Waking Up In a Closet Without Any Pants

I have wanted to write about this particular life experience for quite some time now, however I have constantly battled with myself over how “under 18” friendly I wanted to be. I know that adolescents read my blog and I can’t make them stop that just by switching to word press. Finally, I have made up my mind, and despite my better judgement, I am going to tell the story of the first time I was ever drunk.

Throughout high school, I was very adamantly against drinking, smoking, people using drugs or just having fun in general. I had high expectations for my high school career. I was going to be everyone’s role model, the perfect example of a well rounded honors student involved in multiple extra curricular activities, and to be honest, I would say I succeeded. I made it four years of high school without taking a drink of alcohol and encouraged my friends to do the same. In fact, my junior year of high school, it suddenly became the cool thing (by cool I mean hipster) to be “straight edge”. Not like the gang. Straight edge kids prided themselves on not putting anything in their bodies that altered their mood or state of mind. We were high on life… and our own egos.

It was the day before my college orientation and my friend Jacey was giving me one of her usual pep-talks.

“You need to get back on the horse.” She told me referencing my recent break up from my high school boyfriend and lack of a true blow out to celebrate my independence. “You’re coming to the surprise party tonight, and we’re making some memories that we won’t remember tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a lot of work… can’t we just watch The Nanny on Nick at Nite?”

“No! You’re coming out and you’re going to look HOT!”

Jacey is one of my oldest friends. We met our sophomore year of high school in a film class where I made a music video to “Sabatoge” by The Beastie Boys and she was one of three girls in leisure suits, curly wigs and mustaches. It was love at first sight. Jacey and I have a great relationship. When she’s feeling down, I’m always ready to help her back up, and when I’m feeling down, she’s always there to encourage me… into a short skirt and heels.

I told my mom that a few of us girls were going to be spending the night at Jacey’s house since it was our last night in town before all going off to our own colleges but instead drove 20 miles to a friend of a friend’s house to learn the art of partying: college level. Though I am very pleased with my choice to refrain from substances during high school, I did miss out on one basic lesson that most of my friends learned their freshman year of high school, not college: if you have never had alcohol before, a very small amount is going to make you pretty fucked up.

After an hour of being at the party, I had taken a few shots, had a beer and was working on my first cup of vodka/ punch. I had heard from friends that when you first drink, it hits you pretty hard, so I was surprised when I was still feeling sober as a judge after drinking what I felt was quite a bit. When I finished my first cup of vodka/ punch, I quickly moved on to cup number two… and a few shots of malibu.

I felt on top of the world. I was completely under the impression that alcohol didn’t effect me and I would be the composed one at this shit show. Then this happened.

That is Jacey standing over our friend Kiley in her “second outfit of the night”. It was the next morning when I was looking through my photos that I realized this was the exact moment that I became too intoxicated.

After Jacey had changed into what she felt was an appropriate outfit for beer pong, we returned to the party and I worked my way through a game of kings cup, but instead of drinking beer, I was drinking the vodka/ punch. I drank three cups in this one sitting at which point I gave my camera to my friend Kiley and presumed to get more drunk.

It was at this point that Jacey and Kiley decided to put me to bed.

The task of putting me to bed was a job that took multiple people and took place for over an hour. Shortly after this photo was taken, Jacey threw me over her shoulder, and she and Kiley drug me to a back room of the house and threw me onto a bean bag chair. Once I was settled into what felt like the best fucking bean bag chair known to mankind, Jacey took off my shoes. This was the last I would see of my shoes.

Almost immediately after being thrown onto the bean bag chair and having my shoes jacked, some guy came in and said they needed to put me in the room next door because… I don’t have a clue why.

The next thing I know, I was in a chair with Jacey on the floor in front of me with her hands up my dress.

“The fuck, Jacey! Why are you in my dress?”

“You don’t want to sleep in tights. I’m taking them off.”

She was right, I wouldn’t have wanted to sleep in tights, but she didn’t know that for sure and for all I knew she was trying to cop a feel on an unsuspecting drunk college girl. My best friend was virtually molesting me and I was in no position to tell her that, “the tights would be fine, please put more distance between you and my pikachu.” Jacey succeeded in removing my tights, but with my sudden leg freedom I realized that my cell phone was dead.

I demanded a moment of silence for my cell phone, after which Jacey plugged in my phone (big mistake) and went to open the door. The house we were staying at was kind of old and inhabited by boys, and consequently the door was extremely difficult to open and would become stuck almost all the time. The next string of images that is in my head involves Jacey wandering around the room trying to figure out how to get out of this room and back to alcohol, while Kiley was on the phone with her mom slurring through her reasoning for needing to be able to stay out.

“No, Mom, I ama not druznk, I jus wanna see Jacey before she sleeves!”

Before I could figure out why Kiley was talking about sleeves and why Jacey was now climbing out the window, the owner of the bedroom opened the door and I was left to my own devices… AKA my cell phone. I didn’t think I drunk dialed people, however I was wrong and I apparently do so in a british accent. Half of the people I went to high school with woke up to a ten minute voice message of me rambling about my night and whatever thoughts happened to be on my drunk mind. I remember being cut off by the voicemail more than three times and continuing to talk for another five minutes after my phone hung up.

The morning after a night of heavy drinking is never a beautiful picture. Especially when you wake up in a place you didn’t fall asleep, spooning someone you didn’t fall asleep with. Luckily for me the other person was Jacey and we were in a closet. Somehow I now had a pillow and a blanket and was the small spoon of what can only be described as true friendship. I sat up in the closet and looked at my phone. It read 7:27 AM and I needed to be at college orientation in 33 minutes. I quickly gathered up my belongings minus my shoes and my tights which were never recovered. I ran out to my car bare foot in a short t-shirt dress and drove to my house where I immediately threw up. I spent the next day and a half in a misery that can only be compared to reading Shakespeare and was left with a permanent reminder of my night of drinking in my student ID card where I am very obviously hungover in the photo.

I knew that this was a normal college experience and left it at that. I didn’t begin partying heavily and throwing my life away after getting drunk once, so thanks for lying to me 9 years ago D.A.R.E. I mostly forgot about the night until months later when I saw a picture of my friend with the guy whose house we partied at on Facebook. I commented on the photo saying, “Hey! I passed out in his roommate’s closet this summer.” Almost immediately he responded, “Yeah, with no pants.”

I responded the only way that I knew how. With the truth: “I wasn’t wearing pants that night.”

This just goes to show that after four years of being a good girl and the ultimate role model, it only takes one night of partying to make me forever known as the girl who passed out in that guy’s closet, spooning her best friend, without any pants.

The Button Theory

I was five years old and well into Kindergarden when I figured out how to get boys to do anything I wanted.

I think it happened by accident one day while playing soccer at an after school program. It was my first year playing after school soccer, and I was in the youngest age group. We spent a lot of time learning how to kick and not use our hands and basically challenge every motor skill we had very recently developed.

This particular practice, I partnered up with a boy named Jake who was in my class. Since I was only five, I hadn’t had the chance to meet people and create friends that hadn’t been through play-dates set up by my parents, so I was increasingly interested in meeting new people. Each week I had partnered with a different person, but I found some reason why they weren’t able to hang out with me in real life. The first girl I partnered with didn’t talk. I knew that she could talk because she said “here” in this little mousy voice every time they took attendance, but every time I said a word to her she just stared at me.

“Hey! Girl! I asked how your day was! Are you death?!”

At this point in my life I also did not realize that death did not mean “no longer living” as well as “unable to hear”. Minor mistake.

The next girl I partnered with spent the whole time telling me about all of the cool dolls her dad brought back to her after “business trips”. I distinctly remember her putting “business trips” in quotes, which either means she knew her dad was sleeping with a woman in the next state, or her mother really underestimated how much five year olds observe and repeat. I could tell right away though that this chick was trouble. When she wasn’t talking about all of her cool shit, she was talking shit. When she said something about my friend having weird eyes, I told her it was better than having her face… and things got a little tense. When we finally were playing, she  tripped me on the field like three times, so obviously she was a bitch and I didn’t want to be friends with her or her Malibu Barbie.

So this day I decided to partner with a boy. Jake was a nice guy ,and I let him cheat off my phonics worksheets for nothing in return, just because I was nice. I also thought his friend Andrew was cute and figured that I should be friends with Andrew’s friends for when we got married.

I went over to him and asked if he wanted to be my partner, and he agreed. We began passing the ball back and forth, but after a few minutes it became competitive. There are three things in this world I hate: passive aggressive people, Lifetime movies, and losing. I usually didn’t have problems with my competitive side coming out around other girls (my bossy side on the other hand is a completely different story), but with a boy, I took his slightly harder kick than mine to be a challenge. We had gotten to be kicking the ball very hard, until finally I kicked the ball as hard as I could, racking him in his balls. He immediately dropped to the ground clenching his crotch and said, “You win”, before bursting into tears.

I immediately felt this sensation of accomplishment in winning our scrimmage, and the cogs in my little head began turning. I deduced that when boys are hit on their pelvis they fall down and I win. I couldn’t figure out what on earth could have caused this type of reaction, but if boys were made with a button that made them fall down and cry, that was evolution’s mistake and I couldn’t be held responsible for using my superior genes and taking advantage of my newfound knowledge.

The next day at recess I decided to test my theory on a different boy, just incase Jake wasn’t the only one with the button. I found a boy from the first grade named Kris. I didn’t want to take the chance of hitting someone in my class and having them tell Ms. Simon, so a first grader seemed like the safest bet. I walked up to Kris, who said hello, and I immediately swung my right let back and kicked him square between the legs. In hindsight, this may not have been the best first impression when I was trying to make friends.

After having a second boy crumble to what I was now calling “The Button Theory”, I decided it was fact (I did later learn that scientifically, two positive tests does not equal conclusive evidence, but I was still right).  I used the tactic to get anything I wanted whether it be pudding cups or the good basket ball; I was invincible.

I never thought my rein would come to an end, until one day I was sitting next to Andrew at the lunch table and he took a hand full of my chips without even asking. I obviously would have given him some if he had asked, but this was a clear violation of my personal space and I could not get involved with a person like that. Those chips though were not his, and I wanted them back. I punched him underneath the table and walked away to sit somewhere else. What I didn’t realize was that Andrew was a tattle-tale.

Ms. Simon came up to me at recess after lunch and sat me down to have a long conversation about hurting other people. I explained the button theory and that I was conducting science, something she supposedly encouraged in class. She reinforced that I wasn’t allowed to hit boys there because it caused them a lot of pain and that wasn’t how nice girls behaved. I told her I understood and that I would apologize to the boys.

In the end I walked away with the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to have control over boys whenever I wanted, but more importantly with the knowledge that I won the kicking game against Jake and he knew it, too.

Tagged , , ,

Babe Walker Is The Only Person Who Understands Me

This morning was a nice Sunday morning for me and fairly normal. I woke up, grabbed my laptop and sat in bed catching up on some of my favorite blogs and YouTube channels. The one that inspired me most was a video by one of my favorite YouTube comedian/ vlogger Jenna Marbles. One of her recent videos was about White Girls in the Club:

(If harsh language offends you, don’t watch)

This video made me laugh so hard and also got me thinking that I could totally make fun of white girls as well! Now I, being a white girl in Montana, have very different material to work with given the lack of clubs and really any form of nightlife within 500 miles.

I decided to do some research.

My go to blog for everything Caucasian is Stuff White People Like. This blog really focuses on the things that white people like in my world of North West USA. I quickly became discouraged with my ability to make fun of white girls because no matter how much I try to fight it, I am a white girl. A bit of a stereotypical one at that. I’m not going to lie.

I’m here, I’m white, I’m kind of a tool.

While I still had hope that I could make fun of white girls, I began jotting down ideas of things white girls use/ like. The page is very full of small drawings, bolded words and many, many asterisks. However, after about ten minutes of brainstorming, and researching the blogs about this phenomenon, I realized that 80% of the typical things associated with white people were in my bedroom. I have also done every single activity that white people like, many times…. a week.

Now that I am thoroughly upset with myself for becoming so white, I have decided to make fun of it. Usually, stereotypes are so wrong they really aren’t funny at all; like that all Hispanics are illegal immigrants, or that all black people walking toward you on the street want to kill you. However, in the case of the white stereotypes I’ve come across, they’ve all been so fucking accurate I can’t figure out if white people are just writing this shit down to talk about themselves, or other races really have noticed these things and think we’re ridiculous.

Clothing and Apparel 
I think one of the defining characteristics of white people is their clothing. Men and women vary slightly in their clothing choices (depending on the white people you look at, some guys where girl’s jeans….), but both have the same premises. The number one article of clothing someone can find in a white person’s closet is a sweater. I should know… I have 27. About 10 of them are grey (do other white people like grey as much as I do?). I mean what is it about a sweater that is so appealing to a white person? I’ll answer that right now, it’s warm, they are more professional looking than sweatshirts and it’s like you are wearing a blanket. Who doesn’t like wearing a blanket?! The white person’s choice in sweater wearing is just a statement of blanket wearing that no one else is ready to accept.

Sweaters are the new blankets… with the exception of real blankets…. those will probably always actually be blankets.

I can’t mention clothing and white people without mentioning scarves. I also counted my scarves and side note to my best friend Ren: I probably don’t need a scarf for christmas… that doesn’t mean I still don’t want one. Scarves are a huge part of my wardrobe. I wear a scarf almost every day of the week in fact. Even in the summer.

I don’t care if my core body temperature reaches upwards of 102 degrees, my scarf is classy.

My pseudo-little brother and I last christmas… with scarves. So. Many. Scarves.

Bikram Yoga
I have done Bikram Yoga a few times and hated every moment of it. I tell people I enjoyed it, but it sucks! And secretly, everyone who does Bikram hates it a little bit, but they will never admit their hatred because Jennifer Anniston and Lady Gaga do Bikram.

White person syllogism: I do Bikram, Celebrities do Bikram, therefore I am a celebrity. (Side note: I really enjoy pulling words like syllogism out of my ass… when’s the last time you used that word?)


Going to Yoga classes are also extremely expensive and for what? Stretching for an hour? Thanks, but I can do that for free in my house, or in my dance class. But traditionally, there is a large population of white people with disposable money and the ability to pay people to help them stretch, or massage them without touching them. While yoga class also shows off the monetary advantages of the middle class white person, it also seems very foreign and exotic. White people like to seem cultured without actually leaving the country. I mean, who wants to risk malaria when there’s a perfectly good ethiopian restaurant down the street?

Going to Breakfast
One of my other best friends is one of the most guilty of this activity…. and she’s sucked me in. This weekend in fact, we went to breakfast at her favorite breakfast restaurant, Food For Thought. It’s right on campus so it is constantly filled with college students in their sweaters, scarves and thick rimmed glasses (I go to school in Montana and my campus is predominantly white). The only time we get breakfast is on Friday when she doesn’t have class and I have a two hour lunch, or on the weekend. We usually end up just chatting and talking about the week, but this weekend, I did the crossword puzzle. The fact that I only got three words doesn’t matter, I still did it. Doing the crossword while eating breakfast… I couldn’t be any more white. Except when I went hiking an hour later.

Outdoor Activities
I have somewhat touched on this subject before in my post Climbing Shit, but that was focusing more on Montana, which happens to be populated with a massive number of white people. The truth is, anywhere you go (at least in the western USA) white people like to do outdoor activities like hiking or camping. There’s something about being covered in dirt and not showering for a few days that really makes a white person feel like he or she is doing something with their life. When I hike, I feel more accomplished than when I run a few miles at the gym or do a full ballet class on Pointe shoes. I mean, I climbed a mountain… I think I’m within my rights to throw myself a party.

I think it’s mandatory for white people to have a picture of their feet at the top of the mountain they just climbed.

Being Uncool
White people like to say that they were super uncool in high school and share embarrassing stories from high school with their friends. Either a) this is totally true and they really were a nerd in high school but now are in a great college and really peaking and want others to know it or b) they were actually super cool in high school, but being a nerd is now cool and they don’t want to lose their status as cool guy/ gal. I truly believe I belong to the first group, but I’m a white girl, so I understand if you don’t believe me and think I’m just trying to seem like I was uncool in high school when I really was cool. I would be disappointed if you didn’t take what I say with a little suspicion after finding out how genuinely white I am.

White people like to throw gang signs in Montana because we won’t get popped.

When White People Try to Be Anything But White
Everyone has seen that 80 pound white guy who wears jeans five sizes too large, XXXL t-shirt, and a sideways baseball cap topped off with a thin ass chain and a tattoo of either a cross or the Virgin Mary on his arm. This guy thinks he’s going to be the next Eminem, except instead of living in Detroit and growing up in black culture, he lives in Glendale and watches 8 Mile for inspiration.

Tanning salons are constantly filled with white girls (and sometimes guys). Last semester I won a month of tanning at a local salon and was always fascinated by the girls I saw there. After a month a was quite a few shades darker than I had been, but still looked natural. However, there were some girls there that crossed the not-so-thin line between tan and orange. Looking like you just returned from vacation is one thing. Looking like you just spent a week only eating carrots is another.

Bestie and I bootie dancing in tutus at our dance concert.

Pregnancy: The Hottest New Trend

I love kids. Maybe I should specify… I love other people’s kids. I am no where near ready to love my own kids yet.

Recently, I went to see my brother, his wife and my two wonderful nephews. It was the perfect time for a last minute trip because it was the same time as my youngest nephew’s birthday party. We went to a gymnastics facility, and all of the kids got to run and play in the foam pit… the adults may have jumped in as well, but that’s neither here nor there. I played dino-opoly with my older nephew and read my youngest nephew his night time story. It was fantastic bonding time, and I am so glad that I was able to see them.

Another bright side to visiting my nephews is that I don’t need birth control until 2012.

As adorable as children are, there is no denying that they are a major life changer and time commitment, and being a parent is the hardest job in the world. Kids change your life, and as magnificent as that life change is, I believe I would like to wait another ten years before making that change.

Every few weeks, it seems that someone I’m friends with on Facebook is now pregnant. When I was younger, I can remember teen pregnancy being such a taboo, however I cannot count the number of times I read congratulation notes on people’s ultrasound photos every week. I have found myself constantly asking myself why there are so many young parents, and ultimately, I’ve come to only one conclusion: MTV’s 16 and Pregnant.

Logically, one can come to the conclusion that MTV can not possibly feature every pregnant teen on their television show, but teenagers don’t think logically (I certainly don’t always). There is no denying that MTV and the media has glorified teen pregnancy far too much.  In fact, I’m sure that soon you will see “MTV Pregnancy Tests” on the shelves at your local market. Instead of a plus sign for pregnant, it’s a dollar sign (Side note: this is not a real product, don’t look for it).

Last night, my friend came to my house to eat dinner and watch the new Harry Potter movie with my mom and I. After the movie, my mom got up and out of nowhere, began showing my friend my baby photos. I was of course embarrassed and glared at my mom while she bragged about how cute I was, what an adorable child I was and that I only got cuter as I got older. What is it about being a parent that makes you suddenly have the greatest knack for embarrassing your child? It’s like the second a new person comes over, Parents open the door, greet the person and immediately begin showing them their children’s baby photos and commenting on how small your naked butt used to be, all while ignoring the fact that the child who has been out of diapers for a good 17 years is in the corner having a stroke.

After getting over my initial embarrassment, I realized that it’s actually kind of sweet when parents show off their children to their friends, other family members or the new UPS guy. Instead of looking at the photo of their child and seeing the degree they didn’t get or the job they turned down on the other side of the country because they had a baby too young, they only see the child that they raised showered in love.  When I see my brother and his wife with their children, there is clearly no regret surrounding the births of their two sons.

I find it so important to live the life you’ve been given and not rush all of life’s joys into the first twenty years of life. I’ve got a good sixty or so years left to live and I don’t want all of the fun stuff to happen to early.

Update

001 Well it’s been about thirty years since I’ve written a blog post, however I am alive. Barely. I recently had walking pneumonia and I’m just now getting over it. FINALLY. I thought I would never be healthy again, but I am slowly returning to normal.

002 I have been relatively busy while I’ve been sick and feel rather accomplished with myself. I have purchased my plane ticket to Argentina and leave Feb. 1 for three months. I haven’t exactly decided what I want to do with the blog while I’m there, but I definitely will be keeping up with it and posting photos and videos throughout the whole trip. I am thinking about doing vlogs once a week to show what I’m up to down there and keep things interesting. If any readers have any ideas of what would be fun to do on here while I’m traveling be sure to comment on this post or message me on twitter.

003 This semester is my busiest semester yet, therefore it will be hard for me to do daily blogs. I’m taking twenty credits this semester with three spanish classes, a french class, history and dance class. While also doing school I’m working on saving up for the trip and planning things in advance while I’m there. It’s rather hectic, but I promise I will be blogging more than I have been.

004 I’m going to write a real blog post now with jokes and laughter and thoughts on life, but I wanted to fill you all in on my current happenings. I may do this more… who knows.

Is There a Major for "Student"?

If I had the choice, honest to Bible, I would be a professional student. When I say this, people always ask me what I’ve been smoking because people are supposed to hate school, right? WRONG. You are wrong. I love me some school.

When I first told my friends I was looking at graduate schools, they all had the same reaction: Ew. I truly am so excited about the prospect of getting more education. I love it! I like knowing things. It makes me feel accomplished and special. I constantly find myself asking questions about things and what better way to get the answers than school? (or I suppose wikipedia if you really are short on time and can’t afford to take a class just to find out how to survive the zombie apocalypse – side note: this is a real class at my friend’s university and I almost transferred just for this class).

My issue is that I want to know everything about anything that remotely interests me. If I had infinite time and infinite monetary resources, I would probably have degrees in four languages (Spanish, French, Portuguese and Russian), acting, film making, forensic anthropology, creative writing, dance, and sociology. All of these things are the best things in my mind and I want to know about them. But I don’t want to pay for them, so I suppose I will just be another ignorant american who doesn’t have forty degrees.

Europe is always besting me.

I am currently in the process of changing my major for the fourth time. I am a first semester sophomore. I’m told this is normal, but I feel so strange and awkward every time I change my major. When I entered college, I decided to be a Liberal Studies Major. This was partially my way of selecting undeclared and partially me being interested in the program. However after a semester of people asking me, “What is Liberal Studies?” and me being unable to come up with an answer, I decided I should probably change majors. It was at this point that I decided to get a double major in Spanish and French. I went through the process and got approval from those two department heads, however I still needed to get a signature from my current department head who also happened to be my Honors Humanities professor. I kept chickening out of asking him to free me from his major that cannot be defined and finally decided to just stay a Liberal Studies major. I tore up my change of major sheet and continued with my spring semester. However, again within one month I decided that being to chicken to get my sheet signed was also a really pathetic reason to have a major in something, so I went through the process again to do a Spanish and French double major. This time I did it. I entered my second year of college as a Spanish and French double major (here comes another however). However, now I am working on dropping my French major for an Acting/ Theatre major (I don’t think I’m going to do a BFA so it’ll be called a theatre major). I also have decided that I’m about 90% sure I’m going to grad school because a) life outside of school scares me and b) I would then be the first person in my family to go to grad school. Win.

One might look at my changes of majors and think, why the variety? Fine arts and foreign language? Well, here’s where I am right now: I have wanted to be an actress since I was a small child. I first did a play at age six (I peed my pants on stage… but that’s another story) and consistently did community theatre and high school theatre for the rest of my life. When I was first entering college, I had all intentions to do a theatre/ acting major, however I got a lot of mixed feedback from it and decided to do Liberal Studies. For the past year and a half, I have always gone back to the idea of doing this major, and finally I am saying, “why not?” This is what I love and I want to do it. I also keep thinking about myself in an office setting or doing a typical career, and it just doesn’t go well together. I am too snarky, too spacey and too hands on to be in a typical career.

Plus, I like to play pretend and dress up.

I really do think that if there was a way to be a professional student, I would do it. I would totally love to get paid for going to classes and learning stuff. I could be like one of those know it all things!

Is that a real thing or am I making it up?

Sitting On The Outside of "Boy Talk"

A few weeks ago my friend asked me if I wanted to come to a party with her and hang out before the summer was completely over. I of course said yes and joined her at some guy’s birthday party, or going away party. I don’t remember which it was. The party was fairly entertaining however, after some time we decided that we just wanted to head back to her boyfriend’s house and hang out.

We arrived to my friend’s boyfriend’s house, and even though he had been following my friend for some time, he didn’t arrive until 40 minutes after us. He then presumed to tell us this elaborate story about stopping at a house to stop a fight but originally he was going to get his backpack. We asked why he felt the need to stay and stop a fight and it was apparently because, “some guy was talking shit about Dave.” (Aside: don’t forget about Dave… he becomes an intricate part of the story.)

After the discussion of the backpack and the fight (which never really did make sense in our heads) we began just hanging out and my friends started to make some food. We were quickly interrupted by my friend’s boyfriend’s roommates coming in absolutely furious about the guy who was talking shit about Dave. This was where I noticed a magnificent phenomenon: when boys begin talking about their bros and people who talk shit about their bros, girls no longer exist in their lives.

The boys continued talking while off to the side my friend was talking to her boyfriend whom she had just accidentally hit in his manhood. He seemed to be in quite a bit of pain and was really making sure she knew he was in pain, however once someone walked into the house and said that one of their friends was jumped by a group of kids from the party, he sprung into action as though no ailment had ever come over his body ready to defend Dave and the other guys honor.

There were about five guys in the house at this moment and constantly they would go back to the conversation of, “I can’t believe someone would try to mess with Dave.” At this moment I decided to turn to my friend and ask her who the hell Dave was because I had never heard of him before in my life. She told me he was apparently one of their close friends who was leaving town… oh yeah, it was a going away party… but she had only heard of his existence three days previously. Neither one of us ever met Dave.

For the rest of the night, the boys paced around the house discussing Dave and the jerks who tried to ruin his going away party. Any time they spoke to my friend and I it was about Dave and how it is so important to defend your friends when someone talks trash.

This brings me to my point of the story. Why on Earth do boys a) solve their problems by fighting and b) think that a girl is going to think that it is attractive for him fight for the honor of some mysterious guy named Dave. Some girls may find it attractive when guys fight, but none of the ones I’ve ever met. Sitting on the outside of Boy Talk though is possibly the last thing a girl should do. We don’t need to know how they tick and especially when the way they tick makes them look like a dick.

I Can’t Hang Out, It’s Quidditch Season

I put as my Facebook status last night, “I was a nerd before being a nerd was cool”. But I think people didn’t really believe me. So I’m here to prove my genuine nerdiness to the internet and all that do not believe.

Before school I was an only child and had to find ways to entertain myself. Therefore I found rather interesting ways to use the tools at my dispense. If that meant wearing a mustache on my face or some swimming goggles to make me laugh then so be it. I had a great childhood and I don’t care how I had it!

This is me at girl scout camp in probably 2003. Let’s just look at this photo closely real quick. Notice the visor. Dear me, this was not a good look. Don’t try it again. You also cannot forget the frizzy hair and glasses. I’ve also chosen to nicely accessorize my polka-dot blouse and vest with a faux camel skin water jug. This was also the summer that I grew three inches… in my legs. Therefore all of my jeans were too short and I was shockingly gangly. And did you notice that my jeans unzip… in the flare… in the front?
Once I got into school I was a MAJOR bookworm. I was one of the first kids to learn to read in my kindergarden class. And I don’t mean reading selective words with the help of my parents’ coaching, I mean actually reading sentences! (The fact that I couldn’t spell my last name until first grade has nothing to do with my reading skills… what kindergardner can spell Christensen?!) 
My parents got me into the Star Wars franchise at a young age, and when Episode I came out my recesses were filled with me pretending to be Queen Amidala… except Obiwan Kenobi, played by Ewan McGreggor, was so much cuter than Anakin Skywallker… so I pretended that she hooked up with Obiwan. I had coloring books and a Queen Amidala doll. At one point my room was littered with Luke, Leia, Han, and Chewbacca action figures. Star Wars was the shit. However, I am sad to say that my knowledge of Star Wars faded when I fell in love with another movie/ book franchise, Harry Potter. 
The Harry Potter Years were long and honestly still going, just not as strong. I was first skeptical of the Harry Potter books due to their wild popularity (I seem to still have this feeling about books like these i.e. Twilight which I have never read). When I saw the trailer for Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone, I became intrigued and decided to check out the book. I was immediately hooked and read the next three (Rowling was only up to Goblet of Fire at this point) before Sorcerers Stone was released in theatres. I began seeking out Harry Potter posters at every store and market, and by the time Chamber of Secrets was out on video my walls were no longer visible due to the amount of Harry Potter posters and paraphernalia on them. My mom made me a fake wand because every day I came home and would pretend to be Hermione. At recess my friends and I played Harry Potter and eventually, when I got a Playstation 2, I started getting the games. I cried when Harry found out that he had a god father and the time when Harry and Ron were fighting in Goblet of Fire and they made up because they are such good friends. I also liked to pretend that when I was doing my homework, I was actually doing my homework for Hogwarts and would get detention with Snape if I didn’t do it. Hey, I had straight A’s all through elementary and middle school. 
I fell asleep to tapes of Goblet of Fire and Order of the Pheonix for about two years straight.

When I found these my first thought was, “Shit, I lost Chamber of Secrets”. And I may or may not have stayed up until six fifty in the morning playing Harry Potter: Quidditch World Cup. 

Oh, what per-say do you think is in this here box?

Why it’s my authentic Hermione wand, that’s what!!!! 
The hardest part for me was accepting that I wasn’t going to Hogwarts and I wasn’t going to be shipped off to England to learn how to hone my wizarding skills. The summer after I turned eleven I checked the mail diligently to see if I had received a letter from Hogwarts telling me about my special gift and that I had been living with silly Muggle parents all along. But school started and no letter came. I cried for like two days. 
I have now gotten over my sadness about not going to Hogwarts due to my maturity and the fact that I would have probably befriended Harry and gone through all of these death defying stunts or possibly died. I’ve made my peace with being a Muggle.

Tonight, while watching The Daily Show with my Muggle Mom, I saw the most fascinating clip. 
IT”S QUIDDITCH FOR US MUGGLES! It works basically like regular quidditch except you are running with a broom between your legs and some poor guy has to wear a yellow shirt and be the snitch. I want to start a league at my college. I’m not kidding. All of you UM kids: let’s get working on this. I call chaser or maybe seeker… I haven’t decided. Let’s chat. 

Mark Zuckerberg Owns My Soul and He Owns Yours Too

I love Facebook. Facebook is like my meth. I used it once and now I will never be able to stop. But you know what, I’m fine with that. I never got into the games and questionnaires on Facebook because I think they are stupid. I think the questionnaires are stupid because it’s so incredibly judgmental of your friends and it clogs up my wall with unwanted crap that absolutely means nothing to me. I think the games are stupid because you could do so many better things with your time on Facebook like tag people, like things, or creep on people’s photos. That’s what Facebook is for.

In my years of being on Facebook, I have discovered that there are many types of people on Facebook and I think Facebook thrives off these people, but it still doesn’t make me any less frustrated with them.

The Creepy Guy Who Comments Awkward Compliments on Photos
I’m not good about taking compliments in general. I don’t know what it is, but I just become very embarrassed when people compliment me and worried that I won’t respond in the right way. However, my least favorite thing is when guys whom I do not know comment on my photos saying things like, “Ur hott”. First of all why can’t they just spell the fucking words right? Dear Facebook Creep, you feel the need to not spell out the full word you’re but you at and extra t to hot? Also, do you think that your smooth words and terrible spelling will make me fall for you? You would be wrong. Granted, it is partially my fault for allowing people I didn’t know to be my friend on Facebook and I’ve now become more restrictive of who I allow to be my friend.

The Over-Liker
When I get on Facebook, nothing makes me more happy than when I see that someone has liked what I have said. The most satisfying feeling for me is when the likes on a status update or comment get up into the double digits. I really feel like I’ve done something of worth at that point. But one thing that bothers me is when someone likes everything everyone on Facebook says ever. It’s kind of disappointing when you see this person like something you wrote because since they like everything you can’t really trust that they actually like what you have written or that it was even funny or interesting. The like button was probably the best invention by Mark Zuckerberg and the almighty Facebook Gods, but when the over-liker abuses the like button, it makes me lose faith in the like button and all it was made for. 
All of My Status Updates Are Song Lyrics Because I’m Just That Deep
I’m not going to lie, I’ve put song lyrics in my status update before, but when every single status consists of other people’s words, I no longer believe that the person on the other end of the computer is a human, but actually a robot. 

Let’s Talk About Vaginas

I was flipping through Cosmo the other day with my best friend and her cousin (he is a boy… so I would just like to apologize for having to listen to our conversation at this time) and we came across an ad for a tampon alternate. (Aside for my male readers: I’m sorry… I do not have sufficient knowledge about penises… peni?… what is the plural of penis?… anyway, I guess you could always read this and learn more about your girlfriend.)

The advertisement was for a new product called SoftCup. It’s pretty self explanatory, but my mind still said, “what the ef?” in copious amounts when I saw this advertisement. It is a cup that you stick up your vah-jay-jay during your moon time.

The three of us just stared at the Cosmo in front of us wondering what we were going to do with the knowledge that had just entered our lives. I can’t remember who began talking first, but once we began discussing the schematics of this product, things just became more confusing for the three of us. We sat on the couch and discussed everything from how the heck you are supposed to get it in, how it words and how you can supposedly have sex while wearing it. After a few minutes we went back to our real lives where tampons are the thing guys are afraid of, not cups.

It’s been a few days since the incident and I’m still thinking about this product. I mean sure, these little cups kind of sound nicer than fiberglass or make-shift diapers, but I still don’t know what to think about this alternative special time product. I decided to look around the blogs and see if anyone else was talking about this and sure enough, other women on the internet are weirded out by this thing as well.

One of my favorite blogs, hipstercrite, did some research on other vagina friendly products. One of the things she found that I found remarkable was a uterus pillow.

Well, isn’t this just a lovely picture. Honestly, who doesn’t want to cuddle up with some friendly fallopian tubes? I know I do. I mean, nothing says come hither to my bed like a giant uterus. I just know that there is some vagina lover out there that has their room decorated with uterus pillows. If you want to see more of the weird things people have made with vagina themes, go check out her blog. They are pretty hilarious.
So what is to come of this post? Honestly, I don’t really know. I really think I just wanted to express my my worry for a society that makes vagina pillows. Note to my friends: I do NOT want a vagina pillow for Christmas.