An Open Letter to Muffin Bottoms

Dear muffin bottoms,
I quite enjoy eating your top half. Whenever I'm in a bakery, I skip right over the scones and croissants (and you know how I feel about French food), hem and haw over glazed bagels for a while (yes, those exist), and jump straight for the sugar coated deliciousness that is the muffin. I mean, working in a grocery store, I can resist the temptation of the ready-made sesame chicken, the heaps of Brie, and the brownie cakes. But it never fails...I seem to always go home with at least one muffin.

But here's the thing. When we see the enticing muffin, it is always the top half that grabs our attention--the part that spills over the edges, the part that can hold the most chocolate chips. I may not like muffin tops on my jeans, but eating the muffin top is the only part of pastry-munching that is worth the extra weight. By the time I get to you, oh dastardly muffin-bottom, I'm sick of the whole thing. Even if you were made at the same time as the muffin top (which, presumably, you were), you taste more stale. You're flat and filled with no delicious surprises. And if I put you in the fridge for some unsuspecting citizen to snack on, you will become forgotten. You are, without a doubt, the dumbest piece of pastry I have ever seen.

So why must you always stay attached to your top counterpart? I'm sure you're growing sick of feeling like the inferior section of the muffin. You do have great potential. If you and your muffin-bottom friends congregated, you could become a muffin-bottom pie. We could smother you in chocolate and bake you together, and you would be re-united with your friends who all think (and taste) alike.

Is this a pride thing? Because I am very proud of you for trying to blend into the rest of the muffin. But it's like putting a fifth grader in a college class. You're the bottom of the mountain--one's ultimate goal is to see the view from the top of the mountain. And if you start from that extraordinary mountain-top, it'll only get disappointing from there. But if the only thing you see around you is mountain-bottoms, it instantly becomes more beautiful.

So perhaps it isn't you, it's us. We're starting at the top of the muffin, which is the top of the mountain. We are beginning with the extraordinary view, and only grow disappointed by the normality of the rest of our journey. Perhaps we should all start at the bottom of the muffin, if you insist on staying attached to this pastry. Or, we should go into our muffin-eating experience without insisting on the goal, rather, we should experience the journey.

We like what you're trying to tell us about life, muffin-bottoms, we just don't like you as much as muffin-tops.

Namaste.

Pancakes Clearly Beat Waffles--Settling the Debate Once and For All

There has been an on-going debate about several things: Universal healthcare, same-sex marriage, and all that jazz (seriously, jazz is quite a controversial genre of music!). But one of the most vicious debates is the infamous pancakes versus waffles. And I just have to let the world know that it is an act of naivte and cruelty towards pancakes to choose waffles.

I mean, pancakes are already the underdogs in this world. They don't have a house named after them. I mean, how would you like to be given the same word that is used to describe bunnies? It must be terribly embarrassing for the pancakes to explain that no, they don't hop, but they do zingafy, which, in breakfast food language, means to become an explosion in someone's mouth.

Sure, waffles may look nice ans syrup-friendly with their convenient sockets, but they lie to us. Waffles take all the syrup for themselves. They are the black holes of condiment world. They just suck it in, the greedy bastards. By the time you've poured your desired syrup amount on your waffle, you turn around for a second to say hello to Johnny Depp, and the syrup is GONE! The Pancake is a selfless carbohydrate. It waits patiently for you to converse with sexy celebrities, and resists temptation to suck in the syrup for itself. That is the sign of a breakfast food that wants nothing more than to please its eater.

And just as both breakfast foods normally arrive in a round shape, the possibilities for pancakes are endless. You could make Christmas trees, Easter bunnies, the Pope. But then you would be eating the Pope, and that's kind of awkward. My father once made a pancake in the shape of my stepmother. Can you make stepmother-shaped waffles, I ask you? I mean, sure, you can get a heart shaped waffle maker, but then you're stuck eating hearts for the rest of your life. There's no turning back. You've limited yourself...and just think, if you've broken up with your boyfriend Alphonso, and now you have to stare at cupid's mockery, and life is just so cruel.

You did it to yourself, buying that one-shape waffle maker. Pancakes are so versatile, they're like the Mcgonagaalls of the breakfast world.

Plus, there's no STD called "the blue pancake."

Namaste.

When I am Old, I Shall Wear Feather Earrings

First off, kudos to the Supreme Court for making the right decision! Human rights, FTW. :)

So as a cashier, I see quite a vast array of people. And it never fails, when I wear outrageous earrings, middle-aged and older customers say "those are cute...too bad I'm too old to pull off earrings like that."

That is when the customer is wrong. Because no matter how old you are, if you want to wear outrageous jewelry, you can pull it off.

It's amazing, the drastic change in clothing styles everyone expects and encourages when the shift between "youth" and "adult" happens. I mean, granted, adults have more work responsibilities, and I'm not about to hop into work with some polka dots on. But just because there's a certain business attire we must adhere to, doesn't mean we have to ditch the bright colors and dangly accessories once we hit a certain age.

The number of times I've worn crazy jewelry to work severely outnumbers the times that I've played "normal."

Bought these as an immediate entrance into adulthood

I've been an adult for almost two years, and I still shop in the juniors sections of Kohl's because I don't know what the hell size I am in women's the women's section is typically so dull, it puts me to sleep just staring at the exact same jeans, in slightly varying shades of denim. If it were up to me, these gems would come in juniors AND women's sizes:

But sometimes, life lets you down.

There are sometimes exceptions to this rule. I actually found a delightful skirt in the women's section of Kohl's:

But you don't have to start dressing dowdy and frumpy just because you've turned into the unmentionable: middle aged. In fact, here's a mind blowing secret: dowdy and frumpy makes you look larger than you actually are.

Whoa. I know. Let's take a breather here, I know it's a lot to handle.

Think of who the cool grandmothers are: the ones who own at bumper cars and swordfight and tell their grandchildren to eat dessert before dinner. These are young traits that people admire in older folks. And you know what? Same goes with clothing. I mean, obviously there are boundaries. A grandmother wearing a tube top might not be the hottest decision in the world, but nobody is going to stare at an older person wearing feather earrings and think "gosh, doesn't she realize the cutoff line for fun jewelry is 30". And if they do say that, they're just jealous.

When I am old, I shall wear feather earrings. And you can, too.

Namaste.

Brought To You By My Altar Ego: Life Advice From a 15 Year Old

Hey guys,
so this isn't Kira. At least, not the 19 year old one who obsesses over Nerdfighteria and allows herself to be seen coloring in public. This is a guest post by her 15 year old self. I think she wanted me to stop hogging the bathroom while I stared at my eyebrows for two hours.

Uhh, not my fault I plucked my entire eyebrows off. She gave me shitty tweezers.

So I'm supposed to give you guys advice about life. I mean, a lot of your problems can be solved with unprecedented angst, but I'm getting paid by the word here, and I'm kinda poor, so let's just go with it.

I really like this guy and he kinda likes me back, but he also likes to flirt with other girls. He's said he might date me, but IDK...should I wait for him? 
Yes. Every day. You should also send him a bajillion messages on facebook before he even appears online. Also, wear a shit ton of makeup because you're trying to impress him. Memorize his class schedule. Make sure you hang out with him for at least fifteen minutes before and after school. If you're in his face enough, he'll eventually realize how pretty/funny/girlfriend worthy you are. Oh, and wear insatiably low-cut tops (just avoid the nip-slip seeing as embarrassment is pretty much death). Smile and say "oh, you're so funny!" whenever he finishes a sentence. But actually listen to his sentences, in case he tells you his dog died and then you're the biggest dick in the world.

Choose your after school activities according to his interests, and every time he flirts with a girl during those clubs, stick your fingers in your ears and go "lalalalalalala I can't HEARRRRRRRR YOUUUUUUU!"

I'm trying to lose weight through eating more veggies/exercise, but it's not really working. Any help?
There are two ways you can go about this:
1) Avoiding food completely. Food is the enemy. That piece of cake will make you fat, but so will that carrot stick. If your parents catch on and complain about your thinness, realize they're jealous and insist that you've already eaten. You have already eaten...ten days ago. And exercise like Jillian Michaels is always watching.

2) You can also go the crush route. Become so obsessed with a boy, that you just can't eat or sleep or be a functioning human in society. All of a sudden, an apple will seem like the hugest meal in the world. And you'll be so busy stalking his facebook page and writing love letters that you won't be able to sneak in those pesky snacks.

One of my parents re-married and now my stepfamily and I share a family. It doesn't really feel like a complete family, and it's kind of awkward to talk to them. What should I do?
Okay, communication is soooo overrated. You only have to do this for however many years before you're off to college/MacDonald's/your rich older fiancés house. You just want to hole yourself up in your room for as long as humanly possible. Try to sneak some pop tarts and water bottles so you don't have to surface for food and water. Always plug in your headphones so your family can't question your taste in music. When surfacing from your room is absolutely essential and you have run-ins with humans, stick to "hi," "bye," and "lovely weather, we're having." Seethe in your own resentment towards the awkward that everything your family does angers you to the extreme, then complain to your stuffed dog about it.

My hair has been looking frizzy lately and I hate it--but my parents are afraid that straightening it will permanently damage my hair. Help?
Look, there's a fair chance your parents were born in the '60's. Big hair was a thing, but so were big drugs. Your parents may pull the straight-edged look now, but they had their fun with detrimental conscious-altering substance, and they turned out to be alright parents.

When you're under 30, your body just has this certain spring-ability to it. So go ahead, and damage the shit out of your hair. Wake up at 5 every morning to burn it with a flat iron. Go to the hairdresser, point to the rodent on your head, and say "I want it gone!" Then clarify, saying you don't want a buzz cut, 'cause that's so not fetch. Bleach your hair. Don't let anyone see it in its natural state. Your parents will occasionally resent you for it (and by resent, I mean ground), but you're your own person. YOLO.

Oh wait, YOLO must not be a thing yet, past-self. Woops.

And if you're curious about what I looked like at 15...

Whew, boy. Glad that thing is on the internet.

Namaste.

The Intellectual Crush

I have a lot of crushes. Sometimes they take over my brain. However, these are not the "ohmygodthisguyissocuteandhesaidhitomeinthehallwayswhatdoido?" kind of crushes (much). These are the crushes that often result in opening a book, YouTube, or Netflix, and coming across an individual who is so articulate, so perceptive, and so...smart, that your entire purpose for living is to meet this person, take them to coffee, and discuss literary theory for the rest of eternity.

As followers of this blog are growing tired of hearing may know, John Green has been the target of my intellectual crushes for the past year. His books themselves make me jump up and down, throw the book (mindfully) in the air, and scream, "yes, John Green, you understand my life!" It makes reading in the library rather difficult. But after watching this video, you can't tell me you don't feel the love:

The intellectual crush often coincides with the Eng-gasm: when you read a sentence that's so powerful and so well-written, that you get that little shiver down your...spine.

So how can you tell if you have an intellectual crush? Here are a few symptoms which indicate you are head-over heels with someone's intellect:

1) You often quote this person in everyday conversation.
Yes, movie references count. Sadly, this means much of our country has an intellectual crush on The Hangover. When you can quote, word for word, an entire scene of some book/movie/play/diary, it's likely you like this person more than just a beach read. But please, don't go quoting people's diaries.
In this instance, I have a major intellectual crush on Eddie Izzard. The number of times I have quoted his "cake or death?" and "covered in bees" sketches is not healthy. But hey, executive transvestites are sexy beasts.

2) You feel like you know them, even though you don't.
You've spent so much time stalking this person's wikipedia page reputable biography/blog/YouTube channel, that you know how many tee-shirts they have, what they eat for breakfast, and obviously if they snore or not. You convince yourself that you have hung out with them, and they would most certainly recognize your fabulousness if you met them in person. In reality, you'd probably be so busy fan-girling that you would freak them out. Sorry, the high pitched squeal is not sexy.

Alex Day has four tee-shirts, by the way. I think I have a problem. 

3) You make fun of the same people they make fun of.
I once had an English professor who had the hugest intellectual crush on Lord Byron. They both agree that Wordsworth is "Turdsworth."

4) You desperately wish that they could speak at your graduation. And at your wedding. And birthday. And on Sundays.

5) You channel this person while giving advice to your friend.
When my friends are feeling down, I tell them to not forget to be awesome. It often works.

6) You LOL extra hard while reading their books/watching their movies when your family and friends are around so that they'll become convinced to partake in the fandom and you'll have someone who understands how awesome this person is.

7) You pretend not to, but you stalk their Twitter page like it's about to go our of business (it probably is about to go out of business, but let's pretend that never happened).

8) You rehearse what you're going to say when you do meet them in real life. Oftentimes this involves a hug, a shameless plug for whatever it is you're working on, and, of course, more fangirl screaming.

I once carried a packet of 30 Rock scripts wherever I went, just in case Tina Fey decided to visit State College and realize that a fifteen year old was exactly what she needed on her writing team. As it turns out, stampeding someone with a giant beige packet of stilted dialogue doesn't make the most fantastic first-impression (though Tina, I have yet to meet you).

9) If they're on YouTube and have an upload schedule, the day they post a new video is automatically your favorite day of the week.

My Wednesdays will always be sexual. Thank you, Jenna Marbles.


Namaste.

Hashtags--You Don't Belong Here!

Dear Facebook,
Our relationship started off shaky, but I admit, it was I who got hooked. I told you some secrets--not the deepest darkest ones, but the kind that sound nice and shiny on paper like "Truth is." I remember the old days, when you forced your minions to talk in third person and go through each individual photo to tag their friend's faces. But, for the most part, you kept track of my likes and dislikes, you made my social calendar seem a little less bleak (many thanks), and most of all, you kept your distance from the likes of Twitter, allowing the ironic hashtag to revel in all its glory.

Until now.

It hasn't even been a month since Facebook introduced Hashtags, and already I have seen countless generic statements topped off with #family, #laugh, #hashtagsonfacebook and #selfies.

I understand the importance of organization...hence the timeline. But let me ask you this: how often are you going onto Facebook for the sole purpose of finding that family picture from September 2011, when you had just gotten that god-awful haircut and your siblings were giving you bunny ears?

Irony is slowly turning into serious business. And you know what happens when Facebook starts taking itself too seriously--Mark Zuckerberg goes all crazy and starts having sex with women in bathrooms that he then compares to farm animals. Or something.

I know that you, dear Facebook, are trying to be an all-inclusive social media, but you've been losing the battle ever since grandmothers and college professors started discovering your world. Twitter users need somewhere to feel safe and converse with other humans who don't remember hearing the awful dial-up sound.

Full disclosure: that was the sound of my childhood. Fuck, I'm old.

Instances when Hashtags are alright include: #firstworldproblems #livingontheedge (after your second square of chocolate) and anything else that is obviously making fun of itself.

You, sir, have aired on the side of too serious. You're talking to the generation that watches Wizard Rock. Something must change.

Love, #appreciatorsofsarcasm
(and Kira)

Namaste.

What if Shakira's Hips Were Lying to Us All Along?

So yesterday, I was explaining the concept of truthful hips to my mother, and while it's a nice concept that you could go into a club and judge someone's zeal for sexy time by a single hip sway, it got me thinking: what is Shakira's just trying to impress this guy by shaking her hips, but really her hips would rather settle down on a couch with a nice Dickens book and a hot cup of tea? I mean, that chick dances like she's on Dancing With the Stars--she must be awfully sore.

Us women can be very sneaky creatures when need be (or not when need be, and when we're just bored/tired/hormonal/etc). If women can fake orgasms, what makes Shakira's audience believe that her hips just have to tell the truth? I know the song My Hips are Telling a White Lie But I'll Still Hop Into Bed With You just doesn't have the same ring to it but it may provide a more honest portrayal of this singer.

Even if her hips did tell her at first that this guy was the next Johnny Depp (he ages gracefully, let's not argue here), they soon take a very passive stance. They're hesitating hips. Shakira admits that "I don't, don't really know what I'm doing/But you seem to have a plan." These hips aren't taking charge of anything! They're indifferent! Can indifference lie, I ask you?

Can we just add that adding "slow" with "perfecto" is just a wee bit of a stretch?

It seems that much of the male audience believes that swaying hips must associate directly with sex, because, for many men, it's rather difficult to sway one's hips on demand. But I'l let you guys on a little secret: It's very, very easy for us to shake our hips--even if sex is the farthest thing from our minds.

I know.

It's a crazy world we live in, where we can never be sure what Shakira's hips are actually thinking.

Namaste.

What Driving Taught Me About Life

I may now avoid cars like the plague, but at times it is inevitable that I get into a car. And besides the obvious "red means stop, green means 'fucking move it'," I've learned that quite a few driving lessons can also be life lessons.

And you get to hear them, you lucky blog-reader.

1) Be confident. But not too confident.
Hesitating isn't sexy. Neither is death. Driving and/or life require quick decisions, and sometimes, you have to either go with your gut, or pretend you know what you're doing. But sometimes, that quick decision can be realizing that you're still an amateur, and to wait for the more confident drivers to do their thing while you wait for the fun green arrow.

2) College students think they're immortal. You'll just have to give them special privileges until they realize giant vehicles can, in fact, run over them.

3) Don't judge something by its label.
Sometimes, you may think something is filled with fancy hand attire. Spend some time with it and you realize it's got nothing but outdated maps and apple cores.
Other times, people/things will try to be flashy with their labels just to win some attention. Check engine light, anyone?

4) What may look cool on the surface may also strike the fancy of old men with a bunch of cats.

5) Think two steps ahead.
6) Sometimes, being surrounded by a bunch of people is overrated.
7) Especially in a parking lot.
8) Goddamnit.
9) And just remember: Just because the British have sexy accents, doesn't always mean they're in the right. Hah, gettit? The right?

I should probably just end this thing right here.

Namaste.

The ARK of a Story--The Acts of Random Kindness Challenge

Hey you, yes you with the face and the hair. There's a chance that you are a human being (unless you are Ghoti the Beta fish to whom I tried to teach the alphabet--in which case, congratulations, your hard work has paid off). So as a fellow human being, I'd like to tell you that I think you're really cool. That thing you're doing with your hair? Lovely. That witty thought you kept to yourself, for fear only you would find it amusing? It was hilarious. And no, those jeans do not make you look fat.

This is all quite easy to say on the internet--for one thing, you don't see that I'm rocking my "I just woke up hair" and the "too poor for makeup" look. Being hidden behind a screen makes it a hundred times either to be both extra nice and extra mean to people. I mean, just taking a short stroll on Facebook and YouTube, I see comments such as "you're a total 10; I'd tap that" (though without the semicolon, seeing as that's far too literary for social networking), followed by "YOU SAID YOU'RE INSTEAD OF YOUR! UR WORTHLESS! AN ABSOLUTE DISGRACE TO HUMANITY!" Imagine if you had strolled into a restaurant, told your waitress you'd "tap that" and then told some restaurant patrons that because they had slipped on some grammar rules, they were failures at life?

I think you'd whip up a nice plate of police calls and "mentally unstable" labels. Goes great with pancakes.

We seem to have lost the art of the middle ground--where you walk up to a stranger, say or do something nice, and leave without thinking you're a total creep. I'm all for saying nice things on the internet. But that doesn't replace Acts of Random Kindness (or ARK). And there's nothing like giving or receiving a few nice gestures that makes that post-coffee run seem just a little more bearable.

Yesterday, I had this idea that it was enjoyable to walk in the rain sans umbrella or raincoat (I'll leave that to you to decide if that's due to losing said umbrella and raincoat). I was mistaken. Walking alongside Atherton is already a bit of an ordeal, but add in the water cars tend to splash at you, and you end up with the drowned rat look. So, getting nice and rained on, I noticed a car slow down next to me. A man unearthed an umbrella, stuck it out the window, and said "here." I somehow still convinced myself that it was still more fun to walk without an umbrella, but that's not the point, guys. The point is (and I do have one) that this man was completely willing to give up his prized rain protector of choice just to help out a complete stranger.

A few hours following the umbrella incident, my friends and I decided to dress up and go bowling (like normal people). Being "those people" we carried the exact karma that made our bowling station just stop working before laying down a new set of pins. Like, ten times. And each time, the same guy had to sprint down the runway and fix our station. So after our friend won a stuffed bear (who I affectionately coin "Snuffleupagus"), we decided to give this guy the bear as a thank you. He was mighty appreciative, as every grown man should be when he gets a new stuffed animal.

And so, I present a rest-of-the-month challenge: Acts of Random Kindness. They don't have to be huge gestures...Just something to show a fellow human that they're appreciated. It can be intimidating to talk to a stranger, but having a purpose to do something nice for them can help with the awkward factor. If you guys can, post pictures of your Random Kindnesses; it'll be a bonding moment. D'awww.

Happy Wednesday!

Namaste.

Take a Mentor, Leave a Mentor

In the past twenty-four hours, I've had two blatantly obvious reminders that it's about time I do some teaching, rather than being taught. And that scares me just a little bit because in my mind, I secretly believe I'm young enough to watch this:

So it's kind of a big deal to realize that there is a certain point in time when you go from wanting to be an expert at something, to having to tell others what to do. Sometimes it's fun to order others around. I was the Queen bossypants when birthday party season came around (which, in my mind, started after Christmas and spanned all the way to July 28th). But other times, when people encourage and expect you to be a little bossy, you suddenly feel like you're playing dress up in a grown-up's costume.

My brother just started working the same job as me, and while I've gotten many valuable lessons in cool-ness, I haven't really acted as an "older sister." Unless you count older sisters as yelling "pipe down, will ya?" when they hear Five Finger Death Punch blaring through their walls. Having the role of experienced cashier is a bit like waking up and realizing that you can fluently swear at your dog in French; fortunately, telling my brothers what to do does not result in getting bitten on the face. So that's pleasant. 

Sometimes, you just wish there was a mentor who taught you how to be a mentor. Although I may have been resistant to that proposal in 4th grade, if it took away time from learning how to dump an entire bottle of glitter over the whole world.

While I've never taken a "how to be a mentor" class, I've had a myriad of influential teachers who have showed me how to love reading, how to write, and how to sound like Donald Duck. Perhaps I'm far from being an influential teacher, but through being taught well, I can do something other than run away screaming at the prospect of telling other people what to do.

Namaste.

If Car Tires Ruled the World

I recently watched one of the most absurdly awesome movies in the history of cinema. It almost beat Little Miss Sunshine...almost. Rubber follows the life of a psychic car tire who uses his powers to blow people's heads off. You would think it's really disturbing and gross, and you would be absolutely right. But even though this terrible injustice happens to living birds and humans alike, you end up bursting into laughter anyway.

The soundtrack does wonders to this film. But towards the end, even though I was watching this tire destroy innocent souls, I started to feel sorry for Robert the car tire. All he wanted was a girl to love, and to be able to float in swimming pools (although my father made the point that he ultimately couldn't do either of these things because he would get too tire-d). I started convincing myself that perhaps there should be more psychic car tires in the world...that they should get more value in our society. I mean, how insulting is it that we keep spare tires in the trunk of our cars, as though we expect the hardworking tires of today to crap out at any second?

You wouldn't keep a spare child in the trunk of your car, now would you? Don't answer that question.

But upon farther reflection, it's easy to realize that it would be a terrible mistake if we let car tires rule the world. I mean, you know how I feel about cars. They are already killing machines. Imagine if we put brain-powered killers on top of (or bottom, rather) those murderous vehicles? We'd need to get some PSA's ASAP to the groundhogs of the highway world. And I mean, what if the cars and tires got in fights about where they wanted to go next? The car could be quite loyal and allow its owner to direct him to New York, whereas a psychic tire could have plans to go to Long Island, and in the end, the car would end up exploding, along with the person inside it. And that just puts a damper on your road trip, doesn't it?

As we've been taught since pre-school, communication is the key to any civilized society. But since car tires can't talk (don't be ridiculous, that's just impossible), their only "revenge" of choice is to blow someone's head off. Imagine if we did the same every time we felt used, or abandoned, or weren't particularly fond of the weather? We'd be locked up for the rest of eternity (or the rest of our lives--whichever comes first)! Robert the car tire had no way of saying "please don't throw me outside this hotel room--I was actually watching those step aerobics." He just had to go shake his little rubber self and end the maid's life. Violence is not the answer, kids. Make muffins, not war. Unfortunately, car tires can make neither muffins, nor war, so they just have to keep rolling down the road, hoping humans catch on that rubber has feelings too.

Tires do have one thing going for them, however. The verb "to roll" indicates pure cool-ness. Unless you're rolling dough. Think about it: "They see me rollin'/they hatin'/patrolling they trying to catch me ridin' dirty." If Chamillionaire isn't cool, then I don't know what is.

At least Robert the car tire has enough sense to take a shower after he rides dirty.

Namaste.

Jay Gatsby Wasn't Real

"Well, duh," you might say--and I thank you kindly for your eloquent words. Clearly Jay Gatsby is a fictional character. But after seeing Great Gatsby this afternoon, I'd like to argue that in this fictional world, Jay Gatsby (or James Gats) is not real.

It generally takes quite a bit of convincing for us to believe that someone is worthy enough to speak the truth. I mean, we're not just gonna elect some random guy off the street to become president. He's got to show that he's worth that trust. It's the same with the reliability of a narrator. And I'll tell ya', the little that we do know about our friend Nick Carraway indicates that he is not the most reliable of sorts. A depressed alcoholic with a failed writing career, Nick might just be looking for some sort of escape. He's telling this story in a therapist's office! In what world does that suggest that he's a stable guy, just looking to set his audience straight?

This story is told during one of the most chaotic, mind-altering times. Writing is one of the most chaotic, mind-altering professions. If we trusted drunk people and writers to tell the truth we would 1) get back together with our exes every other weekend and 2) would have a very long cry at age eleven when we didn't get our letters from Hogwarts (okay, I was slightly disappointed when I wasn't greeted by an owl, but shhhh).

Humans tend to reach for this "American Dream," yes, but look deeper and you'll see that what we desire just as much (if not more) is others' sympathy. Nick Carraway is a nobody who has no concrete goal that will make him feel like a somebody. He can't even think "well, if I just get this girl I've been yearning for the past five years, then life will be all fine and dandy." He doesn't have the luxurious parties to distract him from the emptiness. He doesn't have the fact that his alter-ego is Leonardo freaking DiCaprio to make him feel just a little more whole.

Either having this or being this would make life just a little more awesome

So, Nick creates a world where he can strive for a concrete goal. This certainly answers the question as to why Gatsby is the only person who says his catch phrase of choice at the end of every. single. sentence. He invents a man whose moral of the story is so blatantly obvious, that it helps Nick figure out the chaos of his own mind. It perhaps relieves the pressure Nick feels to become a somebody in the working world, as that can still make you a nobody in the personal world.

Perhaps this is just another literary conspiracy theory, but just as Leonardo taught us about dreams within a dream, he could be sending us a message about books within a book. What say you, old sport? Could Nick Carraway simply be a "nobody" with a vivid imagination?

Oh, and Dorian Gray was a vampire, too.

Happy Sunday!

Namaste.

What's a Metaphor? Cows.

Geddit? What's a meta-for? Meadow? Cows?

No?

Moving, on then.

I got a phone call from my mother the other day. While it's slightly concerning to start off a conversation with "they're all lies!" what's more worrisome still is managing to end every single conversation with even more book recommendations.

So if you don't see me out in public for the next three months, you'll know why.

Anyway. My mother is far from cynical, but she did have to agree with a certain author's argument that metaphors are, indeed lies. You're equating one thing with another. Similes have found the loopholes. They get off the "un-original" hook for dressing up as chickens and calling themselves actors. Metaphors are more like confused teenagers swiping on some eyeliner and calling themselves goth.

But sometimes, we can't help but romanticize the idea of living a giant metaphor. I mean, even obnoxious welcome mats that say "peace," "love," and "beware of dog," can be metaphors that indicate a spiritual family, a close family, or a family who either has terrible choice in canines or a questionable sense of humor. In John Green's The Fault in Our Stars, Augustus Waters often holds a cigarette between his teeth, but never lights it. He's got a killing machine right in between his lips, but he never allows it to do the killing.

Either that, or he left his lighter back at home. Aha, John Green, you said authorial intent didn't matter.

So being a sucker for romantic literary-ness, I thought about how much of my life is purely a metaphor. During the school year, between bouts of Frankenstein and vampire movies, I didn't have much time for such silliness. Things had to get done, and while I'm a fan of exaggeration, I'm not about to dance around campus and claim "ooh, I am productivity."

No, quite often I do things because they produce an end result. Like, I don't think about the emotional turmoil that I'm cleansing when I shower (much). It's more like "hey, there's some dirt on my skin; I should probably get some soap on that before people wonder if I took the hippie thing too far."

But. Then I went to Boulder, CO. And you know what happens in Boulder.

Metaphors. Tons of them. It's not like those wooden statues of Ganesha or Saraswati are sacred in themselves. It's the representation of the divine within that makes these so powerful.

And so, the story of the Mala necklace begins.

The Mala necklace is not a piece of jewelry that I would aesthetically jump to buy first thing. Upon my return home, a friend asked me why I had a broom on my neck.

That "broom" is a guru bead, which is supposed to sweep away the dust in your heart. I'm getting better at this, guys. It has 108 beads (actually, mine has 106, but let's not be bitter here) that represent a full cycle of mantra chanting (so you would say "om nama shivaya 108 times," or do 108 sun salutations, then melt in a puddle of your own sweat). The guru bead is supposed to stay close to your heart, and you don't count that bead while going through your mantra repetition. This is supposed to represent the idea that the Guru is always close to your heart, but is also far away from our reach.

As I've grown accustomed to this metaphorical jewelry, I've thought less about this persistent guru that's swaying around my heart. Until I start making some questionable life choices. As soon as I start watching a F.R.I.E.N.D.S. marathon at 2A.M., I'm all too aware that this guru bead is hemming and hawing at me like no one has hemmed nor hawed before.

It's also forcing me to wear shirts that go up to my neck.

This particular spiritual reminder isn't necessarily rewarding me for the good things I do--I'd love to see a piece of jewelry jump up and down in glee ever time I finish a book--but it makes me painfully aware of patterns I'm slipping back into or meditations that I forget to wake up for. It's like I'm disappointing a necklace. Is that weird? Like, would I feel judged by a diamond necklace from Tiffany's? If anything, that metaphor would say "you're a hundred thousand dollars in debt because of me....mwahahah!"

Do you guys do/wear anything for its metaphorical purpose? Let me know in the comments!

Next time, I'll just stick to my hamburger earrings.

Namaste.

An Acting Age: The pre-20 freakout, Freud, and Calorie-free ice cream

Age-wise, there aren't a whole lot of guarantees...besides the given fact that you will be pleasant until around age eleven, you'll erase 11-15 from your memory, then at sixteen, will re-start from age ten.

It's a fun time.

But, as we've previously epiphany-ed, you don't wake up on your 18 birthday, put on your suit and realize "oh! Everything makes sense!"

Obviously, if that happened, there would be a lot more calorie-free ice cream.

We tend to get overly warned that teenagers will be unpredictable...this usually lends itself to chaotic hair on top of chaotic minds. But this rebellious unpredictability almost becomes predictable, as society keeps making us predict it.

Glad you're coming with me on that one.

But nobody tells us that the older you get, the less predictable you become. I mean, who would ever guess that the high school rock star is now your stock broker? Or that a former hippie becomes an English professor (welcome to my family, folks)? In the book Juliet, Naked, a reclusive musician looks like "a guy you'd be happy to buy insurance from." We follow these paths that are not so much age-based, rather they're "what the hell am I doing with my life?" based.

What's really baffling though, is that while you can read that your two year old will learn the word "no," and that you want to hide in your closet as soon as your kid blows out thirteen candles, college-age seems to be highly divided. There's going to be some major generalizations here, but I've noticed a trend between 18-23 year olds who are still kids, and those who sit around cafés talking about Freud's iceberg theory and health care plans.

In the course of one afternoon, I've spoken to two eighteen year olds. One conversation went something like:

[trying to pry open a water bottle] "Why is this so hard?"
"That's what she said!"
"In the ashram, we just avoided water bottles."
"You went ass-romping? What?" 

The second was like this:
"Do you think art has less of an impact if a lot of people know about it?"
"I was just thinking the same thing when looking at famous paintings in Spain!"

At nineteen, people seem to categorize you as either "too immature," or "wise beyond your years." You're not a kid, but it's a little extreme to jump out of bed, start filing your taxes and being called things like "ma'am."

If there's one way to feel old, it's being called "ma'am."

So when someone tells a kind-of-adult-but-not-really to "act their age" what exactly does that mean? I'm expected to go to school have some sort of employment, but what about during un-structured time? I'd probably get some weird looks if I took out a coloring book or started a stuffed animals collection. But it's a bit of a stretch to map out retirement plans.

Also, no one ever tells you that when someone asks your age, you will start to say "sixteen," then realize that time didn't stop for three years. Oops.

Namaste.

Re-lying on the Truth

I must admit, I'm not always a fan of the truth. Perhaps that makes me an unreliable narrator. Although I'm not one to lie that often, seeing as whenever someone confronts me about my actions I go "yes! No! A...B!" It always seems to end up with me screaming "WE DIDN'T HAVE ANY CHOCOLATE IN THE FIRST PLACE!"

Perhaps this explains my abrupt halt in acting. As Angela Chase from My So Called Life says to her best friend, "acting is like lying, and who's a better liar than you?"

Recently, I've been watching/reading things that rely heavily on the role lying has on our lives. After marathon-ing through The Riches (such a good show--but beware, there is anything but closure), I've seen the levels of lying. Sure, there's the black-and-white version, where the Malloy family is pretending to be a different set of people, but then you have neighbors who may be honest about their family name, but putting up a front for everything else. Nina--the Malloy's neighbor--pretends to be a good housewife who has the perfect husband, but we end up finding out *SPOILER ALERT* that she's a pot-smoking wife to a gay husband. Just because you're honest about who you are, doesn't mean you're forced to face the truth about what you are. These characters may put themselves at ease by having a reputable name and living in a reputable town, but just because they're in these boxes made of ticky tacky, doesn't mean that on the inside, they all look just the same.

Once you give yourself that label, the rest of your previous "truths" can spiral into an act. The Malloy family, once priding itself on being authentic travelers, go from "buffers," to lawyer-obsessed and uniform-wearing. As they become more and more convincing about their fake title, the family starts to believe that's who they're meant to be. Wayne goes from playing a lawyer, to becoming a lawyer.

I think the lesson we should all take away from this show is that if you see some dead people in a forest, you probably shouldn't pretend to be them. Oh, the important gems you learn from television.

But, we should also realize that while some means of organization is needed for society to function, those labels aren't everything. Humans tend to be drawn to what they view as the unattainable. So if you see yourself as a perfect housewife, that double "rebel" life may seem more desirable than if you saw yourself as a person who sometimes folds laundry, but someone who also makes mistakes and has a little fun.

Chances are, some labels you have for yourself aren't going to last through your whole life. This is especially pertinent to romantic relationships. We tend to get distraught when Billy-Bob-Joe tells us that he just isn't interested in us anymore and that we've grown apart...cue the tears and the "my whole life has been a lie!"

Well, sure. It's been a lie if you see yourself as only Billy-Bob-Joe's girlfriend. Or, it's a label that once was, and just isn't anymore.

Namaste.

A Single Argument: Primary Wageworkers?

I have never been more proud of a Fox News anchor. I know. Believe me, I never thought I would say that. But when Megan Kelly confronted blatant sexism, she provided evidence from multiple studies that children from families in which women were the primary breadwinners were no less successful than those from traditional "male-dominant" families.

You can watch the video here.

The Fox Newsmen lay sweeping generalizations that women are more nurturing, and that men cannot take on the role of stay-at-home-parent. While that's sexism at its highest, Kelly does a pretty stellar job refuting that logic.

What I want to talk about is that there is this expectation that one parent can work full time and the other's "job" can be to stay at home and watch the kids.

Obviously, because every man in the world can become filthy rich news anchors who spew out impressive sounding rhetoric while their wives just wait from them to come home, playing Barbies with their daughter.

Hmm.

Let's look at the median household income, shall we? $46,326. And while this is perhaps enough to live modestly with one kid or two, it's not enough to ensure a fulfilling future for the kids--college becomes uncertain. It's not dirt poor, but according to this study, a couple with one child making the average household salary, is spending 47% of their net pay on an average home.

Conversely, those in a dual-earning household make an average of $67,348. While that's enough to live comfortably, not everybody in a dual-earning household may be so lucky. One out of four families make an average of $25,000 a year.

And to those who argue, "don't have kids," or "only take on as much as you can handle," I'd love to get my hands on your crystal ball where you can see every turn in circumstances, every divorce, every layoff.

Since age three, I've lived in two single parent households. And yes, when I was really little, my mom worked part time, for a majority of my life, both my parents have worked full time. And they have always lived by the rule that the kids came first; they spent hours telling bedtime stories, cooking, and watching the imaginative worlds that my brother and I invented.

The Fox news men argue that those in single parent households are more likely to have depression, or be less successful than those in traditional households.

 John Lennon's parents disappeared at age five and he ended up living with his aunt. Ever heard of The Beatles?

With divorce rising to an average of 50% of U.S. families, it's become less and less possible to put the role of "breadwinner" on only one parent. But that doesn't make the kids any less loved, or any less successful. If anything, it teaches the children the role of responsibility and how you can't rely on one individual to be the provider.

I'm not disregarding a woman's choice to stay at home. If her dream is to get married and stay with her kids, that's awesome. But if there are families where the parents want or need to both enter the workforce, that doesn't automatically mean a destructive future for the children.

According to the documentary "Happy," the happiest place in the world is Denmark. Here, it's common for multiple families to live in one building and everybody puts in an equal amount of work. With the same amount of work, come the same rewards. The children aren't any less loved; they have a huge community of adults working and caring for them.

A working parent does not equal a less caring parent. And sometimes we seem to underestimate children and their ability to not need their parents every single second of every single day.

I know this was a total rant here. I'll write about pandas or something to make up for it next time.

Namaste.