Grey's Area: Why Grey's Anatomy Would Fail in Real Life

Ever since procrastinating schoolwork rejoicing in my free time, I've gone on a bit of a Grey's Anatomy binge. Sure, I'm still hurt that George is gone, but as long as they don't kill off Christina, I'm far from boycotting the show.

However, majoring in how to be a pretentious prick English, my brain can't help but scream over the inconsistencies and the "this would never happen in life" moments. Don't get me wrong, I adore this show. It taught me that "clear!" meant something other than what you say when you fucked up on an Etch-a-Sketch. But there's just something about the long, melodramatic moments that are just...c'mon guys. What surgeon would spend two hours having sex in the on-call room after 30 hours on the job, sans sleep?

And so, I present to you: What happens in Grey's that would result in a "why are you telling me this?" look in actual life:

1) Long speeches about why someone's life sucks.
Not that we're all a bunch of apathetic humans, but I've found that once someone asks what's wrong, the accepted response time is twenty seconds, thirty tops. I mean, even when my to-do list is "think about doing laundry. Cry about how many dirty clothes I have," I tend to check out mentally once someone's rant goes into the minute range. So I can only imagine what a doctor with a full day of surgery would be doing if some intern went on a "I can't get a girl, life is so hard" rampage. Not to mention, these speeches almost always begin and end the exact same way. Sure, this is the way we were taught to write essays in middle school. But if I hear someone say something along the lines of this, totally genuinely, expecting some sort of sympathetic response:

"Yes, Meredith I'm sad. I just watched an entire family die in my OR, with the exception of a poor, lost daughter, who, by the way, you were supposed to make room for, if you weren't too busy with your precious heart surgery. I may or may not be homeless because Owen and I haven't had a legitimate conversation in over a week, I haven't been able to get Dr. Weber to even look at me, and I have a mentor who might just hate my guts and want to humiliate me in front of all her residents. So yes, I'm sad because my career is going straight to hell, I'm sad for my dead patients, I'm sad for me, Mer. I'm human. Humans get sad sometimes."

...I would start counting how many times "sad" was uttered in that speech. This may or may not make me a terrible person.

2) Realizing what someone did by a mere look.
Yes, reading body language is a skill that some people have a great knack for. But the number of times these doctors have waltzed into a room, heard a simple "hello," and realized that so-and-so told what's-her-face that her husband died is a wee bit too psychic. Maybe there's some superhuman surgeon power I'm not aware of, but normally, you need a little more context before you can read what a person has done, or what they are feeling.

3) Working for 30 hours straight, then waking up looking like a supermodel.
This is the point I'm most lax about. Yes, this is prime time television. As a general rule, we enjoy watching beautiful people have not-so-beautiful fights. But every single major actor in this show is drop dead gorgeous. Not only that, but they make it a point of how beautiful they are. Last time you checked, how many McDreamys and McSteamys did you see waltzing around a hospital?

This is where I give Scrubs the upper hand. Once Eliot Reid decided that she was a "whole new person" who wore a crapload of eyeliner and blow-dried her hair, the writers showed us how miserable it was getting up at 3:00 in the morning for the sole purpose of looking like a rock star doctor.

As a side note, April Kepner would not last two seconds as chief anything. But that's a whole other blog unto itself.

Namaste. 

The Hair Saga, Part 4: Killing the Beast

Ever since I was fourteen year old, and mother nature decided to grand me with this gift...

...My daily routine has consisted of one goal: killing the beast that is my hair. Tenth through twelve grade was seemingly entirely devoted to spending over an hour burning my head with a flat iron, pouring chemicals into my hair to straighten it once and for all, bleaching the shit of my highlights, and thinning it with what felt awfully similar to a razor.

And every time, my hair would get angry and grow back with a vengeance. And with every trip to the hair salon, my hair's reaction time would grow faster. I swear, the stuff is like Pavlov's dogs: every time it smelled chemicals, or burning, the general of my hair army would shout out to his soldiers:
"Okay, listen up you guys. There's going to be an attack on us today. We may look like we're already dead, but just stay strong. Resist the bleach, my fellow dead skin cells, resist the bleach!"

And so they did. They resisted the bleach. As the smells would get dauntingly closer, my curls would retreat to the place where hair is free to roam. They became so organized, so good at defensive tactics, that all the "no-fail" straightening product in the world would fail, sending my hairdressers into a sputtering mess of "but I--that has never--why would it--are you human?"

Well, friends, I've discovered that instead of continuously bouncing back, my hair has found its breaking point. Once we reached the farewell to my black hair, that was it, it was closed for business. While I had became convinced that nothing in the world could halt the attacks from my hair, halt they did. Bleaching my entire head in August was the final straw--and so, my hair decided to turn into straw, refusing to grow, or braid, or do that cool flippy-thing that so delightfully happens by accident.

Nothing. Nada. I'm pretty sure the hair has reached nursing home status, complaining about how it had to work so hard, shooting out of my head mere seconds after leaving the hair salon. "I grew ten miles in the snow, missy, and this is the thanks I get??"

Not so say that my hair cooperates nicely, and I hop out of bed looking like Jennifer Aniston. My roommate still gets a kick out of the fact that when I wake up, my hair literally sticks straight up in a ponytail, or does this:

Houston, we have a problem

And, if I straighten this dead mass on my head, in the words of my roommate: "then you just wake up looking like a troll doll."

And so, I'm left with this floppy, no-longer-angry-but-too-tired-to-cooperate bundle of straw.

Don't kill your hair, kids. Troll dolls are scary.

Namaste.

Texting 101: Grammar Nazis

There's something about single-letter words that our generation adores so much. And while I understand the pain of typing "you" back in the flip-phone era, the iPhone is smart enough to realize that "yu" is not some alien form of cheesecake, and is, in fact, the person with whom you are texting. Yet even during the "let's-make-everything-ridiculously-easy-and-let-technology-rule-us-all" phase, those who text still insist on avoiding vowels like the plague. Normal people would shrug and figure their texting partner was in somewhat of a hurry--maybe they had to buy some bananas, or rush over to a Scrabble game.

Some people are not normal people. Some people are grammar nazis.

 I have a perfectly stable relationship with the letter "U." It gives me useful life objects like umbrellas and unicorns. But as soon as I get a text with the letter "u" replacing the pronoun, my brain immediately flashes into something akin to this:

This side of the brain is not a happy place. This is the side of the brain that spends an hour alphabetizing books and cries "WHY, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS SHINY, COULD YOU NOT ADD TWO MORE LETTERS TO THAT WORD??"

It turns out I am not alone in this sentiment. The "U" vs. "you" debate has been the subject of many angry YouTube comments--it's nearly as heated as the "your" vs "you're" debacle.

And so, for the safety of the friends and family of grammar nazis, I've compiled a list of what not to do in these dire situations. Spoiler alert: I've done some of these. Permission to murder me with a pitchfork. Except please don't.

1) Do not replace letters with numbers.
As a complete math-aphobe, this one really sets me aside. Maybe you're telling me you're going to a xylophone concert, and all I see is "2Xy...lophone." Suddenly, I'm taken with the fear of solving 2xy to equal a phone. I could be staring at your text for hours, unable to realize that the xylophone concert ended an hour ago.

Not to mention, it actually takes more time to press the little button that takes you to the numbers than it does to type "to." Go ahead, time yourself. Numbers are the tortoise. You are the hare.

2) Omitting question marks.
If you're asking me, "what have I done to deserve this" [insert bad action here], I'm going to picture Bella Swan giving that cold, heartless stare. I mean, isn't this just a little cringe worthy?:
WHY CRUEL WORLD, WHY.
Question marks have loads of personality. They are the key to any strong pathos. Use them to your advantage. Yes, the curvy lines going all straight can be daunting, but even the predictable exclamation point is better than nothing.

3) Using ellipses after a complete thought.
When I see "I think I'm going to buy some oranges..." I expect a grocery bag filled with oranges, bananas, grapes, the works. That text was the beginning of a continuing thought. Those three dots are the literary equivalent of you standing in the grocery store thinking "hmmm, what else can I buy to keep us through the week?" I'm going to assume statement is going to end with a larger list of food, unless of course it ends with "then I'm going to prison for two years," in which case, we need to have a serious talk.

Ending your sentence with an ellipses is like a giant neon sign that says "TO BE CONTINUED, DEAR READER." So then, guess what, I see you buying those oranges, and I expect the story to be continued. Don't think you're just cloning your periods, you sneaky little bastard. We know better.

And remember: Practice safe sentences. Use semi-colons.

Namaste. 

An Epiphany about Epiphanies

Change is easy to fear. Once you've hit a solid routine, a formula, why would you try to re-arrange it, just for the sake of being "different"? I mean, that's far too hipster. I've worn sweatpants and eaten soup for the past week. No complaints here.

But then, flipping through that book of inspirational quotes that lays in the back of my bookshelf, I see "be the change you want to see in the world." The word "growth" flashes at me from every page. Personal growth. Mental growth. Spiritual growth. And the thing about our society, is that we tend to see growth like this:

We want things to be flashy, to be noticeable. Why go a shade more brunette when you could go 12 shades darker (true story)? The small progressions seem monotonous. And so, what do we do when we think our "change timeline" isn't up to snuff? We throw caution to the wind and spend our tax refunds on ashram life.

Okay, that's what I do. Apparently I've decided to skip the weekend vacation step and shoot straight for the stars.

I've always romanticized external changes as an aid for internal discovery. And while being at Shoshoni was a nice realization that I don't totally hate hiking and that collecting thoughts on a mountain is way more rad (yeah, I said it) than hemming and hawing in my room, I never woke up one day, looked out at the Rocky Mountains and thought, "I am a hare krishna, hear me roar chant!" It seemed I was going through the motions of Ashram life without soaking in that "internal glow" that Shoshoni-ites are promised. It seemed a failed trip, that I was just doomed to be a material girl in a material world, and that getting hit over the head with a Ganesh statue wouldn't do any good.

Let me interrupt this blog with a general PSA: Don't hit anyone over the head with a Ganesh statue. Those tusks are rather pointy; it's quite an unpleasant experience.

I'd always concluded that oh well, guess I'm not meant for the ashram life, I wasn't doing it right, oh well, back to being a chameleon elsewhere, maybe I'll get that life changing epiphany in France.

It's a well known fact that those who eat baguettes and snarl at Americans speed up the epiphan-izing process.

And then I came across this line in Dick Davis' poem, Iran 20 Years Ago: 
 "As if that no epiphany, precisely/were the epiphany? As Hafez has it,/To know, you must have gone along that way;/I know they changed my life forever but/I know too that I could not tell myself--/Much less another--what it was I saw/Or learnt, or brought back from those aimless hours." 

Part of self discovery is, yes, to realize that we're always changing--but not always at a speed we can notice. But there is a certain beauty in Davis' lack of epiphany, as he realizes that his core self is not affected by his environment. He can appreciate the beauty of his surroundings without having to actively work on himself. We don't have to expect anything from mountains, or oceans--they are not direct mirrors of ourselves. Just as Davis learned a lot about Iranian culture without losing himself, I learned about Hindu traditions and ashram lifestyle.

Our reliance on our surroundings to change us may be romantic. It's poetic. But hey, Dick Davis was a widely celebrated poet, and his reality is that "sure, this change in scenery is nice, but I'm still me." Although said a little more beautifully.

Sometimes, we can just appreciate the beauty of difference without waiting for the difference to reflect upon us.

Namaste.

Don't Suffocate Voldemort! Fun Times With Quirrell

So, the other night I was watching A Very Potter Musical. As realistic a portrayal as it gave (I mean, c'mon we totally knew Draco had a thing for Hermione, right?), Quirrell's relationship with the dark lord made me wonder--how easy is it really to share the back of your head with someone? Sure, Quirrell didn't really have a choice in the matter--when the powers of evil genius request to kindly share your head so they can suck your soul, you obey, everyone knows that. But I personally believe that Quirrell sported that turban not just to hide the dark lord, but also to hide the fact that he hadn't been able to wash his head in months. Because drowning Voldemort is not something Death Eaters would take to kindly.

Unless Quirrell was secretly a vampire too, he had to sleep to y'know, not go crazy. But his sleeping positions must have been severely limited--perhaps suffocating the dark lord is less extreme than drowning him, but I'm sure Bellatrix would be all "no Quirrell, why did you do that, Avada Kedavra and stuff." And nothing to ruin a party like killing curses.

This begs the question: Did Voldemort even need to breathe? Being only half alive, and the small issue that he doesn't have a nose, does he still need an oxygen flow to his brain to conjure up evil mastermind plans?

I mean, if I were Voldemort, I'd just make Quirrell sleep on his stomach and hope for the best.

And it's not just sleeping. Even if Quirrell stayed perfectly still on his side, he'd still have to sacrifice head-washing and hats--think about: If Quirrell wore a baseball cap frontwards, that would mean Voldemort was rocking the gangster backwards look, and everyone knows that's not the right look for an evil skin tone.

If you think about it, that whole soul-sucking thing isn't the worst of it. It's the fact that Quirrell had to go an extended period of time with the inability to thrash around in his sleep, or wear hats.

And what is the point of life anymore when you can't wear hats?

Namaste.

Peanut Butter Jelly Time--Or, Why the French Should Jump on the Peanut Butter Train

I'm not usually a picky eater. I mean, as long as there's something edible in front of me, I'm happy to douse it in cheese like a true American. But there's something about Pop-Tarts that have just seemed unappealing. Maybe it's the fact that they're not supposed to taste good to those who are too lazy to put them in a toaster (true story). Or that my brother and I grew up hearing that they tasted like cardboard and that Gatorade was donkey sweat.

Does not want to be associated with corporate beverages

Tastes like it anyway

But until today, I didn't give Pop-Tarts the benefit of the doubt. It turns out, even the right flavor of cardboard can make your taste buds explode with happiness. I mean, S'mores are great and all, but when your outer layer of a pastry tastes like graham cracker, life just gets complicated. I mean, is it a cracker, is it a breakfast food--make up your mind!

But going to my boyfriend's apartment, I discovered the second largest collection of Pop-Tarts I have ever witnessed--the first being at work, but seeing as that's a grocery store, let's not judge here. By the time I left, Pop-Tarts were practically coming out of my ears. This on top of the fact that I'm always hungry, made for the inevitable: facing my breakfast related trepidations. And so, biting into that chocolate-peanut butter melange of deliciousness, my brain did something akin to this:

And that's when the epiphany of all epiphanies happened:

Peanut butter makes everything better. 
I mean, let's look at this objectively: Why do you think the French scowl so much? They don't have peanut butter. Sure, Nutella is amazing, but how does "Nutella/Jelly time" sound?

That's not sexual. Not even on Wednesdays.

Not convinced?

How do you get kids excited about eating healthy? Ants on a log. And while the odd similarity between raisins and ants is enticing, it's the creamy, sweet, rich peanut butter that makes the celery something other than a stringy, weird mess.

And I mean, everybody knows that the waffle shop downtown is an imposter and can never reach the original Waffle Shop's standards. But its selling point--peanut butter pancakes--keeps it in business. Why even bother with other pancake choices when you can have extra delicious on your deliciousness?

If for some absurd reason, you're not human and don't like peanut butter, the epicness of this food group (yes, I'm categorizing it in its own food group, what now?) doesn't just stop at its taste. Being fresh(ish) out of high school, I've heard my fair share of "that's what she said"s, and innuendos, and while there's a clever zinger every now and again, most sexual jokes are predictable and overused. But "peanut butter jelly time" is sneaky enough to keep people wondering, but not so obscure that you just seem like that person who gets really excited by school lunches. It's sexual without even trying to be sexual.

In the words of Robin Thicke, "what rhymes with hug me?"

Freaking...deliciousness. That's what rhymes with hug me.

*spoiler alert: It doesn't actually rhyme. Shh, don't tell anyone.

Happy Monday!

Namaste.

An Open Letter to Bruno Mars

Dear Bruno Mars,
I think it's time we sat down and had a little chat. I know you don't feel like doing anything, but look, we can even sit in your bed, and it'll be in person so don't bother picking up the phone. But I'm growing a little concerned at your obsession by this girl who won't kill herself for you.

I know. It seems a little romantic to be all "hey babe, I'd kill myself 3 different ways just to be with you," but unless you're talking to a ghost, there's a wee bit of a problem with this logic: She's alive and well, kicking and dealing with needy men. That is not something ghosts cannot do. Ghosts don't care about needy men--they can be all "oooh, I'm a ghost," and scare the shit out of people and have a good laugh about it. So maybe while you're throwing your head on blades for this chic, she's getting a little freaked out because you're trying to enter a world that she is not in. I know she's got this whole pale look going on, but stop to consider that she uses REALLY light foundation before jumping to the conclusion that she's a vampire and that she's not giving you any because she's undead and all that.

Maybe it's because you expect her screams to sound like something out of Legally Blonde. Think about it.

I mean, you should really consider her feelings here. What if she was on that train, coming to surprise you at your second vacation home, and she saw you jumping in front of it? Do you know how much therapy that would cost her? I'm sure she'd try to stop you--but again, she's not a vampire. She runs at human speed. And human speed doesn't allow people to stop over dramatic fools from leaping in front of trains.

So if you're dead (3 times as dead, because apparently just plain dead is sooo yesterday), you're just gonna be wandering around in limbo for a little bit, because, surprise, she's got you locked out of heaven because she doesn't have the keys! I know it's easy to make copies and all, but think of heaven as a VIP club, and you have to have wings and no pulse to join. I'm sure she'd be happy to open up heaven's door (but Bob Dylan reminds you that you must knock first), but she's just as powerless as you in the situation.

And look, let's not get all Romeo and Juliet here, and force her to kill herself just because you thought she was dead in the first place. That's just rude.

Let's just assume that the girls you fall for are alive, and that you should probably follow Flight of the Conchords' standards before promising your death to chics:

Namaste.

The Wild English Major Wildabeest

They're out there. They're eating your food, sharing your classrooms, breathing your air. At first glance, they may seem like harmless creatures--cute, even. But these are ferocious animals, ready to pounce at any moment.

The English Majorus may stem from several different genus. They can be difficult to distinguish from Complete Nerdus, I-Had-A-Weird-Childhood-us and the Great Eyeglassed Monster.

Habitat:
The English Major Wildabeest can be found hiding in her dorm, camouflaged under a university hoodie that is not actually her university. This species is unable to breathe for long periods of time in public areas, so she must often retreat to her home to come up for breath. Her home is easily distinguished by the various Dante references she posts around her wall, the fedora that is laying on her dresser, and the multitude of bookshelves.

When forced to depart from her natural habitat, the English Major Wildabeest takes to the back of classrooms, cafés that are not Starbucks, and...That's it. Then she retreats back to her home. It is common for the English Major Wildabeest to emerge from hiding on football weekends--she then hunts for the great ramen monster at the nearest Wegmans during game time.

Diet:
The English Major Wildabeest takes to eating ramen, mac 'n cheese, and Pop Tarts. This is a defense mechanism, in preparation for the long winter in which she will have to send millions resumés and live in a box.

The English Major Wildabeest does not always need food for energy, however. It is common for this species to gain energy from watching frat boys say stupid things to each other, being the example essay in class, and John Green novels.

Appearance:
The English Major Wildabeest comes in various forms of appearance. Often the female species can be spotted sporting a bun, braids, or some other hairstyle that takes less than ten minutes to accomplish. They may humor themselves by gathering in groups and trying to imitate the Popular Girl-us with the winged eyeliner look. This often results in humiliation and something that appears to be a black eye.

For warmth, the English Major Wildabeest can be seen wearing various Disney tops, and jeans that were on sale at Wal-Mart.

The male species can be recognized by his sweater vests, peacoats, and blue jeans with accidental holes in them. Sportswear is absolutely forbidden in this species' attire.

Both species can also often be found wearing glasses.

Behavior:
The Wild English Major Wildabeest is easiest to spot through her behavior, for she is one of the few of the college student species that does not enter the gym every morning. She may, on particular stressful days, run on treadmills for a few minutes, but this is odd behavior, and she is on danger mode the entire time. The English Major Wildabeest often uses a bound-paper rectangle with black print inside as a defense mechanism--this particular defense is called reading. It can be used as defense in two senses 1) So that annoying guy in her Gen Ed won't talk to her on the bus and 2) Knowledge is power, and she knows her Wordsworth obsessed teacher will ask some question about Lyrical Ballads next class. 

The Wild English Major Wildabeest strikes when you least expect it. A silent creature, she creeps almost un-noticeably in the back of classrooms, watching the Frat Boy-us and the Hungover-us flounder about as the Great Horned Grad Student tries to generate some discussion. She is the unknown predator, slowly watching her prey sleepily raise their hands in class--she strikes as essays become due, or during the last week of class. She may go in for the kill as she takes exact quotes from the assigned reading, references classics that she read outside of class, or attends office hours.

Namaste.

My Makeup Addiction: The Eyeliner Edition

So as you might have learned from my last makeup post, Ulta opened up in town. It's not like it's impossible to get quality makeup elsewhere, but c'mon, who passes up a store entirely devoted to glittery stuff, nail polish that smells like coconut, and neon things that you can stick in your eye?

Sane people who have to save up for an apartment, that's who.

The thing about my friends and I, is that we are very routine-driven creatures. We can spend a year watching Alex Reads Twilight and we wouldn't be bored by a second of it.

To our future neighbors who have to hear us singing to Mulan and watching Edie Izzard: Dress to Kill for the millionth time, my apologies.

So as we prefer doing the same thing, we've gotten to know Dairy Queen quite well. But you can't just end a hangout at ice cream. That's social suicide, obviously. And so, for the past week, as my friends and I have purchased our hot fudge sundaes and brownie blizzards, the next thing that comes out of one of our mouths is "let's go to Ulta!"

Why? Why? There's only one shade of foundation that matches one's skin. A little bronzer goes a long way. Hell, we only have two eyes. There's only so much eyeliner and eyeshadow you need before you start looking like a very confused chameleon.

But apparently I'm on a mission to buy all the colors of all the things.

Because you know what you need when you have career hair? Career lipstick. Which, as it turns out, must be something other than hot pink. Who knew?

And once you hit the eye color mission, you find colors that are so alike in color, you can't even notice the difference. But one is titled espresso and the other is titled iced coffee, and who can possibly only take one coffee inspired eyeliner? That's like Sophie's choice!

Then there's the rewards. Ulta doesn't just say "hey, once you spend $100,000 you get a poorly baked cookie and 15% off the next purchase" (Hot Topic, I'm looking at you). No, you get a free gift bag, if you spend $20 on Ulta brand product. And do you know what is in that gift bag? More career lipstick. Obviously one must spring for such a gift. Plus you get a new bag to put all your shit you don't need precious makeup in.

The ironic thing is that all these purchases happened right before school starts. And school, by definition is a time when you have neither time nor money to makeup-ify. And so, the makeup sits in its ten thousand pouches, just waiting for its purpose to fulfilled. And then it starts to get abandonment issues and wonders if it just looked tempting in that beautiful fluorescent light, and is just useless powder that makes skin look orange. 

I literally spent an hour before my camping trip putting on all my eyeliners so they wouldn't feel hurt. They didn't feel hurt, but my eyes sure did.

I mean, as fun as it is to put on makeup, it's not an essential. We just force ourselves to believe it is, and then we spend entire camping trip wondering if our skin looks presentable to passing fish. Like, maybe that trout is opposed to pimples, and that bass over there refuses to go near humans without seafoam green eyeliner.

Hey, it has the word "sea" in it. Anything's possible.

Not only is there the addiction to wearing makeup, but the addiction of staring at it is almost as strong. Like, my best friend and I could have spent two hours productively writing and singing at the top of our lungs editing. Instead, we spent the first hour dumping all my makeup onto my floor and staring at it. We would ooh and ahh at white liquid eyeliner--and I'll tell ya, blogs don't write themselves while you're staring at overpriced chemicals.

I don't know how I spent a month without makeup, because clearly now I cannot live with shelling out entire paychecks to poke myself in the eye.

Namaste.

We Natured: The Story of Bears, Rope Swings, and 6 Foot Fish

I'm not inclined to brave the natural world very often, and yet I put myself in situations where I backpack, hike and bike on a regular basis. I'm not entirely sure how this happens in most cases, but this particular "let's go in nature" persuasion went something like:

Father: Kira, would you like to camp with us?
Daughter: [unable to tear herself away from all things technology] Ehh, not really.
Father: There will be s'mores.
Daughter: Okay!

And so, we drove off for a weekend of delicious desserts family bonding time.

Day one induced quite a bit of shock at my departure from makeup (my eyeliner is still recovering from abandonment issues) and lack of both 3G and WiFi. I learned that inflatable kayaks make great napping posts and that camping is a prime activity for puns.

If you've talked to me for more than two seconds gotten to know me, you'll have realized that I love puns. Like, there is no lukewarm affection here. I hard core pun it up until everybody's rolling their eyes and wondering who raised me to tell such terrible jokes.

The answer would be the one person who loves puns more than I do: My father.

Thus, we did what any sane family would do--we decided to have a pun contest that fateful first day. It was a close call, though I must give the crown to my father for announcing that if a six foot fish ran for office, he would run for president of the school board.

The runner up, however, came from yours truly; as my father realized that he needed wood to start a fire, I proclaimed that a "fire would be nice." Would? Wood? Heheheh, gettit?

Days two and three, besides Tarzan-style swinging into a lake, involved getting to know the wild creatures of the Allegheny. The thing about nature-ing, is that you can't pick and choose which wildabeests visit your campsite. If it were up to me, there would be giant eyeshadows roaming about in its natural habitat. While there was nary a trout to be found, I later learned, that creeping at the bottom of the 120 ft lake were 6 ft fish...fish whose bodies were 33% teeth. That's two feet of teeth. All of a sudden, my legs went from swimming machines to appendages that looked eerily similar to smaller fish.

The bad part about 120 ft lakes is that they make it quite possible to drown. The good part about 120 ft lakes is that creatures that roam on the bottom will only see teeny tiny dots on the top. That's quite a journey to get some nice, fishy lunch.

Other creatures one may encounter during one's camping trip are the wild frat boys, mighty music-blarers, roaring motor homes, and nocturnal drunks (same family as the wild frat boys, but may differ in appearance and smell).

Oh, and bears.

During our last night at the camp ground, some family friends visited as we sat around the fire. We weren't terribly loud, nor are we terribly oblivious. However, somehow, sometime in the course of three hours, a bear strolled into the neighboring campsite, dragged an entire bucket of food into the woods, and proceeded to eat all the contents of the bucket, minus the TP. He even sampled a bite of aluminium foil. My stepmother and I both concluded that it was the wild frat boys playing a wild prank on our neighbors before even the thought of bears seeped in.

I suppose he was a rather gentlemanly bear, who wished not to impede on our fireside fun. How courteous of a creature who is about to inhale all food in site.

Living in State College, I never thought I'd have to sleep with a whistle by my side. I was mistaken. 

The hosts later informed us that this bear had been around all summer--he had, in fact, learned how to open up water bottles, was well versed in the art of honey-stealing, and had once stolen a guest's lobster and steak.

At least he has good taste.

Namaste.

The "Why Girls Annoy Me" Defense: Decisions

So I've seen a number of "why girls annoy me" videos on YouTube. And while Jenna Marbles has covered a number of topics in her "understanding girls" videos, there is one particular annoyance that has not yet been addressed. No, it's not going to the bathroom in groups (sometimes it's to discuss you, sometimes it's because we have the same pee schedules). It's the fact that taking forever to decide things seems to be a nuisance to the male species.

Well.

Do you know what happens when we don't think through all our options? Impulsive nature. Do you know what comes out of impulses? Too much candy, too many shoes, a terrible haircut, a breakup.

So think verrrrry wisely before you start wishing we were more spontaneous. Those pro/con lists might just be saving your relationship.

Sure, taking an hour to decide which lipstick to wear may seem rather inane at the time, but what seems to be the little picture for you, is actually the entire evening for us. Let's say that we're going out with some girlfriends, and we just bought some cute heels. We want to show them off to our friends because we just spent like, an entire paycheck on them, but we also know that our other friend enjoys bringing us to her farm, in which case the cute shoes would be ruined. We could pack our flip-flops in a bag, but that would mean getting a bigger bag, which would mean changing pants, because purple and brown just don't go together.

And that would just ruin girl's night, okay?

It's not that we're indecisive. Much. We just simply enjoy thinking things through, in order to make everything a little more pleasant for everybody.

Think of it this way: You know how we magically come out of the bathroom smelling like vanilla, donning fuller eyebrows and looking like we just spent a weekend in the sun? That's at least two hours at the makeup store. What you see is the finished product. We're like actors in a play. What seems like a simple performance, is actually hours upon hours behind the scenes, rehearsing lines. Do you know how long it takes to match an eyebrow pencil to your eyebrows?

And sometimes, if we're really desperate to come up with things to talk about (we've all had those awkward moments), it feels like a bonding moment to say "should I do this or this?" Maybe you're in the rocky beginning stages of dating, and you and a girl are going to see a movie. It may seem simpler to just go see Jackass and be done with it (but please don't take her to see that film), but she might want to sneak in that she likes action movies, but that her favorite actor is Jennifer Aniston, who's starring in that new rom-com.

Don't ask me why someone who likes action movies would also like Jennifer Aniston--I'm not judging.

Namaste.

Your Guide to Quarter-Life Crises

We all have them, don't lie. You see that "nah, not me" face you're making? Stoppit.
Whether you're in college, have just graduated, or spent a few years in your high school job, there's a point where you go "what the hell am I doing?" and hope to the heavens that once you hit 30, there's some secret book that tells you how to do life properly.

So how do we fix these crises? *shrug* I don't know, you're asking the person who spent five hours watching Grey's Anatomy because she didn't want to think about her own life. The escapist route is the most common one for those going through this crisis, but it manifests itself in strange ways.

Allow me to elaborate.

1) The traveler
This person, when stuck at his own home, must dwell in his own uncertainty and be reminded that he hasn't washed his sheets in four years. But, with a different background and more superficial friends, he can certainly forget about the misery he'll have to subject himself to when he returns home for an office job. The traveler often has no problem getting into massive debt as he hops from hostel to hostel and orders various teas in England. When asked what his address is, the traveler will stop and stare for a little bit, answer with a vague "I'm home free" and drink some French wine.

It can be difficult to differentiate someone who travels out of fear, versus someone who travels because they're ambitious and enjoy real brie. Usually, the quarter-life-crisis traveler can be spotted when he clearly hasn't showered in a month, and starts drooling at the sight of a hamburger. 

2) The Mommy-Moocher.
This person enjoys taking two things: Free food and her childhood. The Mommy Moocher pretends growing up is something she can try on, but she can always go back to her overly pink room and breakfasts that magically appear in the kitchen. She avoids freaking out over her rent by pretending that her parents are superheros who can fix everything by simply snapping a finger. Apparently this person's been watching too many musicals, because when else have you seen snapping a finger do anything except annoy your cat?

It isn't uncommon for this person to go back to her childhood home, make a fort, and proceed to color under it.

3) The over-compensator.
It is likely that ever since this person blew out 18 candles, they've been thinking "HOLY SHIT WHAT AM I DOING HOW DO I ACT...WHAT ARE THIS?"
Kudos if you got the reference.
But instead of letting his peers smell weakness, this person pretends that he's got it under control. He reads a few law books, memorizes a few bits of jargon, and spends an entire month's paycheck on some suits. This helps innocent passersby undergo the illusion that this person, when scared, becomes awesome instead.
Oftentimes, you will hear this person talk of the "next great project." This is normally followed by "when I have money."  

4) The mental escapist.
The mental escapist uses television as a safety net. This allows her to stop thinking about where her life is not going, and to instead, laugh at grown women who never grew out their partying phase (cough cough Snooki cough). The mental escapist is likely to use television that requires little brain activity, such as Gossip Girl or America's Next Top Model (which is becoming co-ed this season...whaaat?). Oftentimes this person has the most wrecked of sleep schedules, because they lose themselves in a season of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. and realize it's 4A.M.

You can often spot a mental escapist when you hear someone who quotes other people's words than come up with their own.

Namaste.

The Post Collegiate Summer

Being one of the State College-ites who chose not to take summer classes, I've had a full-fledged break. And while being at home can seem strangely akin to high school life, there are some differences between teenage summers and post-freshman summers. For one, no matter what you do, there's a high chance you'll think you could be do something else that would look more impressive on your résumé. I know watching Game of Thrones is educational--unfortunately, Graduate programs may not have such advanced thinking.

1) You will sleep in. A lot.
Once upon a time there was a high school student who had the inability to sleep past 7:45 A.M. She thought this to be a curse. Then she went to college, and can no longer drag her ass out of bed before 11:00.
Your parents, who may accuse you of sloth-dom, will be more understanding if you explain that you were up late reading your textbooks for next semester. Really, your textbooks will be collecting dust in their respective packages until classes start.
Try to maintain some normal sleep schedule a few weeks before classes, or if you have a job that requires you to wake up at ungodly hours. But then break that schedule when you discover a highly addictive show, book, caffeinated beverage, etc.

2) It will be very difficult to read a book without A) a pencil in hand and B) analytical thought.
Sometimes, you just want to read for fun. Like, who ever applied literary theory onto the Sookie Stackhouse novels? College students on break, that's who. While it can be fun to realize that not every lecture went to waste, it can also turn a five hour reading project into a two week one.

3) You may have a strong urge to tell your parents, not ask, what you're doing/where you're going.
Family dynamics are obviously a case-by-case basis, but do resist this urge. Your parents most likely realize that they have far less control on their kids as they grow up, but if you're living in their house (or even if you're not) it can be nice to hear that their children respect and appreciate them. If you aren't asking for their vehicles or money, it's perfectly fine to ask for a tad more freedom. But don't go all "I'm an adult, what do you mean 'midnight curfew'?" while you watch their cable and eat the chips they paid for.

4) You will try to squeeze every activity you've ever done onto your résumé. And then you'll start freaking out about how to get a career.
Even if you have what you deem as a "silly summer job," it really will look impressive on your résumé if you persevere. Show up early, get to know your managers, take extra shifts...you never know who may be writing your next recommendation. And everybody worked their way from the bottom. Except Paris Hilton, and nobody likes her.

5) If you fell victim to the freshman 15, you may be tempted to stare into your closet and try on old jeans. Don't. This will make all semblance of self-esteem fall out the window. This self-esteem can shoot right back up by setting early alarms with the intention of exercising, then sleeping through them instead.

Namaste.

This is Not How You Bookshelf! The Ballad of the Pink Spray Paint

In preparation for our approaching move to an apartment in (gulp) three weeks, my friend MC and I decided to paint a bookshelf. It was in fair-ish condition, but it's obviously vital that all our furniture go with a pink theme. We're not the most handy when it comes to household stuff, but we figured we could just hop into Lowes, get some hot pink paint and a couple of brushes, and we'd be well on our way to success.

That is what you might think. You would be wrong.

So MC's father gives us advice not to use spray paint, to use a primer, and to use Latex paint. We later discover that fathers, on occasion, know things. We are not so enlightened at this point. We walk into Lowes in awe of the general vastness of the store and make confused looks at people wearing red vests until someone takes pity on us.

Fortunately, an employee asks us seemingly useful information, such as "what is the bookshelf made of?" and "how big is it?" This is when it all goes wrong--After informing said employee that the shelf wasn't terribly large, we hear the five words that will make all hell break loose: "You can use spray paint."

And to naive souls, spray paint seems to be the obvious solution. It's cheap, fast, and fun to shake like a Polaroid picture. We buy two cans because, little do we know, we think we're being over prepared.

At this point, we're already in a hurry to beat out the rain that's threatening to cover State College (what else is new), so we shake up some spray paint, go a little nuts while accidentally painting spiders bright pink--does spray paint kill spiders? If so, this project involved insect manslaughter--and realize that all we're doing is making the shelf look spotty and splotchy. The only sp- adjective we intend to go for is splendiferous.

After getting the "I told you so" spiel from MC's father, with heads down and credit cards up, we return to Lowes and cry to a new employee. By the time we get to the words "spray paint" he looks at us as though we were trying to make cheese out of wood. And thus begins the introduction to primer.

Ohhh, you need primer to make your paint stick? Aren't we the fancy ones?

So, seeing as the first employee lied to us, we end up spending roughly $50 on fixing a bookshelf. Do you know what we could buy with $50? A new bookshelf.

The irony never ceases to astound me.

Primer and paint in hand, we return to the garage to start priming that shelf up the wazoo. We drag the shelf into the garage (and get our hands dyed hot pink along the way) and watch the white primer mix in with the hot pink spray paint whils't listening to Alex Day music.

And then we see the carpet. With splotches of pink. And that is when I hear "KIRA! I NEED SOAP AND WATER!"

I may not know a whole lot about cleaning paint splotches, but I do know that soap is the herpes of cleaning supplies--it gets everywhere. So while we succeed in erasing the pink, we get a giant pile of soap all over MC's carpet. With a giant bucket of water, we flush out the soap and pick it up with our hands. Ten rags and a roll of paper towels later, we end up with dried soap carpet and a giant wet spot on the floor.

And we haven't even done the paint coat yet.

All I can say is, tomorrow is a new day.

Namaste. 

Career hair

I might as well have an entirely different blog dedicated to my hair, what with the strife it's caused. Sure, it's cause for the occasional compliment and "I wish I had your hair!" but little do you know, oh innocent bystander, that my hair has the ability to eat faces with its fangs. It's a dreadful business, dealing with the monsters that grow out of my scalp.

Perhaps we should start at the beginning...always a positive place to start.

This is the story of Kira's hair. You have been warned. 

Back in the day, I was a bit of a tomboy. The only time I painted on my face was when I wanted to look like a cat. What annoyed me more than the inability to become a cat, was when hair got in my face. And so begins the pixie cut disaster of 1998. Fortunately, Facebook wasn't a thing at that time, so I'll spare you the pictures. But at that point I was convinced that the hairdresser could grow back hair because she was magical.

Apparently hair extensions weren't a thing yet either. 

2000 was a fantastic year for my hair. Once upon a time I had a normal thickness and bleach blonde ringlets and I could just hop out of bed and everything would fall into place. Sometimes I think my hair is a fine predictor of how chaotic the upcoming year will be.

Fast forward to 2009, when puberty decided to get the better of me.

This, combined with the fact that I had no eyebrows, combined with the fact that 15 years old just sucks, made for a not-so-happy time.

2010 began the period of time when I spent way too much money on appearance made an investment in myself. 10th grade sparked a wish to be a "whole new person," which, as everyone with two X chromosomes knows, starts with the dramatic haircut. This coincides with my idea that it is absolutely fine to bleach the shit out of my hair.

Do you know how long this look lasted? Until I washed it. Some investment that was. And yes, I realize the obnoxious smile is my Zoolander face.

Unless I wanted to get my hair chemically straightened twice a week, I'd have to brave the flat iron in order to look like something other than the creature from the Black Lagoon. And so, reaching 2012, as my roommates can attest, every morning we would wake up to the smell of burning hair. Sometimes this hair would take five hours of abuse magically turn different colors, such as black.

You might think this is the hair in its curly state. You would be wrong. At least Colorado had like 2% humidity.

By the time the hair reached the length that would require three hours of flat ironing and an entire bottle of conditioner (and the fact that my blond roots were threatening to eat the black dye), I realized two things: 1) At some point, I will no longer be able to run around taking classes, and will need a career. 2) I probably couldn't get a career while rocking the half dreads half skunk look.

And so, in 2013, we enter what I call "career hair." Really, I just spent a gazillion dollars to go back to how it looked in 10th grade, but shhhhhh. Sometimes I try to convince myself I'll somehow want to become a doctor because this career hair looks somewhat like Elliot Reid's from Scrubs. Then I realize needles freak me out.

By the time I'm actually ready to get a career, I'll probably actually have purple dreadlocks or something. But we can pretend normalcy is a thing I practice on occasion.

Namaste.

Makeup: A Socially Acceptable Means of Coloring Under a Fort

So much to the excitement of roughly 50% of State College's population, Ulta has opened in town. And while I've never considered myself addicted to makeup, I certainly enjoy a good foundation or five. After my friend wrote this post about her makeup addiction, I realized the dangers of being surrounded by hundreds of shiny things, but braved the store anyway. I could've used some foundation and hair gel--you know, practical stuff.

This is what happened.

You may realize there is nary a foundation, but at least five different eye pencils, liners, eyebrow pencils, etc. Since when did eyebrows need pencils anyway? Are they going to start taking the SATs soon?

Sure, my eyes may pop a tad more with a little blue or black lined around them, but having an entire rainbow scrawled on your face isn't about to win anyone over.

The thing about having a store entirely devoted to makeup, is that you start to see your morning routine in a different way. I don't see anyone going to Target saying "I must find the most beautiful eyeshadow in the world!" No. You go to Target to get what you need--throw in some sunscreen, some TP, a new bottle of lip gloss, and you're good to go.

But marketing-wise, Ulta wins all the genius awards--they don't advertise what you need. They advertise what you deserve. And who doesn't deserve all the pretty colors? And the sparkly things?

What it comes down to is that it's fun to color. And since grownups are seldom allowed to color on paper anymore, we color on our faces. I mean, eye pencils are basically crayons. Liquid eyeliner is paint. Keep working at it, and you could be the next Van Gogh of skin.

But once these "grownup crayons" accumulate, the situation turns dire. Just like with clothes, the more options I have, the more freaked out I become. Just because I have an entire bag of eye-coloring tools, does not mean I will grow any more eyes. And so, I overuse my favorite colors, and throw the other gajillion dollar pencils out the window. It's only from digging through the depths of my makeup bag that I even remembered purchasing blue and purple eyeliner. I might as well just have one green liner in my bag; the result would be the same.

All I can say is, my skin better stay kind to me. Because I am not about to venture the world of primers and setters and cleansers, oh my.

Namaste.

Fear and Loathing in State College

Let's face it: We could live to be one hundred years old and still not know how to do all the things. We could study all the books or knit all the scarves, and there would still be someone who knew more, or could do better.

And, as people get older, they seem to be more ashamed by what they don't know how to do/have never done. Yes, I am a major culprit. We'll learn together, dear reader. D'aww, bonding. Oftentimes I hear people say "well...I could never do that...I've never learned!"

One of the saddest things about growing up is that people often assume they can't look silly or foolish when doing anything. I don't know about you, but I seldom see a skier wearing a suit and tie, never wobbling or shouting "HOW THE HELL DO I TURN ON THESE THINGS?"

Perhaps that's because I rarely venture outside the bunny hill. But that's another story.

From what I've experienced, it's difficult to try new things when other people are watching. I've spent my first month working in the cheese department getting wrapping lessons from at least 4 different people. It's awkward and scary to declare that 1) you are a novice and 2) sometimes you won't have natural talent from the get-go.

But unless you were a superstar since age 3 and win olympic gold medals until retirement, there's a chance your ambitions are going to change. A lot. And in order to fulfill that ambition, you're gonna have to look like a bit of a fool mastering a new skill.

If the winning force within humans is ambition, the runner up is fear. Fear that we'll look stupid. Fear that we'll fail. And sure, you probably will look like an idiot tumbling down a ski slope with one ski falling off your foot and the other slamming into your face. But the trick is not how good you look doing something, it's how you present it. If you play up the silliness and make faces while you smash into a pile of snow, those looking at you either A) Aren't actually looking at you and are staring off into space while thinking about themselves or B) See you as someone who isn't afraid to indulge in your ridiculous-ness sometimes.

It's hard to take people's advice to "just let go" and literally not care what other people think. Some may pull off the aloof nature better than others, but all of us care to some extent. We want to impress others on occasion. Picturing everyone watching in their underwear doesn't help much either...though it does succeed in making you laugh at the most inappropriate of times.

What I've found to be most helpful is to start off around those you aren't concerned about impressing. While close friends are the most obvious answer, I also can more easily loosen up around older people. And turtles. Turtles are very non-judgmental creatures. Once you've gotten to that relaxed nature, it's a million times easier to go forth and adventure.

It's a lot more admirable to try new things and look weird doing it than saying no because you're scared.

That, folks, is the true meaning of YOLO. If that word must be used.

As told in Game of Thrones, Bran questions "'can a man still be brave if he's afraid?'" (137). His father's answer? "That is the only time a man can be brave." 

Namaste.

Bolder in Another Language? Or, Saying "hey" Without Wanting to Die

Let's just preface this by saying I love people. As soon as I get comfortable with a certain individual (so, two years, give or take), I have no problem seeing his/her lovely face every day of the week. I could go bowling and ice cream-ing every minute of every day with a select group of friends (let's not talk about how much I do actually go ice-creaming) and not be exhausted, bored, wishing I was an alien from mars, whatever.

But come time to meet a new face, some of the worse words ever uttered are you should go talk to him.

The cuter said new person is, the more I'll avoid him. I know, my brain is scary. We've fought on occasion.

You know that feeling where you're about to scale a mountain, and you've got all your supplies, you've got your trip mapped out, and you just have to gather the courage to actually get onto the mountain? That's what saying hello is like.

Bonjour, however, is another story.

I don't know what it is about other languages, but they instantly make talking to a new person a million times times easier. Before, awkward pauses and odd word placement made you an idiot. Now, you're just someone trying to branch out from your native tongue. And every time you initiate a conversation, you're not trying to be an annoying stalker; you're just trying to get some extra French practice.

I think the U.S. should initiate a new law that everyone's crush should automatically speak the other's foreign language of interest.

Also, you get to involuntarily spit a lot when speaking French at people. Which is always a fun time.

I once had a friendship that was mostly based on swearing at one another in French. It's the only time I've ever been able to exude annoyance at someone without being an asshole.

Maybe it's just me, but figuring out the reasons for approaching someone can be tricky business. If you walk up to someone because his face reaches Brad Pitt level of gorgeous, you're superficial. If you walk up to someone because she's talking about John Green, you're an evesdropper. Language seems to reach the non-creepy level of approachable-ness.

In reality, almost everyone likes to be reached out to because someone thinks they're nice. But for the purposes of this blog, that would be too logical.

Unfortunately, not everyone speaks some exotic language; saying "hey" to an English speaker shouldn't be nearly as scary as we make it out to be. And since I haven't made an advice-y type blog in a while, I present to you some things I've learned about approaching people whils't decreasing some level of dorkiness:

1) Talk about mutual friends/co-workers
Not in a backstabbing kind of way--go for the kind of conversation that said mutual friend wouldn't mind being conversed about. Maybe your friend Bob invented a drinking game where you have to take a shot every time it rains in State College. Or your co-worker got a malicious cat and has scratches on her left toenail. It can be tricky to blindly search for common ground, but starting off at a point you know both conversationalists can contribute to leaves out a lot of awkward pauses.

2) If possible, bring the mutual friend into the conversation.
You're gonna feel quite a bit of pressure when you're on the shy side and are responsible for 50% of the conversation. Don't let your friend take over the encounter, but just knowing that someone else is there takes away the "oh god what should I say next? Should I make eye contact with them the whole time? What if that joke wasn't even funny?" (Spoiler alert: if it's a pun, they probably won't think the joke was funny). This especially works when your friend is bubbly and can that bit of "wheee!" to a chat.

3) Discuss news that everybody knows about if they're not dead.
The Zimmerman trial evoked quite a few interesting conversations. What can I say, controversy initiates great friendships sometimes.

4) Poke fun at them.
I know, a lot of this advice could be put in a negative light. I might as well just be telling you to become backstabbing bullies to win friends. But what I mean is that we've all been at that small-talk stage: "what do you like to do for fun?" "Any siblings?" "Do you like coffee?" (although you should ask this when looking for future relationships because 1) It could lead to a date if they say yes, and 2) if they say no, it's obviously a deal breaker). Once you get to lightly tease someone, it's a subtle way of saying "I'm comfortable enough with you to notice your quirks."

Telling a new female friend to lay off the cheeseburgers is probably not the fun-poking route to take. But I was just talking with a co-worker about sleep--as a side note, you probably shouldn't advertise that you crash after 9:00 and are "so lame," but let's pretend that never happened--and when he mentioned needing his "beauty sleep," I was able to make an "oh, okay" eye roll in response.

Or that just makes you a total dick. Still figuring that one out.

If all else fails, pretend you're mute or have a rare throat disease.

Namaste.

Just Say No To France!

I never thought I would write such a blog.

Let's have a little chat with 7th grade Kira, shall we?

My 7th grade self was off tra-la-la-ing downtown with my best friend and mother, when my mother stopped on the sidewalk, pointed to a group of teenagers, and said the three greatest words ever uttered: "they're speaking French!" The only way that sentence could possibly be any better is if she added "and they're giving away free ice cream and want to marry you and ship you off to France."

And so, like any sane person, I followed them. Across the street. And nearly got hit by a car. True story.

And so, you can probably imagine what ensued when, six years later, my father got invited to Lyon for a conference.

Unless any of you can invent a time machine, send me back a few years, and make me a scholar on hiking literature, I'd basically have to spend $1300 dollars on six days in France.

That's a lot of cheese-wrapping hours.

When I first heard the news, I was convinced that it was a sign that I had to hop a plane to Lyon that fall, or my life would be totally worthless. You know that feeling when you're all "I'm so happy for you!" but secretly you're going "WHY, WORLD, WHY?" Not so endearing when you're supposed to be all mature and selfless and shit.

Well. Long story short, I calculated how many months of starvation I'd have to endure to even think about this trip. And...low and behold, I had another shower epiphany. Yes, this France invitation was a sign. But it wasn't like I was getting a phone call from the Eiffel Tower itself saying "hey. Hey. Why aren't you here yet? You were supposed to arrive an hour ago! Stupid American." It was more like a nudge to remind me how much the dream to visit France on my own, for an extended period of time, mattered to me. Like, I could save that thousand dollars for a plane ticket that allowed me to, at times, be lost and confused, but to have a trip that was mine, all mine! *Cue evil laugh here.*

I know, it's fun to be impulsive in your 20's. But my impulses probably shouldn't blow my entire savings. I'll save that for eating some cake and having wild nights playing Apples to Apples. Maybe Cards Against Humanity if I'm feeling particularly badass.

Namaste.

A Hand-y Trick in Film

Seeing as I am a breathing female human, I love Titanic. I mean, by the time the ship starts to sink, I start to lose interest, but I never cease to become enthralled by the love story between Rose and Jack. As I mentioned to a friend, that scene when Rose's hand slides down the car window gives me shivers. It's amazing what a non-sexual body part can imply--the scene would be far less romantic if the audience actually watched them have sex. Because the director trusts us with our own imagination, we can see the passion between the characters without, y'know, seeing the passion--'cause that part is icky and X rated, which would be a silly choice on the marketing end.

But it got me thinking about other movies that give me shivers. I mean, Jaws for one, but that's a more teeth based film. I'll save that for the next blog. Hitchcock's Psycho made such an impression on me, that I was terrified to take a shower for the following month. While the murder scene wasn't particularly scary, it was the victim's final breaths, and the hand grasping for her last few moments that resonates most with the audience.

I mean, we all have hands, we all use them for pretty mundane tasks, so what makes them so prominent in film? Could we just as easily see Rose's feet slide down that car and get the same reaction?

Maybe. Or we'd be wondering since when did sex turn into olympic gymnastics?

To me, a great film doesn't include a million special effects, nor does it focus on grand explosions and flying monkeys (although The Wizard of Oz did resonate with me as a child). The most renowned directors take the little bits in life and metaphor-ize them, without being all "hey! Hey you! Look at me, I'm a metaphor!" Hands are expressive, and what make us so...human. Sure, we take out the trash with our hands, but we also create with them, hold our children with them, and straighten hair with them. That's all some important shit. When we see a common link between ourselves and the characters, we relate to them. We realize we could be them. You too, could be in the back of a car with Leonardo DiCaprio. Just think about that.

Unless we're getting manicures 24/7, we don't often think about our hands. They're very lovely extremities, if you ask me. Maybe they could look a little more terrifying when I unleash the "claws," but other than that, I have no complaints. But we don't typically see the mundane as a defining moment or sexy. These films remind us that it's not what we have that allows glamour, but we we use it.

Namaste.  

YouTube is Taking Over My Life

Let's be real here, making YouTube videos is hard. Without a proper camera and vlogging style that isn't just "soooo umm hey," they usually suck. I've made a few videos with like 5 views and friends who say "your vlogs are....different."

And so we resort to the written word. But do you know what isn't hard?

Watching YouTube videos.

And do you know how many YouTube videos are on the internet?

My brain just exploded.

My obsession started in 2007 when my stepbrother showed me this video:

Mainly, being a teenage (fan)girl at the time, I just watched it over and over because I tended to get enormous crushes on people whom I'd never met. But as I finally got tired of the chipmunk voice, I'd just search for Harry Potter interviews and squeal over Daniel Radcliffe, like a normal person.

But now. I literally have more channels in my subscriptions box than I have papers that I've written in the history of forever. Because the thing is, once you subscribe to a person, you may think you're just going to enjoy their weekly vlogs and be done with it. But then they bring guests onto their channel, and--gasp--that person has a YouTube channel too! One that also links to a second daily vlog channel and shows all the likes and comments that person has, which guide you to the YouTuber your former favorite YouTuber has been watching.

Like, one of the refreshing things about Jenna Marbles is that she's isolated herself from the YouTube community. I mean, sure she had some cameos in Hannah Hart's videos, and she attends VidCon because she's a breathing human being, but we can often count on Jenna going solo in her videos and her lack of comments on other channels makes for lack of evenings that get sucked up by following her every move (unless you're girl crushing and staring at pictures of her on google images...what?).

But once you hit other vloggers, you've unlocked only a tiny portion of the vlogging community. It's like one big-ass family tree that you're trying to put together one cinnamon challenge at a time. Even if you think you're escaping from the vlogging world, you see comments like "Tyler brought me here." Which then brings you to Joey Graceffa and the ever popular debate on his sexuality. But then you realize, oh wait, back in the day, Joey and Luke were really tight, which brings you to Miss Glamorazzi's makeup tutorials you've been sneakily watching when you want to impress your friends with the smokey eye look--only then do you realize that Nerdfighter Kristina Horner ALSO dated Luke, which means you have to catch up on all the Nerfighteria videos, which means you must watch all 2 kajillion VlogBrothers videos.

And then it's 4:00 in the morning and your coworkers wonder why the bags under your eyes are getting increasingly prominent.

While there are far more perks from YouTube then there are television, I'll admit this: if you discover a new show you enjoy on TV, you watch it, grab some popcorn, laugh and cry a little, then wait for next week's episode to air. But on the internet, it's likely that you'll run into a Vlogger who already has like 100 videos, all of which you can't. stop. watching.

When it gets to the point where you think you have a friendship with people you've never actually spoken to, you know something's gone a little crazy.

At least my addictive personality brought me to something that won't send me to prison. So hey, that's a plus.

Namaste.

A Farewell to The Black Hair

Welp, it's the end of an era. After nearly three months (sans touch up) of black-hair-ness, it's time to go back to my roots. Literally. I know people say to try new things and let your hair be a palette for your creativity, but I doubt the skunk look is gonna be gracing fashion magazines any time soon.

I've always wanted to be outrageous, hair-wise. The whole 'fro look when the humidity rises over 2% helps, but in terms of color, I'm your average blond. I never understood dyeing your hair brown and rocking the secretary cut. Even in 7th grade, when I tried to pretend normalcy was a thing I could do, my supposed brown 'do turned out a lovely mixture of purple and red. I don't even know how that happened. I was gonna switch to blue streaks, but at the time my father threatened to get the same look, which would have been social suicide in middle school.

Personally, I think black tips would've looked coolest if the hairdresser hadn't freaking tried to hide them under my hair.

But one thing I've found is that hair experiments don't just make you look different--they make you act different as well. I mean, I may not give the Plastics their run for their money, but I was the coolest I'd ever been with black tips. I even stayed up until 11:00! Miracles, people. Colored tips also are fantastic motivation to fry your head every day. Perhaps some of this coolness coincides with the fact that I was boyfriend-ed at the time, but let's not go there.

Black hair resulted in multiple personalities (but not the scary kind). At first, I was a witch. People literally thought that I was wearing a wig and could cast spells at them. One of those things is not true. Other times, I was chic, seeing as my dark eyebrows no longer stood out screaming "hey look! I have no intention of matching any other hair on this body! Let's look like fuzzy caterpillars!" Most of the time, I was obviously lazy once the roots started coming back with a vengeance.

Although I wasn't aware of this until like two seconds ago, the constant change in hair color/style was the quest for A) a look that wouldn't require an hour with the straightener and B) the most drastic change possible. And since I've found it, I see no reason to experiment any farther with color. I had to have some act of badassery in college--and yes, it was a completely sober decision.

In a perfect world, the dead skin cells on top of my head would cooperate and look like this:

Then again, that might only look good on the 120 lb sort. Damn you, freshman 15.


Namaste.

Let's Get Physical: Confessions From an Inner Fat Kid

So you'd think that summer would be the perfect time to shed some of the freshman 15...and you would be right, if you were reading the blog of a sane, logical human being. But summer for me seems to equate to scarfing down all the frappacinos and watching all the YouTube videos--one of which called me out on my own inner fat kid:

And that's when I realized--this shit is getting out of control. Like, sure, weight is just a number, but breathing heavily after one set of stairs and clogged arteries isn't. It's basically a shiny warning sign that death is right around the corner.

And so, I present to you: Kira's let's-avoid-the-bikini-for-awhile list!

1) If I eat standing up, directly from the fridge, or from a cupboard, I pretend the calories don't count. I've managed to convince myself that if I'm not consciously indulging in a sit-down meal, then I can eat all the chocolate in the world, and my hips can still lie to me and tell me I'm skinny. Easter is the worst. When I'm at work, shuffling past that Cadbury egg stand, I am forced to buy one to eat before my shift. And then one becomes 5. As it turns out, that's not, say, 50 calories. That's 800. Oops.

2) I eat the same amount as a perpetual exerciser when I'm sitting on my ass all day.
Once upon a time, there was a (slightly more slender) girl who did yoga for two hours every day for a month. This girl ate 2 servings of big-ass meals 3 times a day. We're talking scones, cereal, orange juice, peanut butter, the works. Said girl did not gain nor lose weight. Girl went back home and ate same volume of food (though not same quality) and watched people do yoga on YouTube.

3) Dairy Queen has literally been my go-to place for two years.
I don't even know how this happens. I don't hate DQ ice cream, but it doesn't send me jumping for joy. But it never failed--every single "date" I'd go on with my boyfriend at the time would end up at Dairy Queen. I think I spent more money on ice cream in one month than I did on a year's worth of makeup. And even when the relationship ended, I just solved the "what do you wanna do?" debate with my friends by consistently answering "Dairy Queen!" And I wouldn't just get like, a Diet Coke and a salad. Who goes to fucking DQ and gets a salad? Nope--it had to be a medium blizzard with tons of oreos and double fudge, because obviously small is for sissies.

4) I excuse any midnight snack by saying it goes towards my calories for the next day.

5) If I exercise, I justify that as an excuse to eat dessert. But "dessert" has gone from maybe a cookie or some fruit to a bowl of ice cream filled to the rim, doused in chocolate syrup, smothered in chocolate chips and whipped cream and all the deliciousness in the universe.

6) I slant my full-length mirror and duck face it up so as to create the optical illusion that thinness isn't so yesterday.

My only consolation is that actually being responsible for my own groceries means I'll live on nothing but coffee and sparkly things for the next year.

Namaste.

Poetry is that Hipster Tie You're Wearing--A Blog about Blogging

So you know when you have that adorable skirt/tank combo laid out, ready to throw on at 7A.M., after you've hopped out of bed, jogged, showered, and made your eyeliner look exactly identical?

Yeah. Me neither.

But there are often those days that I am on a mission to create an adorable outfit, and it ends up kind of flopping. Literally. The number of times I have unintentionally flashed my professors whilst trying for adorable-ness is far too high to be comfortable sharing on the internet. But then when I slap on what I affectionately call my "fat era" jeans and some weird top with dinosaurs on it, people are all "look how cute!" and I'm all "huh?" and then my face does that thing that ruins the cuteness.

Well, writing tends to be woefully similar to wardrobe malfunctions.

When I blog, I'm taking a vacation from all things literary. Even if I'm blogging about literature. I mean. In blogs. I can write in. Fragmented sentences. And no one. Cares. I cAn EvEN; pLAy wIth Grammar AND p!unctuation. Okay, maybe not. But I can just let my brain do its crazy, weird thing, and my hands just obey by flying across the keyboard, and shit happens in thirty minutes or less. I'm like a pizza joint, although sometimes with less calories. I'm the lazy, let's-kick-back-and-have-some-lemonade outfit. Blogs are Target sunglasses on a sunny day. Cute, but not pretentious. Useful, thus not douchey. They are the jeans that will always love you, no matter how fat you get.

But then there's fiction. And fiction is that outfit that you have to wake up a half hour earlier just to prepare. It's that dress that only fits just so if you eat celery the day before. Fiction is that winged eyeliner that seems straightforward and flawless when you're half asleep and downing some coffee, but then everybody looks at you like you're Miley Cyrus on crack, unable to stop. Fiction includes those staple accessories you throw on in attempts to look sophisticated, but really, you just wear the same earrings every day, because if you were responsible for actual jewelry, you'd lose your shit. Sometimes fiction includes painfully high heels that look fantastic on famous people, but forces you to hobble about like Bigfoot.

Once I've hit poetry, I'm wearing those ironic Uggs that no one realizes are ironic. I'm dyeing my hair blue and pretending I like jeggings before they were cool. I'm wearing bright red lipstick and pretending it's a subtle message that my lips are bleeding love. I want my floral leggings to accentuate my overflow of emotions, but really they're accentuating the fact that I haven't tightened up that muffin top.

Wow, writing really is cruel to weight problems, now isn't it?

Poetry is that Diane Keaton tie you're trying to pull off.

Song lyrics are those dresses that make other people look about seven feet tall and ninety pounds, but make me look like an oompa loompa. They work fabulously on those who have spent their whole lives perfecting the art of shopping, but for the novice shopper, they scream out "I SHOULD'VE STAYED ON THE MANNEQUIN!"

And diaries? Diaries are this.

Namaste.

This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain at Grocery Store.

It's a little painful to admit at 20, but while I've picked up a few things at the grocery store (can you say pre-made pizza?), I've never gone shopping in preparation for an extended period of time. I've helped people shop, I've observed patterns amongst grocery shoppers, but you guys, now I get it. Because as easy as it is to say "make a list and stick with it!", that's before you have a credit card in your hand and a pile of whipped cream in front of your face.

And the reaction goes something like "HOLY SHIT I CAN BUY THINGS."

However, each department brings its own thought process. The bakery thoughts are still stampeding my brain. And so, without farther ado, I present to you...

Your brain at the grocery store!

1) Produce.
Nothing says summer like a watermelon. Except psh, who has time to cut watermelon anymore, when you can have that nice pre-cut looking fruit? It's so much easier to snitch at when I pretend I'm staring the fridge and am secretly eating all of its contents. I should get some blueberries--maybe that will get me motivated to learn how to bake pie.

I don't even like pie. Can I make a blueberry cake?

Why are there "ugly" tomatoes? Don't their feelings get hurt when they're automatically labeled that way? I'm sure they're quite tasty. This is produce discrimination! Maybe I'll put some in my grilled cheese tonight. Mmm, cheese and fruit, that would make a delicious appetizer. Maybe I should get a fruit tray. Hey, you never know when company might stop by.

2) Cheese.
If I get some brie, will it make me more French?
That's a stupid question, of course it will.
I will take all the bries ever made.

3) Bakery.
What I wouldn't give to douse my head in that vat of chocolate.
Obviously if a doughnut is peanut butter filled, it's made to go home with me. Hellooooo.
I wonder how many cupcakes I could eat before getting sick? Better find out.
Why have one birthday cake when you could have five?
Nothing says dessert like one long sugar coma.

4) At the register
Goddamnit, I forgot my re-usable bags again! I'm sorry, environment, for killing you with my plastic bag-usage! I'll never go grocery shopping for as long as I live! Or until I run out of pudding. Whichever comes first.

And it never fails, even if you have worked at a grocery store for over a year, you will still have to be prodded to sign. Whee, epic fails.

Namaste.