's the only parking lot in which I can take a tally of Confederate flags on pickup trucks. It's the only place where I cannot resist going despite all my disgust for the institution. I hate warehouses, I hate bargain basement clothing, I hate crowds. You have the perfect storm of a place that I should, by all rights, avoid.

But you also have low, low prices.

I hate you for your Rollback prices. I cannot resist the lure of $5 DVDs, $0.50 candies, $3 packs of cotton socks, and bargain acrylic yarns. I must content myself with never, ever purchasing clothing for myself from this store (Target is my bargain store of choice).

I look forward to the day when I make enough money that I can afford to thumb my nose at your corporation. Until then, could you make sure that you have enough HungryMan frozen dinners? You were out of the boneless chicken meals last time, kthxbai.

5. Letter to the Last Person Who Hit on Me

2011-06-17T01:44:00.001-05:00

Dear Little Boy,

I'm writing this letter to you because it would be disingenuous to write about my boyfriend - who hits on me at every available second. I'm also writing to you because I'm not sure if that other guy at the video store is flirting with me or just oozes charm. But you, little boy, you are a wee charmer yourself.

I felt bad every time you and your brother came up to my counter at the video store -- our current promotion rewarding good report cards with free rentals has left our inventory dangerously low, and I knew that as you opened your mouth to inquire about the availability of a variety of video games, I would more than likely have to let you down. My instincts were correct, as you came back to see me not once, not twice, but three separate times over the span of your visit in the store.

I felt really bad about being the bearer of bad news, but alas, these are the breaks. You boys were so polite about asking and you didn't blame me when the game you wanted wasn't in stock (you'd be surprised how many people get mad at me as if I, personally, took the game out of their hands and said, "nyah, nyah, you can't have it"). And since you boys were so polite, I gave you extra free rental coupons. I tend to do nice things for nice people, and you boys were very nice.

Then you left, and I was about to go about the rest of my shift...until you came careening back into the store to say:

"Thank you again, miss, and you're really pretty too!"

Little Boy, you made my day. A polite, young black boy with good grades specifically came back to tell me that I'm pretty in a manner that wasn't along the lines of "Brown Chocolate, Whassup baby?". You're easily 15 years my junior, but if I were your age, I would have swooned. Where were you when I was 8?

Thank you, Little Boy. I hope you stay as smart and sweet as you are now. It's a welcome change of pace.

Love,
The Pretty Lady at the Video Store

4. Letter to Something I Have That Belongs to Someone Else

2011-06-16T01:43:00.003-05:00

Dear New Haven Sweatshirt,

I think that if the pants from "Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" could be the subject of a four book series and two movies, you, at the very least, warrant a play or two.

You see, far more important that prolonging ties between childhood friends, you are the link between my lover and I. Somehow, despite multiple washings, you still retain his scent and the warmth of his body. Perhaps it's merely my imagination or perhaps you are imbued with a hint of the feelings he has for me. Either way, I don't care. You were his and now you are mine and I am his and he is mine.

I feel silly, writing about you, because I've made a point of avoiding writing about him. Not because I'm not proud of him, not because I don't want to show him off, but because I feel that some things need to remain private, that in sharing them, they lose a little bit of their specialness. His love for me is my little secret, the curl in the corner of my lips, a previously undiscovered dimple in my cheek, a sweatshirt given to me in the middle of the night when I was chilly that fits me as well as it fits him.

Not only do you (and two of your other acrylic-blend sweater brethren that I have also confiscated from his closet) fit me as well as you once fit him, but you seem to be representative of how we fit together. We're comfortable, like a second skin, something that is as second nature to us as breathing. And for that reminder every time I wear you or breathe in his scent from your fibers, I thank you. I thank you for reminding me what it feels like to be incandescently happy -- not because my relationship with your previous owner is a condition of my happiness, but because this relationship, like all my favorite things in the world, augment and complement everything about myself that I like.

Until we meet again (also known as whenever I bother to do laundry),
Brittney

3. Letter to Something I’ve Owned For More Than 5 Years

2011-06-15T03:31:00.001-05:00

Dear Baby Minnie,

I've had you since before I was born and you're all I have from my maternal grandmother. You've been well-loved over the years (albeit not as well-loved as a certain stuffed polar bear that was lost to a fit of maternal rage about 10 years ago) and it shows. Lately, you've been relegated to the top shelf of my closet, next to the collector's Barbie and the American Girl doll - the last of my childhood toys and the ones with the most sentimental value (not including the aforementioned bear).

All I've got left.

You see, Baby Minnie, I never got to know my grandmother. Though she fed me, clothed me, rocked me to sleep and loved me with all her heart, she passed away before I could ever recognize her as more than a warm set of arms, a soothing voice and a source of comfort. When Granny died, I was four years old and I lived over 4,000 miles away. I had only lived with her for a few months after my birth. She would never get to hold my baby brother.

My mother says that Granny loved me dearly and would have spoiled me senseless had she lived. This, I don't doubt. What I wonder about is how it would feel to have a grandmother who is heavily involved in my life. The type of grandmother who would buy you candy when your parents said no; the type of grandmother who would babysit you and let you watch cartoons while she baked cookies; the type of grandmother who never forgets your birthday and always sends something to put in your Christmas stocking. I wonder what Granny would have said when she found out I got into Princeton. I wonder if she would have come to my graduation. Would she have given me my "something old" at my wedding? If she hadn't had that aneurysm, would she have gotten to hold my first-born child?

These are the things I wonder when I look at you, Baby Minnie. How it would feel to have known my grandmother. How much I miss her - or more accurately - everything that I should know of her. How it would feel to know what my grandmother looked like - to be able to close my eyes and have her smiling face emblazoned on the inside of my eyelids. When I'm shown pictures of her, the only way I recognize her is that one of my aunts is the spitting image of her. How it would feel to embraced by her and her love. I wonder if I would recognize the smell of her snuff and her perfume. I wonder if the curve between her neck and her shoulder would be the perfect place to place my chin as I hug her tightly. I wonder what memories we would have made together.

I wonder what memories of her I do have locked away in the confines of wherever infantile memories go.

I wonder if she would have loved me as much as I love the borrowed memories I have of her. I wonder if she would have loved me as much as I love you, Baby Minnie, though inanimate as you are, you're all I have of her.

And so, from time to time, I take you from your shelf and close my eyes, holding you tightly, hoping that somehow, Granny knows how much I would love to know her and how much I miss her in my life.

2. Letter to an Inanimate Object I Hate

2011-06-14T16:44:00.001-05:00

Listen up, you briny bitch.

I've hated you for as long as I can remember. Your sour disposition and unrequested presence has garnered nothing but my undiluted disgust and detestation.

I hate you, pickles.

Sitting smugly in my refrigerator, balefully floating in your briny brew as I try to reach for the milk.

An explosion of acid in my mouth when I specifically told the drive-thru attendant, "Absolutely no pickles. None. At all. In fact, just make the burger 'ketchup-only'". Have it my way, my ass.

Yours was the taste in my mouth the moment that my cousin stomped a helpless frog on the sidewalk, as someone had tried to convinced me to try you again.

It was you I tasted the day I left my cup of Mountain Dew unattended and my father decided to use the almost-empty cup to hold one of your brethren.

And what do you have to say for yourself? Nothing. Because you're a goddamned jar of pickles. And because apparently all of America loves you and I'm the unpatriotic one for wanting another option besides vinegar soaked cucumbers on my burger. Land of the free, my ass.

My acerb adversary, we meet again.

Let's make it very clear. We will only encounter each other for the next couple of months, because then I'll be moving into my own place and you will be Undesirable Number One.

I will only see you in the grocery store and I will mock you for never making it into my meal again.

At least until the next time that dude at Burger King fucks up my order again. HOW HARD IS IT TO COMPREHEND "KETCHUP ONLY"??!??

Hatefully yours,

Brittney

1. Letter to a Dinosaur

2011-06-13T23:43:00.004-05:00

Dear Velociraptor,

I find that I have so much to say to you in so little time. You see, I'm under deadline here, as I have to write this letter to you in the next 28 minutes and counting. I had planned a whole speech (or essay, as it were) dedicated to your cunning, agility, ability to open doors without the benefits of an opposable thumb and your ability to concoct and successfully execute numerous plans to eat unsuspecting humans in Jurassic Park, however, for the sake of brevity, I will start with this:

I hope to God we never meet in person.

I know that it is entirely likely that, as I type, there is some power-hungry mad scientist out there with something to prove and a hankering for a return to the Cretaceous Period that would love to clone a dinosaur to see how they really looked like back in the day. This is a terrible idea, as evidenced by you and your kin's takeover of Jurassic Park in the first, second and third entries in the series. But as with all mad scientists with a God complex, they will assume that they have enough failsafes in place to, at the very least, ensure their survival.

This is a lie and you and I both know it. You are cunning and swift and altogether terrifying. Should someone try to clone you from your fossilized remains, the world, as I know it, would be a hot fucking mess. You would escape your confines and many of us would be eaten. I'm terrible at survival skills and I happen to know that I am a succulent morsel and you would likely chomp on my voluptuous curves without even the slightest bit of hesitation or barbecue sauce.

Please don't eat me.

But should you be resurrected from the annals of history, I do not doubt that your genome will be tampered with and I can only hope that the mad scientist who raises you from the past will at least have the forethought to splice in the ability to speak. Preferably in English. But if my knowledge of horror movies involving large lizards is accurate (and judging by how often I watch these movies, I can assure you, it is), you will likely speak heavily-Japanese-accented English with only the slightest delay between the movements of your lipless maw and your actual speech. Or you could surprise me and be British. Or Austrailian. Aussie accents are hot. Just come back with the ability to communicate with me so I can assure you that I would be an asset to your new world order, and not just as a menu item.

Or you could just be like almost every guy I've ever dated and have a predilection for eating white girls.

Yeah, I'll settle for that.

xoxo and see you next Ice Age,
Brittney

30 Day Letter Challenge

2011-06-13T03:33:00.001-05:00

Since I don't have shit else to do for the rest of the month, and also because I'd like to get in the habit of writing more often, I'm joining a couple friends of mine in a 30-day blogging challenge.

We're going to be writing a letter a day on our respective blogs using the following prompts:

Letter to a dinosaur
Letter to an inanimate object you hate
Letter to something you’ve owned for more than 5 years
Letter to something you have that belongs to someone else
Letter to the last person who hit on you
Letter to a store
Letter to a band/singer
Letter to a food you’ve been craving recently
Letter to the last person you hugged
Letter to someone you work with
Letter to your future employer
Letter to a sibling you didn’t write to last time
Letter to your closest friend at school
Letter to your favorite city
Letter to the last person who surprised you
Letter to the last person who complimented you
Letter to a politician
Letter to a Disney character
Letter to someone you worry about
Letter to your cell phone
Letter to someone/something you’ve outgrown
Letter to a feeling you wish you didn’t feel
Letter to a part of your body
Letter to your favorite character from a childhood cartoon
Letter to the last person you took a picture with
Letter to your bed
Letter to someone who taught you something new
Letter to someone you did something crazy with
Letter to a mythical creature
Letter to a place that feels like home

Since it's 3:30-ish in the morning and I'm slightly insomniatic, I'll be starting this challenge in a few hours. First up: Letter to a Dinosaur.

A Conversation to Remember.

2011-05-24T21:27:00.002-05:00

LM: You're doing a fantastic job being my girlfriend.

Me: Thank God, because I tend to quietly freak out about how I'm doing. I don't know how to do functional relationships! This takes work!

LM: No it doesn't. Just love me, and I'll love you. I'll respect you and you do the same. Easy as pie, babe.

Me:When did you get so wise? Are you trying to make me cry with your rom-com quotables?

LM: Hehe, no. Every once in a while, I like to shed some wisdom, babe. There is more than ridiculousness under this ashy shell, babe.

Why isn't this the standard for relationship advice?

Generation: Detour

2011-05-22T17:42:00.002-05:00

I recently came into a wee bit of internet fame (or would infamy be a better term?) as an article, as well as a slideshow gallery, was published on CNN Money about "Generation: Lost," featuring interviews with myself and several other recent graduates who have found themselves unable to find jobs in their fields of study.

I also made the mistake of reading the comments.

I took most of them with a grain of salt because these people don't know me and they don't know my story. Not the whole of it, anyway.

There were a lot of aspersions on my character, however, quite a few of them that I'd like to address:

While I am a minority, I made it into Princeton on the power of my own accomplishments, without the aid of any "connections" or affirmative action, and I made it out under my own power.
This one is threefold: I know exactly how much money I spent at Princeton. My parents didn't pay for my education. Princeton has a fantastic financial aid program, and while I do have student loans, they are manageable. And most of all, my finances are none of your business.
I didn't major in French and Spanish - I majored in Comparative Literature, which can be explained easiest as a double major in French and Spanish, since those are the languages I concentrated in. I also didn't major in this because I expected to be a high school teacher. I majored in CompLit because I have every intent on teaching at the collegiate level.
My decision to get a Master's in English is not a plan to hide out in academia until the economy improves. It's part of my 7-year plan to gain a teaching position at an institution of higher learning. I don't care if I have to waitress until I get there because I actually do have a plan and it's a damned good one.
To those of you who stated that I should have majored in something more marketable - I agree. I completely and utterly agree with you. I actually started as a pre-medicine major - but I was completely and utterly unsuited for it. That's not where my strengths lie. I'm terrible at math and horrible at memorization, but I'm a really good critical thinker, writer and teacher. Hence my aspiration to teach.
To those that said that my generation is spoiled because we expect to be happy and wealthy from the beginning? Not entirely inaccurate. Except that I'm not happy and I won't be until I've paid my dues and gotten to where I want to be. I also don't mind slogging it out in the lower end of the salary pool (or even hourly wage pool) until I can get there. I'm more than willing to work hard to get what I want. The issue here is, the thing that I want is a job that makes me happy. Even if it doesn't pay very well.
To those of you who said that I wasted time and money on a Princeton degree when I could have majored in the same concentration at a far cheaper school? Absolute truth. I could have easily gone to a cheaper school, but I got into my dream school and it was affordable with financial aid. So I followed my dream. Sure it wasn't practical, but at least I'm living with no regrets.

Yes, I am working at a video store as well as freelancing other jobs. Yes, I am picky about the work I choose to do. Yes, my parents have gone above and beyond the call of parental duty.

But it's my life. And I'm not representative of all the problems that my generation faces, nor am I representative of all the problems that my generation is causing.

I'm just me. And I'm finding my way. It's just taking a little longer than anticipated.

So, I'm not Generation: Lost. I'm more...Generation: Detour.

P.S. Thank you to everyone who had nothing but kind and helpful things to say. I appreciate it more than words can say. I made a lot of mistakes, missteps and had quite a few mishaps, but I'm getting back on track. I'll be in graduate school in the fall, working to offset my costs, and I'll be on my way to teaching and researching in no time!

Just Because I Don't Cook Doesn't Mean I Can't: Easy Chicken Enchiladas

2011-05-06T13:02:00.002-05:00

I don't ordinarily cook very often - I'm more of a baker. I'm a sucker for complex carbohydrates and sugary, savory, bread-laden treats, but I'm tired of eating out and I had the taste for Mexican food for Cinco de Mayo, so I came up with this recipe for chicken enchiladas:

Ingredients:

1 1/2 lbs chicken (I used breasts, but if you prefer dark meat, it should work just as well)

2 (10oz) cans El Paso enchilada sauce

1 can diced chiles

3 cloves of garlic, chopped

1/2 onion, chopped

2 cups chicken broth

2 cups shredded cheese

8 flour tortillas

1/4 tsp. Cayenne pepper

1/4 tsp. Chili powder

Salt and black pepper to taste

Olive oil

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Saute onions, chiles and garlic in a drizzle of olive oil in large pot. Add chicken broth and bring to a boil. Add chicken. When chicken is cooked on the inside, reduce heat to a simmer and remove the chicken. Shred the chicken and return to pot. Add cayenne pepper and chili pepper. Cover pot and simmer until liquid is nearly gone, then add salt and pepper to taste. Remove from heat. Stir in 1 can of enchilada sauce and 1 cup of cheese.

Lightly grease 13x9in. pan. Fill each tortilla with enchilada mixture, roll up and place seam down in pan. cover tortillas with remaining can of enchilada sauce and top with remaining cheese.

Bake in oven for 15-25 minutes or until heated through.

Serve alone or with refried beans and rice.

Enjoy!

Texts Shall Set You Free

2011-04-28T16:31:00.000-05:00

Me: I'm researching marathons and now I really wanna go biking down the lakefront!
BF: What does biking, my love, have anything to do with marathons?
Me: I'm researching bike marathons, too. Plus, you know good and damn well I ain't running NO damn where!

RE: Anti-Stupidity

2011-03-21T22:14:00.000-05:00

A commenter reflected upon the first paragraph of my article, entitled "Forget Pro-Choice and Pro-Life. How About Anti-Stupidity?" and I felt compelled to respond.

Here is the comment in its entirety:

response to the 1st paragraph… Please, my effort is not to be condescending.

Honesty in reporting please. No one is attempting to criminalizing miscarriages. I could barley get past that sentience, without beginning my response. Then you take the most extreme case, an 11 year old being raped. What percentage of Planned Parenthoods 332,278 abortions in 2009 where 11 year olds being raped by 18 men? Lets say all of them. If thats the case then our issue is much worse. Men are raping children, children are terminating their babies, double whammy.. But thats not the reality. Most abortions are the result of a moment of passion that results in a LIFE (part of the real debate).

The title of your article suggest that you are “Anti-Stupidity,” or “anti-ignorance” if you will. The reason that we identify as “pro-LIFE” is because we are for life. You are pro choice because you believe that women should have the right to chose death for the existing life of their unborn child. “Choice” is somewhat of an introduction to the equation. Allow nature to take its course and a LIFE will result. Even a women which has to choose between her life(staying alive) or the life of her child, will ultimately chose life. You are not stupid, you understand that a women in that situation is not choosing to terminate. She is put in a very challenging situation where she must choose which life to save. Im not stupid either, you are not advocating for this scenario when you identify as pro-choice.

So that i’m clear, lets consider the case of an 11 year old girl who is gang raped, and may die as the result of complications during pregnancy. The sentiment should be save LIVES(there is that word again). The doctor should attempt to save lives, save whom (mom/child) they can.

This debate is not about choice. If it were, you would consider the choice of the child. But you don’t. Are you consistent? What about the choice of the rapist? What about the choice of a racist? Why don’t you advocate for their choice to respond to what they deem necessary for their existence? Sounds absurd because it is. What about the choice of someone who kills/terminates a life? Of corse you know that a high percentage of abortions are simply used to terminate an unwanted life. Please be honest, your not stupid.

I will stop here for now so that i can read the rest of your post.

-a Christian: black husband father foster-parent.

Thank you for your commentary. It was well thought out and honest, even if it was extremely condescending, despite your disclaimer. Telling someone they’re not stupid multiple times in the same comment is the same as telling them they have the IQ of a melted crayon and your “my effort is not to be condescending” comes out the same as “I’m not racist, however,” but I digress. Let me respond to your comments:

1. There IS a bill in Georgia that would criminalize abortion and classify miscarriages as a felony if the mother cannot prove that there was "no human involvement" in the death of a fetus. See: "Prenatal Murder Bill Sparks Anger in Georgia"

2. My consternation about the New York Times article was not presupposing that the victim would need an abortion. I took issue with the fact that the reporter in question used language that implied that the victim brought her rape upon herself because of the way that she dressed and the company that she kept. No one, no matter with whom they hang out or how they dress, deserves to be raped, and a writer for such an influential publication should know better than to use language that implies such. Therefore, your statistic about Planned Parenthood abortions (which is misleading at best, given that in 2009, Planned Parenthood provided nearly 11.4 million medical services for 3 million people and those 332, 278 abortions would therefore comprise only 2.9% of all medical services provided, and the stripping of federal funding would also defund the other 97.1% of services) is irrelevant.

3. Your assertion that “most abortions are the result of a moment of passion that results in a LIFE” is not something that even you can support with facts. It is an opinion, one that muddies the waters to begin with. Even leaving out the debate over whether or not life begins at conception, your assertion is that most abortions are carried out as a belated form of birth control by women who otherwise fail to use basic contraception, which also implies a lack of responsibility on the part of the woman. In an ideal world, all those who have sex would be mentally, physically, and financially prepared to deal with a life that is created, but as you well know, the world we live in is far from ideal. In any case, unless you can come up with legitimate statistics as to the percent of abortions that are carried out because the woman just didn’t feel like having a kid, you can’t tell me that I’m being dishonest in my representation. My concern for the defunding of Planned Parenthood or the imposition of others’ beliefs upon my uterus has nothing to do with those that are irresponsible in their family planning techniques. My concern is for those who have limited options – namely, in the cases of rape, incest and medically necessary intervention. This is implied by the rest of my article, which I hope, by now, you have read. I advocate education over legislation, because while I am pro-choice, I would rather that no woman be forced to make that choice. Women don’t understand their options when it comes to sex to begin with, and therefore, have no freaking clue what their options are when they discover that they are pregnant.

4. I am not pro-choice because I “believe that women should have the right to choose death for the existing life of their unborn child.” You don’t know me and also, you didn’t even bother to read the rest of this article before commenting, so please don’t ascribe your assumptions to my belief system. I am pro-choice because sometimes “nature” has a terrible sense of humor. I assert again, that I don’t personally believe in abortion. But I also know that I don’t know every woman’s situation and neither do you, therefore I don’t think that either one of us should judge someone else for what they feel is necessary.

5. In speaking of allowing “nature to take its course”, then by that logic, there should be no medical intervention – ever. Which also means that there would be many lives averted thanks to the abolition of fertility treatments, which surely goes against “allowing nature to take its course”. Allowing nature to take its course means no pre- or post-natal treatments for women who choose to carry their children to term, endangering the lives of millions of fetuses and newborns. By extension, curing erectile dysfunction goes against nature. So does curing malaria, cancer, AIDS, and any other disease. What “nature” are you referring to? Are you consistent? You’re not stupid, so you’re not advocating for these scenarios when you identify as someone who believes that nature should take its course. Allow nature to take its course…and it is not certain that life will result.

6. Again, you don’t know me and your condescending tone implies that you think that you do. I am advocating for those who have terrible choices to make – in cases of rape, incest, and medically-necessary intervention, as well as those who are put in untenable situations due to failures in the education and healthcare system. Before I got my own healthcare coverage, my insurance provider refused to pay for my contraception. If I had gotten pregnant thanks to that ex-boyfriend of mine who couldn’t take “no” for an answer, you would have me forced to have a child I neither wanted nor agreed to have. A court would have a hard time coming up with a rape conviction because I had been intimate with him before (another issue entirely), so technically it wouldn’t be rape. So am I obligated to have that child? Hell no. It wasn’t my decision and a clump of cells in my uterus has about as much of a vote as the cyst in my kidney does. Having that child and being forced to look at the reminder of a terrible night every single day, or having to give my flesh and blood up to strangers who I cannot guarantee will care for it are not options to me. So if you can tell me what “choices” I have in this situation that wouldn’t make my skin crawl, please enlighten me.

7. Your decidedly messy example of an 11-year-old girl who is gang-raped, impregnated, and could die as a result of a pregnancy? You forget that I am NOT pro-abortion. Of course the child shouldn’t be forced to have this baby because “nature” willed it to be so…because “nature” is not being repeatedly violated by 18 different men, but if the child does carry the fetus to term and is compromised by the pregnancy, then by that point, of course the doctor should save as many lives as possible. I’m not saying, “Kill the baby and save the mom.” I’m saying that you shouldn’t ignore the life of the mother in favor of the child, which is the gist of current legislations that would force doctors to commit to saving a baby and ignoring the mother for fear of legal reprisal. These laws value the life of a fetus over that of the woman and therefore reduce women to nothing more than breeding machines. That’s where I have a problem.

8. This debate IS about choice. It’s about the ability to make informed decisions about one’s life free from the paternalistic laws that force women to submit to the laws proposed and passed by men who will never have to make these decisions themselves. Despite your earnest morality, which I do appreciate because we all need a concrete belief system, our government is constitutionally bound to separate religious fervor from legislation – something that a lot of people are forgetting here.

9. As for your arguments about my consistency in allotting people choices: Is the fetus capable of making a choice? No – it does not have a perception of self and if I’m wrong, show me the documentation. Does someone who violated my body get a choice? Hell to the no. Why you even introduced that atrocity into this argument is beyond my ability to comprehend and I’m personally offended that you would think that my, or any woman’s, attacker gets to choose whether or not they father a child upon their victim or that you would even think that would be a logical addendum to the allocation of choice. And where did you get the argument about a racist from? Are you conflating abortion and genocide? I don’t even understand your argument. If you’re arguing that a racist should be able to exterminate another race for the sake of their own existence by my logic, then not only are you incapable of understanding the logic of someone who differs in opinion from you, but also you are dangerously close to being as ignorant as you claim that I am not.

10. “What about the choice of someone who kills/terminates a life? Of corse [sic] you know that a high percentage of abortions are simply used to terminate an unwanted life.” Again, be honest in your reporting, sir. Show me the statistics instead of your anecdotal, and I use that term loosely since obviously, as a man, you have never had this experience, evidence. Your casual dismissal of such a painful decision belies your so-called knowledge of the situation at hand. Also, if we’re equating abortion with murder, in this case it would more than likely be considered self-defense – protecting the well being of the mother. The Definition of Self Defense states that "A man may repel force by force in defence of his person, property or habitation, against any one who manifests, intends, attempts, or endeavors, by violence or surprise, to commit a forcible felony, such as murder, rape, robbery, arson, burglary and the like. In these cases he is not required to retreat, but he may resist and even pursue his adversary, until he has secured himself from all danger.” I think that a clump of cells taking up squatting rights in my uterus without my permission counts as holding my body hostage against my will, and on top of it, making me ill and unable to carry on my daily existence for the next 18 years constitutes an aggression that would be justifiably defended against. This is, of course, an extreme definition and not personally how I feel about having children, but in this example, this is how a would-be mother could defend herself.

All this to say…next time, read the rest of my article before jumping to conclusions.

Forget Pro-Choice or Pro-Life. How About Anti-Stupidity?

2011-03-15T21:02:00.000-05:00

The past few weeks have been really hard for me, listening and reading news about the newly-empowered Republican party's attempts to defund Planned Parenthood, the many (surprisingly --and scarily-- successful) attempts at criminalizing abortion, miscarriages and any "attempt on a fetus' right to live" --even if that runs counter to a mother's right to live, and even the New York Times slut-shaming an 11 year old girl after being gang-raped by 18 different men.

This is particularly difficult for me because I am a sexually active, unmarried Black female pro-choice feminist. This is also difficult for me because I'm not an evangelical idiot who seems to cherry-pick Scripture to suit my needs and also has forgotten the basic principles of "separation of church and state".

Abortion, according to Christian beliefs (I lay no claim to knowing if this is the case in other religions), is wrong. So is homosexuality. But if we're really going to be picky here, so is eating pork and shrimp. And I can bet you that if God were going to come down on us today based upon all the rules laid out in the Bible, every last one of us would be going to Hell for one reason or another -- most of which can be found on your average Chinese takeout menu or in a McDonald's, but I digress.

Let me make it very clear that while I am pro-choice, I am NOT pro-abortion. Abortion is a terrible, terrible procedure and I wouldn't wish that decision upon my worst enemy. Herpes, the clap, and an unfortunate case of halitosis, maybe, but not the decision on whether or not to terminate a pregnancy. For those that argue that abortion is the easy way out, I would disagree. I, thankfully, have not had to make this decision, though, after an unfortunate experience with a man who confused lust with love and "no" with "yes", it was on my list of options.

It's those options that pro-life activists would deny women everywhere.

The issue isn't abortion providers. I disagree with what they do in theory, but in practice, they're necessary. Without them, there will be, not might be -- will be an influx in illegal procedures in direct proportion to botched-abortion-related deaths. There will be an uptick in women who die in childbirth because the law prevents doctors from saving her life over that of her child's. The foster care system will be even more overloaded than it is with all the unwanted children resulting from these unplanned pregnancies. Outlawing abortion will not fix the problem.

Educating people about their options will. The issue here isn't abortion providers. It's what to do about all these unplanned pregnancies. It's about educating people about their bodies. Teach kids while they're relatively young about the consequences of unprotected sex. Teach abstinence if you want to, but know that the more you tell a teenager not to do something, chances of them doing exactly that will rise exponentially. The point is that we need to teach people about what their options are instead of restricting their choices out of a sense of paternalism and hoping that will deter them from defying your will.

You can only make an educated decision if you are educated.

Fix the educational system and you'll fix a whole lot of other problems.

A Tale of Twitter's Magic Powers

2011-03-15T11:33:00.002-05:00

For my job, I use an exceptionally slow and oftentimes buggy piece of software called CisionPoint. It's a database that consistently updates media outlets and all the journalists, reporters, producers, etc. that work there. It's also the bane of my existence. It seems that whenever I have anything particularly important to do, Cision is plugging along at the speed of a crippled turtle or crashes my browser.

So, today, being a day when I had a lot of work to do, naturally Cision keeps logging me out, timing out requests, crashing, and generally being a pain in my ass.

Thus, this twitter update:

It's a bit of a long update to fit in 140 characters, so TweetDeck was kind enough to create a link to showcase my longer tweet:

Sometimes I forget that I work in PR and also that I specialize in social media because I have an absurdly low amount of twitter followers, but lo and behold...Cision responded to me!

That's some brand management right there. I still hate Cision with a passion, but at least I know they care.

Missed Connection on the Dance Floor

2011-03-08T18:59:00.001-06:00

You: About 5'10"-6'2", wearing a dark shirt, brown hair, spaz-tastic dance movies, dubious level of sobriety.

Me: About 5'3", dancing with my hipster boyfriend with the tweed blazer, wearing a black dress with black and gold heels, stone cold sober but having the time of my life.

When you lurched into my life, I had no idea that I'd never be the same again. Your drunken dance moves had quite the impact on me as you gaily stomped your way around the dance floor. Your impressive lack of rhythm was only matched by your ability to be in the exact wrong place at the exact wrong time.

This is 2x the size my foot normally is. Thanks, fucker.

I just thought that I should let you know...you broke my foot, asshole.

Why don't you fucking watch where you're going next time? I'm about a third of your size and you didn't even have the decency to say you were sorry after clearly stomping and putting all of your substantial weight on my foot...which is clearly not the floor. Nor will I have the pleasure of suing your ass because you also managed to disappear while I was hopping on one foot, swearing madly and trying to catch my breath.

Fuck you, tall brown haired man. FUCK. YOU. for ruining the one date I've been able to have with my boyfriend in two fucking months because he's away at school most of the god-damned time.

Fuck you for causing my first broken bone in a totally douche-worthy way. I got into a major car crash last year and walked away with a sore neck. I take one turn on the dance floor with you, Drunky McGaylord, and break my fucking foot. Stress fracture, my black ass.

I hope you tripped down those steep-ass stairs on your way out, fucktard. But you probably didn't, because assholes like you never get what's coming to you.

Excuses are like assholes; Everyone's got one, but no one wants to see one.

2011-01-30T00:27:00.000-06:00

I haven't posted in a really long time and I'm super sorry about that. I would have posted but:

1. I've been working my ass off at my job, averaging 50 hour weeks, not including the 1.5 hours it takes me to get to work and the 2 hours it takes me to get home.

2. I'm maintaining my relationship with my Michigan-residing boyfriend long-distance via Skype and phone and frankly, typing is hella loud when you're trying to video chat and terribly distracting when you're trying to listen to what someone has to say.

3. I've been trying to figure out the future of this blog. I'd really like to pick up freelance work and this blog isn't quite professional enough for that. Ideally, I'd like my personal blog and my professional blog (which does exist, but is in beta mode on WordPress right now) to be merged into one, where you can choose what you want to read at your own discretion, but see #1 and #2 as to why I haven't gotten my shit together enough to finish working that out.

4. I'm tired as shit most days.

I haven't been around much. So sue me.

But really, I don't have to explain this all. I just need to get off my ass and write. So I'm back from hiatus...again.

And for all you lurking-ass readers out there, and you all know who you are, help me out here and comment more often so I know you're paying attention.

What do you want to hear my opinions about? Comment away!

Music Theory 101: Autotune Negates Acoustic

2010-12-27T22:07:00.002-06:00

This just came up when I put my iTunes library on Shuffle:

I'm sorry, Jason Derulo, but did you say this was the "acoustic version"?

I think you need a refresher in what "acoustic" actually means:

Courtesy of dictionary.com

So, does a song count as an acoustic version if there is still rampant auto-tuning? I think not. And someone should really let Jason Derulo know. Your track is not acoustic if your entire hook is autotuned. I don't care if you sampled it.

Autotune ≠ Acoustic.

I mean, really? You're going to have three-part harmonies over a vocoder and try to pass this off as an acoustic version? When I can still hear the synthesizer? Really? Taking out the backing beat and replacing it with what sounds like an electronic keyboard does not an acoustic version make.

Acoustic requires a LACK of electronic, sweetie. Put down the vocoder and pick up an acoustic guitar, a drum kit, and a baby grand piano.

...Sigh. Is this really the future of the music industry?

In My Sartorial Defense...

2010-12-21T06:04:00.000-06:00

I know that there is nothing even remotely sartorially defensible about what I'm wearing to work today.

They'd be so appalled by me right now.

I'm wearing a practically see-organic "Threads For Thought" t-shirt because it's my favorite color. You can probably see my bright yellow bra through it because that's another of my favorite colors to wear.

I've covered up in a ginormous, bulky black cardigan that does nothing to flatter my shape because it belongs to my boyfriend and still kinda smells like him.

I'm wearing jeans that while, admittedly, hug my rear nicely, also drag about 3 inches because I'm too cheap and lazy to get them hemmed.

And to top it all off, I'm wearing my hiking boots circa 2005 because it's a winter wasteland outside and I don't want to fall.

So I'm dressed to the 9s, if 9 was on a scale of 1-10 in trife.

Do I give a damn? Nope.

Why?

BECAUSE IT'S MY BIRTHDAY AND I DO WHAT I WANT!

Dear Boyfriend: You're Doing It Right

2010-12-06T21:09:00.000-06:00

That's right, world, I'm off the market.

A rad dude (who I have not come up with a suitable nickname for yet) has managed to trick me into wanting a committed, monogamous relationship. Or maybe I tricked him. Who knows? Who cares? He's pretty freaking awesome and here's 8 reasons why/how he got me to be his girlfriend.

1. He almost quite literally tricked me into going out with him. Admittedly, I blew him off the first time he asked me out. (I'm sorry, honey, but I just really didn't want to have to scramble to find a cool Halloween costume.) He followed up with a plea to go with him to see Paranormal Activity 2 because none of his friends wanted to see it with him and he didn't want to go alone. How could I resist a plea for help? Apparently, he was counting on this because he was lying through his teeth. He definitely made that up so I'd feel bad and say yes. Which I did.

2. He played it super cool (at first). I actually didn't know that Paranormal Activity 2 was a date. He was so aloof - didn't try to hold my hand, didn't try to touch me at all. He barely even looked at me. And since I'm super vain, slightly conceited and I hate being ignored, that piqued my interest. This has changed, of course, now that he knows for sure I'm interested...

3. He's really good at planning dates! I hate decision making for other people. Hate it, hate it, hate it. My rad dude asked me questions about things I liked to do and then made plans accordingly. "Oh, you like bowling? Let's do it. We'll have lunch first. You're fine with McDonald's, right?" My dude's a classy fellow.

4. He listens to me...like, really listens. Okay, this isn't strictly true. I tell him stuff all the time that I have to repeat later because he forgot. But when it counts, he remembers. He knows I can't stand pickles on anything (which admittedly, is easy, because he hates them too). He pays attention to the things I say I do like (romance novels and Rock Band) and applies them later on (takes me to a bookstore chock full of romance novels and drags me to Guitar Center to serenade me).

5. He is a master of negotiations and compromise. I love wearing Uggs. He hates them. I get bored watching soccer. He's played it most of his life. Our deal? I don't catch any flak for wearing my Uggs and he doesn't get called a grass fairy. He wants to have a James Bond-a-thon? Fine. We're watching The Notebook after. Ah, compromise.

6. He's a sneaky, sneaky dude (and by "sneaky," I mean, "straightforward"). He waited until he got me out of the house and on the way to the car this past weekend before he told me he was taking me to meet the parents. I thought we were going skating. After that nerve-wracking experience, he waited about a good 15 minutes for me to settle down and then ambushed me with "The Talk" - the dreaded definition of "what are we". I have to hand it to him, I wouldn't have brought it up. I would have just waited until someone else asked me out and then held it over his head until he got jealous enough to stake his claim. He's all about just hammering things out as they come up.

7. He's a proponent of random acts of awesome. He took me to a used bookstore. This isn't that big of a deal to most, but considering how much I love reading - this is the equivalent of taking a kid to a candy store and handing them $100. He randomly serenades me, and we all know my weakness for musically-inclined lads. He makes me laugh (sometimes, he even means to make me laugh). He's teaching me to play guitar. Just small things that make me smile.

8. He takes a hint. Neither of us was expecting to actually like the other person, so it makes sense that we tried to be as distant as possible during our first couple of dates. But once I warmed up to the idea of seeing him more often, he caught on pretty quickly, but that didn't dictate his actions. I was a little leery of moving quickly with him and he respected that. As far as I know, we're still sorta feeling this out, and that's awesome.

Obviously, these qualities don't work for everyone and I'm clearly not giving dating advice, since I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. Unfortunately for me, dating doesn't come with an instruction manual. Whatever. We'll figure it out.

Happy Hanukkah!

2010-12-06T20:09:00.000-06:00

I'm getting my life together, slowly but surely, and you know what that means...

I'm back, bitches! And for your viewing pleasure, one of my favorite festive viral videos:

Blogging Is Hard When You Have A Life

2010-11-14T23:50:00.000-06:00

I'm serious.

I actually kind of have a life now and it's making it difficult for me to write these days.

I'm busy these days with work, home, and stuff that falls into the "fun" category.

But some of those things are kind of personal and for once, I'm not entirely okay with posting about it. So I'll be posting a bit less frequently about my life and probably more about my reactions to the outside world.

I'm trying to find that line between having my privacy and being a good blogger, and it's gonna take some adjustments.

Don't touch that dial, kiddies. Technical difficulties will only be temporary.

Oops, My Bad - Significant Update

2010-11-08T22:34:00.001-06:00

That's right, bitches! I'm employed!

For those of you who don't know, I haven't been posting regularly not due to my usual laziness, but because I HAVE A JOB!

A real, live job!

More specifically, an internship. But yeah.

I got a really stinkin' awesome internship at a public relations firm (whose name I shall not disclose in case my boss happens to discover this blog and how much of a hot mess I am off the clock).

I've actually been working for them for a little bit over a week. Today was Day 6.

So now this blog is purely for fun and whatever ignorance I can come up with when not sleep deprived or at work.

HUZZAH!

(at least until January, when my internship ends and I start hardcore fretting about whether or not the firm will offer me a full-time position...)

Let's Have A Toast For...

2010-11-04T21:10:00.000-05:00

Ah, the sweet smell of victory...

It is rare that I get to say the following words in any sort of public forum, so pardon me for a moment as I gloat:

I WAS RIGHT!

You see, over a year ago, when VMAGate was at its height, I stood up (sat down and wrote?) in defense of Kanye and said that all he really needed was some time off from work and he'd be a better man for it.

I have just been vindicated.

You see, George W. Bush is releasing his memoir next week, and naturally, because his presidency wasn't controversial enough with all the waterboarding, weapons of mass destruction, and wayward responses to natural disasters, the commentary made five years ago by a rap artist was defined by Bush as "the most disgusting moment in [his] presidency".

Hip hop's resident asshole making an inappropriate comment was the most disgusting moment in your presidency, Dubya? Really?

I'm going to let that alone, because hey, you know what, being President of the United States of America is hard enough of a job. Being called a racist by a celebrity because you were scrambling to figure out what to do when a pretty large portion of the nation you're governing was severely damaged by a national disaster while you're entrenched in an overseas military conflict has to be rough.

That said, the areas of the South that were hit hardest by Hurricane Katrina are still struggling to rebuild, and it is possible that governmental response could have been quicker, more effective, and more importantly, more efficient. Who knows? It's easy to say these things looking back now.

Anyway, Kanye called into KBXX Radio in Houston yesterday to address the comments made by George Bush about his comments years ago:

I don't think I've ever heard Kanye say anything that didn't make me want to punch him in the face. I actually wanted to give him a hug and a cookie for his speech. Maybe even a gold star. Granted, his comments are just a little on the "off" side, comparing the public outcry in response to the Bush presidency's Katrina response to VMAGate, but it is Kanye, after all. I just want to point out a few key lines towards the end of his statement:

I became a better person. I needed that time off because a lot of times when people become celebrities, the moment where you don't have to do your own dishes anymore and you don't have that responsibility anymore, a lot of times you lose a level of humanity. It's a growing process. I feel like a brand new artist. I feel like respect is something that's hard to earn but easy to lose and I feel like I'm on that path to getting that all back right now.

Now let's rewind a bit back to last year...Now what was it that I said? Ah, here it is:

We, as private citizens, revel in the privilege of "the privacy of our own homes", where we can come home at the end of the day and shuck off our public persona, where we can be ourselves, where we can take the time to recharge. When we don't get that time to unwind, to connect with who we really are instead of who people think we are, or the time to DISconnect with who we think people think we should be, we cannot remain as "normal" or as well-adjusted as we should be. And when it gets to that point, frankly, shit happens.

What's that, you say? I'm sorry. I can't hear you over the sounds of Kanye being contrite and a better person (at least for now) and my faith in the human race despite the birth of Soulja Boi and his introduction to the music industry.

Although, now that I think about it, I think Kanye just ripped me off. ARE YOU READING THIS, KANYE? (If so, please send me a copy of your album. I'll review it for this site.)

Nerdgasm: Harry Potter and the Chamber Intruder

2010-10-29T23:24:00.002-05:00

see more Lol Celebs

Music Is The Best Drug Habit You Can Ever Have

2010-10-27T16:13:00.000-05:00

When the right song comes on, when that beat comes bursting through the speakers and into my ears, life becomes an exercise in extrasensory perception. My mind goes blank, all thoughts pushed to the periphery of my consciousness, overwhelmed by the crashing of cymbals. My eyes glaze over and I see a company of dancers performing in complete unison. My limbs twitch as I attempt to not burst into spontaneous movement. My heart beats in sync with the drums. My blood sings in harmony with the melody.

Then the song is over and the world comes rushing in.

Because Halloween Is Simply A Refuge for Slutty Jesus

2010-10-27T12:42:00.000-05:00

Halloween Sluts - watch more funny videos

This is why Halloween is glorious.

Practical Applications: "Blast Boxers"

2010-10-26T21:51:00.000-05:00

Every once in a while, there is a new product on the market that is a really good idea...and not just in the originally intended manner.

Source: CNN.com

Today, I present to you, "Blast Boxers", armored undergarments that supposedly protect the groin from shrapnel. These undergarments are meant to be worn by soldiers in Afghanistan to protect them from potentially deadly shrapnel exploding from IEDs. It protects the groin and the femoral artery, an artery which, if cut, could lead to a quick death from blood loss, and generally reduce "life-changing injuries to the genitalia and colon".

The protective panel is made of the same kind of fabric as Kevlar vests and the rest is composed of a lightweight mesh. They can stop a projectile moving at 230 meters per second (the average speed of a small handgun bullet) and have been worn on a 10-mile run "without causing undue discomfort", though the company that makes them recommends layering these briefs over another pair of tighty-whities.

I'm all for protecting the "rifle and grenades" of our nation's soldiers as they serve our country, and apparently, so are the soldiers in question:

“All soldiers asked whom have recently returned from Afghanistan, confirmed that had the Blast Boxers been available for them, despite the added burden, they would have all, to a man, worn them,” the company says on its website.

That's definitely one company line that I totally believe, but let's think about more practical applications for these "Blast Boxers", shall we?

If these were commercially available, men would have naught to fear from their angered significant others. It's not like scorned women haven't thought about unleashing a shotgun full of buckshot at their philandering partner's phallus. This could very well be the best invention man has seen since the protective cup in the war against intentional junk injuries.

I foresee this being a staple in the wardrobes of the ilk of Tiger Woods, most NBA players, Brett Favre, Ray-Ray on the corner, the boyfriends of Teen Mom candidates everywhere, and any other dude who may be running the risk of having glocks cocked at their...er....

And at the relatively reasonable price of $86 right now, if you're seeing multiple partners with a tendency towards anger management issues, which is easier for you? Actually being a man and engaging in a mature relationship with someone or throwing on some Blast Boxers before heading onto the stage of Maury and taking a chance on some angry baby mama?

[source]

Yes, Facebook. I am an elitist alcoholic in desperate need of a good lay.

2010-10-24T00:55:00.003-05:00

First of all, I don't drink light beer.

Second of all, why is my largest objection to any of these ads the fact that I don't drink light beer?

Crash!

2010-10-20T23:15:00.000-05:00

It's funny how life sometimes takes you on an unexpected detour that can seriously change how you see the world.

Yup, that's a thyroid.

Last week, my dad went into the hospital to have his thyroid gland removed. If you'll recall, he's been having some fairly ridiculous health issues, and this surgery was supposed to correct them. The surgery was a success, and although we were unsure before the surgery as to whether or not this was the best course of treatment for him, the surgeon's telling us that his oversized thyroid was growing into his collarbone and grossing out the scrub nurses definitely let us know that we'd done the right thing.

Also last week, I totaled my car. In a moment of supreme stupidity that I can only chalk up to sleep deprivation, anxiety over how my father was faring his first day out of the hospital, and the feeling of invincibility that one feels when they haven't screwed up for a while, I got into a car accident because I was trying to change the settings on my phone from "Silent" to "Normal" so I'd be able to hear my phone if my mother called with a status update about my dad. In the 30 seconds it took me to do that, I rear-ended the car in front of me so hard that I got the bitch-slap of a lifetime from my airbags. I'm more or less fine, with not much more than a mild case of whiplash, a limited range of motion in my jaw and a so-far-deeply-seated fear of driving. The other driver is fine as well, to the best of my knowledge, since my insurance company requested that I let them handle the particulars of the claims processing.

Now the repercussions of my lapse of judgment are a bit more far-reaching than I would have thought they would be, if I'd thought about the potential for an accident before pulling out my phone. I don't have a car anymore and my parents are (justifiably) not willing to lend me theirs. Not having a car means not having a way to go to school or to work. My dad wasn't allowed to drive until just yesterday, and still tires easily, so asking him for a ride is out of the question. My mom is only just starting to completely calm down after the stress of my dad's surgery and my accident, so I'm not really trying to press my luck with asking favors from her. In addition to transportation difficulties, I've already been running low on funds thanks to the cutbacks in scheduling from my job and am currently almost two months behind on tuition. I could ask my parents for help, but honestly, I feel bad asking because not only have they sacrificed so much to help already, but also because I really dislike this program and the life trajectory I've been on.

Before I enrolled in this program, I had serious doubts as to whether or not medicine was something that I really wanted to do. I was able to convince myself to enroll because I didn't have a job and I don't do very well when my mind is not occupied with work or school. However, after taking these classes and not being challenged at all, I found myself miserable just going through the motions. I'd wake up, dreading my day, throw on some sweatpants, schlep to school, sleep through class, schlep home and go back to bed. I was unhappy. I knew it. My parents knew it. My professors knew it.

New life goal...in progress.

So after this accident, with a lack of transportation and a lack of funds to even continue pursuing this certificate that I didn't want, I made a definitive decision. I'm not going to medical school.

I have little to no interest in postponing my life any more than I already have and it's high time I did something about it. So from here on, I'm going balls out to secure a full-time job doing what I love to do: write.

I'm in the process of withdrawing from my certificate program and I've already started applying for jobs and internships and I'm going to make this work one way or another because life is just too darned short to be toiling away at something that makes you unhappy.

I Am NOT the Last Woman on Earth!

2010-10-11T00:20:00.001-05:00

For the record, I'd like to state that Facebook is the devil. Mark Zuckerberg's electronic empire has gone and made life a living hell for those of us who just don't care to know about the inane minutiae of other people's lives. It's made life even worse for those of us who just can't resist Facebook stalking their friends.

Just to let you know, I fall in the latter camp.

I find myself on Facebook at least 15 times a day or more, rooting out all the latest updates from my friends' profiles. It's a shameful, pathetic obsession, but I can't seem to break myself of the habit. New profile pictures, updated statuses, new networks, you name it, I've probably made a mental note of it while browsing Facebook.

THIS IS NOT ME!!!

However, I have reached my breaking point with the Book of Faces. I can not and will not endure looking at any more indications that I am the Only Single Girl Left in the World. I'm not sure what it is about my peer group, possibly the changing of seasons, the alignment of planets, global warming, or any of the other factors contributing to my News Feed, but it seems like I am definitely the only person I know who is not dating, in a relationship, engaged, married, or raising a child.

I am single for a reason. I'm not sure what that reason is, exactly, but I recall this vague, mystical reason to have been a sound one when I made the conscious decision to not put myself out there in the dating scene. To be fair, though, even when I am "out there", it is rare that I am approached by anyone who meets the bare minimum of my standards: a car, a job, a bachelor's degree, no kids, a cell phone I can reach him on, and a clean police record.

But this article isn't meant to complain about my lack of romance. This article is meant to complain about Facebook making me feel ashamed that I'm not in a relationship. It's one thing to see all my friends in their lovey-dovey relationships - I'm happy for them, even if I am mildly envious. It's another to be singled out and targeted by Facebook's "personalized advertisements" in the sidebar!

Last time I checked, I was not ugly, painfully socially awkward, or fat. Facebook, if I wanted to be in a relationship, I'd've asked out that guy in my class I've had a really awkward crush on for the past year. I don't need your suggestions to join dating sites. The last time I went out with a dude from a dating site, he was 30lbs. larger than advertised, couldn't hold a conversation and had what appeared to be a touch of Down's Syndrome. I don't need your advertisements for in-vitro fertilization. I'm pretty sure that my baby factory is in full, working order and I won't be menopausal for another 32 years or so!

Obviously, I do need to get off Facebook and back into the real world...but I am rebelling against the dictates of Mark Zuckerberg. I do not need to be all boo'ed up in order to be a complete person. I do not need to be listed as "in a relationship" to be validated as a human being.

...But if you're a fairly decent guy and want to go ahead and ask me out for coffee, I'll take a chance on that...

Eff You, Allergies, Autumn and Mother Nature!

2010-10-07T22:01:00.000-05:00

Courtesy of nataliedee.com

Three times a year, I am subject to the worst allergies known to mankind. These attacks of misery coincide with the turning on of heaters in the fall, the turning off of heaters in the spring, and the turning on of air conditioners in the summer. Basically, any time during the year when air filters should have been changed before monkeying around with the central climate control in any given building.

This is one of those times. I've been watching my health slowly circle the drain for the past three days, and let me tell you, if one of you should happen to roll by my house and just take me out with a baseball bat to the back of the head, I wouldn't even press charges...I'm that freaking miserable.

Man...the weird crap you find on Google Images...

Normally, I'd deal with this illness the same way as always: washing down Sudafed with NyQuil straight from the bottle and wandering through life in a semi-stoned haze as my mucous membranes hang out to dry and I find new ways to jazz up the sick-girl's-uniform of sweatpants and hoodies, however, both my body and Mother Nature have made this impossible. Thanks to last month's medical discovery of two kidney cysts and my subsequent inability to drink anything remotely alcoholic without having my back explode into pain, I have found my tolerance for anything resembling a mind-altering narcotic has sunk so low that even taking a normal dosage of DayQuil (DAYQUIL! NyQuil's less cool, straight-laced, tee-totaling, dweeby little brother drug!) will have me as laid out as a heroin fiend after a three-day bender. Damned opiates. In addition to my inability to process over-the-counter medication, Mother Nature has decided to fuck with me as only she can: it's currently in the upper 70s here in the Chicagoland metropolitan area. This means that I can't even take comfort in my many pairs of oversized sweats or even a fresh pot of tea...it's simply too damned hot.

I can haz scarf weather? Plz?

What the fuck, Mother Nature! It's definitely OCTOBER. The leaves are turning colors. A little brisk weather requiring hot apple cider and scarves would not be amiss here. If I have to be sick and miserable, can I at least have the usual crappy weather to go with it?

And so here I am, in bed for the third day straight, because my body doesn't process ailments like normal people. Oh no, I get sick in stages:

Stage 1: Sore Throat (Monday night-Wednesday morning)

Stage 2: Body Aches (Tuesday morning - Thursday afternoon)

Stage 3: Congestion (Tuesday morning-?)

Stage 4: Low Grade Fever (Wednesday)

Stage 5: Weak Cough (Wednesday afternoon - ?)

Stage 6: Itchy, Watery Eyes (Thursday morning - ?)

Stage 7: Runny nose and sneezing (Thursday afternoon - ?)

I've missed school and ruined my (quasi)perfect attendance record, and have otherwise been relegated to spending about 3-6 hours awake and the other 18-21 hours a day asleep in hopes of sleeping off my wicked allergies because I can't breathe well enough to function and if I'm on cold/allergy medication, I'm too drugged up to drive to school/work/anywhere. I feel like ass and there's only so many Disney movies I can watch without wanting to maim myself and/or others.

I have to go to school in the morning. I just can't afford to miss two days. I just have no clue how I'm going to manage it.

Kindle the Kokbloker?

2010-09-25T15:10:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking about getting either a Kindle or an iPad recently because although I love the tactile experience of picking up a book, my back doesn't appreciate how many books I cram into my purse.

My friend Ashton directed me to this ad to help with my decision:

Very salient points made very quickly. I, too, am thrifty and would like to be able to read in the sun. However, thanks to the sidebar of "Related Videos", I stumbled on this reaction video:

This guy makes a VERY good point. I'd rather talk to the pretty girl than read, that's for sure. Is the Kindle indeed a cockblocker? Do you find yourself unable to strike up random conversation with people in order to ask them about their reading apparatus? Or is this guy truly just suffering from unemployment insanity?

In any case, he needs to put on a shirt. Please and thank you.

Health Update

2010-09-23T21:30:00.000-05:00

First of all, I want to thank everyone who texted, emailed, tweeted, IM'ed and otherwise saved me from myself over the past few days. I know I've been a total basketcase, calling and texting (and blogging!) at odd hours about my fears about my health, and I just want to thank you all for putting up with me and keeping me in your prayers.

I had the ultrasound today, which is way better than a CT, for the record. Although I resent having to go in and have people poke and prod at me when I have a full bladder (much less the invasive portion of the pelvic ultrasound which I will decline to describe in detail...), it still beats slurping down barium sulfate suspension and having my veins pumped full of radioactive markers that make me burn from the inside out.

I haven't gotten the results back, but I guess my nervousness really impacted the ultrasound tech because she told me not to worry about my results and that she didn't really see any reason why I would have any serious issues.

So, I'm cautiously optimistic about my results, but I definitely still want to know why my stomach hurts!!

What Is Wrong With Me? - Health Edition

2010-09-22T23:35:00.001-05:00

For the past couple of weeks, I've been having some fairly serious health issues.

During Labor Day Weekend, I was standing in my cousin's wedding, and as a member of the bridal party, participated in quite a few heavy drinking nights. I don't drink very often, and true to my lightweight form, I had the hangover from hell most of the "morning[s] after". However, Sunday evening of that weekend, around a good sixteen hours after my last drink, I found myself hunched over the toilet at work, vomiting blood.

Not a good look.

I got sent home (and written up for "not providing adequate customer service"), and procrastinated on going to the doctor for five days, just to rule out my illness being a particularly heinous hangover. By the time I went to the doctor, I'd been in pain for almost a week and hadn't been able to eat anything without fairly excruciating pain, accompanied by feelings of nausea, bloating and a burning sensation like my stomach was trying to claw itself out of my body. The doctor suspected I might have an ulcer and sent me to a radiologist to have an abdominal CT scan, which, by the way, if you haven't ever had one, is one of the worst diagnostic tests I think you can have. First, you can't eat or drink anything for at least four hours before you have the procedure done, which, for someone as perpetually on the verge of starvation like me, is a terrible restriction to have. Then, once you get there, you have to drink this foul barium sulfate suspension...which, in my case, smelled like oranges, but tasted like glue. As if that isn't bad enough...there's the sheer quantity of how much you have to drink.

No, you're not seeing double. There's two of them. Each containing 450mL of barium sulfate suspension. For those of you not counting at home, that's 900mL...almost a full liter of this foul substance to drink in under half an hour. I nearly vomited all of this stuff back up after having to chug both of those containers and it took a force of will to keep it all down. I don't think I'll be able to smell citrus anymore without feeling some residual nausea.

I could go through the whole process of the CT scan, but I'm honestly experiencing some light symptoms of PTSD just thinking about it, so I'm going to move on. To make a long story short, I still don't know if I have an ulcer. I got my CT results back last week and the nurse who called didn't say a word about my potential ulcer. She did, however, tell me that I needed to make an appointment to see an ultrasound technician as soon as possible. Apparently, instead of solving the mystery of my ailing stomach (which still hurts, by the way, but is being managed by a prescription antacid), they found cysts on my kidneys and ovaries.

My ultrasound is tomorrow and I am scared shitless.

I know that kidney and ovarian cysts are usually fairly harmless, but I am terrified of getting bad news. Funnily enough, I'm okay with the kidney cysts. I don't drink enough for me to be super concerned about that.

What has me completely freaked out are the ovarian cysts. My biggest fear right now is that these cysts will somehow interfere with my ability to have children in the future.

I've always wanted a big family with lots of kids. The thought of being incapable of bearing children scares me so badly that I can hardly stand it. I've spent a lot of time crying over the past few days, mourning the children I may never be able to have. I didn't even know I felt this strongly about having children until the thought that I might not be able to have any came up. And now that's all I can think about. It got to the point that I started thinking about contingency plans: adoption, harvesting my eggs and storing them for surrogacy, even getting knocked up as soon as possible.

And what scares me about these contingency plans is that I realized that I would throw away my future career for a hypothetical child. I'd put my life on hold in order to have a child. I would do it and I don't even think I would regret it. Not even a little bit. For all my feminism, for all my wanting gender equality and more women in the workforce, for all my "Rosie the Riveter" rhetoric...when it comes down to it, I would give it all up to be a mother. Not a wife. A mother.

I'm hoping that my ovaries will be just fine, that I won't have any fertility issues in the future, but damn, I am so, so scared that something will be wrong.

I guess I'll find out tomorrow, one way or another.

MTV 2010 VMAs: "I Want My Four Hours Back" Rant

2010-09-15T22:14:00.006-05:00

I broke a personal rule this week. I watched the MTV Video Music Awards. I generally have a rule against watching any cable-sponsored music (or any entertainment-based, really) awards shows because I find them to be chock-full of inane, self-obsessed, preening idiots incapable of any modicum of self-awareness. This is the rant that I rattle off yearly whenever the BET Awards airs (incidentally, the awards ceremony that started my all-encompassing ban due to large and unseemly amounts of ignorant and coontastic shenanigans). I lifted that ban this year because I missed all the drama of last year's VMAs, which I dubbed "Stage Crashers: Redux". Both Kanye West and Lil Mama made impromptu, unscheduled and highly inappropriate appearances onstage - the rundown of which can be read here, along with my commentary that admittedly came late since I had to catch the clips on YouTube instead of on television.

Ever since that fateful night, the media has latched onto Kanye West as a mustachioed villain capable (and guilty) of despicable deeds of ne'er-do-well against the virginal and virtuous Taylor Swift.

It's been a year and Kanye has spent most of it in (only slightly self-imposed) exile, whereas Taylor has enjoyed an even more meteoric rise to stardom than when she first sang about "Teardrops on [her] Guitar" or even when Joe Jonas dumped her over the phone and she wrote a song about it. If last year's ceremony was "Stage Crashers Redux", then this year's was "Beating Dead Horses for Ratings", which, admittedly, isn't as catchy, but really, throughout the entire awards pre-show and ceremony, I was less than amused by MTV's ploys for ratings that demonstrated a complete lack of originality, sensitivity, or even decent comedic timing.

During the pre-show, all the emphasis was on Nicki Minaj and Drake, which bewilders the hell out of me because I think both are completely overrated. I really want to know, though, who Nicki's stylist is because for her performance, someone - anyone, really - should have told her about the vicious camel-toe she was rocking along with her cotton-candy-colored beehive and spangly American Apparel bodysuit. I had the dubious pleasure of gaping at the latex-encased profile of Minaj's vag in HD and couldn't pry my eyes or attention long enough to process what she was singing? Rapping? I don't even know...until will.i.am. came on stage as a – wait for it – black latex ROBOT. No, seriously. At first, I (and all my Twitter followers/followees) thought it was a subverted form of blackface, but no, he was a rubber robot (or so we think). Okay, we get it, Nicki Minaj, you're different from Lil Kim, Foxy Brown and Trina (even though you're kinda really not). And will.i.am, yes, you are eccentric and actually not interchangeable with Wyclef Jean (even if I think you two totally look alike) or even the other members of the Black Eyed Peas (which is ridiculous because there's only that one biracial Skeletor-lookin' dude that I don't readily recognize), but really? Was all that even necessary?

MTV also trotted out their prize ponies – the cast of "Jersey Shore" over and over again. I'm not entirely sure if they realize how absurd they are, so I'm going to refrain from comment. [sidenote: If "Jersey Shore" turns out to be a huge hoax and all of these idiots are actually actors in guido-face, it would be the most brilliant ploy MTV has ever pulled off. If not (which is more likely the case), society has definitely taken a nosedive towards hell.]

The first performance of the night was Eminem's. My insane lust for that angry white man with a history of drug abuse, decent (if not good) parenting skills and sheer talent aside, an objective assessment of his performance would describe it as understated but totally worthy of an opening performance. The performance of "Love the Way You Lie" sparked a lot of commentary about the Chris Brown-Rihanna domestic violence scandal of 2009. If anyone deserves to be able to bitch and moan about crimes perpetrated against them by a black man, it's definitely Rihanna. She has every right to speak out about her experiences, to process what has happened to her and to heal her physical and psychological wounds. And she has. She has spoken about it publicly (and I hope, had time and space to deal with it privately) and has dealt with her situation. What is most important is the salient point that she has repeatedly forgiven Chris Brown in interviews. She is not holding a grudge. So I really don't understand why everyone else is still up in arms. Chris didn't "Chris Brown" you. He's serving his debt to society per the judicial system. Let it go, public at large.

However, the victimization of women by black men apparently is a great comedic trope, especially when employed by small, perky blonde women, according to host Chelsea Handler's opening sally. It consisted of Handler in a bathrobe being "encouraged" for her upcoming gig by being repeatedly smacked on the ass by numerous large black men without her consent or approval. I was super-uncomfortable with the depiction of big, burly black dudes sexually harassing the small, blonde woman – it made for really awkward racist relationships to be drawn. I was also mildly horrified by the Lindsay Lohan cameo in which the trope of sexually-aggressive black men was further carried out even as she was basically downgraded to their level as she also harassed Handler and smacked her on the ass.

Handler kept the "black men are all conspiring against white women" angle going by painting Snoop Dogg as an angry black man (who coincidentally smoked her out...which would make it kind of ludicrous for someone high on weed to be that angry...), a joke that wasn't even remotely funny due to its pervasive inaccuracy. The majority of the rest of the show kinda went "blah blah blah Gaga sweeps awards blah blah B.o.B. and Paramore had an awesome back-to-back set of performances blah blah Jared Leto needs to cut his mullet blah blah blah". The only much hyped performances through the whole show were those of Taylor Swift and Kanye West.

Of course. Of fucking course.

The entire show was dedicated to a 3-minute (tops) moment that happened a YEAR ago. The majority of the show's jokes was a collection of snide jabs at Kanye and basking in the brilliant blonde glow of Taylor's "triumph" over the douchebaggery of Kanye. Her song was preceded by a replaying of last year's VMA footage, just in case you forgot or didn't pay attention the first 18,724,369 times (a ballpark guesstimate) and although I enjoy Taylor Swift and her completely interchangeable songs about pretty, rich, white heteronormative girls with problems (which is a welcome change from my life as an attractive, broke, black queer girl with problems), that song and that performance made me hate her. And not in the usual "the grass is pretty damn green on the never-been-systematically-oppressed side" way. No, this was a slow boil of "Oh my God, you are such a condescending BITCH!" Now, I understand that this song was written a year ago and that MTV probably leaned pretty hard on Swift to perform this song as opposed to her actual single, "Mine", but damn, she seemed patronizing up there, barefoot as if the stage were her private living room, singing to Kanye in vague terms with phrases like "you're still an innocent", "what you did is not who you are" and "you're 32 and still growing up now". Bitch, please.

That, MTV execs, did NOT make it look like Taylor was taking the high road. It made her look like a petty, insincere child passive-aggressively holding a grudge and expressing it through a vague and cryptic song with backhanded compliments strewn throughout, aimed at a man (a black man, at that) almost twice her age who put her in her place a year ago. Let's be real here. Although what Kanye did last year was w.r.o.n.g. WRONG wrong (there's no denying that), the man had a good point. Taylor's video ("You Belong With Me") was not better than Beyoncé's (considering how much I can't stand B, that's a huge concession coming from me) and will never be considered even remotely as iconic as "Single Ladies". So I really don't get why this breach of etiquette turned out into an all-out war against Kanye. Yes, he's an asshole who happens to be talented enough that we can't really say all that much about him until he does something stupid. But come on. We already knew he was an asshole. This is nothing new. Get over it.

The last performance of the night was the man of the [four] hour[s] himself, Kanye West, performing his debut single, "Runaway", from his upcoming album. It was prefaced by a completely not funny rehash of last year's scandal (again) by Aziz Ansari, reminding just one last time that MTV's whipping boy was present to account for his actions. And boy, did he ever. "Runaway" was a total confession while also acknowledging that he was not the only person to ever make a mistake, "Let's have a toast for the douchebags/ Let's have a toast for the assholes/ Let's have a toast for the scumbags/ Every one of them that I know/ Let's have a toast to the jerkoffs/ That'll never take work off/ Baby, I got a plan/ Run away fast as you can."

Totally Kanye – admitting his faults without giving ground and an added bonus of probably pissing off the FCC with all those definitely inappropriate lyrics during a live show. The song was wonderfully apropros without seeming like he was groveling to the public...and the public ate. it. up. He was the only artist ALL night to get the audience begging for an encore. There were definitely still some malcontents, such as one of the members of The Frisky's staff complaining during the performance via Twitter, "Kanye does not know how to apologize." (Really? Because interrupting a speech warrants a year's worth of apologies? Because the only person he truly offended's forgiveness doesn't matter to you? Because you're so important in this scheme of things that he needs to personally apologize to you for what he did to someone you don't even know? Pshh, get over yourself.) By and large, though, his performance was, while not necessarily a triumphant return, definitely a well-received return to the public eye. Here's hoping he doesn't fuck up again.

So here I am now, after having spent four hours watching, two days seething and two days writing and this long rant was the result. The only conclusions that I've come to about awards shows now are these:

This VMAs was like the 2005 SuperBowl halftime show. Only watched because of a rather futile hope that there'd be another scandal, or more accurately, that Janet Jackson would flash us again - but we only saw that CBS locked down the proceedings and nothing interesting ever happened again. Think about it...we haven't had a good halftime show since that "wardrobe malfunction" in '04!
Both Jared Leto and Justin Bieber need haircuts.
I really don't like watching people perform barefoot. Isn't that floor dirty?
I miss the days when MTV actually played music videos.
I'm never watching this again.

To sum up, this is precisely why I don't watch award shows.

P.S. Fuck you, Twitter, for locking me out of my account for THREE HOURS for livetweeting. I will harpoon you and your fail whale.

Live Tweeting the VMAs!!

2010-09-12T19:08:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year again. Last year, Kanye made an ass of himself and disappeared for a year. Lil Mama made herself relevant for all of 5 seconds.

What kind of whacked out mess is gonna happen this year?

I'm making an exception to my general "No Cable-Sponsored Award Ceremony" embargo in order to live-blog (or in this case, tweet) the awards this year.

So, for live, up-to-the-second (depending on the quality of my wireless signal) commentary on the shenanigans we all (okay, I) hope ensue, follow me on Twitter (@laflorencia).

Taylor Swift's "Mine" Music Video: Thoughts?

2010-08-30T23:33:00.000-05:00

No, I'm not crying. I've just got something in my eye.

Taking Ownership Postponed Until Sunday

2010-08-26T23:45:00.000-05:00

...I realized that the next post I had in queue for "Taking Ownership" would be best used on a Sunday. So you'll just have to wait until then.

Sorry!

(It'll make more sense later. I promise.)

Prove It...And By "It", I Mean "Yourself"...

2010-08-19T14:44:00.001-05:00

We're asked to prove ourselves on a fairly regular basis. So often, in fact, that most of the time, we don't even realize it. We're asked to verify our phone numbers, our names, our ages, our addresses. We're asked to show identification, to confirm reservations, to recite the last four digits of our social security numbers. Our mother's maiden name, our first pet, first love, favorite color, secrets we haven't even told our families or significant others. The world has us set up to constantly and consistently prove that we are who we say we are. Apparently, there are just enough disingenuous people in the world, masquerading as people that they are not, that we have to go through life constantly reassuring everyone around us that we are who we say we are, that we are not trying to trick them into believing that we are someone we are not.

This institutionalized identification process strikes me as disingenuous in and of itself because a few numbers, a few solid facts do not identify a person fully. My first pet when I was three has nothing to do with who I am at twenty-two. An arbitrary set of nine numbers assigned to me at birth doesn't do anything to tell you who I am. My indignation at being asked to certify and notarize my existence, however, pales in significance to the downright bitter, seething rage I feel when asked to validate what I am, as opposed to who.

Asking who I am isn't so bad as asking what, because as a twenty-something, I'm not supposed to know who I am. Or at least, that's the deal that I signed on for. I just got out of college, when I was supposed to have "found myself"...now that I've graduated, the task at hand is reconciling the self that I found in college with the self I need to be in the real world. I learned a lot about myself in college - most of which is utterly useless and irrelevant outside the confines of the university to which I pledged a good tenth of my income for the next 10 years thanks to student loans - but the fact is, I learned about myself. With the liberal arts degree I've got, I sure as hell didn't learn anything else useful. So, for all intents and purposes, I'm fine with the who aspect of myself.

The what part is where I run into trouble. The what that invariably precedes the full sentence "What do you do?" Right now, I don't do anything of any significance. And that feeling of being useless and unimportant makes my stomach churn, my blood boil and my heart hurt. What's funny about this feeling, this feeling of insignificance, is that I'm actually being productive. I'm making my own way. I'm working towards medical school, a goal that is very much achievable and will happen within the next two years. I have a plan. But right now, it doesn't feel like enough because I am constantly being compared with my peers. My peers who also graduated from one of the top schools in the country. My peers who are doing amazing things with their lives right now.

A young lady I bantered with about the terribleness of Abercrombie & Fitch cologne and how it smelled like "baby prostitutes" during a French theater class is currently rocking the blogosphere and I find her articles everywhere I love to read. Another that blew me me away with her sweet personality and amazing voice...just signed a record deal with JMD/Universal Records. One of my friends who always DJ'ed our parties and performed at our events is now a DJ both at an online radio station and on the radio waves of NJ 1460 AM. One of my best friends got married and is starting a Ph.D program at Stanford, where one of the professors stated, "you had to have a letter of recommendation from a professor stating that you were one of the best they've seen in their career to get in here". Another friend is booking stand-up comedy gigs like there's no tomorrow...which is awesome because she's seriously one of the funniest, most self-aware (sometimes, painfully so) people I know.

I don't begrudge my peers their success. I'm genuinely happy for them, excited for them, proud of them. I'll always be one of their loudest cheerleaders and I'd do anything for them within my power to help them succeed.

But there's this leaden feeling in my gut like I'm not doing enough. That I should be as successful as they are...right now. Not two years from now, but right. now. I feel inadequate and scared and as if I'm being left behind as they go on to do these great things while I'm taking General Biology, tutoring reluctant teenagers and convincing that creepy old guy at the video store I work at that I really don't want to go on a date with him because he is creepy and old.

I really should just fall back and remember the most important thing I learned at Princeton - Don't compare yourself with other people. You'll always lose. Not because everyone's better than you. But because we all have different strengths, weaknesses and handicaps, and at the end of the day, all of us will get our moment to shine.

On the real though? I'm sitting on my parents' couch, eating broken cookies because my dad slings them around like a cement mixer in the car on the way home from WalMart, in my pajamas in the middle of the day on a weekday because I only got about 15 hours of work this week, listening to my dogs snore and wishing the school year would hurry up and start so I won't have as much free time on my hands as I battle rush hour traffic for the next year because I'm incapable of saving money to move out (and even if I wasn't financially retarded, I just spent all of my money fixing my car). It's pretty hard to not feel like a failure.

I don't need to prove myself. I don't have to. But I want to.

I will, eventually. It's just the waiting that's hard.

Bear With Me

2010-08-17T01:07:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I know I was due for another "Taking Ownership" post on Sunday, but I was out of town helping my little brother move into his college dorm for his freshman year.

I miss the booger already.

I'll ~~post~~ write the post I owe you sometime later this week and double up for your troubles. Unfortunately, this week is kind of crazy because I'm revving up for the school year (and because I'm on a deadline for a couple of essays I owe a certain gentleman I have a business arrangement with).

So bear with me, guys.

I'll be back soon.

P.S. If you are in desperate need of my thoughts and opinions, follow me on twitter.

http://www.twitter.com/laflorencia

I Get So Confused...

2010-08-13T00:38:00.004-05:00

...when strange black men supposedly from Princeton friend me on Facebook.

This is what I would like to say to you, Strange Black Princetonian Male:

I don't think I know you. And I think I would know you. There aren't that many black people at Princeton and there's about 3/4 less black men than women on campus. I know every single black male within about 6 years of my year (from around '07-'12), and you are not one of them. Believe me, I do know everyone. Even if I haven't formally met every black person within the past 6 years at Princeton, I know people who know people and I do not know anyone who knows you.

And there's the fact that you're attractive, Strange Black Princetonian Male. This fact means that I definitely would know who you are because I've either hooked up with, alienated, been alienated by, or befriended almost every attractive black Princetonian male I've ever met that was within the aforementioned year parameters. I do not remember being angry, friendly, or in bed with you. You have never entered in one of my flights of fancy about finding an attractive black Princetonian male to settle down with.

So, who are you?

That is what I'd like to say to you. In reality, I'm just going to accept your friend request because you're cute and until you alienate me with spam postings or horrendous grammar, you're eye-candy on my news feed.

Yeah, I'm shallow. So what?

Taking Ownership: I Neither Want Nor Need To Go To The Gym

2010-08-08T01:11:00.001-05:00

I'm 5'3½". If you see me in person and dispute that half an inch, I will fight you in the face. I need that half an inch. I am five feet, three and a half inches tall.

I weigh approximately 137 pounds. Fun fact: My driver's license says I weigh 135lbs. I lied. I weighed about 145 when I first got it. Another fun fact: When I renewed my license two years ago, the DMV worker looked me up and down and asked me if I wanted to raise the weight on my license. I glared at him for even daring to suggest it.

I've never been what one could consider to be "thin" or "in shape". I haven't been able to see my abdominal muscles since...ever. Once upon a time in high school, I had biceps, but I also worked at an ice cream parlor, did a lot of heavy lifting on a regular basis, and had mandatory gym class. I now struggle to complete even one push-up. I have a perpetual roll of fat on my back that I can't seem to get rid of.

Not that I've tried particularly hard. I hate going to the gym. I hate walking. I hate running. I like swimming, but as I'm not particularly good at it, I don't do it often. I hate feeling incompetent and since I'm not particularly coordinated, that happens a lot when I try anything that vaguely resembles aerobic movement.

I have done the exercise thing before. Last week, when I spoke about my last relationship and the subsequent weight that I gained, I neglected to mention my efforts to lose the extra weight. During the summer of 2007, I walked through my housing subdivision every day. I changed my eating habits as well. I started out that summer weighing about 160 pounds. It did not look good on me.

At least, I didn't think it looked good on me. No one else (besides my parents) seemed to even have noticed that I'd gone from a size 6 to a size 10/12 in less than six months. At the end of my sophomore year in Spring 2007, I barely fit into any of my clothing and I wore out the inner thighs of a lot of pants from all the friction from my thunder thighs. Even if I didn't look particularly fat, I felt fat. And my parents, picking me up from college that year, hissing to one another, "What happened to her? She's huge!", didn't particularly help. The pants that I'm wearing in this picture to your left are a size 12, the largest pair of pants I have ever owned. I actually had to conduct an hour-long search through my friends' Facebook albums to find this photo (though I was looking for the one of me and my ex), because I untagged all of the photos from that period of time because I was so ashamed of how I looked. I started wearing large, baggy and rather ill-fitting tops to accommodate my burgeoning belly. Actually, to be more accurate, I started wearing my boyfriend's and my own baggy sweats whenever possible because it not only cloaked my fat, but also masked the fact that I hadn't had time to shower before leaving my boyfriend's room in the mornings to go to class. Those were dark times as far as my bodily upkeep was concerned. So I tried to lose some of the weight and shower more frequently. It helped. I lost about 10 pounds that summer.

In the fall, post break-up, I lost all of the weight I had gained and some extra weight I probably didn't need to lose. Completely by accident. I was wallowing in self-pity and sorrow and I let myself sink into a deep pit of depression and basically went into hibernation for three weeks. Hardly any food for three weeks as I slept, cried, and tried to devise ways to win my boyfriend back...but mostly just sleeping and crying. I don't recommend this dieting plan. The sheer amount of effort and energy it takes to sustain a three-week-long crying jag is exhausting. I don't have any pictures during that period of time. There's one or two photos of me as I started to snap out of it, but none that really show how much weight I'd lost until about six months later, during Spring Break of 2008, when I rebelled against my ex's implied disapproval of me in skimpy clothing and went to Jamaica with friends in an attempt to have a good time and rub his face in how fantastic I was doing without him. It only worked on the "have a good time" front, because he really didn't give a rat's ass how I was doing, although he did vocally express disapproval at my choice in swimwear. And clothing. And my general lack of shame in being photographed near naked and posting it all over Facebook for the world to see. Okay, so maybe he did care a little bit. But then again, what guy would want to see his ex on a beach in next to nothing, flaunting the goodies that he used to have exclusive rights to for all his (and her) jackass friends (that she may or may not have hooked up with before they dated) to see? ...Mission Immaturity: Accomplished.

Anyway, I started going to the gym the next year because I'd gotten my navel re-pierced (long story) with a friend that summer and we promised each other that we would workout together to at least try to tone up so we wouldn't have jelly-bellies with jewelry. I also got roped into my athlete friend's workout plan for a bit while she was on injury. And then there was the America's Next Top Model auditions in NYC for the short people season. The fact that I didn't want to have to write my senior thesis also factored into this equation and I privately felt that I was justified in not working on my thesis if I was torturing myself in the gym.

And then I moved to South Korea.

If I'd thought that I'd dropped a startling amount of weight after I'd gotten dumped, it was nothing compared to the weight loss I experienced from the sheer stress of my job at that hagwon. I dropped so much weight in those three months that even my panties didn't fit anymore. Even the smallest of the clothes that I had brought were significantly too large.

After I fled the country (I'll be celebrating my anniversary of independence in about a week), I didn't really pick the weight back up again. So here I am, a year later, a size 4/6. I have to buy some of my clothing in youth sizes due to my short stature. I even went down a shoe size. However, the fact that I'm thinner now than I was in high school is not the reason why I, all of a sudden, love my body enough to say, "F*ck the gym and cardiovascular exercise".

I'm happy with my body as it is and do not seek to change it because I've come to the realization that my "weight-loss journey" was really a manifestation of my life's journey. I will lose or gain weight depending on where I'm going in life, and I'm okay with that. As long as I'm healthy, I see no need to artificially create situations in which I am forced to exhaust myself running on a treadmill or limit my interactions with my one true love -- complex carbohydrates.

I'm happy with my body because it is a tapestry in progress. My body is reflective of my life experience. I have stretch marks (my ass looks like a zebra), scars (thank you, Cold Stone Creamery and Missy Fischer for that second-degree burn on my arm), and a variety of various marks and defects on my body, and I love them all. They all tell a story or reveal something about me that otherwise would not be readily known. That fat roll I can't get rid of? Evidence of a healthy appetite. The trail of scars leading down from my navel? Let's be real, by the time a dude that gets that far down the naked road with me, he is not going to care that once upon a time, I had a problem with ingrown hairs and a pair of tweezers. That weight of mine that will not budge? Sign that I'm supposed to be this size. And since I no longer have to wear men's large sweatpants unless I want to? I'm perfectly fine. I don't want to look like a body builder and I have no interest in being a model. I am self-aware enough to know that I should probably never wear leggings as pants (and neither should anyone else).

I'm comfortable in my skin and the fact that hourglass figures are coming back into vogue (it's the only thing I think Beyoncé is good for) is only a plus. I'm healthy and conforming to other people's ideas of what I should look like is for the birds.

34C-28-38. Those are the measurements of one content chick.

Fuck the gym and pass the Hostess snack cakes. Life's too short to live on salad.

An Apology That Will Likely Never Be Answered Or Accepted

2010-08-01T07:48:00.000-05:00

Dear Ex-Boyfriend,

In all likelihood, you'll never read this. Not unless one of your friends that reads this blog happens to send you a link. I sort of hope they will, because I'd like to think that you'd be interested in what I have to say. I really hope they don't, because I'm embarrassed that after all this time, you're still on my mind and because I hate admitting that I'm wrong, especially to you.

However, I'm working on being a better person and I can't do that without doing this first.

I'm sorry.

Without recriminations, caveats, excuses, or any mentions of promises made now or in the past, I am sorry. I have not treated you fairly since we broke up, and I have treated you even less fairly since we stopped speaking to each other. I have no excuse for what I have said and done except that I am still growing as a person and I have made multitudes of mistakes where you are concerned.

I unfairly blamed you for a lot of things, most of which you know about, some of which I assume that you don't since we haven't spoken in over a year. We both acted reprehensibly in our interactions with each other and I'm apologizing for my part in the shambles that was our friendship. No matter how angry or hurt or upset I was with or by you, I was wrong in channeling it by saying mean and hurtful things both to your face and to mutual friends, and I sincerely hope that it has not impacted you in any way in the long run and I regret taking any actions that could have led to lasting repercussions.

In all likelihood, this apology means next to nothing to you because you'll probably never read it and even if you do, you've made it perfectly clear that you would rather have nothing to do with me. If your feelings on that front have changed (which I highly doubt -- we certainly burned a lot of bridges), you know how to contact me.

I am sorry - deeply and truly sorry for how things have turned out. I'd be lying if I said that I didn't miss counting you among my friends, but I do see how our estrangement could potentially be for the best.

Also, I forgive you. Finally. For everything. I'm tired of being angry at you. I'm tired of flinching every time someone says your name. So I'm letting go.

We loved each other once, and for quite some time, we even liked each other. We should have done better by each other, just for the sake of what we used to have, but hey, everyone makes mistakes. As long as we learned from them, they weren't a complete waste, right?

And since this post is way too heavy for me to deal with right before I fall asleep, I'm throwing in a semi-relevant YouTube clip to make me chuckle:

Good night/good morning,
Brittney

Taking Ownership: I Like Myself The Way I Am

2010-08-01T03:09:00.044-05:00

I'm starting a new weekly posting schedule for this particular topic, "Taking Ownership". I spend a lot of time talking about the problems in my life and not a whole lot of time of doing anything about them. I want that to change. So, once a week (I guess since this is going up on a Sunday morning, it's going to be on Sundays), I'll be posting about one thing that I've taken ownership for in my life. This week, I'm taking ownership for myself.

Approximately three years ago, I lay in bed, curled up on my side, facing the wall, silently weeping into my pillow so that my boyfriend couldn't hear me cry myself to sleep. Shaking with suppressed sobs, all I could think was that I was fat and ugly and that there was no possible way that my boyfriend could find me attractive. I felt like a loathsome she-beast incapable of finding someone to look past the flaws, both exterior and interior, to find me and love me for it. My hair was too thin, my face was too fat, my stomach was too pudgy, I had far too much body hair, and I dressed like a bum because I was too fat to fit any of my regular clothes.

At the time, I was 19, in love, and completely insecure. My boyfriend was an athlete and when he wasn't going to basketball practice or working out, he was studying hard, and when he wasn't doing that, he was working on his music career, and while he was doing all of that, he doted on me. I was an a cappella drop-out (I had creative differences with my groupmates), barely maintaining a C-average, sleeping through classes because I was too stressed out about the fact that I was perpetually behind in my homework as a pre-med, and perpetually on edge because several people I thought were friends launched a slanderous campaign impugning my moral character. When I wasn't pretending to all the world that my world wasn't falling apart, I was clinging to my boyfriend as if my life depended on it.

Because I felt that he was so fantastic: a great student, a good athlete, a talented musical artist, a great lover and Christian to boot, I felt that I constantly had to keep proving that I could be what he needed me to be. I changed the way I dressed, the way I talked, who I talked to, where I went, what I did for fun. I started attending church regularly and joined the church executive board. I stopped talking to previous boyfriends, hookups and crushes because he didn't like the fact that I'd slept with people before him. I became soft-spoken and timid. I was scared of scaring him off. I was scared of being myself.

I gained weight because I could never tell him that I wasn't really that hungry when he wanted food late at night in addition to the three meals a day we ate together, and also because I never went to the gym because I was too embarrassed and ashamed to go when the gym was filled with ridiculously skinny girls. I lost a lot of friends because I made my world revolve around him. My best friends in the world didn't see me for weeks at a time. My own mother barely heard from me. I lost myself in who I thought he wanted me to be and I was so patently unhappy, being his Stepford girlfriend, that I lashed out at inopportune times. I became exactly what I feared - someone difficult to be with.

A pertinent fact that needs to be stated is that he never asked me to change. To be perfectly honest, he did ask me to not wear that obscenely short miniskirt anymore (he wasn't the only one to comment on it, in retrospect), to not swear so much (later, I would accidentally curse in front of a group of visiting preteens from a Christian school -- oops), and to lay off the vulgar jokes (I maintain he was too uptight about me telling that skullf*cking story-- it was a good story!), but he never asked me to change anything that was patently me. I just thought that with his being so amazing and with so many nay-sayers to our relationship (one actually going so far as to say in Bible study that I wasn't good enough for him -- and another of them being my own mother), that in order to be worthy of him, I needed to be different.

Eventually, he broke up with me. The long and sordid details of our relationship with each other post-breakup are, well, long and sordid, but, suffice to say, my already fragile ego took several hits and I scraped up enough dignity to walk away from the situation, but not quite enough self-respect and class to not trash-talk the young man who broke my heart. I will say this though: I never spread any lies about him. Everything I've ever said about him was true, but it didn't come from a place of pure honesty. It came from a place of extreme bitterness and anger about how our relationship and, even more importantly, our friendship, disintegrated before my eyes. It came from a very dark place that wanted him to be as miserable as I was because I blamed him instead of taking responsibility for my own insecurities that contributed to the disaster that was our relationship. We were both to blame. Not just him. Not just me. Both of us. And that is something that's taken me nearly three years to accept.

It's also taken me the same amount of time to learn to find and like myself again.

I swear. I drink. I wear miniskirts and bikinis. I don't go to church. I tell vulgar jokes and stories. I read cheesy romance stories. I read (and write) Harry Potter and Twilight fan fiction - but not Harry Potter/Twilight crossovers. Those suck. I knit. I regularly fight the urge to shoplift from Barnes and Noble because they don't put security sensors in all their books and from Kohl's because of a long-standing grudge because of an ill-made sweater that unraveled on my body at school in the 10th grade. I sleep more than I should. I probably watch far more porn than is healthy. I'm brutally honest and when you get to know me, unfailingly outspoken. I'm unfailingly loyal when I believe the cause is right. I love furry animals and babies (but furry infants are just weird). I cry at any depiction of love on television, the silver screen or the internet. I crave a combination of exhilarating freedom and cozy intimacy.

I know a lot more about myself now than I did at 19. I'm sure I'll know even more about myself as I get even more comfortable in my own skin. And I haven't cried myself to sleep in a fit of self-hatred in years.

And I like myself the way I am.

...And if you don't like me the way I am, then you can just suck it.

Typography 101: Learning Your Lesson

2010-07-21T02:35:00.002-05:00

Romantically speaking, everyone has a type.

If you say you don't have a type, you're lying. To me. To your family. To your friends. To yourself. And you're wasting all of our time, so if you're sitting there with your head cocked like, "This belligerent bitch don't know what she's talking about...I don't have a type"...Motherfucker, you. have. a. type. Get out of my face. And get the fuck off my blog. Bye bye, now...I'll wait...

... ... ...

Now that the tricks, stunts, hoes and skeezers have left with their thirsty asses, we can get back to business.

Everyone has a type.

It took me up until recently to figure out what my type was. Unfortunately for me, my type happens to encompass things that cause me no end of trouble, which probably says something about my self-esteem and my self-worth. Let's go through the defining characteristics of "my type", shall we?

Light skinned. You can thank my mother for this one. After years of being told that if I get any darker, I won't be cute anymore, I fell into the trap associating "light" with "cute"...that and a childhood growing up around almost only white people.
Good-looking. Um, duh. No one actively goes for people they don't find attractive.
In shape. I have debased myself many a time for a great set of abdominal muscles.
Educated. I don't think that this is bad. In fact, it's extremely good, considering how elitist I get about college degrees and whatnot.
Aspiring rapper, producer, emcee, DJ, or other music related career path. I really do not comprehend how this happens to me each and every time. They seem cool and I fall for them and then after a little while, the rhyme books come out. The turntables appear. The fitteds start accumulating on the over-the-door hanger and in the winter, the Timbs appear (WHY ARE THEY STILL IN STYLE FOR MEN!??).

This isn't to say that this is the checklist I use for men I pursue. Oh no, no, no, I only wish that I had some sort of standards when it came to that. With my terribly low self-esteem issues and ridiculously good-looking girlfriends, I tend to just take whatever I can get. But the ones that I fall for, and fall hard?

All of them fit this list.

There was the ex-boyfriend. He was...wow. When I don't think about the reasons why we broke up and why we're not speaking anymore (or ever again, for that matter), I still kind of have some residual soft spots for him. Not that I'd ever tell him to his face.

There was the rebound guy I pursued after the ex that I...uh...we're not going to get into details on that one. It's kind of embarrassing. Let's just say that I was thinking with my G-spot during those months.

Then there was the friend I had a huge crush on. Uh, yeah, if you're reading this, Friend I Had a Crush On, um, yeah. I liked you a lot more than I let on but since the timing was off, I figured that it wasn't worth saying much about it. Jumping you, however, I could (and did) do. So, I guess we both win?

And now? There's this guy at my school that I have the most ridiculous crush on. Like, bigger than any crush I think I've ever had on someone that wasn't a celebrity. Incoherent babbling type crush. Fall over my own feet type crush. Haven't said more than 15 full sentences to him although I sat next to him for an entire semester and am forced in relatively close contact during the summer for fundraising purposes type crush. I thought I was doing well because although he fits almost all of the aforementioned characteristics, he seemed too clean cut to fit that last, loathesome trait.

...And this is why from now on, I'm never friending another hot guy on Facebook. He posted a spoken word note...

Which threw red flags alllllllll over this play. Won't do it. Will not pursue (even if "pursue" in this case is synonymous with "drool like a 13 year old girl at a Twilight convention") a dude who is shaping up to be a potential carbon copy of the dude who ripped my heart out and fed it to the wolves.

Trust issues? Yeah, I've got a few. Projecting? More than likely. Self-sabotage because I was happy with my ex for the majority of the time and it was only at the end that things got really bad and now I'm scared of being that happy (and later, that hurt) again? Abso-fucking-lutely. Am I being completely delusional and irrational? You betcha!

Yup. I'm running for the hills, people. No more light-skinned, good-looking, in-shape, educated aspiring rappers/emcees/DJs for me. No way. No how.

Operation: RUN!!!! is now in effect.

I Need An Intervention.

2010-07-12T01:04:00.000-05:00

If you love me, you will help me quit this terrible habit. Or at least cut back...Yeah, cutting back is more reasonable.

My name is Brittney and I am addicted to romance novels.

Out of curiosity, I did a little analysis of the books I've read over the past two weeks. Here's the data:

Everything in me tells me to say "please don't judge me". But really? Judge. Judge away! Judge your Puritanical literary elitist hearts out. Because I need to be shamed into stopping. Out of the 17 books (and that's a conservative estimate) I've read in the past two weeks, only two could technically be considered "non-romantic" - and if we're going to be more specific, both of those had romantic subplots!

Since I was already crunching numbers in Excel (can you tell I have too much time on my hands?), I decided to estimate how many romance novels I've read over the past five years. Note that I was in college from July 2005 to June 2009.

So, let me break down this data:

From Jan '05-Jul '05, I was prepping to graduate from high school and my dad was pretty uptight about me bringing what he perceived to be "smut" in the house.

In July, I started at Princeton, and didn't have a library card, so the only books I read were the ones I had bought in the airport. November was when I finally broke down and got a Princeton Public Library card, but alas, as a premed, I didn't have time to read. Until May, when classes ended and I read 50 romance novels in the first week after classes alone.

You'll notice the distinct lack of reading from around November '06 to around May '08. I was in a relationship then and there was a combination of his feeling inadequate because I turned to "smut" when he was right there, and him taking his time to prove that if I was in the mood for "smut", all I had to do was ask. God bless him. I didn't go to the library once. I cracked a little around July of '07 because we were separated for the summer, but we found some technological workarounds, so yeah, romance novels weren't really necessary. I had enough of my own.

This streak continued after he broke up with me in September of '07 because, well, anything that reminded me of him (anything lovey-dovey, really), made me want to hurl both my guts and the nearest breakable object. There's a limit to how many times you can throw breakables before you get tired of picking up glass. (Limit reached: 1) I caved in around March '08 and started easing my way back into the books, but as I had a job and independent work, I didn't have much free time until graduation in '09, when I moved to Korea for the summer.

In Korea, I neither had time nor resources to indulge in reading romance novels. If you just go back and read some of my posts from then, you'll understand why. And so, when I got back stateside, I glutted myself on novels until my postbac kicked in around December. With all the driving, I was too tired to do anything but my homework by the time I got home from school, so there's that.

And then you have this summer. I'm fairly certain that this month alone (July), I'll have hit around 75-80 books by the end of the month. The good news is, the last time I read this many books, I ended up with a boyfriend within months and didn't have to pick up another one for nearly a year.

In the meantime, though, if you see me with a romance novel, slap it out of my hands and make me go interact with real people. I obviously need to get out more.

Job Hunt Hiatus: The Interview That Wasn't

2010-07-11T01:34:00.000-05:00

So a couple weeks ago, I applied for an editor position at a local community newspaper. Yes, I'm aware I don't have much experience, but after having seen the finished product (and the attending website, facebook page, and twitter account), I was convinced that I could definitely help out at that place. The "old" website was hosted on TriPod and had windchime sound effects whenever you clicked on anything. The "new" website is much better, but also very cluttered. The facebook page had 74 fans (as I found out during the interview, they were completely by accident - they stumbled upon the page and "liked" it) and no content other than maybe 4 comments over the past 5 months. The twitter account had 0 tweets and 1 follower and they aren't following anyone. Not to mention that some of the work written for the paper itself was highly biased and almost insulting in its slant towards Joe Plumber-types. Even with the limited amount of experience I have, I know better than that!

I ended up getting an email from the "Director of Operations" that was grammatically incorrect and the writer didn't capitalize her own last name, so uh, yeah, I think the email kind of spoke for itself as far as my feelings of "You guys NEED me" were concerned prior to the interview, which shall henceforth be referred to as "The Interview That Wasn't" or TITW, for short.

I didn't get a confirmation of this interview until 7pm the night before the interview. SEVEN IN THE EVENING. After 2 phone calls and an email went unanswered as I tried to figure out where the hell this interview was going to be held. Was it going to be by phone? In person? Didn't know. But as it turns out, it was to be held at a restaurant not far from where Google Maps tells me the office is.

So, I get to the restaurant at 11:01am, and I'm freaking out that I'm late. She, "she" being my interviewer, wasn't there. I end up sitting gingerly at the bar, alone, waiting for her. And waiting...and waiting. She doesn't walk in the door until 11:16. ELEVEN SIXTEEN! I say nothing about her tardiness and we get a table. She proceeds to order lunch. I don't. Because A) I'm broke, B) eating while interviewing is awkward, and C) my dentist prescribed me a special mouthwash that ruins my sense of taste for about 2 hours and anything I eat tastes awful during that time period. So, as she chows down on her salad, she informs me that she hasn't really looked closely at my resume and only glanced at it before she came to the interview. I'm asked to explain my writing experience and she nods, then informs me that she doesn't think I have enough experience (fine, that's true) and that she doesn't have anyone to train me (fine, okay). You'd think that the interview would end here, right, after the first 10 minutes in which it is revealed that I'm not really what she's looking for, right?

TITW definitely continued for another 75 minutes. That's right, an hour and twenty five minute interview for a job I was deemed not qualified for 10 minutes into the interview. We (and by "we", I mean, "she") kept talking about anything and everything under the sun related to how she got to where she is today (a lot of very lucky connections), my schooling (and how Princeton was inferior to her school because I had to deal with competitive white people and she went to an HBCU), her schooling (and how she showed her journalism professor what was what), and her travels and future projects (none of which have anything to do with the position, but were interesting nonetheless). Somewhere in there, I slid in that I could do a lot with their social networking site usage and tried to leverage that into the creation of a social media position...which may actually work out, but I'm not sure...partially because every time we talked about something relevant, she changed the subject!

So after an hour and a half of talking, she starts reaching for her purse and we exit the restaurant. I am still confused as to what just happened. I don't think I got the editor position (though she never outright said so), and I might have just created a job for myself (also not sure because she says it's dependent on another person's opinion).

After all that buildup and letdown and being left to twist in the wind, I wanted to go to bed and pretend that day never happened. Just like that interview that clearly never really happened. Because that shit was UNREAL.

I'm putting myself on job hunt hiatus. That shenanigans took a lot out of me.

Abort! Abort! Abort!

2010-06-29T09:00:00.001-05:00

No. I'm not pregnant. (See what I did there? ...It wasn't funny? Not at all? Aw shucks.)

Anyway, I am going to be living with my parents for a while longer.

My dad's been having some serious migraines that are pretty alarming since the dude is (normally) as strong as an (particularly needy and annoying) ox. Since Father's Day, he's had a persistent migraine that's been playing ping-pong with his vision and basically putting him out of commission for the past week and a half. We've been to the ER with him 3 times this week and they kept him overnight last night for observation.

We don't know what's wrong, we don't know when it'll get better, and we're hoping for more information in the coming days.

In light of this (and the fact that I'm broke -- which is also a pressing reason), I won't be moving out this month or for the foreseeable future. I will, however, force myself to look on the bright side and start saving up to travel more as a suitable remplacement.

Look out world, here I come!

[UPDATE: My dad's now out of the hospital and has been diagnosed with hypothyroidism. I think. I'll have to ask for more details later since I was at work when this occurred.]

Sounding Off in the Night

2010-06-24T04:22:00.000-05:00

It's 3AM and everyone who I usually talk to when I'm having doubts is abed. Or merely not online.

I could probably try Facebook Chat, but that leaves me open to creepers who try to message me when I'm really not interested in exchanging pleasantries that only lead to uncomfortable web-silences and awkward attempts at pick-up lines or reminisces about days long gone.

So here I am, an hour after I was supposed to have gone to bed, lying awake, as usual, with a thousand thoughts traipsing through my mind in the wee hours of the morn. I haven't been able to fall asleep in weeks unless succumbing to sheer exhaustion due to anxiety and an overpowering feeling of "Pssst...you're doing it wrong."

As you already know, I'm planning to move out of my parents' house in a number of weeks. Days, really. I'm supposed to move on July 1st to River Forest, IL, a small town that is approximately 10 miles outside of Chicago and also the location of Dominican University, the school I'm attending for my postbaccalaureate program. The problem with this is that I don't have any money. Or a viable job. Or the support of my parents. The deal for now is that I only have to pay half of July's rent, and then sign the lease (and pay the security deposit) in August. While I'll just have enough to pay for July, if I don't work out this job situation, I won't have enough money to cover rent + security for August.

This is one of the main reasons why my parents (read as: my mother) are so dead set against me moving out. I found out yesterday (today?) that my mother was actually happy that I didn't get that internship the other day because she believes that without a job, I can't leave home. She wants me to stay because she feels that I'm not ready financially to support myself and pay rent on my own. I also suspect that she really doesn't want to be left with an empty nest come August when my brother goes to Purdue in the fall.

Truth be told, I'm in no financial shape to move out. I haven't got so much as a pot to piss in, and my bank account hasn't been in the black in quite some time. I've never been good with budgeting money, though when I do have bills to pay and I have a job to pay them with, I do my best to pay them on time. I've even gotten in the habit of keeping in contact with those whom I owe so that when I do have trouble paying on time, I can make better arrangements. I'm not good with money, not by a long shot, but I'm learning, and I sincerely believe that the only way that I'll truly learn is to get out there on my own and make a mess of things. If worse comes to worst, then I'll just have to move back home, right?

(To be honest, I have no intention of ever moving back home if I can help it...the idea of going through all of this again? Oh no. No, no, no.)

While my lack of funds definitely plays a role in my anxiety-induced insomnia, it's definitely not the only reason I can't sleep at night. I stress about the logistics of moving - I've never done a move by myself before, and considering that my parents are so unhappy about me moving, I can't count on them to help me. I'll have to start asking other relatives/friends to help me out if it comes down to it. I stress about my family - my mother's diabetes and her seeming inattention to the things she needs to do to manage it, my father's inability to find ways to cut stress out from his life and the resultant hospitalizations for migraines, chest pains, and other ailments, my brother's going away for school and the first time he's ever really had to fend for himself. I stress about my own schooling - more specifically, paying for it, since Domincan financial aid has yet to finish processing my application (almost a month later), and getting into medical school.

I stress about getting into Columbia's postbaccalaureate program. I stress about not getting into Columbia's postbaccalaureate program. Since I'm making all these plans to stay in the Chicagoland area, at least until I finish this postbacc, I don't know what I'll do if I actually get into the program. I don't want to abandon my plans and the fledgling friends I'm in the process of making here and strike out for NYC and leave people (namely, my future roommate) in the lurch. However, I really don't want to stay in Chicago.

Late last night, I was walking through Millenium Park with a visiting friend and as we strolled, we noted the lack of people on the streets and the disproportionate amount of people with kids walking around. As we sat side-by-side on a bench in front of Cloud Gate (also known as "The Bean"), I stared into my far-off reflection and saw that the stillness of the city around me was a source of disquiet. I am so anxious to begin my life, to begin doing things, that the laid-back nature of Chicago makes me uncomfortable. I feel as if time is solidifying around me, as if I'm struggling against the current to jump-start everything that I feel like I should be doing right now. I think that a large part of my desire to relocate to New York is a desire to see the turmoil within myself reflected in the hustle and bustle of the city. In a city that never sleeps, an insomniac such as myself is never alone. In Chicago, everything slows down once the business day ends, and even more so when the sun sets. The city is quiet at night, the streets are empty, and all the worries of the day are postponed until the next morn.

That is so not how I operate.

I thrive on chaos, on loud sounds and bright lights, the energy of others around me to buoy me through the day and night. Rest only comes to me when all other alternatives are exhausted.

But maybe, just maybe, while Chicago isn't what I want, Chicago might be what I need. I am so tightly-wound that sometimes I feel as if one day I'll simply burst into a million sparkling shards of fear, ambition and unfulfilled potential. Maybe being marooned here in the Midwest will force me to have to unwind a bit, to relax and not worry so much about a future in which I have very little say at the moment. I can make all the plans I want, but at the end of the day, I know that God is chuckling at the presumption I have in trying to determine my own path. This isn't to say that I'm not a proponent of free will, but I'm just saying that sometimes, some things are inevitable. Right now, I can't even pretend to know what is or isn't inevitable in my life, but it feels like I'm being drawn to a moment in the near future. It feels like things are coming to a crossroads of some sort and I'm going to have to make a decision. I don't know what decision that's going to be or if there even is a decision to be made. I could just be projecting wishful thinking onto my current situation because I wish I had some sort of agency in this production called My Life.

As it stands, I'm lying awake in bed at almost 4AM now, shaking my head at Jack's Mannequin's song "The Resolution" because I am truly "lying in the dark as I search for the resolution". But a resolution, much less the resolution, is hard to find when you're not entirely sure what the problem is.

Is the problem that I don't fit in here? Or is the problem that I don't want to?

I think it's fair to say that I'm rather prickly when it comes to dealing with my family and any thoughts of staying in the Midwest. I think it's fair to say that my issues with making friends out here are largely self-inflicted (although I maintain that not having transportation from the boonies in which I live to the places where these friends would live is a large and somewhat insurmountable hurdle at the moment unless I move out). If I'm going to be honest with myself, I've sort of been self-sabotaging the whole time I've been here because I don't want any reasons to stay. I found a home and a family of sorts in my friends from college and I've been clinging to that because although I haven't known them as long as, say, my biological family, they've proven themselves time and time again to truly care about me and my best interests without the guilt trips and the feelings of biologically based obligations. So maybe, on some levels, my reasoning is to move out of Chicago, away from the family that I constantly find myself in conflict with, so that I can move to a place where there are people that think like me. Because my family doesn't "get" me. Not even a little bit. Maybe that's because I'm so chock full of resentment because of various squabbles, gross misunderstandings and confrontations in the past, maybe it's because they don't know how to deal with this young woman in the place of the little girl they were so accustomed to. More than likely, it's a combination of both. In any case, it's hard living with people who don't understand where you're coming from, make assumptions about where you're going, and try to tell you who you are.

I get into so many arguments with my parents over the path that I'm trying to take and it all boils down to the same argument: I want them to respect the decisions that I make. They don't have to like them. They don't have to agree with them. I just want them to respect me as an adult capable of making decisions on my own. It's really hard to make the argument that I'm an adult when it usually begins with them telling me I don't know what I'm doing and ends with me performing the verbal equivalent of stamping my foot and shaking my fist as I tell them "I'm a grown up now!" The petulance of my stance undermines my position and their stubborn reluctance to let me grow up and make my own mistakes just makes for passive-aggressive statements, half-told truths, thinly veiled lies, and a lot of misunderstandings.

I'm just tired. Tired of fighting, tired of struggling, tired of attempting to prove myself.

I'm 22 years old and trying to find myself. I shouldn't have to catalog and explain my every move along the way. And yet here I am, lying awake at 4:30AM now, doing exactly that. To a computer screen. Because while I'm growing up, I'm not quite grown up enough to explain all of this to my parents (who only listen to me when they're trying to poke holes in my arguments anyway).

Excuse Me, I'm Gonna Go Cry Now.

2010-06-22T11:31:00.000-05:00

I got turned down for another job today.

This in and of itself isn't worthy of note, but to be honest, I would have had this job. Within thirty seconds of picking up the phone for this interview, I knew that if I played my cards right, I would have this job.

Unfortunately, I didn't play them right because I didn't get the job.

Was it because I wasn't qualified? No.

Was it because the interviewer didn't like me? No.

It was because of my damned school schedule.

It's one thing to be rejected because I'm over- or under-qualified, but it's another entirely to be 100% perfect for the position and be denied because you decided to do the "smart" thing and go back to school to finish up for premed. Especially when you're me, who didn't even want to do the program in the first place, but since jobs were scarce, you decided to suck it up and suffer through the program because it was guaranteed job security.

So now I can't get a job to pay for my future job.

Ain't that a bitch?

Teacup Pig Plays The Piano

2010-06-21T14:07:00.000-05:00

I had to. It's just too stinkin' cute!

Commitment-phobe? Me?

2010-06-17T15:32:00.000-05:00

Today, I was accused of being a commitment-phobe.

I was GChatting with one of my friends, and when I explained that I was moving out of my parents' place next month and closer to my school, he accused me of being a "homer". Apparently, a "homer" is someone who stays close to home, which, for me, is a wildly inaccurate epithet, as I spend the vast majority of my time, money and considerable amounts of brain power devising ways, methods and means to flee as far from home as humanly possible.

When I disputed the term "homer", my friend (electronically?) chuckled and replied with a phrase that stopped me in my typographical tracks:

failure to commit.

This definitely is not the first time I've been accused of a lack of interest in settling down, but it was the way that it was phrased that got to me. "Failure to commit" is such strong phrasing and now that I've had time to think (and get defensive) about it, it's not even particularly accurate. A failure to commit implies that I've tried to commit to things and then fled. Don't get me wrong, I have fled situations many a time. If you look for examples throughout history of people making an exodus, I'm right up there on the list of notable flights to perceived freedom right behind the Biblical Old Testament Exodus itself. I've made an art form of escape. However, my escapeeism has rarely ever been preceded by a genuine attempt at commitment. So accusing me of failure, an extremely loaded word, in an area in which I've never even tried to excel? Totally bogus. Which is why I responded:

correction: failure to find anything worth committing to.

I'm not going to make excuses and say that I'm a free spirit, that I don't like being hemmed in by convention, that I don't think that I'm particularly cut out to ~~shackle~~ commit myself to anyone or anything at this point in my life. Let's be honest here. I'm terrified to attach myself to any particular life plan because it hasn't worked out too well for me in the past. I'm not used to staying. When I was a kid, the longest I ever stayed in one spot was maybe a total of five years. Even so, within that five years, I went to three different schools. My family was the type to pick up and go if they felt like it, until my brother started middle school, it seems. So, while he has had the same friends since he was around eleven, I can't name one single friend that I've had, and kept in contact with, for more than a few years. Even with friends from Princeton, though I just left the place last year, I can count on one hand the number of people that I stayed friends with from day one.

Throughout my life, I've never had a sense of belonging and I'm not comfortable with obligations to anyone other than myself. To be honest, I don't even feel ties of belonging with my own family. I have vague notions of duty and obligation hammered in through the years with guilt trips of supposed sacrifices made on my behalf, but other than that, I could walk away and never look back. Even though I loved Princeton and it was the first home I ever really had, I almost left several times because I felt that it wasn't working for me. Somehow, I stuck it out, but it was definitely a first for me. I'm not the type of person to stick around unless there's something that's really in it for me.

If I don't feel that things are going to work for me, I will pick up, walk away, and never look back. Maybe that's linked to a fear of failure or a fear of being perceived as "less-than" or a fear of rejection. Maybe it's just that I see no reason to be involved in a situation that doesn't benefit me.

I don't know.

But until the day comes that I find a person, a career, a place, or anything that inspires in me a desire to stay and fight it out, I'm going to keep it moving. How else will I know the right place for me to be, unless I keep looking for it?

No, but like, seriously...

2010-06-12T23:12:00.000-05:00

On a scale from "I've heard worse ideas" to "You must be out of your mind", how bad would it be if I just purchased a one-way ticket to NYC for next month and made my way however I could?

I'm dead serious.

What Now?

2010-06-11T21:22:00.000-05:00

My life could be worse.

I'm planning to move out of my parents' house and into a condo with a friend at the end of July (provided that I'm able to come up with the $1200 for the security deposit and first month's rent). I'm still enrolled in my post-baccalaureate program and I have a job (for now - I need to find one closer to the condo...I'm not trying to commute an hour or more for a part time job).

However, right now, I am restless. I've never been the type of person to enjoy being idle. Years of being on the move to bigger and better things have conditioned me to always be grasping for more. Princeton definitely instilled in me a sense of urgency, a sense that there was always more to be done. And yet right now, there is nothing more that I can do than I am already doing. Today was the last tutoring session for the summer, unless another client pops up, so now I am back down to one job. I still don't have a working vehicle, so my travels are strictly limited to work and home, curtailing my burgeoning attempts at a social life. I'm applying for jobs left and right (and not hearing back from them), so I'm fairly stalled on the job front. I already have my schedule set for the fall, as far as school is concerned (although I'm still waiting on financial aid to get back to me with some concrete numbers). So what else is there for me to do?

It's times like this when I wish I had more friends out this way. Unfortunately, I live in an area where most of the people my age are married and/or have children. Or are intimidated by me because of my educational pedigree (which, sadly, precedes me thanks to a few well-intentioned, but ultimately ridiculous, news articles announcing my matriculation at Princeton, as well as the successes of my younger brother. We're kind of a big deal around here). Since that is that case, I'm fairly limited in my interactions with others.

So what can I do with all this excess free time?

No, really. Suggestions are seriously welcome.

The Only Time I've Enjoyed Tom Cruise Since "Top Gun"

2010-06-02T20:56:00.003-05:00

I have to admit, I’ve only seen bits and pieces of Tropic Thunder, because something in my soul cringes at anyone acting in “blackface” – even if it’s meant to show how completely ridiculous acting in blackface is. However, every single time Tom Cruise waddled into frame with his corpulent, disgusting, misogynistic, terrible person of a character, Les Grossman, I died of happiness on the inside a little bit. Now that the MTV Awards are coming up (which I will staunchly boycott as I do every single awards ceremony on cable television due to my limited tolerance for stupidity), MTV is airing shorts featuring Les Grossman and my heart is tittering with glee.

Honestly, I’ve been apathetic towards Tom Cruise since Top Gun. I still haven’t seen any of the Mission Impossible franchise (and unless you’re cooking me dinner and proposing a night in to watch it, future boyfriend of mine, I likely never will). I think that I’ve lost interest in Cruise mostly because I’m tired of him playing debonair people at this point.

Tom, We all know you’re short, crazy, have no respect for other people’s couches à la Rick James, more than likely have a Napoleon complex because your wife (who has started looking more and more manly year by year that she remains married to you) is taller than you and possibly has more career longevity, and you are a practicing member of a religion that seems less like a valid belief system and more like a cross between a sci-fi convention, the FDLS communes down in Texas, and a Kool-Aid drinking cult. You’re not fooling anyone.

It’s time to put on that fat suit and be the disgusting lout that we’ve all suspected lies deep within your Xenu-riddled, anti-depressant-eschewing, couch-jumping, shoes-with-lifts-wearing, Katie-Holmes-oppressing soul.

Keep playing Les Grossman. It works for you.

...And it doesn't hurt that I'm still kind of in love with Robert Pattinson. Despite his greasy hair and purported relationship with Botox-face Kristin Stewart (Bitch, you get paid to mack on RPatz and Taylor Lautner. Smile a little!).

Time Magazine and Their Brilliant Advice for the Ages

2010-06-02T20:24:00.002-05:00

Time Magazine has done a spectacular photo journal piece on how to dress in the office, based on the Fab Four from Sex and the City: Sex and the City Fashion: What Not to Wear in the Office.

This should be common sense stuff. If you'd wear it to the club, don't wear it to the office. If it looks like Donna Karan is in your closet, handing Christian Louboutin your office pumps, you need to tone it down.

However, If you're looking for a corporate job and seriously trying to take work-appropriate fashion advice from these women and their show despite the warnings of those who have learned better, perhaps you should be looking for a job in fashion retail. I hear TJMaxx is hiring.

Where Do We Go From Here?

2010-06-01T22:48:00.000-05:00

It's really hard for me to write when I'm upset or really stressed out about things. I have this feeling that, if I put what I'm feeling, what I'm thinking, into words, it makes it more real. It also begs the question of whether or not I'm soliciting advice (I am) and also whether or not I'm going to accept said advice (I don't know, honestly).

A lot is going on with me lately and very little of it appears to be within the boundaries of my control.

Right now, as you already know, I live at home with my parents. My well-meaning, good-intentioned, scatterbrained, overprotective, overly inquisitive, non-boundary-respecting, quarrelsome, bossy, intervening parents. They're driving me crazy, and have been since, oh, about two weeks after I moved in back in August of last year. I have no space, no car, and an 11:00pm curfew when I'm able to borrow a car. I'm also highly discouraged from drinking, staying out late, staying up late (yes, they have tried to enforce a bedtime), and from having anything even remotely resembling a sex life.

I'm 22 years old. It's time for me to leave.

But they want me to stay because they claim that they're scared that I'm running away from them and will dig myself into a financial hole trying to claim independence before I'm ready. I think they want me to stay to avoid having empty nest syndrome as my brother leaves for college and also because they haven't been forced to be alone together since before I was born. They were barely spouses before becoming parents and I don't think they know how to function without the child buffer.

What I do know is that I'm about ready to crack under the pressure of being smothered with parental affection and attention. I can't take it anymore. No more waking me up to talk, no more comments on my wardrobe and appearance, no more commentary on what I'm doing with my life, why don't I date, why don't I go anywhere (although the last time I tried the last two, I got a stern talking-to about being "too fast" and "ruining my life by hanging out with the wrong element"). It's too much to take and it's just not healthy.

I've got to get out of here.

So, I have issued a deadline. I will be moving out of my parents' house by August, one way or another. A friend of mine needs a roommate, so I'm looking into ways to finance that. But that's actually Plan B.

Plan A is a dream so fantastical that I almost dare not speak its name. But I need to put this out in the universe so that I can get some good vibes going.

I applied to a new postbaccalaureate program. In New York.

It's really competitive and I'm terrified that I won't get in. I need this too badly to not get in. I need to leave the Midwest and all that it represents to me (incarceration, the subjugation of my soul to the whims of others, years of systematic abuse and stifling of my individuality, etc.) in order to fully realize what it is that I want to do with my life.

...And the fact that almost everyone in my life that is important to me is within a bus ride away from NYC doesn't hurt either.

Even if I don't make it into the NY program, I'm leaving in August. It's decided and done with.

The question is: Where do I go from here?

musings of a malcontent

2010-06-01T22:17:00.000-05:00

These four walls that surround me might as well be a prison, a padded cell. Within these four walls beats a heart encased in a body far too small to accommodate the spirit straining at the seams of reality.

There's nowhere to run, nowhere to flee, nowhere to go.

No one to see, no way to leave, nothing to look forward to.

Every solution is a problem. Every problem has no solution. The attempts to run away are quickly stifled, not unlike the slave uprisings of yesteryear.

"You're not ready."

"You're running away from us."

"Stay. I don't want you to leave."

"We'll give you space. Just stay."

Staying is not an option, but leaving presents predicaments from which there will be no rescue.

Sometimes, you have to nut up or shut up.

Here's to nutting up.

Shutting up is no longer an option.

Race Is A Marathon I'll Never Win

2010-05-05T22:57:00.004-05:00

I struggle with my racial identity on a fairly regular basis. Obviously, I'm of African descent. Not so obviously, I'm African-American. Even less obviously, I'm probably one of the "whitest" Black people you'll ever meet. I'm no Tiger Woods (I neither schtup mediocre cocktail waitresses/porn stars nor do I deny my race on account of not wanting to be pigeon-holed), but I probably have more in common with the average pseudo-hipster White person than I do with the average Black person.

Out of the 132 concepts, ideas and things listed on the website "Stuff White People Like", I am decidedly "in like" with 94 of them. On average, I listen to more indie and alternative rock than I do hip-hop, rap, or R&B. I have a fancy-schmancy liberal arts degree from an Ivy League school in a major that is so decidedly humanistic that I can't really explain how it's even relatively useful in the real world. I drink organic tea, enjoy hiking and swimming, and I ski. Those last three activities alone might as well act as bleaching cream on my skin. On the whole, most Black females do not engage in any activity that involves nature, sweating, copious amounts of water that could potentially dampen the hair, or snow.

Certainly, not all Black people are the same. I'm not asserting that here, so please don't jump down my throat about enforcing stereotypes or being self-hating. I love "my people" of the African diaspora and it is by the labor of my family, the Black community, that I am even able to write this post. It's just that, on the whole, in my experience, those in the Black community are so careful to present a united front to the world that we sometimes forget that we're not a monolith of melanin-enhanced people with a common past. It's okay for us to differ in interests and to go after different things in life.

I often feel out of touch with my culture because I have differing tastes. I hide my NY Times bestseller novels, I create special "family-friendly" playlists that are mostly R&B and I avoid speaking in the other two languages I know in order to avoid being called "bougie" (shorthand for "bourgeois") or "uppity". I deny my obvious relief when I see a White person in a decidedly "ethnic" neighborhood (I'm sorry, but in the hood areas I frequent to get to my school, a White person means that the cops are likely to come if I need them instead of being like, "Well, we're there all the damn time. We'll get there when we get there." It's sheer self-preservation). I also code-switch like a motherfucker.

However, despite my feelings of exclusion from the Black community, there are certain instances that will remind me that despite my love for organic stores, farmer's markets, Ray-Ban wayfarers, indie films, and hipster clothing, I am, as the 2010 Census declares me to be, a Negro.

Here's five instances in which I am painfully reminded that I am Black:

1. Filling out the 2010 Census - I'm normally pretty good about filling out paperwork and sending it in if I think it will actually benefit me. The census would normally fall under that jurisdiction. But having to refer to myself as a Negro chafed my melanin-enhanced sensibilities. I may jokingly or ironically refer to myself or others of my race as a "Negro", but I was NOT pleased to have to fill it out on an official government form. What next? Am I colored? A darkie? Or do I have to take the paper bag test to determine if I'm a house slave or a field darkie? If I see the word "nigger" anywhere on a government form, you might as well read me my Miranda rights because buildings will burn in this bitch.

2. GoAT Rap Lists - This is something I discovered today. I will resort to the foulest language in the English language and become vociferously stereotypical of an Angry Black Woman when confronted with arguments determining the Greatest of All Time (GoAT) rappers. I will damn near shave my laptop into a shank to defend my favorite rappers and I will curse out anyone who dares to disagree with me.

(I still don't give a fuck what you think, any list not having Tupac in the top 5 is not a real list and you can kiss my Black ass if you think otherwise. Fuck you, Jay-Z lovers. He's overrated and doesn't deserve the #1 spot. Yeah, I said it. Fuck you, you, you, and especially you.)

3. Any news story in which the perpetrator of a crime is Black - If you're Black, you know what I'm talking about. Every time a heinous news headline depicting some horribly violent or disgustingly stupid crime comes up, I pray to God over and over again "Please don't be Black, please don't be Black, aw shit, he's Black. Damn." It's even worse when it's obvious that the alleged criminal is guilty (currently side-eyeing OJ Simpson...we all know he did it). Why is this any of my concern? Because although not all people of any given race are the same, the White majority usually takes one act of criminality and holds it against all others of the same race. For reference, see, well, all of history.

4. Being pulled over by Being asked questions by Interacting with police officers - Despite being, by my own accounts, "one of the Whitest Black people you'll ever meet", I have been racially profiled, falsely accused of a felony, had a warrant out for my arrest, and been unnecessarily harassed/threatened by the police. All on separate occasions. Within the last 5 years. How many crimes have I actually committed? Unless you count forgetting to pay a ticket? None. How many times have I been the only Black person involved? All of the times. How many times have I been Black? All of my life. So, I try not to borrow trouble and avoid interacting with officers of the law as much as humanly possible. My fence-jumping and sprinting skills are on point, despite my complete and utter lack of athleticism. Adrenaline is a hell of a drug.

5. Being referred to as "the Whitest Black girl I've ever met" by my White friends - Okay, I know that I say that I'm fairly ethnically challenged when it comes to exhibiting the "usual markers" of being Black other than the color of my skin, but I really hate it when my White friends point it out like it's such a compliment. Thanks for letting me know that I don't fit in with the people who raised me and look like me. Thanks for making me feel like a sellout. Telling me that I'm "not Black" doesn't make me feel like I fit in with you, because obviously I'm still Black. It just makes me feel like double the outsider.

Video Blogging for the Fatties

2010-04-17T17:32:00.000-05:00

Yeah, I videoblogged my first encounter with KFC's Double Down sandwich.

I really want another one...

I Be's a Real Blogger Now

2010-04-14T21:18:00.000-05:00

So I don't know if I told you guys, but I'm a contributor over at Sickly Cat. So you guys should definitely check it out.

Some of my articles from this blog will be used on Sickly Cat, but for the most part, I'll try to keep things fresh.

...Though I'm struggling right now because I just got done with the most cathartic post about date rape and I want to repost. Badly. But I shall wait.

But you shouldn't. Go visit Sickly Cat!

My Stupid Mouth Has Got Me In Trouble

2010-04-12T10:04:00.001-05:00

There's this saying that you need not unsay the things that you never said in the first place.

Dear God, do I ever wish I hadn't said some things now.

You see, dear readers, I have a problem with saying exactly what's on my mind, regardless of the consequences. Usually, I don't consider this to be a problem because I'm not an intentionally hurtful person and most people who know me, if they don't necessarily condone my outspokenness, at least understand the mechanisms behind it. However, every once in a while, my lack of tact really bites me in the ass.

For the past nine months, I've been living at home with my parents in the suburbs of Chicago. Being trapped in a semi-rural village where RVs parked in front yards and those large acrylic basses for mailboxes are common occurrences has not been kind to me or my lack of a mental filter. I've been whiny, moody and at times downright rude to my family as a result of my frustration. It's gotten better since January, since I started school again and now am able to leave the house on a daily basis, but there are days in which I blatantly let my parents know that I am not happy and that they can't do anything about it.

One of the sticking points for me was the use of a vehicle. My dad had bought me a car to use that had, unfortunately, broken down and has taken up residence in my parking space of honor in front of the house since October. So, I've been using my dad's SUV. Before I go any further, let me point out that this SUV is a Mercedes SUV. We're not rich, moderately wealthy, or even well-off. So this is kind of a big deal. My dad is notoriously uptight when it comes to the appearance of upkeep of the cars. This means that while the "Check Engine" light might have been on for the past year and the radio hasn't worked in about the same amount of time, cleanliness and general body work are of paramount importance. My father will grouse and moan and groan until I acquiesce to go to the car wash because there's salt on the car and he doesn't want the body to rust. He will harass me to clean up the spots of coffee from when I accidentally spilled some on myself. He will follow my mother throughout the house to get her to clean up the grease leftover from a fish dinner enjoyed in the car. While these behaviors are annoying, they're understandable.

However, when you're a sullen, unemployed 22 year old with depressive symptoms secondary to "I don't give a fuck because I'm unhappy", these requests are Sisyphean in nature and totally unfair. Naturally, I bitched and moaned and whined about being forced to come out of my funk and actually take care of something. At one point, while harassing me to take the car to the car wash, I flat out told him that I didn't care about his car because it wasn't mine.

Fuck. My. Life.

I forgot, in the moment, that my dad has a mind like a steel trap when it comes to offhand and off-color comments that only apply specifically to one situation but can be construed to be an umbrella statement, especially when they're particularly offensive to him.

This statement came back to haunt me last month when I had to confess to my dad that I had accidentally nicked my mom's hubcap on a curb at Burger King trying to get through the drive-thru. Not okay.

That statement is also why I'm dreading coming home from school today. Apparently, in my haste to leave for class, I clipped the garage (again) with the side view mirror. The mirror was fine, so I drove away. What I didn't know was that on the backside of the mirror, there is a plastic cover for a light that turns on when I use turning signals. This plastic thingie was leveraged out of its place by the side of the garage and fell and broke. So after spending an hour and a half in traffic to get to school (see previous posts about my road rage problems), I get a text from my mom saying I am in big trouble and explaining what I'd done.

Shit.

Because now he is on the warpath and has the taste for blood. Specifically mine. Because if there is one thing that sets my dad off more than dirty cars, it's broken cars. Especially when he thinks it's because his ungrateful daughter simply has no consideration for other people's property (which isn't true, and he knows it, but he's mad right now and this actually is my fault for being careless).

No apology is going to fix this. And as soon as I get home, I'm banned from using the SUV ever again. My dad has a one-track mind and will not be swayed by pleas for clemency or mercy, even if I explain that while I don't particularly care if the car is clean, that doesn't mean that I don't feel bad when I accidentally cause damage. And it also doesn't mean that I really don't care if I cause damage. If that were true, I wouldn't be late to class as often as I am...I'd be a lot more daring behind the wheel and get down I-55 much more quickly.

If only I hadn't told him I didn't care. At least he'd be willing to listen to my apologies.

Today is not a good day.

UPDATE: Several heartfelt apologies, a hug, and a deal of indentured servitude until the damages are paid off later, I am forgiven. So this weekend, I will not be posting. I'll be doing yard- and house-work until I've paid off the repairs to my own car so that we no longer have this issue of car ownership versus car upkeep. Somehow I feel like I'm sixteen again.

In need of a fix?

2010-04-08T01:01:00.000-05:00

So, I promise, promise, promise I'll update soon, but right now? I'm swamped with laziness and fatigue and just getting over what I thought was allergies but really turned out to be the cold-from-Hell (irony much?).

I'll be around. Recuperating.

If you really find yourself in dire need of my musings, follow me on Twitter! Microblogging in 140 characters or less is far more conducive to my overall lack of ambition as far as my writing career (be that such as it may) is concerned.

I'll write back soon, I PROMISE!

xoxo,
Me

According To You

2010-03-14T21:59:00.001-05:00

According to you, I'm a drama queen. I'm crazy. I'm desperate. I'm a liar. I'm not pretty enough. I'm not smart enough. I don't keep my promises. I'm disloyal. I use people. I'm a slut. I'm a man-eater. I talk too much. I'm not interesting enough. I'm overly emotional. I'm irrational. I'm not a good Christian. I'm crude. I'm rude. I'm not nice. I'm a chronic exaggerator. I'm a hypocrite. I'm a hypochondriac. I'm clingy. I'm distant. I'm passive-aggressive. I'm incompetent. I'm weak. I'm stupid. I'm a bitch. I'm not good enough.

Did you ever consider this?

I'm a drama queen because you created and brought unnecessary drama to my life.
I'm crazy because you're a lying, cheating bastard who tried his best to put the blame on me and I disagreed.
I'm desperate because I don't know how to reconcile the person I fell in love with with the soulless, conniving, lying, sociopathic fucker that you really are.
I'm a liar because you never told me the truth.
I'm not pretty enough because you never wanted me to attract anyone's attention but yours.
I'm not smart enough because I let you treat me like a project, not a partner.
I don't keep my promises because you never kept any of yours.
I'm disloyal because I was loyal to my own code of morality instead of your skewed views of what you thought you should be able to get away.
I use people because a support network is more important to me than your inflated ego and pride.
I'm a slut because you're insecure about the fact that there were "others" before you.
I'm a man-eater for the exact same reason.
I talk too much because you never wanted me to expose you for what you are.
I'm not interesting enough because you never had a sincere interest in me.
I'm overly emotional because you didn't want to deal with the consequences of your actions.
I'm irrational because my logic didn't mesh with your idea that you were always right.
I'm not a good Christian because you blamed me for the compromising of your own faith.
I'm crude because you didn't like my sense of humor.
I'm rude because I'm honest.
I'm not nice because I finally stopped letting you run all over me.
I'm a chronic exaggerator because you never wanted to admit to what a terrible person you are.
I'm a hypocrite because I don't think you're right for being who I was two years before we met.
I'm a hypochondriac because you couldn't possibly have hurt me as much as I say you did.
I'm clingy because you didn't want me and you weren't man enough to say it.
I'm distant because I stopped worshipping you.
I'm passive-aggressive because I got tired of fighting you about who I am and who you wanted me to be.
I'm incompetent because you blame me for everything that went wrong.
I'm weak because you took away my ability to stand on my own.
I'm stupid because I let you convince me that I was making shit up.
I'm a bitch because I finally called you out on your shit.
I'm not good enough because I finally realized I was better than you.

I'm nothing like you tell everyone I am and I feel sorry for you because I know the truth about myself and finally see you for what you really are. I hope that one day, you finally get what you deserve.

Wanted: One (Possibly Fake) Long-Distance Boyfriend

2010-03-07T21:15:00.000-06:00

Wanted: One attractive, intelligent, available male to either pose as or be my long-distance boyfriend.

Duties:

Instant-message/Skype dates.
Occasional email/text conversation.
Maintain a visible Facebook relationship (including linked "relationship status").
Attempts at planning a visit to the "girlfriend". Attempts count just as much as successful visits.

Benefits:

Attractive, intelligent & charming long-distance girlfriend (or fake girlfriend).
As an actual boyfriend, well, let's just say there are some pretty great "benefits". Fake boyfriends get fringe benefits to be determined later.
Little to no expenses incurred. I don't expect you to buy me anything if we're not even in the same state!
Low-maintenance. Want to hang out with the boys? Go ahead! What do I care? I'm not even there!

Why am I posting this? Because being single when you're not in the position to be able to mingle is BORING. I'd almost rather be in a long-distance relationship so I can at least feel like I'm being productive with my nun-like existence. Also, long-distance relationships give you something to look forward to! I like that feeling of anticipation, waiting on that phone call or email or text message or (Heaven forfend!) letter!

So if you're in a position where you can't seem to get a girlfriend (or even just get laid) and you want to feel cared for without being smothered? I'm your girl!

(I'm also just extremely bored and on Spring Break with nothing better to do than think of half-baked plans like this.)

It's Time For An Intervention

2010-02-26T22:46:00.001-06:00

Dear Collegiate Aspiring Rappers,

I've seen you in the hallways, on the walkways, and in classes. I've eaten dinner with you, taken classes with you, joined clubs with you. I'm friends with most of you, hell, I've even dated some of you (there's just something about a man who's musically inclined). With these qualifications, I think have some basis for broaching this subject.

Collegiate Aspiring Rappers, I know you. But I must admit, I do not understand you. Collegiate (particularly Ivy League) Aspiring Rapper/DJ/Emcee friends of mine, why do you do what you do? Are you hoping for a record deal? Is it just for fun? If it's just for fun, then why do you go to such great lengths to convince us that you have a sick flow? Couldn't it just be for fun, in private, without dragging everyone and their mother to your performances, inviting every single acquaintance you've ever friended on facebook to your events and groups and tagging everyone you can in your notes bespeaking your lyrics? If your rap game is just for fun and you just happen to be a little over exuberant in your hobby, then this post is not directed towards you. Please go elsewhere or forward this memo to your friends who really seem to think that dropping a borrowed beat and spitting 16 bars of whatever nonsense comes to mind will lead to them becoming the next Jay-Z.

Collegiate Aspiring Rappers, why?!? Why do you insist on inflicting what you and your "homies" believe to be "sick rhymes" upon the rest of us? Call me a hater if you wish, but if I get one more notification on facebook, Twitter, in my email inbox, on Google Buzz or any other social media outlet, I am going to scream. Thank God that I already deleted my Myspace account, because you were going to blow up my profile with "check out these lyrics" - in fact, a couple of you already had.

Seriously, though, I like most of you. I love some of you. I just need you all to understand that when you get all souped up over some rhyme that your friends convinced you will get you record deals, fame, widespread acclaim and the chance to smash Kim Kardashian...THEY. ARE. LYING. TO. YOU! and doing us all a disservice.

I love you, Collegiate Aspiring Rappers, I truly do. A lot of you are genuinely nice people when you're not starting facebook groups, posting your wack lyrics as statuses and facebook notes, inviting us to check out your Myspace pages, and generally being shameless self-promoters when all you really need for your "career" is a reality check.

If I haven't been frank enough, let me spell it out for you.

1. You are not as talented as you seem to think you are. If you were meant to be the next Hov, you would have been discovered by now - or you would have done more for your career much sooner (like, I dunno, LEARN HOW TO RAP?) and you probably wouldn't even be in school.

2. Don't listen to your friends. Don't believe the "criticisms" of your boys. And since most of you are male, I will say this: DO NOT LISTEN TO ANY OF YOUR FEMALE FRIENDS, EVER. Girls, especially if you are an attractive male, will lie, lie, lie to you! I'm ashamed to admit that I'm guilty of this too. Sorry, ex-Collegiate Aspiring Rapper-boyfriends, I lied. You're not that talented. I just wanted you to shut up so I could go to sleep/get laid/do my homework.

3. I can not reiterate this enough, so this gets another section to itself: DO NOT TRUST YOUR BOYS! They will screw you over six ways to Sunday to get their time in the limelight. They will let you make an ass of yourself so that they can then move in with their slightly-less-wack lines. They will let you borrow their recording equipment, promise to mix the track for you, make you wait a month and then when you finally get the track back, all you will be able to hear is your boy. Not you. Your boy. And then you're going to be feeling hella salty. Especially if by some twist of fate, you're actually the one who's less corny with their lines (and you're smart enough to realize that much).

4. If the only people commenting on and complimenting your rhymes have no knowledge of hip hop or good rap, have horrible "skills" of their own, or have been known to ride jocks like a rodeo? DO NOT LISTEN TO THEM!

5. Haters, for those who actually have talent, can be motivators. For you, Collegiate Aspiring Rappers, they are your reality check. Put down the Katt Williams quotes about haters and hop off Jay-Z's nuts. We, the haters, discourage you for your own good.

6. Stop recruiting for your "artist collectives". You are not the next Rocafella. You're not even the next Murda Inc. And just like Murda Inc., no one really gives a shit about your "entertainment enterprise".

7. Fans on facebook, Myspace, etc. do not equal success. We all know most of these people were peer pressured into joining your groups by constant and consistent social media stalking and harassment. Your high group counts only mean that we got tired of ignoring your requests and messages and posts and decided to just click "accept" so you'd stop reminding us that we need to join.

8. Stage names. NO. JUST STOP. Especially if you have multiple names. Who the fuck are you?! DJ Pookie Bear a.k.a. "Grizzly" a.k.a. "Grizzy" a.k.a. "Grizzy-Griz" a.k.a. "The Golden Child" a.k.a. "The Prodigal One" a.k.a. "Da Best", GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. If I have to make a list of your known aliases, you are so out of line.

9. You are not allowed to shout yourself out on your own tracks. If no one cares enough about you as an artist to shout you out, put down the mic and walk away. I promise you, if you are indeed talented, people will ASK. No need to ram your name down our auditory throats.

10. Collegiate Aspiring Rapper, please work on developing an accurate sense of self. We know that you think that when you're on stage, you look like this:

But please believe me. This is what you actually look like to us:

I could go on, but really, the gist of this is: WE DON'T CARE. So keep your rhyme books to yourself. Stop volunteering to perform at events entirely unsuited to your dubious "talents". Stop thinking that an iPod and DJ Hero will make you into the sickest MC ever.

Dear Collegiate Aspiring Rapper friends, I love you and you know I'll encourage you as much as my haterade-swilling self is able, but if you inflict your rhymes on me one more time, I might just have to hurt you. It's time to put down the computer, the track-mixing software, and go do something productive.

Hilarity of the Day.

2010-02-18T11:14:00.000-06:00

There's just something about Lil' Jon, bears, and trees that gives a girl the giggles:

Dancing Bear - watch more funny videos

I really need to get a life. Or stop reading so much Harry Potter.

2010-02-11T22:12:00.000-06:00

Brother: Hey, Britt, do you know what an...OWL is?
Me: [without hesitation or looking up from the laptop] Ordinary Wizarding Levels.
Brother: What?!
Me: Huh?
Brother: I meant the Purdue University writing website. ...How much Harry Potter have you been watching?
Me: ...No comment.

Quotables

2010-02-01T00:26:00.000-06:00

Between me and a friend discussing the merits of relationships and sober sex:

D: i worry if i have forgotten how to have sober sex.
Me: it's like riding a bike. except it's another human being. ;)

Je suis désolée pour être retardée...

2010-02-01T00:20:00.000-06:00

It's been kind of hectic around these parts, what with tests and homework, so I'll try to be more diligent about blogging in the next few days.

Move, B*tch, Get Out The Way!

2010-01-22T16:45:00.000-06:00

So, I started my post baccalaureate program last week. It's at a small, private university about an hour and some change away from my home. As a poor and currently unemployed student, I can't afford to move closer to campus and therefore must commute - during rush hour - to the school.

I used to complain about New Jersey drivers when I was at Princeton. They're basically New York drivers - but with less talent, less brains, and more balls. I mean, these drivers have fucking huge balls when driving down the turnpike. You want to get two lanes over because you were being an idiot and chatting on your cell and are about to miss your exit? Okay, go ahead, yeah, it's totally acceptable to sideswipe damn near every single moving or stationary vehicle in an 8-car radius to do it, only to slam on your brakes when you realize that this, in fact, was not your exit and hold up every lane of traffic as people scramble to avoid hitting your belligerent ass.

After commuting in Chicago for only a week and a half though, I have to admit that I kind of miss New Jersey. Their turnpikes might have been designed by Satan; their drivers may be, well, New Jersey residents (and all that implies), but damn it, at least they drove like they had somewhere to be! As a native Chicagoan, I was raised to hate all other Midwesterners on principle and curse out their drivers any time their road etiquette (or lack thereof) irked me. However, after having had a taste of sweet pseudo-Autobahn-esque speeds so typical of East Coast drivers who just don't give a fuck, the meandering, passive-aggressive "defensive driving" techniques employed by Illinois drivers makes the latent New Yorker (because I'm bad-ass like that) in me just want to scream "Fuck you - I'm driving here!"

Admittedly, I have a lead foot and my particular brand of "fuck you, I've got places to be" driving is highly unadvisable, but damn it, if you see someone (read as: me) busting speeds up to 90mph, get the hell out of the way! Particularly irksome are those small P.O.S. cars and those damned smug Priuses! I'm sorry - I'm driving an SUV. I weigh more than you. MOVE OUT OF MY WAY BEFORE I GO TRUCK RALLY ON YOUR ASS.

Perhaps a small part...okay, a large part...of my driving preferences (fast and in the largest vehicle on the market) has to do with the fact that, as a pedestrian, only infants in stationary strollers and certain toy breeds of dog have less clout than I when applying the Law of Mass Tonnage - which amounts to, (s)he who is biggest has the right of way. Standing as tall as I can at 5 feet 3 ½ inches, and weighing in at around 135lbs, I'm highly unlikely to be able to impose my will upon the flow of pedestrian traffic. Many a time have I been quite literally swept off my feet while trying to walk against a crowd.

I may not be able to change my size to my benefit on the sidewalk, but I'll be damned if I'm driving a dinky car with no chance of ever leading a high-speed car chase with massive amounts of collateral damage should I find it necessary. My first car was a 1990 Honda Accord, which is admittedly small, but there's just something about a manual transmission that screams "I'M IN NASCAR, BEEYOTCHES!" and as an added bonus, my motor was excessively loud, which served as a not-so-subtle alert that hell on wheels approacheth, and should you not care to be rammed into, sideswiped, or run off the road, kindly move aside. I miss that car.

Now, I'm driving my father's SUV - which means that not only can I not drive recklessly because I'm fairly certain that on some levels, he loves that car more than me, but it also just doesn't have the speed to back up its not-insignificant size. I can talk tough, but I have no horsies to back it up under the hood. I suspect that this SUV would be a fearsome creature to behold should it ever get the tune-up it so desperately needs, but as it stands, there is very little "giddy up" to this buggy.

So, as I was weaving in and out of traffic, generally pissed that I was being forced to stay at around 65mph (the speed limit) instead of my usual 80mph, I was thinking that I need a mode of transportation that will allow me to, unequivocally, rule the road. To quote comedian Dane Cook, I need something that will make me a BA (that's short for Bad Ass), perhaps even a bad ass mother fucker (BAMF). Unlike Dane though, I don't think that the CT2004 quite fits my personality (if you don't know what I'm talking about, you really need to check it out below - hilarious).

So after some pondering, I decided that there would only really be three realistic options for my BAMF vehicle of choice:

A Tank:

Don't act like you haven't ever fantasized about rolling over that minivan in front of you with that annoying soccer mom yelling at her misbehaving children in the backseat.

Pros:

It's a freaking tank.

Cons:

It's a freaking tank. The likelihood of this being street legal is nil.
Gas mileage must be atrocious.
Tanks are not exactly known for their swiftness. This would be, unarguably, the slowest, and yet most bad-ass commute ever.

A Semi-Truck

Nothing makes me more nervous than driving in front of, behind, to the left of, to the right of, or even on the same highway as, an eighteen-wheeler. To wield this kind of power on the road would the the stuffs of legend. Bonus points if I can have it custom painted to look like Optimus Prime.

Pros:

The semi-truck is the king of the highway.
I would almost always win by law of mass tonnage. I am giant! Hear my air horn!
I get an air horn!
How often do you hear about semi-trucks being pulled over? Not that often, by my estimate.

Cons:

Trucks of this size generally require a different classification of driver's license. I'm lazy and I hated driver's education the first time around.
Semis generally have a lower speed limit than other vehicles. Suckfest.
Almost 80% of the accidents I've seen involved parts literally flying off of a semi and hitting the road/unsuspecting commuters.

Monster Truck

No longer just for rednecks! The monster truck presents unparalleled opportunities for displays of bad-assery and road domination.

Pros:

It's HUGE!!
I could literally drive over traffic.
My undercarriage could be its own lane of traffic for smart cars.
Totally BA.
Everyone would completely move out of my way.

Cons

Is this even street legal?
I'll need an extension ladder to get into it.
Gawker's delay could slow down my commute. Everyone will stare.
I would probably end up killing someone. Although death by monster truck would be pretty sweet.

Clearly, I need to think about this a little more before I make any decisions.

Don't worry, though, Chicago. I'll be terrorizing your roads soon enough.

Quotables

2010-01-20T23:17:00.000-06:00

In discussing my friend's prowess at maneuvering around less than stand-up males of African descent:

Me: You are an old pro at this, aren't you?
S: At triflin' niggas??
S: Honey, I have 6 Ph.Ds in this field...one for every triflin' nigga that I wifed.

Curtis Sittenfeld is a woman?

2010-01-10T03:11:00.000-06:00

One of my former roommates wanted me to read Curtis Sittenfeld's American Wife with her and also recommended the book Prep as well. I've been meaning to start reading books that aren't romance novels, so I figured this was a good place to start.

I quite literally just finished the book and these were the observations that came to mind:

1. I, for the life of me, was unable to make the connection that Curtis Sittenfeld is actually a female. Who would name their daughter "Curtis"? That seems excessively unkind. I was so perplexed wondering how this man was able to so acutely get into the mind of a neurotic teenaged girl with an inferiority complex, and I just couldn't reconcile the text with my perception of the author. 'Twas a total "duh!" moment when I finally figured it out.

2. This book wasn't my usual cup of tea, but I enjoyed it. Though as I'm sitting here now, I'm just really upset. The protagonist was a whiny twatwaffle who would have been better off transferring out instead of being so patently unhappy all the time. Oddly enough, though, I identified with her in so many ways since her experience at Ault felt very similar to mine at Princeton - the money issues, the inability to interact with the lower-middle-class family after being in a prestigious school, the deep-seated insecurities related to identity and feeling invisible, sucking at math (hard), and falling for boys who seem wonderful but really are self-absorbed, hormone-fueled, emotionally-challenged fucktards.

3. Why is this girl so patently unhappy? Even when she describes her life in the present, in her early-to-mid-twenties, she sounds so miserable, like nothing in her life lived up to the expectations she wishes she had for herself. Urgh. I just wanted to grab her and shake her and yell "HAVE SOME GOALS AND ASPIRATIONS!"

I need to go lie down. I'm getting worked up about a fictional character.

On deck is "The Man of My Dreams". When I finish that one, I'll start on "American Wife"...I checked out all three from the library last week.

Wanted: Bedwarmer/Cuddle Buddy for Long Winter Nights

2010-01-08T01:29:00.000-06:00

I have poor circulation in my hands and feet. Chalk it up to iron-deficient anemia or the fact that I hate wearing socks, but either way, my hands and feet are almost always freezing cold.

I've known this to be true for years, but never has it been more apparent to me than last night when I was snuggling up to my pillows to go to sleep. There is nothing, in my estimation, worse than being warm everywhere but your feet when you're trying to go to sleep. Wearing socks to bed is extremely uncomfortable and only results in sweaty, cold feet, which is even worse than just cold feet. Tucking your feet in closer to warmer areas of your body/bed doesn't work out that well either because it's just as uncomfortable trying to reach equilibrium as your cold feet leech the warmth from the rest of your body and you still run the risk of clammy feet as well as cold patches in your bed or on your body.

The only efficient solution to this problem is a cuddle buddy.

This winter marks the first that I've spent sleeping alone since high school, and I must say, I hate it. For the past four years, during the bitter cold winter nights, I always had someone to share a bed with. Freshman year of college, it was a friend of mine who allowed me to bunk in his room when my roommate was "entertaining guests". Sophomore year, I had a boyfriend who invariably yelped when my icy feet came in contact with his legs. Junior year, I was still casually seeing the afore-mentioned but now-ex-boyfriend, who still yelped and grumbled. Senior year, I more or less had a revolving door of bedwarmers, including but not limited to: my jump-off from NYC, one of my best friends who would share the bed when he came to visit, and the occasional diving into my roommate's bed on cold mornings to wake her up.

This winter? Not only am I in unemployment-imposed exile in the Northwest Suburbs of Chicago, which might as well be Antarctica as far as its climate is concerned, but I also live with my parents. The only available bedwarmers here are four-legged and furry and currently have an infestation of fleas that I have no desire whatsoever to catch.

So, tonight I'm going to bed freezing of foot, ill-tempered and alone. But mostly just ill-tempered with cold feet.

Next winter, I'm either moving to a Southern state (though if next winter is anything like this winter, not even that will save me) or locking down a boyfriend bedwarmer before autumn hits.

Be the change you wish to see in the world...

2010-01-07T02:32:00.000-06:00

Thanks, Gandhi.

School starts a week from...today, I suppose...(it is 2 in the morning, so yeah, I guess it would be today) and I have mixed feelings about this program I'm starting on. Actually, the feelings aren't really all that mixed. "Mixed feelings" implies that you have good and bad feelings, contradictory feelings that are all being expressed at once. That's not what I feel right now. If you were to take the feelings that I have right now and put them in a bag and label them, it would be labeled with a skull-and-crossbones and big, bold letters in wet crimson ink: "DO NOT WANT". This bag of feelings would be deposited out by the dumpsters and you'd cringe as you walked past it hoping that the trash collectors would come early this week.

Unfortunately, I can't scoop these feelings into a Glad bag and throw them out on the curb. I'm stuck with them until I can do something about them.

These are the problems as I see them (in no particular order):

I'm poor with no credit to speak of.
I'm currently unemployed.
I'm maxed out on student loans and still have about $2500 left to pay.
I live an hour away from my school. Three hours in traffic. My first class of the day, four days out of the week, is at 8:30AM.
I live at home.
No one appears to be hiring but Hooters. My parents would probably disown me if I applied there. They already threw their respective hissy fits when I suggested working there. (Let's face it, I'd make some killer tips there.)
I'm scared out of my mind that I'm going to fail with this whole medical school adventure.
I'm scared that I'll be positively ancient before I get out of medical school.
I'm scared that I won't get into the medical school of my choice and be stuck in the Midwest for the rest of my life.
I'm scared that I won't even be able to become a cat lady because my job will be my life and I won't even have time to adopt 60 gajillion cats.

I know that I can't do anything about some of these fears and insecurities. Especially the one involving cats. I don't even like cats like that, so I don't even know why I'm terrified of becoming a cat lady, or more accurately, of being too busy to become a cat lady. Shouldn't I be happy about that?

However, I can do something about some of these problems I have. To paraphrase dear old Gandhi, it's time to nut up or shut up.

So, while I'm not applying to Hooters (though, honestly, I am sorely tempted to), I am going to be peddling my services as a tutor and ACT/SAT instructor at the local high school. I mean, really? To my knowledge, there's only been 2 Ivy League students out of that school in its entire history. If we're really going to be sticklers for details, technically, I'm the only one who did four years in an Ivy institution. The other person transferred into Harvard for his senior year. I know he busted his butt to do so and I know that senior year at Harvard is no cakewalk, but after my four years of toiling in New Jersey, I've earned my right to be elitist.

Given that Plainfield South doesn't really have the setup for good tutoring for high-achieving students, I don't expect this to be particularly lucrative, but hey, it's better than nothing. And if it starts to pay off, at least I can say that I put myself through school without having to take my clothes off.

...Though that would make one hell of a story.

New Year, New Challenges

2010-01-01T02:42:00.000-06:00

I sure don't seem to waste any time.

I had intended my first post of the year to be funny, heartwarming and altogether encouraging, however, true to form, life has intervened.

In exactly two weeks, I'll be taking classes at Dominican University for a certificate in Pre-Medical Studies. While I am rather excited at the prospect of returning to school, I'm not particularly excited about what I'm giving up or the excruciating process I seem to have to go through in order for this whole shebang to pan out.

Right now, I'm entrenched in a battle with financial aid to fund this venture. Unlike Princeton, this school is not very generous with its financial aid. I've already maxed out on loans, as far as I am aware, and yet I have another $2500 in class fees that are going to crop up as soon as I get off the waitlist for my last class. I also happen to live about an hour away from this school, barring traffic and adverse weather conditions. The last time I had to drive up to campus, I got stuck in a snow storm and was delayed by an hour and a half. I had left my house an hour and a half before I needed to be there...and didn't get there until an hour and a half after I was supposed to meet with my advisor. This is not okay. I can neither control the weather nor the pattern of traffic. I would move on campus, but Dominican also has an abnormally high price tag for dorm life...and if I already can't afford to take the classes I need, how can I possibly afford the dorm that would make this more convenient?

Get a job, you say? That would be a good idea. If I wasn't in class during business hours and if I could manage to find any place near either my house or my school that was hiring that wasn't Hooters. Apparently my mother (I dare not even ask my father for his opinion) is adamant that her Princeton-educated daughter not stoop so low as to work at Hooters to put herself through school. Easy for her to say. She's not bankrolling this expensive venture that will take almost a decade to get any sort of return on.

I'm having issues looking on the bright side right now and I'm extremely stressed out about all of this and I have no idea what I'm going to do.

Add to this the fact that I've been referred to several potential schools as a prospective teacher...which is something that I know for a fact that I'm good at and would be a fairly decent living for a couple of years (at least until I could pay off some loans and other various forms of debt) and I am sorely, sorely being tested here. I know that these jobs are far from a sure thing, especially given that I've been weeded out for interviews before and clearly have not been hired, but I am so tempted to interview anyway.

But then I'd have to quit this program. At least for a year or two.

This is so not okay.

I want to finish this program. I really do. But when you're broke and your back is against the wall, finding alternatives, any alternatives, just is so tempting.

Hi 2010, thanks for keeping it really interesting.

It's Been A Long Time Coming...

2009-12-25T23:52:00.001-06:00

First of all, Merry Christmas!

I haven't posted in a while and there's a few good reasons for that. One of my best friends in the whole world got married on the 12th, and I couldn't be happier for her and her new husband. Wonderfully, amazingly, I was blessed enough to be a bridesmaid and be a part of the beautiful production that was their marriage ceremony. They're such an amazing couple, so much so that I can't even begin to bring myself to threaten her husband if he doesn't treat her properly...because he's always spoiled her. Always. So, congratulations to them.

Another one of my besties is finally, finally in a functional relationship. Or rather, about as functional as it gets for her. I don't think she has it in her to be completely traditional, which is why she's currently in a relationship with an older man. For her, it works. She's always been somewhat of an old soul, despite her love for all gadgets technological and trendy, and I couldn't be happier. I love getting texts and emails about how great he is and all that he does for her as opposed to instant messages and calls crying about what the latest idiot has done. I'm all for more of this. I haven't formally threatened this one yet either, mostly because as a young black woman, the idea of threatening an older white man who owns multiple firearms and lives in the Deep South goes against the grain of centuries of institutionalized fear of The Man.

I am still single, and for the first time in a long time, I'm okay with that. Considering that any of my friends who read this blog (do you guys read this?) are probably scoffing at me since I complain loudly and incessantly about being single, let me explain why. While I was out of town for my friend's wedding, I stopped by my alma mater (it's so strange to call Princeton that, given that I only graduated in June) and ran into my ex. I suppose it would be more applicable to call him "The Ex" with capital letters since he is the benchmark by which I measure all relationships since the relationship I had with him, no matter how ill-advised, tumultuous, self-destructive, passionate and altogether something we had no business embarking upon, was the only real relationship I have ever been in. In any case, the encounters with The Ex were just as awkward and awful as I had expected them to be. We didn't exactly part on the best of terms when we broke up three (has it really been that long?) years ago and it never really got any better given the close quarters that such a small campus afforded. I have the suspicion that he loathes when I come anywhere within the tri-state area and since I can't stand being in the same room as him without becoming a nervous, jittery, awkward mess, I suppose that's alright.

The first time I ran into him was right before I was supposed to go to Philadelphia for the wedding. I was just passing through and saying hi to those that I really missed. Our encounter ended up being just the same as every other time. I saw him. He saw me. We ignored each other. I cried later on public transportation on my way to Philly and texted the two friends who always put up with my self-inflicted drama.

After the wedding, I had to roll back through Princeton and hang out for a bit before continuing on to Newark Airport.

In any case, as soon as I spotted him, the usual symptoms occurred: I felt weak, nervous, fluttery, my hands started shaking, my knees started quaking, my heart started pounding. However, there was one distinct difference between this and any other time when he walks into a room: I didn't miss him. Normally, I would be crippled with feelings of nostalgia of when we were together (and not fighting like cats and dogs over fundamental issues that should have clued us in to the fact that we were terrible for each other) and I would nearly cry in anguish at all that I'd thought we'd lost. But this time? There was just a weariness at putting myself in yet another situation that could have easily been avoided (I knew I should have just stayed at the yarn store or retreated back to the eating club in which I was bunking down that day). Being the stubborn soul that I am, I plunked myself down in my seat and hunkered down, striving for that sense of cool detachment that I surely didn't feel and no one who knows me would even think I'm capable of, especially given the fact that I could barely pretend to text someone because my hands were shaking so badly. I stuck it out because I wanted to see if he'd say anything, acknowledge me at all.

He didn't. And I'm so glad he didn't. It finally hammered home a point that I think he's been trying to get across through my desperate pleas for attention over the past few years: we don't know each other anymore, and honestly? We probably never did know each other at all. In those agonizing minutes that I sat there, hoping and praying that one of us would break the awkward silence and finally talk, I realized, we don't have to. At one point, he was the most important person in my life, which was so messed up on so many levels, to begin with, but as I sat there, he became that guy that sat two chairs away from me that one time in Frist.

I got up from that chair, mumbled something along the lines of "Good luck with your thesis", awkwardly shouted out to nearby friends that I'd be back for Reunions (sort of a head's up for him as well) and left.

I'm not really sure what finally flipped that "Let bygones be bygones" switch, but I suspect that it has to do with those wonderful friends of mine who are happily ensconced in domestic bliss. I want that someday. I'd like to think that I deserve that someday. And after seeing what a successful relationship looks like, the culmination of two happy people complementing each other, I can let the past go. Because the future's looking pretty bright right now.

So singledom is the order of the day right now. We'll see how this works out.

An Open Letter to Celebrity Gossipers

2009-12-04T06:50:00.000-06:00

Dear Gossip Blogs and Other Entertainer-Based Media Outlets,

I will admit, I'm fascinated by you most of the time. At times, the only thing that can cheer me up is reading your articles and chatting excitedly about the latest in some poor entertainer's life. If I may be more specific, I spend most of my time reading salacious articles about the love lives of my favorite (and some that I actually don't care a whit about) celebrities. Sex tapes, secret mistresses, knock-down-drag-out fights, you name it, I'll read about it. Especially if the person in question is extremely attractive (*cough* Taylor Lautner, Rob Pattinson, Usher, Tyrese, Eric Dane *cough*). Since my day-to-day existence is usually pretty tame, I get my kicks from reading about the scandals and up-and-downs of Hollywood's residents. I should note that my amount of gossip rag reading is inversely related to how much work and/or drama I have going on in my own life. I don't bother with you when I have more important things to deal with.

That being said, you're my guilty pleasure.

Emphasis on guilt.

I really shouldn't be getting my jollies from the downfalls of others. Cathartic or no, it feels a lot more like Schadenfreude these days. Why? Because it used to be that it'd only be maybe once every couple of months or so that I'd hear a particularly awesome bit of celebrity gossip and it'd tide me over for a couple of months. But now? Every single day, there's something new and horrible. And I'm sick of it.

I could stop reading. I probably really should. I won't, though. Because I hate being out of the loop. And that is a sad fact that both disappoints and disgusts me. I'm a better person than this.

And you, Social Media, should be too.

As much as we all enjoy a little Schadenfreude, we should really give some of these celebrities a break. Some things shouldn't be broadcast to the world. Mostly because, in the end, nobody really cares.

Case in point - Tiger Woods. To my knowledge, he's done a really good job staying out of the public eye as far as his personal life is concerned. Now all of a sudden, he is under the media microscope as multiple manipulative sources attempt to dissect his life. This makes me sad and a little ill.

Social Media, you've changed.

Once upon a time, you only reported on the stupid things celebrities did out in the open. Now you're trolling for the stupid things they do in private. You're the media version of ambulance-chasers. Actually, you literally ARE ambulance-chasers (I'm sure David Hasselhoff, Robert Downey Jr. and many other schwasted and hospitalized celebrities can back me on this one). And let's face it. No one likes ambulance-chasers.

You scare me a little bit and I think we need to take a break.

Maybe it's you that I'll give up for New Year's.

Until I make that call though, could you please continue to let me know if/when Taylor Lautner either becomes single, turns 18, or declares his love for slightly older, petite, curvy, intelligent Black girls named Brittney?

Thanks,
Brittney

stream of consciousness

2009-11-30T00:18:00.000-06:00

it hurts, but it doesn't, this grasping, cloying feeling surrounding what should be my heart. it's a thickness, a murkiness, a fog. it envelops me, spreads up and throughout my chest, choking me, silencing me. it should hurt, but it doesn't. it's numbing as if someone laced my veins with morphine, but without the subtle burn telling me that the pain is being ushered out in the grasp of opiates. i'm drowning in this lack of feeling, suffocating, dying. i wish it was that simple. i feel trapped, bound, gagged, confined. these four walls are no longer a sanctuary but a cell. inside them i am safe from the outside but what's saving me from myself? my skin chafes as if something is yearning to be set free, but there is no room to stretch, no place to put this glorious me trapped within the body of a nobody. no. body. no room to shed this skin of waiting, watching, wishing that i was anywhere but here, anyone but this, anything but what i am. but what am i? a coward, a bitch, a harpy, a failure, a disaster waiting to happen. there should be an emergency alert sign for times like this, feeling like this, i feel as if i could break free but only by breaking the chains that have held me here for so long. i look to the sky and yearn to fly away from this from here from you from me from everything. but i can't because my feet are nailed to the ground. i'm not sure whose idea this was, yours or mine, to place me so solidly on this earth but in retrospect, it wasn't the greatest. i need more, i need you, but you're not here and you never will be again and you said you'd never leave me that you'd neverstoplovingme but you did and you have because love isn't ignorance isn't bliss. i wasn't enough and i was too much and you walked away and looked back to find me trailing behind like a lost child because i am. i am. I AM. i am lost without you can't help myself and i don't know how to do this without you. i lie awake at strange hours, in strange homes, in strange beds, everywhere i am, you are not. and it kills me inside with a gentle throbbing, a not so gentle tugging and excruciating pain of the separation of my soul from who i was when i met you and what i've become since you left me. and i'm so pathetic because you've moved on moved out moved away forgotten me forgotten us forgotten the dreams that we once had and i can never forget. i want to forget i need to forget so i can leave this place behind, this place where dreams go to die. i feel the tears gathering behind my eyes, pressing on my sinuses, aching to be set free but they will never be released because release means relief and relief is recovery and i'm not at that stage yet. so they lie in wait for an unexpected and unwelcome showing the next time our song comes on or the next time i see your face or when i wake up from that dream where you and me are we and realize that it is not you in bed next to me but empty air and empty dreams

empty dreams i waste my life dreaming because reality is so much less satisfying. i would that i could lay here and sleep my life away like sleeping beauty waiting for the aurora day dawn when prince charming would come and i could lie here never knowing love never knowing you never missing you never aware of the fact that i'm not so secretly waiting for you. but you never come or if you do i am never aware of it as you pass by me like a stranger in the night which, after all, is all that you are. and so i lie lay lie with myself to myself by myself with this not pain in my chest wishing to break free.

Dear Save the Children Marketing Department,

2009-11-25T05:44:00.001-06:00

Dear Save the Children Marketing Department,

You win. I've been putting up with your commercials and pleas for me to help sponsor a child for less than the cost of a cup of coffee a day since I was in the 8th fucking grade. I barely had lunch money back then and there I was, begging my parents to increase my allowance so I could sponsor Enrique from Ecuador.

Today? I'm 22 (okay, 21, but I turn 22 next month, might as well get used to saying it) and I still can't afford to sponsor a child.

And your commercials break my heart. Every. Single. Time.

Between the hours of 3am and 6am, when not dodging phone sex hotline infomercials, I strategically avoid having to look these starving and unfortunate children in their big, brown, invariably teary eyes because I will start crying. It hurts me to see little kids in pain and I'm sure you manipulative bastards know that.

Ku-fucking-dos.

Would you like to know why I'm congratulating you? Because you succeeded in getting me to do something about the never-ending cycle of guilt you put me through.

Because I hate medical school prerequisite classes. But I'm going to take them and I'm going to ace them. I hate even the concept of the MCAT. But again, I'm going to take it and I'm going to ace it. And it's all because of you.

I am sick to death of feeling guilty and powerless when I see your commercials. Sick. To. Death.

So I'm doing something about it.

I'm going to medical school and I'm going to get a dual degree in Global Health. And I'm going to treat and cure those poor little orphans in third world countries.

Why?

So in approximately 6 years or so, I can watch your commercials and laugh. I can wait. Because when I finally get to that joyous day, do you know what my response to your query about what I'm doing for the children will be?

"I just saved an impoverished village of kids from malaria and HIV. What the fuck have YOU done lately?"

Thank you, Save the Children. You just gave me the motivation I needed. Congratu-fucking-lations.

Love,
Brittney

P.S. You're next, Humane Society. Consider yourself put on notice. I'll adopt the shit out of those kill shelters if you keep airing those Sarah MacLaughlin based commercials.

Failure to Communicate

2009-11-23T04:15:00.001-06:00

I've never been particularly good at keeping journals or records of my daily existence. There are countless numbers of notebooks that I've cut pages out of and donated to school supply drives simply because I just couldn't be bothered to keep up with writing.

I think this is because I've always been a intensely private sort of person and could never bear the idea of someone I didn't authorize reading my life. Outside of the written word, my public persona is a carefully crafted chimera of brash loquaciousness overlaying a sensitive soul that can't stand criticism. Quite frankly, I get enough criticism at home and I don't want it from anyone else. "Want" is the operative term here because I am of the belief that I could stand a personality reality check from time to time, but that doesn't necessarily mean that I want someone else to tell me so.

The thought of being judged by the things that I say or do is such that instills in me a distinct fear that manifests itself in an acute sense of anxiety, a rumbling stomach, shakes, quivers and chills, and that vague, apprehensive feeling of warmth on your bum you get when you know you've done something terribly wrong and your parents are going to spank you for it. It makes me panicky and it makes me stupid. I tend to do rash things to avoid having to deal with that very feeling, or worse, the aftereffects of judgment - that agonizing feeling of the disappointment you have incited in others. I can deal with people being mad at me. Mostly because I avoid conflict like Sarah Palin avoids common sense and a good publicist. If someone is mad at me, I usually just walk away until they're not mad anymore. Most fights, I've found, can be avoided (not solved or prevented, but avoided) by simply walking away. It's not mature, but it damned sure is effective. Unless you're trapped in an untenable situation where you can't walk away. Which I've very rarely been in. In fact, there's only been one person in my entire twenty-one (almost twenty-two) years of life who didn't let me walk away from fights. How did I deal with those particular situations?

Not very well.

I get performance anxiety when forced to deal with conflict. I hate to lose and I hate to be wrong. I'm stubborn, emotional, illogical, and bitchy. I say what I feel, not what I mean, and I get angry when you call me out on a logical fallacy. Or on my interpretation of the events that led to the conflict in question. And I fight dirty when backed into a corner. I don't necessarily mean to, but I've never had a fully functional mental filter and all those horrible things that I secretly think when you're telling me something I don't want to hear? I say them. All those things that you're really insecure about and secretly fear that I noticed? I did notice and I'm going to bring it up. Why do I do this every time we fight? Because you won't let me walk away, cool down, and then give myself time to come up with a logical reason for why you're being an idiot. Or to realize that I am, indeed, wrong, and apologize by awkwardly trying to seduce you like I read about in my romance novels that you can't stand that I read for this very reason.

None of these things are conducive to a mature, caring relationship with someone who isn't biologically obligated to love me no matter what. Neither my problems nor my solutions to said problems work in relationships for very long, and these tactics only work when the other person is actually a person. I can't seduce an unknown reader of my "never meant to be seen by light of day" journal into liking what I have to say or how I live my life. Hell, I don't even like how I live my life the majority of the time.

I'm terrified to write something that nobody wants to hear. Mainly because that, in my mind, translates to "Nobody cares what you have to say. You're completely irrelevant."

And that's not something anyone wants to hear.

So I self-edit, and I write posts that are heavily self-censored. I've never been able to complete a real short story because I'm so scared of a failure to communicate.

Which is, in and of itself, a failure to communicate.

fuck, where has the time gone?!?

2009-11-23T02:50:00.001-06:00

Today is November 23rd. Two months ago, I swore that I would either have a job or be enrolled in some sort of school by the fall of 2010. Congratulations to me! I'm going back to school in January for that post baccalaureate program I mentioned before. My mom took me on a "college visit" and just like my last college visit, I turned in my intent to enroll card on the spot.

I now have to, somewhat awkwardly, tell the professors that I asked for letters of recommendation that I no longer need their services. This is awkward because only one of my recommenders was positively gung-ho about me applying to graduate school in the first place. I'm really good at researching and just as good at writing about my topics. I just had some serious issues attending class and actually adhering to deadlines. This probably means that I would have struggled in graduate school anyway, if I lacked the motivation.

Standards are for people who have options, right?

2009-11-11T00:29:00.001-06:00

So, for someone who was complaining about 3 months ago about not having any options, I certainly have a few too many right now.

I just got into a postbaccalaureate certificate program for premedical studies, which means that I can pick up my discarded premed aspirations and go to medical school as I originally planned once upon a time.

However, I've been in the process of applying to Ph.D programs in English and Comparative Literature because that's where my interests lie. The programs I applied to are extremely competitive and I'm not entirely sure if I'm good enough to get in. My written work is awesome, and I have no compunction whatsoever about saying so, but I had a lot of problems during undergraduate studies that reflected themselves in my grades. We're talking multiple deaths in and close to the family, illnesses, abusive and destructive relationships, diagnoses of mental illness, kind of problems.

So what do I do? Do I just take the premed route because it's a sure thing, or do I take a chance and apply for something I wish I could do?

Or do I do both?

I'm beating myself up trying to figure out what to do and I'm running out of time. Deadlines for applications are coming up soon. Class for the premed program starts in January.

And I'm chafing, being at home, and the prospect of having a legit excuse to move out is sorely tempting me to make rash decisions.

So here I sit, wringing my hands, hoping to come to a conclusion.

Mission (Temporarily) Accomplished.

2009-11-06T04:29:00.001-06:00

When I started this blog, I stated that I would have a job by 2010 or there would be hell to pay.

Fait Accompli.

As of November 16th, I'm contracted as a Data Entry Specialist for a company that will remain somewhat nameless (unless I forget and mention the name anyway) until June 30, 2010. Data entry isn't exactly something that I'm particularly interested in, but given the state of the job market right now, especially that of Plainfield, IL, beggars can't be choosers.

Repeat the motto with me, kids: Standards are for people who have options.

In other news, I have been a busy girl. The day after I posted last time (16 Oct), I came down with what felt like the most godawful body aches I've ever had. It hurt to walk, it hurt to sit, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to be. And then the fever set in. I ended up calling my grandfather to drive me an hour to Cook County Hospital in the middle of the night because I don't have health insurance and I thought that my blood was going to boil dry. I spent a good portion of that night and early morning in the emergency room with a fever of 102.9 and was put in an isolation room for fear of H1N1. My fever broke about 4 hours later with the aid of Tylenol and a well-placed IV. I don't know what was in that bag of fluids, but it was just as my doctor stated - "like the nectar of the gods". Now I just have to find a way to finance that little ER jaunt.