Tag: women

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. 

 

Unapologetically Detestable

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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

MissM3 Comments

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. 

A Tender Termination

MissM6 Comments

You know what they say, all good things must come to an end. 

Including summer flings. 

I had one, this past summer. I know, ME. Someone voluntarily signed himself up to date my crazy ass for a month or two. 

We started out strong, going on well-planned, well-structured, yet financially conscious dates. That lasted for approximately a fortnight, when he requested that we both begin exclusively only dating one another and nobody else. From that point on through last night, I was somebody’s girlfriend. 

We all know how these things go. Gradually, the structured dates morphed into casual hangouts and late-night lounging on each others’ couches. The closest thing we’d have to a date was a run to 7-11 for a Slurpee. (He funded the Slurpee runs, so I let this continue for a while.)

The casual hangouts tapered down in frequency, as did the communication between boy and me. For a span of another fortnight, we’d hardly even texted at all. I knew this fling had come to a close because I did not miss this young man. Heck, I’d hardly even noticed his absence.

Over the course of the past two weeks, I’d been worrying myself sick trying to script a gentle, yet straight-forward way to terminate our contract of exclusionary courtship. You see, I struggle with confrontation. My preferred method of communication is written, which is exactly what I intended to do. 

My break-up plan was to write boy a letter that gracefully terminated our friendship and also notified him of why my feelings for him had ceased. I would then place said letter on his doorstep along with his damn glasses that he always leaves in my car, and that would be that with that. 

Regardless of my preferred, passive method of ending this fling, we had the dreaded “talk” last evening. 

Boy requested that we go to our “spot” to talk, so I drove (as I always do because boy doesn’t have an automobile) to the capital building, temporarily renamed “our spot,” so we could discuss the future of us. Please note that aforementioned spot is 30+ miles from my home. 

Long story short, boy asked me to practically analyze the current status of our relationship, and based on my analysis, present to him what my thoughts were regarding our future together. It was basically the most emotionless breakup in the history of forever. 

After I expressed how I no longer had feelings for him and that I was fine with us being through, he concurred, and then told me (in not so many words) that it is practically impossible for him to have a deep conversation with me and that he would rather be alone with me. 

After “the talk,” it was my burden to drive boy from our former “spot” back to his apartment. The air was awkward, stifling, and tense the entire 3.4 minute drive back to his place. 

Before emerging from my Camry, he turned to me and said, “You know you’re great, right?” 

To which I responded, “Yes, boy, I do know that I am great. I don’t need yours or anyone’s reassurance.”  AND THEN HE LEFT HIS GLASSES IN MY CAR AGAIN. 

I am relieved to have formally ended this fling with boy, but I am flustered that he would think that I would be so emotionally affected by our parting ways. 

I simply don’t give a profanity. It doesn’t hurt to hear that he’d lost interest in me, when my feelings for him had ceased weeks ago. I promise, i’ll be fine without his presence in my life. And no, my self-esteem has not been tainted with the termination of our little fling. 

Because, you see, not only am I free of worrying about hurting someone’s feelings that i’d lost interest in, but I will save 15% or more on gas by switching to a boy who can drive at least half the time. 

And he can take the bus to my hometown and come pick up his spectacles himself, gosh dang it. 

Someone write a book on how to properly break up with people, cuz clearly young adults as a whole aren’t getting it. 

M. 

For Maximum Efficiency

MissM11 Comments

My friend and I were reminiscing on acquaintances from high school yesterday, and naturally, our conversation morphed into a bash-fest of people we loathed. My friend brought up a girl that we’d been mutual friends with, but my friend’s relationship with this girl turned sour due to the girl’s blunt honesty and disregard for others’ reception of her verbalized opinions. I am still on good terms with this girl, despite my friend’s animosity toward her. 

My friend began listing out the qualities about this girl that caused the termination of their friendship. Her list started out with the girl’s character traits, but, as any gossiping female would, her list ended with insults on the girl’s physique. (Her “weird-shaped” head, of all things, which is completely unalterable, and quite frankly one of the most comedically pathetic insults I could possibly think of.) 

I told my friend that regardless of her opinion, I still liked the girl, and told her to be nice. (BLEH, she says.) Before I continue any further, I just want to acknowledge that I know that I am more than guilty of saying bitchy things behind girls’ backs, and I, too, have made fun of girls for their physical appearances, even though, hypocritically, I believe that the way a person looks has absolutely nothing to do with their value and like-ability. 

I’m a hypocrite, yes. 

Again, i’m only human, and I am only using this story to make a point. 

As with most things, I gave this conversation way more thought than normal humans do, and I noticed that this similar situation happens frequently among the ladyverse. 

When we’re blabbing away to our girlfriends about other girls that we can’t stand, why is it that we feel a need to not only insult their “hamartia”, but, while we’re at it, attack their physique, weight, hair, boobs, etc.? 

“Ugh she is such a fat, ugly b*tch.” 

“That slut’s nose is as big as jupiter.” 

Why does calling a girl a brat or a jerk or stupid not satisfy our tongues? Why do we feel the need to include the fact that she’s an UGLY brat or a FAT jerk? 

I’d be willing to bet that the majority of us females, myself included, would rather be called a brat than be called ugly or fat. Because hey, I may be a sucky person with a drag of a personality, but at least I’m pretty and that’s all that matters. 

I’m right, aren’t I? 

Most of us would never admit this out loud, but the sting of being called “ugly” lasts way longer and affects us way worse than being called “stupid” or bratty. 

Beauty takes the cake in the way we want others to think of us.

I know that people will continue to bad-mouth other people to their friends, but it’s possible to hate someone without ridiculing their physical appearances. 

That’s your food for thought on this fine Thursday. 

M. 

Award

MissM1 Comment

Last night, I spent hours binge-blogging when I came across Nonsense & Shenanigins (Which is a gem of a blog, and I highly recommend y’all check it out.) After commenting on a post of hers, she was kind enough to visit my blog as well, and decided to nominate me for the (drumroll please) Very Inspiring Blogger Award! 

*Gets choked up* *Gingerly wipes tear from eyes* *Clears throat to make motivational speech*

vib

TADA! There she is. 

And now for my “Thank You” speech. First and foremost, I’d like to thank Tempest Rose from Nonsense & Shenanigins for nominating me for this award. Secondly, I’d like to thank the flustering, ignorant, bigots of the world that fuel my anger and give me so much to rant about! Without you, this blog would not be possible. Lastly, I’d like to thank everyone who’s ever read, disagreed with, or visited my blog. I can’t tell you how encouraging it is to know that somebody somewhere is reading what I compose. 

And now for the rules of participating in the VIB Award

  1. Thank and link to the amazing person who nominated you.
  2. List the rules and display the award.
  3. Share seven facts about yourself.
  4. Nominate 7 other amazing blogs and comment on their posts to let them know they have been nominated.
  5. Proudly display the award logo on your blog and follow the blogger who nominated you.

7 Facts You Never Knew About Maddisen Tingey (and probably never cared to know anyway):

1. My wildest dream is to own my very own ranch in Alabama somewhere so I can have my very own animals and wear sundresses all the time and sit on my porch with the other southern belles and gossip and drink iced tea and acquaint myself with shirtless farm boys and the like. 

2. Although I am a devout feminist, a feminazi if you will, I am shamefully obsessed with gushy romance novels. I’ve read all of Nicholas Sparks’s books multiple times, and have shed many a tear over true love that can never be. I’m the same way with movies. It’s a problem. 

3. I have the hardest time speaking my mind. No, I’m not shy, but for some reason, I am completely unable to verbalize my own feelings. However, hand me a MacBook Air, and I can be the most confrontational, straight-forward feelings-sharer you ever did know. 

4. My dream career would be to become an established author and editorial writer. I want to write quirky novels and also share my overbearing opinions on current issues via print magazines, etc. 

5. I am a contracted “model.” All five feet and two inches of me. Let me tell you a little something: the modeling world is a joke unless you have at least 2 grand to throw toward launching your “career.” And even then, you’ll probably hardly ever book any jobs. I hate myself a little for falling into this trap. 

6. My first language was German. My mom was born in Deutschland and moved to the states when she was 18, only to return back to her motherland to serve an LDS mission, where she met my dad. Then the best thing that could have happened to them, me, and German was all I heard as a kid. 

7. I was a vegetarian until age 17. But now I put bacon on virtually everything. 

So now you guys know seven random and unimportant facts about me! Do with that information what you will.

And my own nominees for the Very Inspiring Blogger are: 

Young Mormon Feminists (I am going to be guest-blogging for them on a monthly basis and I am simply ECSTATIC)

Natural 0

Man’s World

Charity Novell

La Vida Es Dolce

Thinking About Blank

I Am Begging My Mother Not To Read This Blog

And that’s that. 

M. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ingress

MissM2 Comments

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. 

Flaxen

MissM5 Comments

It was time for a drastic change. I was feeling spontaneous, impulsive. The appointment had been set-no turning back now. My mind had been made. 

It was the concluding day of my employment at big girl job #1. Yes, the one in which I was the only female member. 

The boss man asked me to have a seat in his office while I turned in my keys, etc. back to the company. In effort to break the awkward air that my voluntary resignation had brought, he asked me timidly, “Well, what are you going to do with the rest of your day?”

“I think i’m going to dye my hair,” I shared, a little less bashfully. 

“…. But, men love blondes. It’s scientifically proven!” 

A direct quote from my former boss, I kid thee not. 

A zillion and a half feministic and attitude-slathered, raging responses raced through my mind. 

Silly me, though, I had forgotten that I wear my hair for the sole purpose of gaining male approval. I hadn’t considered the fact that i’d lose my allure in the eyes of most men. That my body is here only to be objectified and either accepted or deemed “undesirable” by the men I encounter.

After all, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. 

Not to be frank, but I DON’T CARE WHAT COLOR OF HAIR YOU’D PREFER TO SPROUT OUT OF MY HEAD, MISTER. *slams office door dramatically and stomps out, heels clanking harshly against the floor*

No, I didn’t yell. But the feminist in me was screaming, punching, and kicking- throwing a tantrum that would put all four-year-olds to shame.

It is sickening that men assume that women alter their appearance for the sole purpose of gaining approval and acceptance from them. And perhaps they are right, in some cases. However, they could not be more wrong in mine.

You see, I don’t care if you like blondes more than brunettes. Or redheads more than both combined. Bleach your own freaking head for all I care. Your opinion is of no significance to me. Admittedly, I hunger for approval and visual appeal from my peers. We all do. But I will do with my hair whatever I please, regardless of what any man thinks. IT IS MY HAIR, thank you. And you can stick your preferences where the sun don’t shine.

Before: 

blondie

After: 

Photo on 7-31-14 at 7.05 PM #2

In my opinion, and the only one that matters in this scenario, darker hair makes me look more lively. I like it. 

I am now a half-blonde. And for the record, half-blondes have more fun.(; 

M. 

Twist

MissMLeave a comment

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, as well as retail shopping lately, and it has come to my attention whilst immersing myself in deep thought and browsing through stores at my local mall, that besides amusement parks, malls are essentially the only places in this blessed country in which citizens can purchase themselves a soft pretzel. 

Now, I mean to be frank, but let’s get it together, America. Starbucks and McDonald’s really know what they’re doing-placing one of themselves on every corner. The accessibility for overpriced coffee and fast “food” is borderline ridiculous. All I want is one gosh darn Pretzel Maker within a 10 mile radius of my house, preferably with a drive-thru. 

I have a solution for this instance of injustice. I would like to propose that we replace 1/8th of the McDonald’s establishments with Pretzel Makers. 

I know it’s a matter of opinion, but I would much rather scarf down a carb-loaded, fun-shaped, cinnamon-and-sugar dusted mass of twisted bread than a grease ball of stuff that kind of resembles hamburger anyway. You could go as far as to say that I am passionate about pretzels. A pretzel fanatic. 

You better believe I am going to write a strongly worded, persuasive, and argumentative letter to Mr. CEO of Pretzel Establishments outlining how come we need a sharp increase in pretzel establishments. (Thank you, English 2010, for teaching me something that directly applies to the real world.)

 

Now come on guys, I know I’m not the only one fed up with this public issue. Join the cause. Petition for the Pretzel. Let’s bring about a concessional revolution.

‘Murica.  

M.