Forbearance

I had my personality professionally dissected and labeled today, (Don’t ask-long story) and I learned some very valuable nuggets of information about the way I’m “wired.”

First of all, aforementioned professional diagnosed me with an “avoidant” personality type, in regards to my relationships to other people. This means that I am the type of person who prefers minimal contact with my few loved ones. A human with an avoidant personality doesn’t necessarily want to be around people in which they have relations to on a frequent basis. They like their space. They feel overwhelmed when people try to get close to them too fast and are frequent ignorers when reached out to.

My, my, my, this professional really knows her stuff. This personality type just so happens to describe me to a tee. I hate being around other people. Alone time is BLISS. I typically end up pissed off or frustrated after interactions with my fellow human beings.

And that most likely explains why I spend the majority of my evenings wrapped up in a burrito of blankets, cradling my Mac, and producing pointless blog posts about my uneventful existence with my faithful sidekick, Fred the Abnormally Large Cat, by my side.

Also, it means i’m probably gonna die alone.

In other news… Gay marriage is finally legal in Utah! Wahoo! Reddest state in the nation for the win.

Oh, and also, apparently seasonal squashes are gendered now, according to the asshat in my Creative Writing class who asked “what is it with you females and your obsession with pumpkin spice during the month of October?”

M.

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Lucubrate

I am in a particularly difficult stage of my life. Nothing makes sense. I’m right on the threshold of adulthood, but not quite there yet. Plans change by the second. Nothing feels right.

However, the hardships of this weirdish-almost-adultish state of existence, provide excellent opportunities for learning frustrating, reality-check giving life lessons. Here’s a few i’ve learned lately:

1. I am thoroughly convinced that moving out of my parents’ home will solve 99.4% of my problems. 

Before you slap a label on my disproportionately large forehead that reads, “Snobby, Spoiled, Over-privileged, Ungrateful Brat Whose Daddy Gives Her Everything,” check yourself before you wreck yourself. Then explain to me how you managed to fit so much writing on such a little label. And then hear me out.

One of my greatest growing concerns in my own life is being dependent on other people. I am a lone she-wolf. OWWWWW.

Seriously, though. All I want is to be able to take care of myself completely on my own. I acknowledge that I am nowhere near realizing this goal, but moving out would be a huge leap towards becoming Miss Independent. There is nothing I desire more than to be the dirt-poor girl in the tiniest, hole-in-the-wall apartment with thrift shop furniture and a budget just large enough to sustain life. It’s not even about feminism or having something to prove. I just want a modest place to call my very own-a place secluded from family and friends unless I choose otherwise.

On the other hand, i’m not exactly equipped to take care of myself entirely just yet. I moved out my first semester of college to a faraway land (well, about 350 miles away), and, long story short, I lost 10 pounds and took 2 trips to the E.R. over the span of 4 months. This occurrence should not be disregarded when it comes down to “should I stay or should I go?”

2.. Even if I survived on the thriftiest of diets (we’re talking ramen-noodle and cans of generic spaghetti-o’s) there is no way in hell I will ever be able to afford a place of my own. 

I am a very modest girl with a very modest-paying job. Turns out $700 a month is about 1/4th the income I need to get an apartment of my own with out a damn “cosigner.” Needing a cosigner makes me co-dependent and that makes me want to vomit.

Then there’s utility costs, which is a load of bullshit on its own.

3. When you’re done, it’s time to quit. 

Yesterday, I had a bad day. It was significantly worse than my typical bad days. I broke. My own papa taught me something very valuable that evening; when you’ve had enough, it’s time to pop an Ambien and watch New Girl until you fall into a deep, drug-induced slumber.

4. If Exercise Endorphins aren’t doing the trick, Comfort Food Endorphins sure will. 

Nothing makes me feel like an invincible warrior quite like a 4.5 mile run on the treadmill, fueled by Fall Out Boy and the current day’s rage. But even after that, the persistent Blues can proceed to cling to your back and weigh me down.

Fortunately, we have Molten Lava Chocolate Cake to remedy that.

5. When People Say, ‘I Care About You,’ Let Them. 

Probably due to my independent nature, I don’t allow other people to help me with my problems. I let my frustrations bottle up and attempt (in vain) to solve them on my own until I simply burn out. It’s probably a pride issue, but I need to let other people care about me sometimes. It’s a work-in-progress.

6. We All Have Problems

My problems aren’t any more or less significant than my peers. We all have plenty issues, but some of us are just better at coping with them. I prefer the “break down and bawl under my covers until I feel like my problems can’t find me” method. Other people choose the “be a reasonable, mature adult and push through it because it’s not going anywhere” method.

Hey, i’m learning.

I am quite the hot mess, my friends.

M.

Hedonic

I don’t mean to be THAT girl, the one who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends, but let’s be honest, I’m typically that girl who’s always a minute behind the latest pop culture trends. I live under a rock of Fall Out Boy and New Girl. My scope of pop culture exposure is fairly limited.

I listened to the radio the other day because I forgot my little tape cassette thingy that lets you play music from your smart phone. I hope I never forget my little cassette tape thingy again. Anyway, that preposterous “All About That Bass” song came on.

Aside from its reprehensible tune, I find the song’s lyrics to be absolutely ludicrous. Let’s take a closer look at the problematic themes of this song, shall we?

“My mama, she told me, don’t worry about your size. She says, ‘boys like a little more booty to hold at night.'”

Okay, Meghan Trainor, so your mama taught you to keep some junk in the trunk so that future suitors have something to grab at when you’re laying in bed at night? How is that any different than girls who starve themselves because everyone and their dog knows that the no boy doesn’t like the slim Victoria’s Secret Model body type? I have a really hard time picturing anybody’s mama telling them to do anything to their bodies that make men want to hold them more. In addition, this is a clearly anti-feminist theme because mama says the reason to keep your booty plump is for the sole purpose of attracting men, thus a form of self-objectification, which is completely problematic.

“Go ahead and tell them skinny bitches that.” 

So skinny girls are, by default, bitches? No, no. That’s called jealousy. If you didn’t at least partially covet those with a daintier frame, you wouldn’t feel the need to call them bitches. This ties in to a previous post of mine in which I discuss how women tend to degrade other women by attaching some kind of ridicule about their physical appearance to another insult, i.e. “skinny bitches.” (See “For Maximum Efficiency“)

“Cuz I got that boom boom that all the boys chase.” 

What in the hell is boom boom?

Skinny shaming is no better than fat shaming. I am a complete advocate of self-acceptance, but, in my opinion, (and the RIGHT one, on this website, anyway. Welcome to my totalitarian online world, people.) accepting and learning to love your body cannot be done while shaming those with body types that differ from yours.

This is going to sound completely adolescent, but if you have to shame other people to feel better about yourself, are you really improving your self-esteem?

Perhaps.

If mentally telling yourself that boys like your curves better than hip bones or vice versa improves your sense of self-worth and esteem, by all means, keep telling yourself that. But shall we not incorporate such themes into our media and allowing them to plague the minds of the young and easily-influenced?

As for me, I couldn’t give a damn whether REAL men like curves. Or thigh gaps. I have the body I have. It functions efficiently and I keep it healthy and feeling good. And that is good enough for me.

It doesn’t matter if you’re fat, skinny, tall, short, have an extra toe, have been christened”big-boned,” what have you. Learning to accept the body you have is an entirely separate process from shaming somebody else.

As a side note, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” –Some Profound Author/Poet/Inspirational Speaker.

M.

Concedable Classroom Concessions

I was having a moderately decent day, for a Tuesday. I had gotten my 8.25 hours of sleep, had strategically planned out an outfit that was both dapper but not too overdone for a middle-class student, and had had a balanced breakfast that included just enough caffeine to jolt my drowsy brain into alert-mode. All of the components that make for a successful day, right? 

And my day was successful. I hadn’t had a single reverie of me having a sudden violent outburst toward one of my fellow students. 

That is, until my last class came around. 

Structure of English. My most-dreaded class of the day. Noon to 1:15. Lunch time. 

It’s not that I don’t find learning about the definition and purpose of pronouns and prepositional phrases absolutely riveting, it’s that learning about the definition and purpose of pronouns and prepositional phrases cannot and will not ever be absolutely riveting to anyone, ever. Especially at midday, when my tummy has the rumblies. 

No matter the severity of my stomach’s grumbling, I would never, EVER, under any circumstances, consume any sort of crunchy, edible morsel during class, much less in the ear of the poor student occupying the seat in front of me. 

This crime was committed against me today, ladies and gentlemen. I am a victim of explicitly loud and disgusting chewing noises from the ignorant swine with a constant need to scarf down raw fruits and vegetables and sit in the seat right behind me so that I cannot escape her “crrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnncccccccccccccchhhhhhhhh.” 

She started with a bag of carrots. And this was before class had begun. At the first chomp, I had already considered moving seats, and had my eye on one as distant from this girl and her repugnant eating habits as I could possibly get, without sacrificing my ability to hear the professor’s lecture. 

As usual, my reaction was too slow, and I was trapped in the dungeon of eaters who have no regard for other peoples’ disgust for their lack of being able to chew quietly. (Or just wait to scarf down their lunch after class, dammit.) 

The lecture had started, but by then, I was already gripping my head with my fingers as if I had a sudden, severe migraine. In reality, though, I was just trying to release the fury in my hands before I released it in the form of a fist across this chick’s face.

Her carrots were gone, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

I breathed too soon, though, because seconds later, I heard the rustling of Ziploc sandwich bags as she pulled yet another bag from her backpack. This one was full of apples.

At this point, my ability to focus on the parts of speech had gone out the window, across the prairie, and halfway to the ocean.

My hands couldn’t squeeze my head any tighter, so I began harshly gripping at my own hair, a ritual of sanity maintenance.

This class could not end soon enough.

I whipped my neck around and gave this girl my best stink-eye, but to no avail. She continued munching, crunching, and chomping on her apple slices, as if she were immune to the sting of my icy gaze.

She must have cut up seventeen apples this morning before class, because it took her the majority of our hour-and-fifteen-minute lecture to consume them all.

Finally, once I was positive that I could not endure another millisecond of her disgusting chewing habits, I heard the rustling of her empty Ziploc bag as she presumably stuffed it back into her backpack and zipped up the pouch.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Nobody was going to have to get her mandible shattered today.

But then, to my great terror, my ears detected the sharp “POP!” of a wad of Bubbalicious gum.

I now like to take a moment to formally apologize to anyone I’ve ever eaten raw or crunchy food around. That was repugnant behavior, and from now on, I will be enjoying these types of foods from the closet in my bedroom with my radio at its maxed-out volume so that nobody can hear me chew. 

And just in case you were wondering, I didn’t punch the girl in the jaw. That would probably result in an “assault charge” which would go on my “permanent record,” making me an “utter disappointment” and “disgracing my family name.” 

M. 

 

Unapologetically Detestable

In the spirit of outlining my top seven pet peeves last week, (see 7 Unforgivable Transgressions) I’ve decided i’ll unveil the top seven character traits of mine that set my peers off. (In an unapologetic manner, of course, with absolutely no consideration to alter or improve aforementioned character traits.) So, without further ado, here are my top seven detestable human habits! Enjoy. 

1. I am LOOOOOOUD. 

And I don’t mean just notably more rambunctious than everybody else within a visual circumference of your person .  I was blessed with a voice that carries through the air like a goose feather and raps against each and every eardrum within a quarter-mile radius. Beyond that, rare is an occasion that my clamorous vocal cords are not in use. Yes, I like to hear myself talk so stop looking at me like i’m interrupting something important. 

2. I am selfish.

Especially when it comes to food. I will not share my fruit, pancakes, or Jalapeño Cheetos with anyone. I hide my favorite breakfast cereals from my family. I probably won’t leave a piece of pizza for you so you have something to eat when you get home from soccer practice, sissy. However, I do expect you to share with me, and if you refuse, I will eat off your plate, or bite your finger like a carrot. 

3. I am only high-spirited on an exceptionally conditional basis. 

And those conditions are as follows: (In order of importance)

     1. I have eaten in the past two hours.

     2. I am properly caffeinated, as well as hydrated. 

     3. I slept at least 8.3 hours last night. 

     4. I got a good workout in within the past 48 hours. 

     5. Nobody has told me “no” recently. 

      6. I am satisfied with the way my hair turned out today. 

4. I always have the final word. 

My 16-year-old sister and I argue over virtually everything you could possibly imagine arguing about, and let me tell you, not one of these arguments have ended with a snide remark out of her mouth. No, typically our bicker-sessions end with me calling her some snide, totally uncalled for, and immature name. I know this makes me a horrendous person, but I feel better after calling her a name. It’s like a formal declaration that I’ve won yet another argument. 

5. I post a minimum of three FaceBook statuses A DAY. 

Can you really blame me? It would be selfish of me to keep these priceless thoughts in my own little head. I am flawlessly hilarious, and I feel that it is my duty-nay, my burden-to share them with the world wide web. 

6. I do things in spite of those who know better. 

I have these ADORABLE high-waisted shorts that I bought this past summer that are to be worn with a tucked-in shirt and make my legs look awesome. However, every time I wear these shorts, my mother dearest always makes remarks such as “Maddie, your whole butt is hanging out!” or “Those shorts are just a tiny bit short, don’t you think?” Yes, mom, I do think, but I like. And so I shall continue to wear. 

7. I am confrontationally impaired. 

If you do something to piss me off, I will engage in a series of behaviors that will lead you to correctly believe that I am pissed off at you. But I will never tell you to your face what it is that you’ve done to me to make me pissed off in the first place. So good luck figuring it out while I treat you like crap until you apologize, gosh dang you. 

And that, my good people, are the top 7 reasons why people hate me. 

M. 

7 Unforgivable Transgressions

It goes without saying that a majority of the actions committed by other people irk me at best. I could write one hell of a lengthy post on everything that bothers me about other people. But on this fine Saturday, i’d like to focus on a select handful or two of unforgivable behaviors that will result in either an act of violence or verbal abuse from me. 

1. People who say, or have ever said, “make me a sammitch” 

Yes, folks. We’re talking about sexism. I’m sure it comes to no surprise to you that this made the top of my list, but all of these Kitchen Jokes have got to go. It’s 2014 for heaven’s sake. The whole “women belong in the kitchen” thing stopped being funny before kitchens were even a thing. And why is there no male equivalent for Kitchen Jokes? You don’t hear me telling my dude friends, “why don’t you go open some jars or something?” Why? BECAUSE IT’S NOT FUNNY. Not only are people who vocalize these “jokes” assholes, they’re admitted, ignorant, bigamistic assholes, and deserve a hammer to the esophagus. 

2. Grammar/Spelling “Mistakes”

I don’t believe in ‘typos.’ That’s called laziness. Freak, everything has spellcheck these days, along with grammar check if you’re on Microsoft Word. If you’re not sure how to spell a word, you probably can’t use it correctly, either, so stick to the smaller ones you’re familiar with okay? And stop contaminating my news feed with posts “lyke dis kayyy boyz & gurls?” 

3. Condescension

If you want to stir me up into a tornado of pissed-off fury, call me “sweetie” or “hun.” I can tolerate it if you’re from the South and you call everybody “hun,” but only if you have a legitimate accent as well as proof of residency. It’s no secret that I appear to be 16 years old at best (with a full face of makeup, of course. Bare-faced, I could MAYBE pass for 14) but trust me, I will harshly correct you in an unapologetic, interrupting manner if you dare talk down to me. That’s an insult to my intelligence and I won’t have it. I will. not. have. it. 

4. Telling me to turn my music down 

No. 

5. Cheapskates 

By this, I mean people who don’t tip appropriately. A wise man (or woman, I’m not really sure what the gender of this wise being is)  once said, “If you can’t afford to tip, you can’t afford to go out.” I concur. Perhaps it’s just because I spent some time waiting tables at this little diner in my hometown that I have noticed this instance of injustice. Let me just say, there is nothing more disheartening and disappointing than waiting on an indecisive, picky, ungrateful table of 6 to find nothing but three singles on their table after they’d trashed the entire booth and left. 

6. Diet Talk

Unless I specifically ask you about your nutritional regime, I don’t want to hear a word about your latest diet fad. Not a word, you hear me? And have you noticed these type of conversations only occur on Sunday evenings over triple chocolate brownies? Shhh, dear. Here, have another brownie. Do you want ice cream on top? 

7.  Truth-dancer-arounders

In the words of John Mayer, Say What You Need To Say. Wanna break up? TELL ME. Mad at me? LET ME KNOW. Disagree with me? PROVE ME WRONG. When it comes to situations as these, less is more. And by less, I mean less words. Just spit it out, and i’ll deal. Whatever you’re about to tell me is gonna piss me off anyway, probably, and i’d prefer you just cut to the chase so I can be pissed and move on already.

I’m sure I could come up with way more than 7 sins, but 7’s a good number, plus it’s Saturday and I have ish to do for school so I’ll restrain myself.  

If y’all could abstain from committing these misdeeds immediately, that would be peachy. 

M. 

Ingress

I absolutely DESPISE when people say, “don’t let it get to ya, champ!” after someone else tells you something hurtful or offensive. Trust me, sir, if I had a choice in the matter, I would not “let it get to me.” But there’s this cute little thing called emotions, and when people are insensitive, it makes me hypersensitive. 

I have noticed recently that it is mostly when a select few males give their oh-so-entitled and completely unwarranted opinions that I get the most upset.  

“I liked your hair better blonde.” 

“Are you gonna eat that whole thing? You’ll get fat!” 

“You should start running, or go to the gym!” 

“You’re skin is pasty.” 

Not to generalize, but I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I verbalized my verdict on a man’s appearance without him asking for my opinion.  

But for some odd reason, many men I’ve encountered in my life seem to feel that their opinion is always welcome because I am always in pursuit of their approval. 

As a girl in this world, I have plenty of societal pressure for acceptance without added remarks on a personal level, thank you. I already know that I’ll never be beautiful until I look like Kate Hudson or J-Lo (which is literally impossible unless you ironed and stretched me out like Play-Doh, removed each of my zillion upon zillions of freckles, gave me a spray tan and cheek bones, breast implants, hair extensions, and lipo.) 

But aside from being a girl, I am also a human. A flawed one. I’m short. I have zero muscle definition. My skin is comparable to an albino’s. Seven times out of ten, my hair is a frizzy mess. I don’t have an airbrushed complexion, or eyes as big as the moon. 

Y’know what I do have, though? A brain. And a personality. 

So how about instead of pointing out and re-pointing out all of my visual shortcomings why don’t you try commenting on my personality? 

Instead of, “you look good in that blouse,” why don’t you try, “you are so funny, you crack me up!”

I, for one, would MUCH rather be complimented on my personality, thoughts, accomplishments, and creative humor than my hair, legs, or outfit choice.  

To be frank, I don’t care if you like what you see. Because I like it. 

In the words of my idol, Tina Fey, “do your thing, and don’t care if they like it.” 

This is my new motto, folks. 

M.