English Professors: A Breed Classification

So I've had quite a few English professors over the past three years, and I've made the recent scientific discovery that animals of this breed exhibit a wide range of appearances, lectures, and  obscene amounts of reading homework assignments. Until my entry into college, I had assumed that every English professor was the same eyeglass-wearing, nature-loving hippie, only to realize that I'd spent too much time with my father and it wasn't normal to end every sentence with "let's look at this from an eco-critical lens!" (love you, Dad).

Despite this realization that not every professor is going to rant at you about Lord Byron for an hour (although some will, and he'll spend the first half hour going "Byron is my hero!"), there's something inherently...English-professor-y about these varying breeds. For instance, everyone likes thesis statements--they make for a clear, concise essay--but I have yet to meet a professor who didn't love thesis statements with the same level of enthusiasm that you might have for, say, chocolate cake. And I can guarantee you that every English professor will at least mention Freudian theory, even if they back up their statement with "but that's completely bogus; you guys talk about sex enough as it is."

And that is all true. 

So how do you distinguish these breeds? Of course every professor is his/her own unique snowflake, and you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, blah blah, insert more nice clichés here. But I've at least jotted down some observations on certain trends among professors, in hopes that you can then tailor each essay to your professor's random expectations have a more fulfilling educational experience.

1) The hippie professor.
This professor will go to great lengths to find the meaning in everything. I mean, that's what great literature is for, right? To find deeper meaning and make some grand revelation about life? But this professor will not just stop at the meaning of Hamlet's "To Be or Not to Be" speech. Suddenly he's looking at every semicolon, every comma, and going "what did you mean to suggest to the reader through this comma?"

Um, I meant to suggest that there was a pause in the sentence and I know how to use basic grammar? Hello?

This professor will desperately want his entire class to become lifelong friends--if everyone doesn't sit around a fire together singing "Kumbaya," he considers himself a failure. This can present a bit of a problem to said professor because, as noted by my fellow English major friend, no one talks in English class.

The easiest way to distinguish this professor is through his collection of body jewelry, crazy opium eyes, and a collection of ties that had probably seen better days in the '70's.

The perk of having the hippie professor is that you could probably get away with meditating in the grass for an hour and calling it college. So that's fun.

2) The professor that "isn't here to make friends."
This professor knows that liberal arts gets a bad rep. She realizes that people seem to think that English majors are getting stupider while, coincidentally enough, universities get richer. However, this professor refuses to pity you and your story about how you have to work 30+ hours a week just to pay for your schooling and she has no need to hear your traumatic story about your dying cat Dennis. She is the academic version of that girl on America's Next Top Model who "isn't here to make friends":

If you're in tears and throwing books around your dorm room, you either A) are crazy, or B) have a type 2 professor. She will be sure to assign at least 4 hours of reading each night and will only give A's to the kids who don't seem to need sleep or food or a moment to breathe. Her favorite phrase will be "you need to earn your grades, kids," all while making it impossible to get anything above a B.

3) The professor that is here to make friends and influence people.
This professor knows that college is hard. She sees your creativity being squashed by textbooks and exams. She makes it known that she despises the way universities are being run like corporations and she wants you and your creative spirit to run free. The biggest perk of this particular breed of professor is that she does not believe in exams and she wouldn't give grades if the university didn't force her to. Similar to the hippie professor, this professor wants to talk about the meaning of things, though this meaning almost always relates back to her students' lives. She is forgiving of students who don't do the reading, but only if they have a convincing story about their dying cat, Dennis.

The professor that is here to make friends can be seen wearing floral skirts and tee-shirts with bold political statements. Hence the confusion with the hippie professor.

At the very least, you know you can impress each breed of professor by throwing in a Derrida reference or two, and if that doesn't work, there's always the option of dropping out of college and selling yourself to an art gallery, à la Eddie Izzard.

Namaste.

A Very Grownup Christmas: Things that Happen When You Feel Like a Kid, but Have to Be a Grownup

Friends, an interesting thing has happened to me in the past couple of years. It feels like I've acquired some kind of terminal illness where I'm supposed to give money to the government, pretend I like giving rather than receiving happily give gifts to my friends and family, and un-ironically say things like "back in my day..." This disease is called adulthood, and I would very much like to find a cure for it immediately.

I may have mastered the whole wearing hats that aren't animal faces thing (that happened like yesterday, I don't want to talk about it), and I can do that bit where I go "I'm Kira, and I do impressive things; please hire me!" But the one time I struggle to be a grownup is every single day Christmas.

The thing about Christmas, is that my family made it a month-long shindig. This, friends, is one of the perks of coming from a divorced family. My parents were all "oh, we can't be together as one big happy family? Let me give you all the material goods in the world!"

If love can't come from a giant collection of obscenely priced American Girl dolls, I don't know what can. 

Since then, our Christmases have leveled out a little bit, but my feelings towards Christmas seem to have not received the memo.

For instance, everyone knows that the best way to start hating Christmas is to enter a grocery store any time between December 1st-24th. Having worked at Wegmans for 3 years, I should hate anything and everything involving the holiday season. But somehow, when a customer says "what do you mean you don't have sturgeon caviar?? Everything is horrible, and you've ruined my Christmas!" I cannot muster the strength to give the typical "glare-and-say-passive-aggressive-things" response. Instead, I smile and go, "but it's Christmas!" as though that should solve every bad mood in the world.

The only good thing about this disheartening realization about the holidays is that I can drown my sorrows in alcohol drink responsibly, which everyone knows is the true meaning of Christmas.

However, the other thing that happens to me on Christmas is an abuse of online shopping. This can go two ways. I'll spend an hour looking for one nice, thoughtful gift for my friends and family. My friend group, apparently, has not heard of secret santa, so all us broke college students decide to spend exorbitant amounts of money (that none of us have) on gifts. But the thing is, I'll start off with one cute tee-shirt for my friend. Then I'll find a million other things that would be absolutely perfect for her, and all of a sudden my hand is directing me to click on "purchase" until my credit card limit explodes.

Even sadder to admit is that I do this for myself. It's like I know that it's ridiculous to buy myself $100 flat irons, but wrapping it up in overpriced paper and slapping a sticker that reads "to Kira from Santa" makes it okay. That's still another $100 that I don't have, but hey, Christmas is all about giving, right? Including giving to yourself, said no one ever.

It's not greedy if it's from Santa

At least I've mastered the art of sleeping in on Christmas. That's adult-ish, right?

Merry Christmas!  

In Defense of Tattoos

For the most part, my friends and family have been supportive of my tattoos. Even if they're not the type to go out and get inked, they give me the "oh Kira's being...interesting" look and let me spend obscene amounts of money on body modifications. But every once in a while someone will ask me "why are you doing this? Why not get a nice piece of jewelry instead? You know it's permanent, right?"

No, I didn't. I just spent $200 to scrub away at my skin for an hour and freak out that the ink wouldn't come off.

The thing is, so many things that people say about tattoos could easily translate to questions about marriage. Think about it. "But you're so pretty!" "Think about how it will influence your future." "You know those things last forever, right?" "But it'll be so painful if you decide you want it removed."

Those are all legitimate things to say about a husband/wife. And let me tell you, weddings are a hell of a lot more expensive than tattoos.

I'm not trying to claim that marriages and tattoos are interchangeable, and I understand that committing your life to another human being is probably more meaningful than putting a tulip on your calf. But you shouldn't automatically assume that anyone who is inked is impulsive, obsessed with instant gratification, and/or part of a gang.

I got the om tattoo because I wanted to remind myself of everything that yoga has given me/can offer me. I want to strive to be peaceful, calm, and compassionate. The om symbol doesn't inherently give me those qualities, but it reminds me of the person I want to become. It's like a pep talk and art all in one. Two birds, one stone. Except don't kill birds; that's just cruel.

If in ten years I decide that it's stupid to have something that looks like a 30 on my shoulder, I'll tell my family that they were right. But until then, I'm allowed to rock some ink and not be considered a horribly impulsive person. Save that for when I decide to get a pixie cut (#never).

Namaste.

Places where you become an asshat

So as I've previously mentioned, the holidays do weird things to people. First you're a normal, sane human being, then all of a sudden your face is turning purple and you're screaming "if I don't get my cheese platter right now, my life will be ruined!"

Basically, Christmas makes everyone an asshole. And you thought you were jaded, dear reader.

But what's often overlooked is the fact that there are several places, regardless of season, that instantly turn even the kindest of humans into royal asshats. While I may be lucky enough to have nothing worse than a mediocre experience at the DMV, I've ridden many a bus in my life time, and let me tell you, they are prime asshole territory.

Flashback to 11th grade. I was one of the lucky students who got to be picked up second-to-last. On rare occasions I could find an empty seat, but normally I had to sit at the front of the bus and discuss the nature of Oscar the grouch with a bunch of kindergarteners.

On the joyous occasion that I could find an empty seat, and army of seniors ha no problem telling me that I had to get out of the seat, that it was "Ellie's chosen spot," and you know what happens when Ellie doesn't get her way.

I didn't know, but I was quick to find out that when Ellie doesn't get her way, she tries to drag you out of your seat, and when she fails, she threatens to set your hair on fire.

My hair had already been through enough trauma in high school. I didn't need any 12th grade bullies to worsen the process.

This girl was the sweetest person in our environmental studies class. But get her on a bus and all basic manners fly out the window.

Similarly, one can often find assholes of the adult variety in airports. People literally try to shove you out of the way just so they can be on the plane five seconds earlier. At least karma serves its purpose and makes these people get stopped to be "further inspected," probably because shoving is, y'know, suspicious and rude.

I once let someone go ahead of me in like at an airport and she looked at me like I had twenty eyeballs. It's like being nice is against the law when you're about to jet off to California or somewhere equally lavish.

I Despise Colons

As you may have noticed from previous posts, I have a lot of strong feelings about punctuation. I do a little happy dance every time someone uses an em dash or semicolon. Knowing when to use a comma is like finally being in a stable relationship. A good question mark never hurt anyone (unless it follows the phrase, "will you give me that $100 you owe me?"). But there is one piece of punctuation that I can never get behind. And that, my friends, is the colon.

I mean, just look at it. Is that not the ugliest piece of grammar you've ever seen? It's atrocious. It's like someone had a basket of extra periods and just flung them around the page willy-nilly. If grammar had celebrity counterparts, Jillian Michaels would be the colon. And she's just plain scary.

Up until this point, I could kind of ignore the colon and pretend it never existed. However, my English professor loves colons. It got to the point where he would look at an em dash on my paper, raise his eyebrow, and go "why isn't this a colon?" And I'd be all "because my reader is not an idiot, and I don't feel the need to announce every time I'm about to present idea." Except I didn't, because, y'know, grades.

When I begrudgingly revised and slapped a few colons onto my essay, my professor actually drew a heart next to each colon. A grown man loves this punctuation so much, it's made him transform into a teenage girl.

Seriously though! Can someone please explain to me what is so likeable about the colon? Perhaps it's organized and is all "hey guys, here's a list of important things, please stop playing Angry Birds and listen up," but the Nazis were organized too, and they went ahead and slaughtered 6 million Jews.

So what we should take away from this is that every colon is a Nazi. Glad you're coming with me on this one.

Think back to when you were in third grade and had to present a report on dogs. You'd be all "I like dogs. This is why I like dogs: they're cute. They're cuddly. They're nice to me." That is what the colon does. It makes you look like you're a third grader who cannot combine ideas. 

Colons make it impossible to make an essay flow. It's alarming. And honestly, you're just gonna let your reader down. Your essay is going "hey, reader, hey. A really great idea is coming up. Hold onto your hats, you're going to be blown away by this idea!" And then they read the idea and they're all "that was a mediocre idea." They'd probably be thinking it was a good idea if that stupid colon didn't get their hopes up!

The colon is the grammatical equivalent of getting a really ugly sweater from your Aunt Tina. You cringe a little and say "oh that's nice," while secretly wishing to slash every ugly sweater in the universe.

So for the love of all things grammatical, please stop using colons. It's hurting our future as writers. It's hurting our reputations. The colon is killing our souls.

Namaste.

True Life: I'm Addicted to Perfume

Once upon a time, there was a 19-year-old college freshman who had like, two bottles of perfume. She decided it probably wasn't logical to go on $50 spending sprees at Bath and Body Works, and that the whole investing in the future thing was a better way to spend her money. Everyone was all "hey, look how mature you are, saving up for your future and realizing material goods aren't the path to happiness!"

How cute, 19-year-old self. Now fast forward two years.

Somehow, in the course of two years, I've managed to go from having two perfumes to acquiring thirty. I am not even exaggerating. I could literally go a month wearing a different perfume every day. I mean, my skin has gotten to the points where it's so confused--it doesn't know why it smells like lavender one day and "noir tease" (what does a noir tease even smell like??) the next. The top of my dresser is sprawling with vanillas and coconut, and it's slowly encroaching on my earring tree, which as anyone knows, is a very sacred space! I mean, it's a problem, which involves getting into my earring addiction, but we'll save that for a later time.

The thing about my perfume addiction is that it started from a mere desire to have a collection. When I was little, I had a stuffed cat collection, and everyone congratulated me on my dedication to beanie babies. My fourth grade class was just so impressed by my 75 cats, and always wanted to come over to my house to use me for my material possessions play with them.

So I figured that I would start a new collection, and my friends would be equally impressed by my dedication, and my roommates would be racing into my room, dying to try my new vanilla bean perfume, and they'd go "Kira, you are the queen of the fragrance-universe, let me bow down to you and shower you with admiration!"

Okay, so perhaps I've embellished on my expectations a little bit. But you get the idea.

As it turns out, people are a lot less impressed by collections when you have to go forth and be an adult. Because *gasp* having a collection requires no skill whatsoever. You just go into a store and buy a lot of shit, and then you have a room full of too much of the same thing and a pile of regrets. Like, congratulations, you have too much stuff and no money! How impressive!

So some things that worked when you were ten don't work when you're twenty-one. Noted.

But why perfume? Why not collect elephant figurines, or something even slightly more unique?

A wise question, dear reader. I commend you on your curiosity. As my roommate Maria observed in her blog, my feet have this tendency to smell. Instead of smelling of roses or vanilla, or something equally appealing, they just smell bad. According to Maria, "they smell like a moose that vomited." The whole foot odor problem has improved since last year, but in a mad dash to not scare humans away from me, I bought every perfume ever to make the rest of my body smell like Christmas cookies and love. So as soon as people catch a whiff of my sneakers and start to hate my very being, the smell my arms and instantly forgive me. Or, at the very least, aren't utterly revolted by my foot hygiene (yes, I do wash my feet, the world just hates me).

Now that the foot odor problem has ceased, I just feel obligated to buy more perfume. I feel it's a personal attack on Bath and Body Works if they come out with a new fragrance and I'm just like "lalala don't care." And that's just rude.

Obviously if you're not impulsive with financial spending, you're a rude person. That's a perfectly logical conclusion to come to.

So, until further notice, I will continue to acquire perfume until my collection falls of my dresser and I start drowning in vanilla.

The latest victim

Namaste.

How to Holiday, the Cynic's Edition

With Christmas approaching, there is the inevitable stress of oh my God I have to get into the holiday spirit right now! Since we've all had 11 months of being normal cynical, miserable humans, it's time to hop back on that holiday bicycle and frosting-coat our misery with too many cookies and eggnog. Of course, it may take a little time and effort to get back into the holiday cheer, so I've compiled a list of tips on how to holiday:

1) Resolve to lost ten pounds over the holiday season. Sob every time you see a platter of cookies, and when you cave and eat one, eat twenty more because hell, you already broke your diet. Become so depressed that you can't commit to your diet that you end up gaining fifteen pounds, only to resolve to lose thirty pounds come New Year's Eve.

2) If you're in a relationship/married, fight over whose family gets you guys this year. When you try to convince your SO that you'll go to his house next year, become bitter and resentful when he says "but you said that last year," and refuse to talk to each other for a week. Eat Christmas turkey in bitter silence as you each go to your respective family's homes and try to convince your SO that you had so much fun with your cousin Carl, even though you both know you were miserable without each other.

3) Take an angry stance against holiday shopping, then panic when you don't have gifts for anyone a week before Christmas. End up fighting other holiday shoppers to the death until you get that Xbox your brother so desperately wanted, only to discover that two other people got him the exact same thing.

4) If you're single, cry every time you see a happy couple holding hands and wearing Santa hats. Convince yourself that couples are 1000% happier during any given holiday, making you 1000% more miserable in your singleness. Watch corny Netflix movies and cry yourself to sleep every night. Note: This step usually goes hand in hand with step 1.

5) Drink too much wine during Christmas dinner and start dancing on the table. Extra points if your grandmother is there.

6) As a result of said wine, challenge your family to a dart game and try to convince everyone that you're a champion dart player. Then do this: (true story)

7) Write cryptic Facebook statuses, either about how alone and depressed you are, or about how great life is and you are so #blessed. Really you should do this all year, but really try to outdo yourself during the holiday season. Remember, the more hashtags, the better.

8) Convince yourself and others that gifts are soooo overrated and that you don't need material goods to be happy. Then silently hate others for getting more gifts than you.

9) If your parents are divorced and they both want you to spend Christmas with them, instead of spending time with either of them, curl up in a corner in your room, plug your ears, and go "lalala I can't hearrrrrr you!" That way, everybody loses.

10) And if none of that puts you in the holiday spirit, repeat step five for the rest of eternity.

Namaste.

An Open Letter to Helicopter Parents

Like with any generation, millennials get a multitude of labels: we are the "selfie generation," the "me, me, me" generation, the generation that's forgotten the art of face-to-face conversation. While this is all true to a degree, I wanted to cover a generational phenomenon that isn't primarily our fault, and one that needs to go away, like, now. That, friends, is the helicopter parent. Obviously you need to hover around your kid and make sure they learn how to be, y'know, people when they're young. You're not helicoptering your five year old, so don't freak out and accuse me of making good parents seem like royal asshats. In this particular instance, I'm talking about parents of kids in their late teens/early 20's.

Glad we got that straightened out.

The tricky thing about helicopter parents is that no one believes that they are one. I may not be a parent, but I have (too) closely observed the helicopter parent/kid relationship. I understand that this constant hovering around your kid is well-intentioned--you just want him to succeed and you feel that he lacks the maturity to make good life choices, and without your incessant nagging gentle guidance, he will fall flat on his face.

Your instincts are probably right on this one. He will, inevitably, fall on his face. He may flunk out of a class, or drink too much vodka one night, and, being a teenager and all, he will probably be more enthused by the immediate rewards of video games, rather than the long-term rewards of college. It's hard to see those you love most fail--especially when it's been pushed down your throat that you are Superparent; it's your duty to stop this failure, to make your child the next president! I've had the strong urge to motivate past boyfriends to go forth and be upstanding citizens, so I can only imagine how much stronger the instinct is with your child.

 While I understand that parents are looking out for their kids because there's much more competition for college and employment, there's a fine line between encouraging support and helicoptering. And when you cross that line, the incessant checking-in is actually going to deter your kid from being motivated to do well. Under the assumption that you've raised an intelligent, capable kid, I'm going to suggest that your child knows he has an English paper due in a week. He knows that his teeth will rot if he goes through all of college without seeing a dentist. The hard part of parenting should be over; you've given your kid the tools to succeed, and ultimately, you just have to step back and see what he does with said tools. This advice may contradict every single instinct you have, but do you really think that following every chemistry assignment your kid has is going to ensure his success? Is it really worth it when your kid gets into Harvard, but you're the one that lead the whole college search?

This not only adds a lot unnecessary stress to your life, but it's bound to make your kid feel like you're living his life for him. Sure, he's achieved a whole lot, but are they actually his achievements when you're scuttling behind him, sweeping up every little mistake?

I may be far from a "normal" real-life example, but just bear with me here. Having been raised by non-helicopter parents, from the time I was 16, my parents and I had a pact that the basic rules were "don't fuck with hard drugs, stay in school, and don't get pregnant." I made other mistakes, and my parents were less than enthused when I showed up with ink all over my body and a chain-wearing boyfriend, but I'm living to tell the tale, so something must have worked out. Somehow in the midst of my immature life choices and overly hormonal boy obsessions mistakes, I took charge of my own assignments, woke myself up for school, and even made myself dinner on occasion. Obviously I'm proud of my accomplishments because I chose the direction that I wanted to go, but I'm also extremely grateful that my parents let me fail. If I hadn't had those experiences, I would feel like an academic machine, or simply an extension of my parents.

After receiving a not-so-hot grade on an exam, I met with my professor. Instead of giving the usual "study harder" spiel, my professor noted that this generation is so afraid of failure because we know it will destroy our parents. Unlike last generation, we see failure as the end of everything, rather than as an opportunity to learn and grow. Part of this stems from the societal pressure to be superhumans, but it's also due to the fact that well-meaning helicopter parents are so invested in their kids lives, that they see this failure as their own. So you're not only pushing your kids too hard, you're pushing yourself as well. And that adds the kind of stress that no one can live with comfortably.

It's normal to want your kid to do well. But at some point, you have to shift from hovering-parent to the one in the sidelines who is cheering on your kid. Your child will probably fall harder if you step back, but he will feel more pride in his successes when they come from his own motivation to do well, rather than out of fear of disappointing you, or from getting fed up with your nagging. And I promise, just because you step back a little bit does not mean he will end up homeless, in a ditch, so just relax. You got through the hard part. Now you get to enjoy watching your kid turn into a super cool human who accomplishes shit and then you can resent him for being smarter than you, and all will be right with the world.

Namaste.

If Shakespeare characters had Facebook

So after spending a semester reading various Shakespeare plays, I get that Shakespeare is timeless and relevant to modern day society--I understand that my high school English teachers have been right all along, that classics never die, blah, blah, blah. I've even enjoyed relating certain Shakespeare plays to my own life. But what really got to me was Much Ado About Nothing. For those of you who haven't read the play, basically this guy really fancies this one girl, and his friend is all "hey, I'll get the girl for you, since you're too scared to go up to her and be a person." And the guy with the crush goes "thanks man, that would be swell." Then the other couple just shoots insults at each other, basically making Shakespearean "your face" jokes until they realize that oh wait, that means they love each other, who would have thunk it.


Basically, everything that happens in this play also happens in high school, minus the constant texts and Facebook updates. But it made me wonder what would happen if Romeo and Juliet were able to tag each other in posts, what would happen if Falstaff could post Buzzfeed quizzes on his wall. If Shakespeare characters lived in the 21st century, what would their social media look like?


Romeo

 

November 20th: "Baking pumpkin pie with the most beautiful girl in the world, Juliet Capulet! Babe, I'm sooo lucky I met you last week, and can't wait to bake you pies for the rest of my life!"


November 21st: Romeo Montague>Juliet Capulet: "I love you, Julsie! <3 #whereforartthousobeautiful"


November 22nd: "Ugh, why are parents such asses? Can't a guy just marry a girl already?"


November 23rd: *posts One Direction song on Juliet's wall*

November 25th: "Btw guys, I'm not dead, just pretending to be for love and all that. Juliet Capulet <3" 


Hamlet
November 20th: "Sometimes I wish I could just slip away from the universe..."
*concerned friend posts comment*
 "God, why can't people just leave me alone??"


*emo Green Day song lyrics*
*more emo song lyrics*

Othello
November 20th: *posts Thought Catalog article 10 signs she's cheating on you* "maybe someeeebody should look at this."

*when nobody comments on said Thought Catalog article* "F*** this, I'm done. I need somebody new to talk to. Iago hmu for poker nightttt."

"What is love? Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more." 

This. 

"So over girls! I need a woman in my life."
"Awful day...don't ask me about it. I just need to be alone." 
*wonders why no one responded to previous status.*

Falstaff
November 20th: "Just got done with my shift at McDonald's! Who wants to hit the bars tonight?"

November 25th: "Everyone's getting married and becoming kings and I'm just like LOL who wants to drink tequila shots tonight?"
 
December 1st: "Who needs to rule a kingdom when you can have 500 calories worth of eggnog instead?"

Somehow, the characters seem a lot less mature and sophisticated when they start speaking in text speak. All I can say is it would've saved Romeo and Juliet a lot of grief.

Namaste. 

On Higher Education: Just Do It (But Not Right Now)

As a college student, I've noticed a lot of things that irritate me: early morning classes, slow buses, and bad coffee, to name a few. But the one thing that drives me into a frenzy of rage every time is the fact that there are so many students who refuse to put the work into their classes, who see college as four years of binge drinking, who don't want to be there. It baffles me that so many people would spend thousands of dollars on something that they could easily do for $20 at a bar.

Putting yourself in massive debt just to get any old degree slapped onto your name may seem cool now, but it's not gonna be so cool when you can't buy that sweet new car because oh wait, you have to pay off your college loans. 

Why are you here? Why? I mean, it's great that you're making it easier to get an A in classes and everything (honestly in some classes you just have to show up and you impress the pants off your professor), but you're also decreasing the value of a college degree. Plus you're making that whole hope for humanity thing a little more difficult.

The thing is, however, that thousands of people didn't just suddenly get the idea to hop out of high school and throw themselves into college life without considering what college even meant. There's this new expectation that going to college is simply the next step, a branch of high school. And the percentage of people who actually want to be in high school is VERY VERY LOW, thus making the percentage of people who want to be in college the same. Classes turn into a competition of who can not do the reading more, and who can sit in silence and make awkward eye contact the longest.

During my first semester of freshman year, the one girl in my class who raised her hand to answer questions and seemed, y'know, enthusiastic about school, literally got mocked and picked on by at least half the class. That doesn't just make class miserable; it's straight up cruel. The fact that we have to tell adults not to bully the Hermiones of the world is really depressing.

So to the people who don't want to be in college, guess what? You don't have to be. Go party every night for a year until you get sick of throwing up jager shots. Go get a part time job at a restaurant and suffer through bad tips and obnoxious customers. Go on Breaking Bad marathons until your eyes bleed. You're an adult. You have the freedom to choose how you want to live your life--even if your parents strongly encourage you to do the whole college thing, they can't force you to.

However, while my original thought was that some people just aren't meant for college, I've had somewhat of an attitude shift in the past year. The biggest difference in college that I've noticed is that you don't just learn a bunch of facts and spit them back out on an exam (well, sometimes you do, *cough science cough*); you learn to think critically, to think outside yourself, to have a different worldview.

In my Women's Studies class, I had already established that I was well versed in feminism. It made sense, seeing as a was a woman who had experienced varying degrees of sexism in the past. But when we looked at institutionalized racism and how race affects our experiences as people, I realized that up until that point, I was a "yeah girl" of racism: I knew it was bad, I was all "yeah, that really sucks," but I hadn't stopped to think about how it feels to be a racial minority, to experience racial injustice every single day.

And really, I wouldn't have thought this way until somebody pointed it out to me. It didn't make me a bad person before; it just made me a little more uneducated.

My point is, if you can financially swing it, you should go to college. Just not immediately. We're a generation of right nows, but in the end, that does more harm than good. Are you really going to remember what that one professor said about literary theory when you were blacked out the night before? It's amazing how much more the brain can remember when you actually want to be there and are eager to learn. Sure, it sounds cheesey, but I think we can all afford some cheese when we're shelling out $20,000. At some point, you will be ready to go to college. Maybe it won't happen until you're 60 years old, in which case, go when you're 60.

Every single returning adult student I've met has been excited to do the reading, to go to class, to just be there. Honestly, it's refreshing. And I give them mad props for setting a livelier tone to the class.

If you have the opportunity, go to college. But don't fall into the expectation that everyone's ready for college straight out of high school. That's kind of like saying you're ready for a 27 mile marathon right after a jog around the block.

Namaste.

Don't Knock it 'Till You Try it: Pessimism

So, for the most part, I'd consider myself an optimist. I have an annoying habit of seeing the best in people and try to correct cynicism by telling people to do yoga and drink water (as those closest to me know, when they come to me with a problem, the first thing I will tell them to do is drink water). But the LAST thing I'd be able to do is pretend that life is beautiful, la la la, I never have a bad day ever. While yoga and this whole growing up thing has taught me to be able to breathe through negative thoughts and realize that this too shall pass, I am adamant in the belief that being able to ignore your negativity 24/7 does not make you a better person. Sometimes, you just have to indulge yourself in your hatred of that annoying person who chews gum too loudly or the fact that Taylor Swift's "Shake it Off" plays literally everywhere.

Let's pretend I don't secretly love that song, okay?

I've had this belief for quite some time, but I thought it was perfectly portrayed in Passenger's "I Hate":

My first thought when listening to this song was "this is hilarious; it's pure gold. Why isn't this as popular as Let Her Go?" I mean, I think everyone can relate far more to the disdain of public bathrooms than being all dramatic about love and loss and blah, blah, yadda, yadda.

Not that love and loss aren't important, but that's been done to death. It's nice to relate to a popular singer about hating annoying Facebook statuses like "hanging with my #mcm!"

Like with everything in life, pessimism is best done in moderation. I'm not saying the world would be a better place if we constantly complained about how terrible our lives are, but on the flip side, it's equally annoying to be surrounded by people who are just. so. happy. and refuse to acknowledge that on occasion, it's fun to indulge in life's suckery.

Just as Passenger says, "Yeah I laugh, and I live, and I have love to give/but sometimes all you can do is hate."


When I got back from Shoshoni, I was convinced that if I exuded any sort of pessimism, that meant I'd failed as a spiritual person. I'd claim that spiritual people don't stay in bed too long and moan that work sucks, that they feel fat that day, that if one more person asks them where they're going to school, they'll scream!


Bad days exist for a reason. If I can't give myself a day to cry and watch too much Grey's Anatomy, my "optimism" will soon turn into "biting sarcasm towards anyone who exhibits any sort of happiness."


Sometimes, in order to give and love properly, you just have to hate. It doesn't mean you fail as a person. It just means you're a person.


Namaste.

If You Lead, I will Follow: On Befriending Your Mother

Back in 2007, when I thought that TV reflected real life and that I would traipse into high school with a football boyfriend and straight hair, I watched Gilmore Girls religiously. For the most part, I was happy to be taken out of my own acne-ridden life and placed into Stars Hallow, but there was that wistful part of me that saw Rory and Lorelai's friendship and thought oh I want that. Wouldn't it be great to live with your best friend, to be able to have a shoulder to cry on 24/7, to have someone who will not only judge you for eating excessive amounts of Chinese food, but who will join in? 

Seven years later, after binge-watching Gilmore Girls on Netflix, I look at their relationship and realize, oh I have that. 

 Minus the part where we look like movie stars and throw pop-culture references at each other, my mother and I could be the Gilmore Girls. And while the lines got a little blurred when I was a kid and we had to work out the differences between friend and parent, we can focus on the friendship part of our mother/daughter pair. I get weird looks from my friends when I tell them that I literally tell my mother everything, or that we go to each other for advice--it may be a little weird, but it's not that complicated as people may be lead to believe.

There's a certain level of brutal honesty a mother can give that's hard to find anywhere else. I mean, I encourage my friends not to hold back when they think I'm being ridiculous, but my mother has years of perspective on, well, me. If I tell her a stupid thing I did, or a pattern that I've noticed about myself for the past year, my mother will very blatantly go "yeah, you did that thing since you were three years old. You should probably stop."

Okay, maybe that's not how our conversations exactly play out, but you get the idea.

Once I got past the point where my mother had to enforce rules and tell me how to, y'know, be a person, I found it fascinating to learn that she was (gasp!) a person before me. It was a little eerie that much of what happened to my mother also happened to me, but it's a comfortingly bizarre moment when you and your mother learn from your mistakes at the exact same time. Plus, it's just amusing to hear stories of her marrying a French guy and living with a bunch of strangers in France.

Even just a couple years ago, I believed that I was doomed to become my mother--that would've been the worst punishment in the world! But now I'm happy to embrace my Judy-esque qualities, as it gives me 1) hope that one day I'll become as cool as my mother, and 2) a built-in best friend, cheesy as it sounds.

Namaste.

My Thoughts on Marriage, Part II: Experimenting with Normalcy

It's sometimes difficult to distinguish between nature and nurture, but being the product of a divorced family, as a kid I vowed to never get divorced and to be sure that I could find a guy I could settle down with. While I've always been a bit plan-obsessed, I realize that part of my desperation to settle into the suburban, white-picket-fence, minivan routine was due to the fact that I didn't grow up with that life.


That's not to say that my parents didn't give me a blissed out childhood--they went above and beyond to ensure that my brother and I never got caught in the middle of their divorce and that we had easy access to both houses. But there was something about one house, one family, and the normalcy of it all that appealed to me, and I wanted to rush into that as soon as possible.


The biggest paradox in my last relationship was the fact that I could have easily fallen into married life. While I knew that being pressured into marriage at age 21 was the worst mistake I could possibly make--there was no way that I was ready to handle that kind of responsibility--it was so enticing to have that kind of stability. And while everyone craves stability to a certain extent, coming from a divorced family, my need to "experiment with normalcy" seemed to overpower my gut that was screaming "are you kidding me, you're 21! You don't know what it means to be married! Explore the world before you trap yourself!"


Besides my irritation that my gut used so many exclamation points, I knew that my instincts were right. I was torn between wanting so desperately to claim the title of wife and mother and knowing that I had to process what marriage meant to me, and that I'd have to be sure that the man that I marry is the one I could spend the rest of my life with.


Upon reflection, I've realized that it's a dangerous mindset to believe that you have to get married--that if you see yourself potentially being happy with someone, you should hold onto them and never let go. Because my last boyfriend came from a one-home family with happily married parents, it was clear that he thought of marriage as the next step, the logical explanation. But I only recently realized that the pitfall is when you marry because you can or should--it's only when you cannot see yourself spending the rest of your life without this person that you should even consider marriage.


Being the product of divorce (and anxiety probably isn't doing me any favors either), I've romanticized stability. Instead of growing up with the notion that "love conquers all," I thought why would you ever want to leave when you have one home, when your family is together? And when the option to have said stability is right in front of your face, it's difficult to consider the other aspects of marriage: the compatibility, the differing views on raising children, the chemistry between two people.


Leaving the option to have a content relationship/marriage was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Just as some people have need to experiment with travel or dangerous relationships, I had a taste for the "all-American family." But, in the end, stability does not conquer all, even if it seems to beat the paralyzing fear that you will never be married. That fear ultimately trumps complacency.


Namaste.

Junioritis: Tales from a Clueless College Student

So there's tons of articles and blogs about the dreaded senioritis, how freshmen are clueless, and how sophomores are the awkward middle children of college, but I feel like, for the most part, juniors have been ignored. They're like that person that you kind of know, and they show up randomly with your friend group and they're just sort of there.

As a junior, I've somehow leaped from "what do you want to be when you grow up?" to "what jobs are you looking for now?" I realize that the security blanket of the rest of college is pulling away fast, and a year is like a second in college student world. A few years ago, I was applauded for not falling flat on my face during classes. Now I not only have to, y'know, not fail class, but I have to excel enough to make my professors recommend me, find an internship or two, and decide where the hell I'm going post-graduation.

Somehow the answer "I'm gonna be a hippie in an ashram for a few years" doesn't seem to suffice. I have to figure out the mystery wrapped enigma that is grad school, but I can't start applying, so I'm in this awkward phase where I have to plan my future, but I still can't definitively answer the dreaded question "so what are your plans after graduation?"

If there was a "year of the person in limbo," this would be it.

Suddenly, I realize that I have no idea how to apply for normal adult jobs. I can fill out food service applications with my eyes closed, but get me close to a resumé and cover letter, and I'm all "hey, what do I do with this thing?" Like, how do you even find careers? People have advised me to get a career since middle school, and now I'm supposed to get one, and the only way I can picture getting one is standing outside with a megaphone going "hey, listen up! I need a career; anyone got one?" The idea that I have to have this all figured out one year from today is just a tad terrifying.

Junioritis gives me this odd feeling that I'm so sick of classes and never want to see a textbook again, but I want to go to school forever because I have no idea how to be like, a person in society. Especially if that requires me to stop wearing Grumpy Cat tee-shirts and to take my coffee without cinnabon creamer.

People with careers don't wear clothing with furry animals

Basically, I'm freaking out for the time when I freak out next year and realize, still, that I have no idea what I'm doing. I at least take comfort in the idea that there are thousands of students in the same boat.

Namaste.

I Can't Lie

I have a confession to make. No, I didn't crash into anyone's car (again), nor did I steal all your chocolate--my confession is on a larger scale, something that makes me unable to successfully live my life as an American citizen.


My name is Kira, I'm twenty-one years old, and I cannot for the life of me tell a lie.


It all started with an innocent game of "two truths and a lie." My roommates could successfully get through three facts about themselves, but by the time it was my turn to sandwich a lie between my two truths, I couldn't do it. I would start giggling or making weird sounds akin to a constipated moose. And while it's great to be an honest person and all, there's a such thing as being too honest.


You know how when you just want an evening to yourself, and your friends say hey guess what there's this great movie playing, you have to come watch it with us, and you reply gracefully, "no I can't, I have to work"?


Yeah, not me. I either have to sound like an asshole who doesn't care about her friends or I have to sacrifice my alone time at the expense of pleasing others. Because as soon as I say something like "I have to work," I cannot stop talking. I'll say something ridiculous like "my manager broke his leg, so I have to be in charge of cheese for the next month, plus my neighbor's cat died, so I have to look after her dog, who is heartbroken after the death."


And that's just soooo believable.


Seriously though! You'd think that as an English major, I would have mastered the art of stretching the truth. That's somewhat true. On paper, I can be all "yeah, I'm a totally proficient chess player; I actually played in a competition once." In person, I will promptly forget the word "chess," call myself a "player" instead, and get really weird looks from guys for the next forever.


The only good thing about this is that my friends and family never have to question if I'm truth-ing at them, since the only thing I fail at worse than driving is lying.


Someday, I'll learn to appreciate it. Probably around the time that I wear purple and eat a lot of butter or something.


Namaste.

In Defense of Water: Tales of an Excessive Water-Drinker

So the other night, my roommates were trying to convince me that water was the root of all evil and that surely I would drown in all the water I consumed. As the resident water-drinker, I usually consume about five bottles a day, more if I decide to brave the world of workouts. Having grown up in a strict "8 glasses a day" household, I didn't see anything particularly strange about staying hydrated, but having flocked from the nest of water enthusiasts, I've had to deal with the "why do you drink so much water?" comments. However, I've also learned to appreciate the perks of being an H2O addict.


1) It saves calories.
The reason that I allow myself to inhale pints of ice cream and not swell up to 500 pounds is because I literally save all of my calories for food, minus the calories in my overly indulgent essential coffee creamer. Like, if I drank milk or juice, or especially any alcohol of sorts, I would never be able to eat. I mean, besides the fact that water keeps you full, it also allows 400-600 extra fun calories that you wouldn't have if you drank a glass or two of milk. The only way I could see one skirting around this rule is drinking so much alcohol that you, erm, don't keep it in your system, and, spoiler alert, that's so not as fun as it seems.


2) It gives you a reason to leave whatever boring/uncomfortable/obnoxious situation you're in.
Sure, you can use the bathroom excuse, but use it too much and people are going to start to wonder if you have a bladder problem. However, if you just keep chugging water, you can keep using the excuse that your bottle is empty, and may I refill please and thank you? In fifth grade, during every single lunch period, I would evade the daily "he said that she said"s by excusing myself to the water fountain. Being hydrated saves an awful lot of drama, remember that.


3) It's impressive.
Okay, so it may be a small bragging point, but people are always amazed by healthy habits, and since I'm not usually one to exhibit said healthy habits, I'll take what I can get. For instance, I'm always in awe of my roommate's gym-going, carrot-eating ways, and I think gosh if only I could be her! Well, beverage-wise, I am that person, and as an English major, I don't get many chances to be that person, so hah.


4) It gives you something to do with your hands.
As someone who can never sit still, I can either busy myself by constantly holding a water bottle, by obsessively checking Facebook, or by tearing at my nails so much that they start to bleed. As Facebook just makes me disappointed in the nature of humanity, and I'd rather not mutilate my body, water-holding/drinking seems to be the only practical alternative.


Plus, it keeps you alive and stuff. So there's that.


Namaste.

INFP's: An Examination of Realism and Feeling

I've always taken an interest in personality types, specifically when I had to understand my interactions with other people. Quite a few INFPs describe themselves as feeling like aliens in society (an accurate description on my part), and for the longest time, my only way of dealing with this "alien" feeling was by lumping everyone into groups and researching how their differences made sense on a psychological level. I still remember the shock when I learned that not everyone wanted to discuss the meaning of life, and that most everyone got bored by constant updates on my emotional progress as a human being.

However, what really struck me is that throughout my life, I would get advice to "stop letting my emotions get in the way" and to "start being realistic." The two statements seemed to oppose the very core of my existence, that it took everything in my power not to laugh at these givers of advice and say what seemed so obvious: "but my feelings are real!" I couldn't just omit how I felt about a situation, or I would be left with nothing. Without feeling, I would have no need for writing, for friendships, for conversations past "lovely weather" and "what's for dinner?"

Feeling, is often perceived as something that gets in the way of reality, that we won't be able to take the correct course of action if we let our emotions come into play. But as someone who can't find an off switch to emotions, I find it useless to objectively view a situation, pick the best course of action, then realize it was the wrong decision once I'm back to my emotional, "feel-y" self.

Yes, to the outsider, heightened emotions may seem ridiculous when you look at the exterior course of events. But just because a majority of the "events" are going on in someone's head does not make them any more invalid. I wouldn't tell a depressed person they should get over it because their life doesn't actually suck; the same is true for an "F" dominant personality.

In high school, I liked a boy, the boy said he might like me and would let me know if he did in a few weeks, then the boy said he didn't like me and proceeded to date other girls. End of story. My brain, however, took that as the two year saga of "boy likes Kira and just doesn't want to admit it, Kira goes in endless rage about unfairness of romance." Yes, the added elements to the story were annoying, but I experienced it and had to deal with all the emotions that came with liking this boy--so the most irritating thing is hearing "that's not what happened."

My need to be in tune with emotions isn't an inherent flaw, which seems to be the most difficult thing for "T" (Thinking) personalities to understand. Having emotional understanding makes INFPs able to readily empathize with different personality types, and personally, it makes me want to connect with others. Cheesy as it sounds, having such a huge emotional capacity gives me a reason to interact with humans, since the heavy introversion isn't doing me any favors in that regard.

So, for the emotion-heavy personalities, sometimes what you see is not even half of what happened.

Namaste.

Things that Piss me Off

Welcome to the rantiest rant post of Kira's blog. As much as I love producing blogs with great philosophical thought and tidy conclusions about the meaning of life, as the semester progresses and thanksgiving break is still so far away, I've been feeling pissed off at the world lately, and since I can't express my pissed-offness with heavy black eyeliner and grunge metal (is that a thing?), I thought I would subject my worldly frustrations on the internet. And so, in neat little list form, I present to you, the things that make me want to punch a baby (but not really 'cause that would be weird):

1) Slow walkers.
On a day-to-day basis, this is the thing that definitely irks me the most. I swear, some people walk so slowly, it's almost as though they're walking backwards, or just kind of shuffling their feet, hoping it'll take them somewhere. I get that if you're in the vast countryside of Ireland or something, you're gonna want to slow down and let the view sink in. Don't let me stamp on your tourism parade. But when you're in the grocery store, staring at a strip of salmon like it's made out of gold, move along, there are people trying to get home in less than two hours. We all know what bread looks like, okay? This is not a time for sight-seeing. Even during class changes, students just meander about, not giving any thought to the fact that they only have 15 minutes to dart from one end of campus to the next. It's even worse when a group of friends are together, sauntering along, because they take up the entire sidewalk.

I just don't understand the mindset of slow-walkers. Even if I leave an hour early for something, I will still walk like a million dollars is waiting for me because A) it burns more calories and B) the faster I walk, the sooner I can get to my destination. I don't know how many college students are walking around campus for the experience of walking, but I thought the whole point was to get somewhere efficiently.

 2) Small servings of ice cream.
Keeping with the theme of efficiency, this has got to be the least efficient way possible to serve ice cream. Maybe somewhere, someone has worked out the magic of healthy moderation when it comes to desserts, but if I'm pulling out a pint of Ben & Jerry's, it's a cheat day. Ice cream is not a diet food. Because no one in the history of forever is going to eat three spoonfuls of ice cream, go "mmm that was satisfying," and put the carton away. Go on, I dare you to find someone who can do that. Even if you start off with that perfectly moderate serving of ice cream in your bowl, you know you're gonna sneak into your freezer at 1A.M. and finish off the pint. So why start off by kidding yourself? You're just waiting to prolong the guilt.

Cute, but we all know how this will end

3) People who spit on sidewalks.
I have never understood this. Spitting is gross even in private; every night while brushing my teeth I have to give myself a little pep talk about how, yes, spitting is disgusting but the only alternative is swallowing my toothpaste. Why do people shamelessly spit in public? Someone please enlighten me. It's absolutely revolting.

4) People who say "you know, coffee stains your teeth."
Little do these people know, they'd much rather look at me with stained teeth than interact with me when I haven't been caffeinated. There's just such an air of superiority here--it's like they're saying "look at me, I never do anything that will make me look less than perfect!" That's great, but for the non-robots here, a little coffee never hurt anyone. And hey, I go to the dentist when I finally remember to make an appointment every six months; it's not like I'm putting my teeth in any immediate danger.

5) Jeggings.
Are you jeans, or are you leggings? MAKE UP YOUR MIND!!!

And while there plenty more things that piss me off, I'll save that for another time, as I have to binge watch Gilmore Girls do homework and be a productive person. Or something.

Namaste.

My Thoughts on Marriage

So a couple years ago, Jenna Marbles posted a video regarding her thoughts on marriage. At the time when it came out, I was all "yeah Jenna Marbles, that's cool, I'm 18, I'm not getting married for another hundred years."

Now all of a sudden I'm a person in my twenties and everyone's all "hey, when are you getting married?"

Besides the fact that I genuinely forget that I'm actually old enough to commit my life to someone forever, my head explodes every time someone implies that I'm mature enough (hah!) and old enough to be like "yup, that's it, gonna settle down and start a family now."

WHUT.

So after flipping out after seeing people my age get married and feeling the increasing pressure to commit myself (pun intended), I thought I would present my own views on marriage, and, for the most part, agree with Jenna's claim that PEOPLE NEED TO SLOW THE F*** DOWN. I have a lot of rants about this topic, so there will probably be a part II to this post some time in the near future--and yes, this is another full-fledged rant post, you have been warned.

I also want to make very clear that this is my personal opinion about marriage, and I'm only relaying how I've personally experienced the expectation to get hitched in my early twenties. I have friends who have very different thoughts on relationships/marriage, and we've managed to have conversations about the topic without tearing each others' eyeballs out, and I'm not trying to say any opinion is wrong. I welcome different thoughts and experiences with marriage, so please do not take this as a personal attack on anyone's beliefs. Okay. Disclaimer over.

Having been in two serious relationships, I've noticed a huge shift in mindset from high school to college. It was expected that my high school boyfriend and I were just having "fun," seeing where time brought us and all that hippie stuff, and everyone, including us, expected the relationship to end one way or another.

Fast forward to college, and suddenly everyone is talking rings and living together, and there's this sudden expectation that if you can't definitively see yourself marrying this person, then leave immediately--that if you're not picking out wedding dresses and flowers, you're leading this person on.

While I agree that if you definitively CAN'T see yourself marrying this person, and they've made it clear that they're interested in settling down, it's time for a serious talk. But it's mind-boggling enough to think about what I'm doing post-graduation, much less how a boyfriend is going to fit into the equation. With my college boyfriend, let's call him N, people were going "so where do you see yourself going with N? What are you going to do?"

Well, I see us going to get some coffee and perhaps watching some New Girl.

That's not to say that there aren't people who are afraid of commitment and that couples should never get married, but what is this sense of urgency about? Am I really supposed to know exactly who I am at 21, much less who I want to spend the rest of my life with? It's not a relationship death sentence to realize that you can't consider marriage just yet because you're still changing, you're still figuring things out.

Yes, it's fun to fantasize about your wedding, but it's almost easier to talk about dresses and first-dance songs when you know that it's not expected to plan those things right now. Relationships are hard enough when you focus on the present moment; they're nearly impossible when you try to plan out every single move and decide that marriage is the only option.

Until part II of this post, 

Namaste.

Just Like a Tattoo: The Meaning Behind Getting Inked

As a wise and learned relentlessly stubborn 16 year old, I had decided it was a good idea to tell all of Facebook that I thought tattoos were stupid, and that I would never ever get one--the only way you would see me near a tattoo, I claimed, was if I decided to join some sort of motorcycle gang. I'm not entirely sure if I realized that I was living in the 21st century, where tattoos are widely accepted as, y'know, art, but I have the distinct memory that I was convinced my mind would never change.

Flash forward four years, where I'm sitting in a tattoo parlor, getting a permanent OM symbol on my shoulder. I've already told the story of the om tattoo, but since then, I've become addicted to ink. After my first tattoo-ing experience, I jumped to the conclusion that I wanted to become a walking art gallery--I've since calmed down, mostly after realizing that would require me to be thousands of dollars poorer. But in preparation for my next tattoo, I wanted to examine why having ink on your body evokes such a strong negative reaction from some people, and why it's so appealing to others. I haven't met many people who are all "yeah, tattoos are alright." They either love the idea or hate it.

So in keeping with my drastic change of appearance (apparently it's never too late to become the rebellious teenager?), I'm jumping into my inked-dream and going for a second tattoo. But instead of just blindly going, "whee, there's color on my body!", I thought I would take a more academic spin on the experience. In one of my classes, we were assigned to write an I-search paper, which is basically where you search for the answer to a question that chooses you. Being, well, me, I chose to write about feminism, but halfway through the paper, I realized it would have been much more beneficial (and fun) to write about the connotations/process of tattoos.

So this is my I-search paper, part two. I don't have any answers about the meaning of getting inked, but hopefully, through casual interviews with tattoo artists, friends, and family, I'll see why there are such strong associations with those who are tattoo-ed. I didn't feel like there was a drastic shift in who I was since getting my first tattoo, but then again, I often forget that I have it because I can't turn around and look at my shoulder. So there's that.

Wish me luck on my search, friends, and if any of you have any tattoo stories/advice, please share!

Namaste.

How to Roommate: Sharing Tiny Spaces with other Humans and Not Killing Each Other

So I've lived with a roommate for the past three years now, and while I'm not about to call myself an expert in the business of living with other humans, I've noticed some things that make it slightly less tempting to storm out in a rage, screaming "HOW DARE YOU MOVE MY COMPUTER TWO INCHES??". Having lived with my best friend, as well as people I didn't know that well prior to rooming to together, I was surprised to see that most of the "strategies" for living with a friend didn't differ much from living with strangers. I'm still sort of learning how to roommate, but until then, I have a semi-comprehensive list of strategies to learn not to want to tear your roommate's hair out:

1) Don't spend all your free time in your living space.
This is especially important if you don't have your own room. I'm not saying you have to avoid your home completely, but if you and your roommate are always doing homework in the same room, always eating together, and constantly breathing the same air, no matter how friendly you are, there will be some tension. You will both have habits that seem second nature to you, that annoy the hell out of your roommate. Besides, it gets a little claustrophobic if you spend ALL of your time in a tiny enclosed space.

2) Pick your battles.
There will be things that your roommate does that will make you want to scream "how are you even a person?!" That's all fine and good, and we should all question why we're people really, but if you do this with every tiny habit, you'll constantly be fighting. That's not to say that you should cower in fear of ever having an annoyed exchange with your roommate, but if it doesn't wildly affect your day-to-day life, it's probably best to just let it go. If they're keeping you up until 2:00 A.M. going "no you hang up. No, you," then you can be all, "hey, quiet down, so I don't murder you with a spoon tomorrow." But if you're annoyed because he/she left a single dirty spoon in the sink, that's a good time to practice being the zen-roommate.

3) Appreciate the importance of doors.
This rule goes two ways: 1) If you have doors, knock on them. And 2) Try to stay away from apartments that have no doors. I once lived in a concrete box with my roommate, where everything was "closed off" by curtains, and you really can't knock on a curtain. Believe me, I've tried.

4) Have an occasional get-together.
You don't have to be attached at the hip, and more often than not, it's easier to go about your routine and say the occasional "hello" to your roommate. But before you realize "hey, I just happen to be living with this stranger," try to arrange your schedules to have a monthly dinner or movie or discussion of the meaning of life. Some of the best moments of this year have happened when my three roommates and I were all together discussing bras and other embarrasingly girly things.

5) Define the meaning of otherwise vague words.
It may seem perfectly reasonable to you to say "make sure guests leave by a reasonable hour," or "let's keep everything somewhat clean," but I've quickly realized that definitions of these sorts of words vary drastically. To limit confusion and resentment, try to set rules such as "guests leave by midnight," or "we'll clean every two weeks."

I'm sure that after having transitioned from one roommate to three, I'll have a part two of this blog, but for now, I leave you with the advice to try really hard not to scream at/kill anyone you're living with. It's bad practice to kill people and all that jazz.

Namaste.

Hair part 6: The Redhead Experience

Yes, I do realize that it's a little ridiculous to have a six part saga devoted to my hair, but you could argue that this whole blog is ridiculousness, and you know, give the people what they want, or something. At least that's what I tell myself when I want to publically rant about my hair for a page or two.

So, two weeks ago, this happened:

Red hair!

Similar to the whole tattoo debacle, dyeing my hair red was one of those things that I considered for a while, but never actually thought would happen. Then BAM, life happens, I feel like I'm being dragged into insanity, and decide to drastically change my appearance to cope with it. Yes, I am one of those girls who shells out obscene amounts of money to change herself when facing a bad situation. You know you've done that at least once in your life, don't lie.

So, impulse decision aside, I've noticed that the redhead experience is quite a positive one. It's not like some coloring is going to alter my personality completely, but, as my roommate claimed, I seem like a much more natural redhead. And my agreement stems from one hypothesis: redheads are allowed to be weird.

Like, when you're blonde, there's the eccentricity quota that you just can't mess with. Singing and dancing in public places is totally off-limits as a blonde. You're expected to wear yoga pants and end every sentence is like, a question? And if I was experiencing these expectations as a dirty blonde, I can only imagine how bad it gets as a bleach blonde.

Now, people not only encourage crazy random happenstances, but they expect it. I'm instantly pegged as the girl with the weird stories, the creative spirit, ever so spiritual, all that jazz.

Another thing I've noticed comes from my expectations for myself, rather than others' expectations for me. But ever since making questionable life choices dyeing my hair, I've been less afraid to talk to people. Granted, I don't think shyness is something that can just *poof* go away, but instead of worrying about what I'm going to say/sounding like an idiot, I just say words to people. Those words have usually successfully formed coherent sentences, which surprises everyone. There's less fear that if I screw up one thought, everyone will hate me forever. So that's a nice feeling.

In a superficial sense, it seems that redheads are more acceptably "cute." I used to have mixed feelings about this word, but because I have the face of a twelve year old, I've had to embrace the "cute" status, trying to ignore all the "hot" and "pretty" blondes that roamed around. It's no longer strange to throw my hair in braids and try to pull off the 16 year old look. I could be totally off here, but it seems that the general rule is that blondes have to be pretty, other hair colors can be cute. So why not indulge in that expectation, seeing as the idea of growing up still makes me want to hide under my covers and never come out?

So, in this instance, the impulse decision ended up being a decently good idea. Just watch out for any impulse tattoos that may pop up periodically.

Namaste.

The Despicable Comma: AKA the Regret of the English Major

Once upon a time there was a young college student who indulged herself in all the grand luxuries: 6+ hours of sleep, an extra 15 minutes to shovel food down her mouth, and perhaps, if she was lucky, an hour a month to socialize. It was a grand life. There were no frogs or princes, but the young college student didn't complain; she wasn't much into making out with frogs anyway.

Then. One grey, cold afternoon, the wicked witch of West Campus assigned this young college student the dreaded style sheet. As soon as this wicked witch passed out the assignment sheet, trees shuddered in the background. A part of every English major's soul died that day. In fact, the style sheet was so ferocious, so evil, the young college student froze up and died simply after setting eyes on it.
*                             *                               *                          *                     *                *            *

Okay, so maybe I'm still alive and kicking, but my sanity sure isn't. For those of you who don't know (which is anyone who wants to still have a life), a style sheet is basically a longggg list of grammar and style rules for a certain article. Basically, you have to choose an article from a major magazine, mark every instance of punctuation/stylistic differences, find a rule in the Chicago Manual of Style that defends this punctuation, then record the rule/a million examples in a 20+ page project of doom. This one assignment in one class has basically turned into a full time job. And here's the kicker: I'm trying so hard to care, but I really don't. I'm so passionate about my indifference to comma rules, that it's kind of ruling out the point of indifference.

Since when did commas have to dress themselves up like they're going to tea with the Queen? What happened to all the happy, free-spirited commas who were all "hey man, I think we've gotta slow down and take a breath, care to alert the reader?" No, now commas have to take a stand and say "we're used for introductory adverbial phrase, but sucks to be you, you have to look up what an introductory adverbial phrase is, and oh by the way, we only do this on Tuesdays."

No one wants a tedious comma. Let the commas roam free, people!

Then we get to capitalization rules, and oh boy is that a trip. Not only do you have to find every instance of capitalization (ever notice how random capitalization just appears in the middle of a run-in quote just because it feels like it?), but you have to find the instances where something could be capitalized, but isn't. Like here's the word "heaven," all innocently lowercase, not causing any hooplah, and suddenly it gets a capitalization rule because maybe someone somewhere thinks it should be capitalized, but the Chicago Manual is all "haha, you may think you know capitalization, but 'heaven' remains lowercased because I said so!"

You know it's tyranny when lowercase words start popping up in capitalization rules.

I've had it up to here with style sheets. You can't see "here," but it's somewhere where capitalized cuss words are free to use all the commas and italics they want. They can even throw in some double explanation points if they want!! It's a free country!!!!

What's the rule for four exclamation points, I ask you? You don't think you're so smart now, do you Mr. Chicago Manual?

It's gotten to the point where every time I read something, I forget that I'm reading for content, and start frantically looking for commas and semicolons and dashes (oh my). Highlighters start flying about willy-nilly and commas attack me with their ferocious claws. These commas are double trouble: ferocious and pretentious. If we're not careful, commas will start attacking us in our sleep.

Except, oh wait, I don't have time to sleep, because I'M TOO BUSY WORKING ON THIS STYLE SHEET!

Even the name itself is deceiving. You think "oh it's one sheet, how bad can it be?" Well, when the sheets start multiplying and having little baby comma rules, it can get pretty damn horrible.

If you see dancing in the streets, you'll know I've finally handed in my style sheet and stopped caring about punctuation altogether.

How comforting it is to know I've found the right major.

Namaste.

Middle Lessons: Some Revelations from the Halfway Point to Graduation

As I'm a little over halfway through my collegiate career (gulp), I've reflected on both personal and academic life lessons that (hopefully?) mean something, and that I can take with me through my post-graduate life. I haven't had the most traditional of college experiences, but looking back on past journal entries, blogs, and memories, I realize that even throughout my mundane "eat, sleep, homework" days, I was constantly experiencing some sort of change, usually for the better, except for that whole black hair thing. I'm not saying that college makes you a completely changed person, but, at the very least, it's made me more reflective on what lessons I'm gaining from the craziness that is Penn State.

1) Bring a stuffed animal.
Okay, so it doesn't have to be a stuffed animal, but bring something from home that's comforting, but your freshman-year-self declares yourself too old for. It's tempting to start fresh with a hip, ever so grownup dorm, but it's just nice to know that if you're lonely or want something fluffy to sleep with, the option is there. I've bonded with my pillow pet Ernest for two years now, and he's heard some pretty dark secrets. Not that I talk to inanimate objects, noooo.

He hasn't failed me yet.

2) Feminists can wear sparkly eye makeup too.
So I'm not gonna get into a full-fledged feminism argument here, but basically I've realized that up until college, I resisted labeling myself as a feminist because I didn't want to cut my hair short or get rid of glittery eyeliner. It took a little while, but after taking a women's studies class and hearing my classmates' views on feminism, I realized that it's much more broad than hating men and becoming lesbians. I essentially realized that I could *gasp* do things that extended past wearing pointy shoes and low-cut dresses. It's a strange feeling, liberation.

3) Your best friend will be your saving grace many times.
While it's great to expand your horizons and make new friends and be social and shit, don't underestimate the power of a best friend. I've been fortunate enough to have lived with my best friend for three years of college, and while we've certainly had spats about the horrible odor that comes from my shoes roommate issues, it's comforting to have someone who has known you for nine years nearby. There's a level of understanding you just don't instantaneously get with a new friend. I don't know what I do without someone who doesn't bat an eye at my random meowing or screaming "I HATE STYLE SHEETS!", much less join in on the insane eccentric behavior.

3) Dating doesn't necessarily mean a relationship.
Okay, so I haven't exactly put this one into practice, but observing, dare I say it, grownup relationships has made me realize just how absurd the "he said, she said"s of high school are. Looking back, I cringe that I thought it was perfectly normal to be with my high school boyfriend before even going out on a date. This isn't so much a college rule as it is a growing up rule. It's fine, expected even, to explore your horizons without committing yourself to labels before you can even say "hey, wanna grab some dinner?" It takes the pressure off simply talking and getting to know someone.

4) Force yourself to do something.
Not in a dangerous way, just in an...adventurous way. When else can you do something a little risky and claim it as "part of the growing experience"? It can be tempting to fall into the trap of complacency, especially for me, as I'm college-ing in my hometown. But some of my craziest, most impulsive moments have turned out to be the best ones. Backpacking with a bunch of fellow freshmen probably isn't something I would have signed up to do if I weren't trying to build my character (or something), but there's something about being smelly and scared and tired together that makes freshmen bonding more memorable. And as for impulsive moment number two, that tattoo incident, my wallet may be angry at me, but I feel a lot more badass. There's so many times where I've wished I could be that person who pulls things off, but sometimes you have to stop wishing and realize you can be that person, tattoos or no tattoos.

5) It's okay to stop self reflecting.

This has quite possibly been the hardest lesson for me to learn. Since kindergarten, when other kids were playing in the sandbox and catching each others' "cooties," I was all "I wonder how I've matured and progressed today?" It's all fine and good to be self aware and all, but once that self-awareness gets in the way of letting go and enjoying yourself, that's when you have to realize it's okay to turn your brain off. The world won't come crashing down if you don't have your next twenty years planned. Yes, I realize that I'm reflecting on self-reflection, but hey, no one changed twenty year old habits in a day, did they? 

I'm sure that I'll discover plenty more life lessons in the next year and a half, but as of now, the most important life lesson I've gained from college is that you shouldn't take yourself so seriously. And that one should never underestimate the importance of coffee, of course.

Namaste. 

Caffeinated Bliss: Why Coffee is the Best Meditation

I'm the first to admit it: I suck at meditation. Two meditation retreats later, and sitting down with my thoughts seems like the worst punishment in the world. I'll sit down for like, ten minutes, become uncomfortably aware that my legs refuse to stay still for more than two seconds, wish I was more meditative and spiritual, convince myself that there's something wrong with me because I'm not meditative and spiritual, wonder if buying long, floral skirts would somehow make meditation more meaningful, and decide that I'm too poor to buy said skirts, and resolve to work a hundred million hours a week.

But lately, as my thoughts have been swarming around my head like a bee that just won't go away, I've noticed that I'm accidentally meditating over my cup of coffee. Before you wave me off as a hippie-dippie chick and decide that I need more sleep, let me explain. It's not like I'm chanting over my coffee beans and waiting for the enlightened coffee to touch my lips and make me just. so. yogic. But, in the loosest sense of the word, meditation allows you to be in the present moment, not letting your mental chatter get in the way of just experiencing life.

Coffee is my only daily routine. It's comfortingly ritualistic to pour the grounds into the filter, to watch the water flow into my mug, to let it cascade into my coffee maker. I hear the sounds of the coffee brewing, and for a few minutes, everything is okay. For the fifteen minutes with my mug, I know I won't be distracted by "what-if"s, "why did I"s, or "I should"s. I'm simply letting the bitter flavor, mixed with the sickly sweet peppermint mocha creamer (this is what living away from home does to you) pool over my tongue.

I'm comforted that I know this meditation will not happen indefinitely. I can go back to my anxious, worried self after the last gulp.

Everything is stiller, more ready to be observed rather than conquered. Sitting at the kitchen table, I see everything as background, like that song that's playing on the radio that you kind of know, but don't strain your ears to listen to.

For fifteen minutes of coffee, everything is more simple. Everything is okay.

Namaste.