Tag: college

Lucubrate

MissM6 Comments

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.

The Acceptional* Feminist

MissM8 Comments

Last night, a fairly new crony and I went on an excursion to “the ruins,” an old, torn up structure that rests on the side of a hill not out of walking distance, and not too steep to climb up to in sandals.

We sat down side-by-side and took in the city view and had deep discussions about life. Naturally, the topic of feminism, and my firm belief in human equality, was a major topic of discussion.

“I’m a feminist,” I mentioned, as casually as you would say, “I’m a sophomore,” or “i’m a dog person.”

He hesitated for just a fraction of a second, just noticeable enough for me to know that I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear out of his pie hole.

You wanna know what he said? Okay here goes:

“Oh, but you’re a GOOD feminist,” he said.

It kind of reminded me of the way I repeatedly pat my dog on the head after she pees outside rather than on the carpet.

I blinked away any possibility of a stupor of thought before clarifying for him that Feminism is inherently a GOOD and all-around beneficial movement for society as a whole, and had to differentiate between a feminist and a man-hater.

Now what, you may ask, qualifies me as a “good feminist” to this young man?

Is it the fact that I like wearing skirts and shave my armpits (and legs, all 3 months of summer, anyway) and wear mascara on a daily basis? Is it that i’m straight and let guys take me on dates and don’t make a scene if someone opens a door for me?

Is it that the way I present myself JUST SO HAPPENS to conform to a lot of society’s list of acceptable ways to present yourself?

Because if that’s what makes me a “good feminist,” then I don’t want to be a “good feminist.” That’s the whole point, right? To show that women DON’T NEED the acceptance or approval of men and are human people who, gee, I dunno, do things because they make them happy?

Trust me, I don’t do any altering of my own appearance in pursuit of the approval of men. I wear skirts because dang it sometimes it gets really hot here in Utah and I just so happen to despise pants. I wear mascara because it makes me feel more alert, awake, and ready for my day. I shave my legs because I think it feels really disgusting when you brush your legs against each other and can feel the hair follicles moving.

Notice how none of my reasons for my feminine hygiene regimen have anything to do with men? Yes, me, too.

I guess some people really will never understand that NOT ALL FEMINISTS are bra-burning, man-hating, vengeful women.

Some are.

Some feminists are just your average-joe college girls who love bows and slug bugs and bleaching their hair and dates with preppy boys who wear Jake by Hollister cologne who simply refuse to be treated as second-class citizens because their anatomy differs from that of their male peers.

But conveniently, and luckily, for me, I have been deemed a “good feminist,” by a man.

Hooray for wanting equal rights in a manner that suits dudes!

M.

*Note: I am completely aware that “acceptional” is not a real word… yet. But this is MY blog, MY rules, and MY vocabulary. For your convenience, I have provided a reference guide.

Acceptional: (adj) containing qualities/behaviors that are both acceptable and favorable. 

Concedable Classroom Concessions

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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. 

 

A Pint of Broken Dreams

MissM3 Comments

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Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of stress-eating, due to finals week, my beginning of two new jobs, and a variety of other stress-inducing factors. Like many other members of team ‘eat your feelings,’ one of my number one go-to foods is, of course, ice cream.

In effort to save my waistline for the upcoming swimsuit season, I decided to purchase some kind of light version of frozen dessert, when I stumbled upon this little gem: Arctic Zero Frozen Desserts-chocolate peanut butter flavor.

I never thought I’d see the day that ice cream would disappoint me. But this imposter surely has.

So now, not only am I 5 dollars poorer, I had disappointment for dessert, and my sweet tooth has not been satisfied.

Readers, I’m telling you this because I love you. If you’re going to indulge, get the full-fat, cookie dough-loaded, peanut butter-drizzled stuff. You deserve it, and You’ll be happier in the long run, I promise.

M.

Chagrin

MissM2 Comments

It has arrived. The inevitable finals week. Unfortunately, my supply of motivation has run dry with the arrival of this dreaded phase in the semester, and my productivity level has dropped significantly. 

Yeah, i’m only a sophomore, and I am fully conscious of the fact that it only gets worse from here. But honestly, i’m not worth a lick of academic work for the remainder of the semester. I’m at the point where I bring my Little Mermaid coloring book to History. (I guess that explains why history 1700 is my lowest grade.) 

I know, really whiney of me. Boo-hoo, poor girl has to endure post-secondary education so she can make a career and establish herself as an independent woman in this world. Which is why I will cease complaining this very instant. 

I don’t really have a point for this post, really I’m just writing because writing brings me solace. (Gatsby.)

Ha kidding. Rather, I am procrastinating writing my 5-page mass communications paper on algorithms. ALGORITHMS. 

I’m still not 100% sure as to what those are. 

But on the plus side, I get 2 Oreo’s per page I finish this evening. Positive reinforcement is a beautiful motivator. 

Here’s to B.S.ing yet another essay so I can get one more credit closer to obtaining this cute little piece of paper that declares my graduation from a collegiate institution.

Happy finals week, kiddos.  

 

 

The King of Condescention

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I have met a male that is at least 12 times as “confusing” as the average female. I met this young man in none other than my Women’s Studies class, a class dedicated to stirring up its female-dominated audience against the patriarchy.(AKA my most favorite class I ever did take.)

From the first day of class, I would catch this gent staring at me from across the room multiple times per class period. After a couple of classes, I suppose he finally caught my full name, and found me on Facebook. We engaged in casual cyber-conversation after I’d accepted his friend request, and he attempted to flatter me by telling me how visually appealing I was to him.

The next day in class, the boy avoided any sort of visual or verbal contact with me. Things grew awkward really fast due to his deliberate “ignoring” of my presence. What? Was he embarrassed that he’d validated my suspicion that he thought I was cute? Naturally, I returned the favor, and, in attempt to increase the awkward tension, I avoided that boy right back.

The semester progressed, and so did the platforms in which the boy communicated with me, none of which included face-to-face interaction. One day, he found me on SnapChat. He then sent me a selfie with the caption, and I kid you not, “I want you. All of you.”

So here’s this kid who doesn’t even have the guts to have a face-to-face conversation with me. Telling me he “wants me.” These type of messages continued, and he repeatedly notified me of his desire to cuddle with me, kiss me, and most recently, go hot tubbing with me. It’s amazing how greatly your confidence increases when you’re safely sheltered behind a computer screen or mobile device. Because there is no way in heck this boy would approach me in real life and say ANY of these things in the hallway after class.

Don’t even get me started on the damage social media has done to our social skills.

Continuing on.

The other day, this boy wrote me a message on Facebook, asking a question on one of our assignments. I answered his question, to which he replied, “that’s what I thought.” I responded, “you thought right, champ!” to which he said “generally.” I sarcastically praised his humbleness, and in retaliation, he informed me that I was an arrogant brat.

At this point, I had lost my sh*t. I was infuriated. I went off, my fingers swiftly and forcefully pounding the keyboard. I told him that he had no right to call me that just because I’d damaged his ego in refusing to kiss, cuddle, or whatever else he wanted, with him.

He didn’t message me for a week or two after that little episode. Then, yesterday, I the following status: “GUYS. It is totally hot tub weather. Who’s in?”

Minutes after posting this, I received another message from this boy. He told me he’d “tooootally” go hot tubbing with me. I began listing reasons why I could no longer go hot tubbing. Somewhere within the conversation, he called me “sweetie.”

ATTENTION, EVERYONE: don’t you DARE call me “sweetie” if you wish to keep your larynx functioning properly. That is the most condescending thing you could ever say. “Sweetie.” That stupid pet-name is how mommies and daddies refer to and address their three-year-old offspring. That was an insult to my intelligence, age, and hinted that this boy thought he was either above me, or somehow a significant other who had the right to use gushy pet-names that supposedly indicate affection.

This boy, may I remind you, won’t even have a verbal conversation with me. What right does he have to call me anything other than my name? I am infuriated. And we will most definitely not be going hot tubbing together any time in the near future.

Don’t call me sweetie, or I will show you fifty shades of sour.

And also, if you think I’m cute, come tell me in person. I am the least intimidating person in the history of non-intimidating people.  Typing “ur cute” and hitting the “send” button means absolutely nothing to me.

M.