What happens when you lose the only boy you’ve ever loved?

I met you when I was 16. I had a boyfriend, who was in your band. I remember the exact second I saw you; I wished I was dating you. I broke up with your bandmate that week. I was too nervous to tell you that I liked you. Every time we hung out in a group you would purposely sit by me and tell me that I smelled nice or that I was pretty, but I didn’t know how to handle it because I was so infatuated with you. I turned 17, started senior year at a different school, but all I could think about was you.

I wanted to go to your prom. Not only because you went to school with every single one of my friends, but because I liked you. I was rarely ever honest about liking someone, but I had liked you from the second we met. I had the boys ambush you with me before band practice, and I broke out in hives. Instead of making fun of me for freaking out about the whole thing, you said yes. And then there was that whole prom thing. We didn’t even match, and we lost my flask.

We lost touch for a year after you moved to Iowa for school for a year, and I was surprised to get a call from you when you came back home, and mostly hesitant because the first thing you did was hold my hand. It startled me then, but all of my best summers, I owe to you, and I couldn’t ask for a better first love.

Every time I think of a time of my life that I loved, I think of being 19. You were 20. We were sitting in my backyard after swimming and drinking heavily. We were listening to Tom Petty and I was reading Bukowski to you. While you said you hate reading, you liked learning from what I read to you.

We didn’t officially date each other for a few months, but the first time you said you loved me, and I still remember it being December 29th 2009, was because I beat your ass at Mario Kart. You always insisted on being Peach for some fucking reason.

I didn’t take it seriously until you asked if I’d marry you one day. We wanted to be married by age 24. That seemed old to us then. And now that you’ve passed at 25, that age seems young and cruel.

You were the first and only person to teach me about what love was, and you didn’t even know what it was at the time. I will always love you, because you and I had the most important impact on each other; we grew up liking each other, but discovered what true love meant. I find it hard to believe that I’ll ever love someone again as much as I loved you, but in your influence, I’ll live life as best as I can. I’ll just never stop thinking it’s ok that you’re not here.

We planned out our lives together. We wanted to move to Oak Park together. You wanted to have a recording studio in the basement, scatter your guitars about the house. You promised me a library in the home, and said I could name our first child, regardless of gender, Wolf.

I want to believe that there is a reason you don’t get to be around, but none of it makes sense. And I think about you every damn day. There will never be a moment in my life when I won’t feel like you’re in my heart. You’re the one who made me feel like I had a heart. Over three years, you taught me what love is, and continued to be my friend for another two. September 4th was particularly bullshit because that marks the day of “5 years ago we decided we may as well be exclusive idiots.”

I want there to be a reason that you, a spectacular, driven, amazing human being, had to be cut short at 25. But all I can think of is that you made us all better. But you always tried to make us better. You were selfless. Maybe you were just born to improve the world.

Why it’s probably time for me to leave Chicago.

Chicago, I love you, I really do. You’re beautiful. All of my firsts were inside of you, and if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be able to read a map, even if I suck at reading maps I can apparently only do it in Los Angeles. Why? Because I have the worlds worst cell service in Los Angeles so I can’t map out directions, I just have to look at the actual map and figure it out. But, darling Chicago, after nearly 25 years inside your PBR-laced womb, you’re getting too small. I can’t breathe, and there’s nothing left for me to do here. But, let’s be honest, I could never love other teams as much as I love the Blackhawks, Bears, Bulls and Cubs. I’ll only watch Dallas Starts games here and there because I would totally enjoy making out with Tyler Seguin. But… Never mind.

I’m about to go to Los Angeles for the third time in the span of six months. I thought nothing of it, but my father told me I should look for a job while I’m out there considering I like spending time there more than I do in my own city. I always wanted to leave Chicago. I figured I would grow up and probably die here, but I didn’t think about the in-between until I had no choice but to stay here. I had to take care of my mother, as if I would have left her even if I had more help, and then I worried about my father being alone, even though he’s a fully capable and healthy adult. You worry more about a healthy parent simply because he’s all you’ve got left, and you know how hard losing one parent is already.

I have a small family, and I’m close to everyone with the exception of a couple. One of my cousins moved out to Newport Beach, California a few years ago and has a six month old daughter so I see them whenever I go to California. I live two blocks from my aunt and also my cousin, who just got engaged. My other aunt, my mother’s sister, lives in Barrington with her son, and his daughter who likes to refer to herself as my “mini-me.” Needless to say, my “mini-me” isn’t happy that I’m blonde now, because she’s 12 and not allowed to use hair dye yet. My uncle, my mother’s brother, lives near Wisconsin and travels more than I do. My sister lives in Los Angeles, but I haven’t told her I’m coming back yet, or that I plan on moving there.

I told myself when my mother passed away that I would stop being such a fucking pussy and start realizing when opportunities present themselves to me, rather than realize it later. And right now, I’m financially stable and a large handful of my friends are in LA. It wouldn’t be a hard transition. My best friends have made this transition many times, and I suppose, in a respect I made the same transition by losing them and having nothing but the phone conversations left. The friends I have here understand my wanting to leave, and even my father isn’t surprised. He wants to retire in a year and a half and move to Arizona for golfing purposes or some shit I don’t understand. I suck at golf.

We all have to leave our family and our friends at some point.

I remember wanting to move to California a couple of years ago. My best friend had just moved there, and I was sitting on my then-boyfriend’s apartment floor, drunk, and telling him I wanted to spend the summer with her, maybe longer. Unwittingly, I think that’s also when I didn’t understand the concept of “love.” He told me that he didn’t want me to, but had I decided on my own to go, that he would visit as often as possible and call me several times a day. I was 22 and wanted him to say “just go” and break up with me for some reason. I think I’ve always been looking for a reason to go. I’ve always believed in that whole “love” thing, but looking at me, or talking to me for five minutes, probably would make that seem implausible. I guess I wanted to leave so badly that the only person who got to see me in love also had to witness me trying to run away.

Maybe part of the reason I’ve waited so long to make my desire to leave known is that I’ve always been scared of seeming vulnerable or weak. I worry about other people, and that’s part of my avoidance of vulnerability. I apologized and walked away for starting to cry twice at my mother’s funeral, and I asked my 12 year old cousin if she was alright, because she had never experienced a funeral. I remember my first funeral, even though I was 3 and my memory was limited to lifting my grandfather’s hand, and dropping it.

I still need my best friend, and she lives in New York. But I would never live in New York. Part of me wanting to leave is to give my dad the “OK” to go where he wants to retire. He always said he would never leave Chicago unless “his girls were settled.” But even if either of us came back to Chicago we would have family here. And our selfishness in not wanting out father to sell our childhood home… we can’t hold on to that. That sucks for everyone. But our parents had childhood homes, and they’re over it. You make a new home. I’d only hold on to mine because I fucking miss my mom, and all I know is my mom and I in this house. But I can’t do that.

The first time my mom heard me swear (age 3) was in this backyard. I screamed that my older cousin was an asshole for stealing my basketball. I used the correct inflection, so no one was mad. I said my first word in this house, walked for the first time in this house, and even had my first party in this house and I snuck the only boy I’ve ever loved into my bedroom and he freaked out upon hearing my dad get up to use the bathroom. Obviously it’s important to me, but while I can’t let my family and my memories hold me to one place, I can’t hold my dad back either. I have to let him fulfill his retirement wishes even though my mom isn’t here. I probably have to let him start dating at some point, but as whoever left that tacky brownish-purplish lipstick on his cheek at his congratulatory party learned, it’s going to be a while for that one.

I wish I had something to keep me here, but I don’t. My family supports my decision to go wherever I want to, and I haven’t been a girlfriend for two years, so I can leave. It’ll hurt regardless, but I need to live for myself now.

Why I sucked during my adolescent years.

Technically, I was a blessed teenager. I didn’t have greasy hair or acne, I had and still have 20/20 vision (except for that time I purposely scratched my cornea to get out of Sunday school), I never needed braces, and I was used to being gangly and tall because I was one of the shortest people in my family. And personally, I think I had great taste in music, but that’s because I was the younger sibling. But unless you grew up to be an affluent frat boy, you, like me, probably had a horrible time in junior high and high school.

I also have a sick memory so none of this shit is going to fall out of my brain anytime soon.

1. I got picked on relentlessly in junior high. The details of which are pretty fuzzy to me now because everyone gets picked on and I just accepted that early on. I was cool with being a 5’8″ 12 year old. But the one case of being picked on I will never forget from junior high was my infamous cold sore. Thanks to my father’s bullshit genes, and prior to the knowledge of the expensive-as-fuck-but-completely-worth-it-Abreva, I got cold sores in junior high a couple of times. The worst, however, was during the year/semester we had a goofy and ridiculously disturbing foreign religion teacher. I had gotten my first cold sore that year, and regardless of my pleading with mother, I had to go to school. The creepy religion teacher also had a cold sore. Cue infinite ammo for other preteens to destroy me. “Haha! You made out with the teacher!” At this point, I’d full on mouth kiss whoever invented Abreva, since, you know, I won’t have a cold sore.

2. I was scared of boys, but also only friends with boys. My best girl friends from grade school and I went to different high schools because they lived in Oak Park/River Forest, and I got sent to private Christian school because I lived in Chicago (dad wouldn’t let his daughters into the Chicago public school system, either), and wanted to make an effort to not glue ourselves to each other, as if we didn’t pick each other up from school or practice/get coffee with each other/sometimes do each other’s homework because I suck at math and they can’t write papers/hangout on the weekends anyway.

But I digress. I was bad at boys. Every time a guy would ask me on a date or said he liked me, I would say “No,” and go about my business, yet I only hungout with boys and managed to compose a completely anatomically correct penis in ceramics class despite never having seen a real one before. I “went out” with a guy for a month as a freshman and ended up dumping him because I was tired of asking my mom to drive me to Downers Grove to hangout with him. He transferred schools and I kept about my business. I didn’t like teenagers even when I was one, and I figured I couldn’t balls up and talk to a guy I liked without turning red anyway. I tried once! But I proceeded to turn red and slammed my head into my locker. Now I only turn red if someone smacks me in the face. At least by junior year I had tricked a Fenwick senior into picking me up whenever I wanted because I didn’t have a car and I told my mom he was gay so she’d let me break curfew. It was his fault I almost changed my number after college.

Oh, and I didn’t make out with a boy until prom night. And I did that because I was drunk in a hot tub. At least I grew some balls and went with the guy I wanted to go with because I asked him to his own prom. I never went to my own prom. My guess is they monitored everyone to “make room for Jesus.”

3. I didn’t like leaving my room by the time I reached 16. I had stopped wearing all Abercrombie & Fitch and started dressing like Ally Sheedy in The Breakfast Club, dyed my hair black, and liked to lock myself in my room blasting The Cure. On vinyl. Because I was also kind of a pretentious music snob who would trick my friends into going to record stores with me on the weekends. My parents LOVED this behavior. How happy would you be if you had a teenage daughter who was quiet because she wasn’t running around in your face, but also wasn’t out doing drugs/getting pregnant/doing whatever cooler teenagers did?

I spent so much time in my room “being an individual” that for my 16th birthday, my mom took me to a tanning salon because I was “too pale for summer” as my birthday is in June. However, she bought me an iPod for my birthday, so I loaded it with The Cure, The Smiths, Depeche Mode, and Jesus & Mary Chain and also locked my door so I wouldn’t have to leave again.

That’s not to say that I didn’t know what was going on in the outside world, though. People called my flip phone from parties to say I sucked, they hated me, and to ask if I was a witch. I said “K.” Robert Smith and Morrissey kinnnnddd of prepared me for that.

We all got death threats once in a while, right?

4. I had really boring arguments with my parents. I didn’t get into a lot of trouble in high school, because I didn’t see the point. I was bored the whole time, but that’s when I’d usually just sit on my bed, write bullshit, and plan for college. The biggest fight I got in with my parents was because I went to a party at 15, smoked pot for a second, lied about it, and ended up caught later anyway. My parents ripped up my concert tickets and then told me I couldn’t go to my homecoming or my friends’ homecoming. I went to both, but no concert, which was what I was really pissed about. I always got pissed about concerts. I was only allowed to see Depeche Mode as a teenager if I went with my much older cousin, and I wasn’t allowed to see New Order because “Depeche Mode is basically the same thing, isn’t it?” I didn’t fight with my parents much at all after turning 16, learning the train system/directions to drive places, and having shitty coffee shop and record store jobs that were solely to afford concerts, which I almost always went to alone.

5. I dressed like a toolbag. Everyone had weird phases of dressing as teenagers. I had too many. I wore a lot of cargo pants at 14, and by 15 was really into Abercrombie & Fitch, but also wearing the goofiest and sluttiest shit to concerts. I was a fucking dominatrix for Halloween when I was a 15 year old virgin. I had a whip and real handcuffs. I hadn’t even kissed a boy yet. I barely knew what a dominatrix was, but I knew enough to get out of the house before my dad saw my outfit. My cousin borrowed that costume the following year. She was 34. I’d like to know what her costume conversations were like at the party she went to. “Oh, my dominatrix costume? I borrowed it from my little cousin! She’s a high school sophomore.”

I wore a lot of eyeliner, fishnets and miniskirts as a teenager. I passed for 21 at 15. I wore fishnets, platform heels, a miniskirt, and a skintight top to a concert at 15, and a drunk as shit 30 year old said he “wanted to look up my skirt.” You’d think I had learned right then and there to stop dressing like an asshole. It was also snowing at this time, as it was December in Chicago, and my mom dropped me and my goofy dude friends at this concert at House of Blues. Yet there I was, sluttin’ it up. Or at least looking like I was.

By 17 I pretty much just started cutting up t-shirts and wearing them as miniskirts. Or wearing a giant t-shirt over tights with high boots and calling it an outfit. I blame Lindsay Lohan.

6. I didn’t plan very well for college because I was, and still am, too idealistic. I applied to schools in New York, Rhode Island (why?), Nashville, and Chicago. I really wanted to apply to a few schools in California, but my mother told me I would barely ever be able to come home because it’s so expensive. The school in Chicago, my backup school, was the one I actually went to. I got into one of the two schools in New York, and I got into the ones in Rhode Island and Nashville. Mom let me drink wine when I got rejected from my top school in Manhattan. I think I only chose staying in Chicago because while preparing to choose a college, a friend and I went down to the lakefront at night and I got all into the Chicago skyline and said “FINE I’M GONNA STAY HERE.”

Mistakes were made, things went wrong! My sister and I ended up at the same school for three years, despite our four year age gap, so that was an awkward reliving of grade school.

But that’s fine, I had a part time job doing her homework for $30 per assignment, I learned that I’m full of shit, hipsters are garbage people, I can get published by being a douchebag, if you flirt with boys they will give you beer but you’ll have to make up a fake name so they can’t find you later, and that I can graduate in five years if I start college as a music business major, decide I want to be a journalism major, realize I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing so I drop all of my classes, delete all social media, turn off my phone and leave the country for a bit, then come back to major in fiction writing but graduate with a degree in journalism and literature anyway!

BEING A TEENAGER SEEMED SO GREAT, DIDN’T IT?

I thought Tinder was a phone game to play while I pee.

I suck at dating. It’s never been a secret. Men who have seriously dated me know that I’ve never been good with the actual act of going on a date. Even in my most serious relationship I suggested not going out on dates because we were both cursed with shitty incomes at the time and it didn’t make sense to be elaborate when we knew we loved each other and shit. I’ve always hated Valentine’s Day and every single time that “holiday” came around when I had a boyfriend, I suggested we just invite our guy friends over to drink and watch movies. I always found a dude waking me up to say goodbye before he has to go to a meeting for a few hours on my day off way more appealing than some cheesy disgusting Valentine’s Day bullshit. My mother was never ok with my lackadaisical approach to that dating shit but it’s just not me.

I’ve been single since the spring of 2012 with the exception of a few “I guess we’re ‘dating'” things here and there, and someone told me about Tinder when I was drunk, so I downloaded the app.

I would almost exclusively “swipe” through the selection of bros while I was drunk or peeing, referring to the app as “Brokemon.” I’d get a kick out of it when I’d see profiles of guys I knew, and analyze my best dude friends’ profiles to help them get girls, which I guess worked out as a few of my friends ended up with legitimate relationships afterwards. However I’ve had many dating blunders from this app.

Date #1 may have been really good looking and tall, but told me upfront that he’s a serious vegan and refuses anything that came from an animal without its consent. I wear leather every single day, love meat, and can make a kickass steak that I prefer to be a little bloody. I ate nothing but beef jerky before our date. He gave me a run down of “vegan beers” (is that even real?), went through my phone while I was in the bathroom, got all PETA on me, then kissed me and ruined my favorite TV show’s finale for me after I told him I hadn’t seen the last episode yet.

Date #2 seemed so perfect that one of my best friends and I spent three months trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with him. If you’re 6’4″ and a former college football player whose awkward phase didn’t extend past age 7 before you turned into a god, you have to be hiding something. But with his constant “I’m completely giving a shit about you” schtick, he either had to be undercover insane or I was just too pleased to question anything. Then I noticed that every time he acted like he wanted to immerse himself into my social life, he wouldn’t tell me he was around until the last minute. “I’m in River North, come here,” and trying to pick me up at three in the morning after I told him I had to be at work at 7:30 am. He dumped me when I was on vacation in California to see my newly-birthed baby cousin.

Date #3 was a lot like me. Which, I will appreciate. If a guy can dish it and take it, I’m into it. But there have to be areas of the relationship where you’re not total douchelords to each other. If we’re that mean to each other it starts to feel like we’re brother and sister. You call me “mean and annoying” and I say “you’re the worst person I’ve ever met”? We shouldn’t be dating. Please tell me more about your rich parents while I vomit on your watch collection.

The app itself is more preferable to dating sites I won’t touch because the only way anyone can talk to you on Tinder is if you mutually like each other, but that doesn’t stop good look looking losers from using the “If I’m a dick to her she’ll respond” approach. I don’t mind a little bit of douchebag, but that’s only if a serious attraction has been established, and I’ll never be okay with a guy who can’t spell, or who puts “your” when he means “you’re.”

Also, fuck Chris Conte for not swiping right for me.

What happens when you lose a parent?

I remember being 14 and hating everything, because I was in high school and that’s what 14 year old girls do. They hate high school and wish they were adults, and they hate their moms. I hated my mom when I was 14 because she wouldn’t drive me to Downer’s Grove to hangout with my boyfriend on Valentine’s Day, and because when I was 15 she wouldn’t let me go to the house of a boy I liked on Halloween. And I hated my mom because when I was a sophomore she made fun of a senior boy who liked me, thinking he was the senior boy I actually had a crush on.

I remember being 14 and thinking I wouldn’t be able to handle the day either of my parents died.

When I was 21 my mother was diagnosed with cancer.

Everyone thinks turning 21 is the best thing that happens in early adulthood. I turned 21 on a Sunday and didn’t care. Five months later, I was sitting in my jeep waiting to go to class and my mother called me from the hospital. She said she’s fine and not to worry but that the doctor found cancer in her lung. She told me to go to class and hung up. I had class with my boyfriend, who routinely met me beforehand. I told him I would tell our teacher that I would go home after my presentation, but as soon as I got in his office I mumbled a bunch of shit while apologizing for profusely crying. He sent me home, and immediately emailed me a “thank you” note for CRYING. He didn’t think I had feelings, until I cried in his office. I didn’t think you had to show feelings in college classes.

I didn’t tell my best friends for a month, that my mom was sick. I’ve always had a sense when things would go well, or badly. And I felt they would go well this time. I told some of my friends when I was drunk at my boyfriend’s apartment. I said “You’re not allowed to pity me, or get upset,” and then I told them. Part of me thinks I wanted to feel okay because my sister had just moved away with her boyfriend.

My mother had surgery to remove half of her lung. My boyfriend and I visited her in the hospital, and she was happy and made fun of us because that’s stereotypical in our family. It was the last time I could deal with her treatment without crying.

When my mother started chemo, I hadn’t dealt with the fact that I had always viewed cancer as something I, or my family, would never have to deal with. I couldn’t shave my mother’s head. I couldn’t even help. I’ve always had long, thick hair. My mother is who I got that from. I helped shave the head of one of my best friends when he had cancer later on, yet I couldn’t help shave my own mother’s head?

Less than a year after I graduated college, my mother was declared “in remission.” The doctors said she was cancer free. We went to California to visit my sister and my cousin, and my mom yelled at me for dating someone too old for me, and then told some British boys to “try eating merkin.” Even with her hair being grey, and two inches long, my mother looked like herself, and she looked beautiful.

Two months later, my mother called me from work to tell me she needs me to take her to the ER. The doctors found a large, inoperable tumor in her brainstem. I had given up drinking two days prior due to a traumatic breakup, and after getting my mom to the ER, I passed out.

Looking back, I wouldn’t have thought that the place I dropped my mother off in 2012 would be the same place I would be entering the night I was told of her death in 2013.

I didn’t spend 2011-2013 being a good person. I was horrible. I broke up with someone I’ve known since high school, I drank heavily, I didn’t care about myself, I was mean to everyone, I stopped caring. I found a month of forgetting to eat funny. I found fainting and ending up in the ER funny.

After I graduated college, my mother’s health declined. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough for me to realize I was fucking loser and needed to take care of the woman who raised my dumb ass. It wasn’t her fault I was dumb. But I dedicated my time to making sure the house was clean and that my mother was eating healthy food. I don’t know why I know how to cook properly, I think it was an accident.

I spent over a year being my mother’s caretaker. This didn’t bother me, except for sometimes the steroids made her another person. Sometimes they made her so mean that I told my best friend that I wished it was all over, and that she was gone. I regret saying that to him. He knew I didn’t mean it literally, but no one thinks about these things until their parent is gone.

We got into a massive fight a few months before she passed away. I met my father at the hospital before my mother’s procedure. She perked up and said “I didn’t think you would come, thank you and I love you.” I started crying because you never realize how badly you hurt your parents until they forgive you without saying so, or without blaming you. I don’t even remember what the fight was about, but I’m almost sure it was my fault.

Before my mother went into surgery, she saw a boy, high school-age in a letterman jacket, and he was bald and going in for treatment. She said she wished she could give herself for him to recover. We told her to stop, but in hindsight, I hope he gets to live a full life. We may have been selfish in saying that to her, but no one realizes that until later.

I thought my mom would be okay after that procedure. Because that’s what the doctors told me. I wish I knew that was the last Christmas I would spend with my mother.

I regret going on trips last year and being a shithead about responding to my parents. I regret thinking my mom would come home after I took her to the ER again last summer. I regret the last day I spent with her, because I went home, and hours later thought that I could go back and tell my mother that even though I had been her little helper, I’m sorry I was so out of control, I’m sorry I was so hard to contact, I’m sorry I was so mean, and that I would be okay and would grow up, and that I loved her more than anything. I was about to go back to the hospital to say these things to my mother, but I heard my father’s phone ring. Not even a minute later, he came outside and told me my mother had passed away. I screamed “NO” and ran upstairs to hug my older sister. We never hug each other. The only other time I can remember, had been the previous night when my mom had stayed up late to see me after a music festival. I wish I had skipped the whole shitty music festival.

The night my mother passed away, I called my aunt, my godmother, and she had to hold me even though she’s six inches shorter, because I didn’t want to see my mother’s body. My father covered her and 20 minutes later a nurse came in to scream at me. “Who covered her? Did you? You did, didn’t you? I’m uncovering her.” I’ve never yelled at anyone with as much hatred as I did to this woman, but I had heard her yelling at my father five minutes prior, and if my mother taught me anything, it’s to stick up for family. I’m betting this shitty nurse remembers me in 50 years.

My best friend flew home from New York for the funeral, which was clearly tailgated due to our upbringing. I lost my shit seeing my mother in a casket. I remembered being young and thinking this wouldn’t happen until I was my mother’s age. She was 57.

Half of my father’s police district showed up, and any friend I had in town was present.

All I could think of was that my mom told me “Make sure your father is okay, make sure dad eats.”

My dad doesn’t know how to cook, and doesn’t eat much. Unless someone cooks for him. My sister and I got into a fight the day after our mother passed away because she didn’t approve of how I was grieving. All I would let myself care about was my father. She had been away when my mom got sick, and I told her that the only reason I think mom got better for a few weeks was because she came home, but that we didn’t choose for her to be our mom. Our father chose to marry her, and however hard it is for us to lose her, it might be harder for him.

I still have a night every month where I lose my shit missing my mother, but I still remember what she taught me. She taught me to take care of myself, she taught me what’s important in relationships (even if she hated that I think Valentine’s Day is dumb as hell), she taught me to forgive, she made me realize how important family is, and to care about my sister even if we want to smack each other in the face now and then. But that list is endless, isn’t it?

I’ll never stop wishing that I hugged my mother every single day.

Life advice I am not qualified to dish out, part 2.

Take your damn vitamins. Unless you want to die inside from something other than feelings, you should probably take your vitamins. Personally I think multivitamins are stupid, so I take seven vitamins. Probably unrelated, I feel like shit most of the time. But at least I took my Vitamin D, C, B, etc….

Stop poking people on Facebook. Why the fuck are you still doing this? It makes me uncomfortable. Nearly as uncomfortable as if you had poked me in real life, which I am wildly opposed to because being touched when I don’t want to be touched is beneath me.

If you call someone and they don’t pick up, don’t call every hour, on the hour, for multiple hours. There are exceptions to this, such as, if you are trying to find out if a loved one is missing/dead/in a crack den, but most often you should just leave it at one phone call. I can’t even explain how fucking pissed I was one day when some douchelord called me when I was hanging out with a friend, and I ignored the call because, bitch I’m busy, which resulted in “Where are you call me back what are you doing” style text messages. I simply said “I’m busy.” However, for the next twelve hours I was unlucky enough to receive thirteen more phone calls and ten more text messages. I couldn’t figure out how to block a phone number because I’m technologically retarded so I was extremely close to having my dad pick up my phone, because no guy wants to obsessively call a girl and have to answer to her angry father. Especially when said father has a lot of guns.

Use a face mask at least once a week. I know it’s fucking bougie as hell to use a face mask, but having pores wider than Paris Hilton’s vagina is way worse. I have a face mask on right now.

Don’t date anyone who isn’t at least as smart, if not smarter than you. My mother told me that I have to learn to stop dating “fucking dumb pussies” and start dating men who are at least as smart as me. I’m going to aim for men who are smarter than me, because my dad still does my taxes and I don’t imagine I’ll ever learn how because I don’t care about taxes.

Embrace weird compliments. To this date the best compliment I’ve ever been given is “You look like a Barbie Robert Smith would play with.” That might be because every time I’m less than happy, I’ve been lying in the dark blasting The Cure over the last ten years. But I turned out sort of okay.

YOLO! While I hate the term and my eleven year old cousin uses it and has an Instagram account full of that shit, I understand the meaning as long as it doesn’t upset other people. Which is why after the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup, I went to Wrigleyville via cab, got sprayed with champagne, and went up to a stranger and said “You look like Jonathan Toews, wanna make out for a second?” and made out with him, then ran away. Because it’s the cup aka yolo. Had I not been “yoloing” I’d have thought of the repercussions of him saying no. But he didn’t say no so I win.

If you have a crush, grab their butt or something. I have never been shy about telling a guy I liked him. Even if I feel like I look like microwaved shit that day, if I want to tell a guy I like him, I’ll figure out a way to do it. I rarely have crushes, but I’ve at least gotten to kiss every guy I’ve ever liked because I had the balls to say something.

Don’t stay away from boys (or girls, whatever). My sister gave me a long lecture about staying away from boys until I told her I’m just as bad as them. To quote Dawson’s Creek, “Stay away; that boy is trouble.” “Aren’t they all?” Same applies to girls. You just have to figure out which kind of “bad” is just for making out and which kind of bad is entertaining enough for you to date.

If someone mentions someone else you see while you’re seeing them, stop. I don’t know if it’s a new thing or not, but if a guy (or girl) is kissing you and says “I can see why *bleep* wants to do this so often,” stop what you’re doing. That’s just weird and over the line. And you’d think FWB (friends with benefits) couldn’t get any looser.

Don’t run around calling everyone a cunt. Last time someone called me a cunt, I hadn’t done anything particularly cunty, because I hadn’t said anything, so I decided to say something cunty. And hit below the belt I did. See what happens when you call someone a cunt? They’ll be a cunt! And they won’t feel bad about being a cunt!

Never apologize to someone via text if you did something really shitty. I hate text apologies. If you can’t do it in person, then at least call them. I’ve never responded to a text from someone apologizing for being a massive fuckwit if they just spent two seconds tapping away on their iPhone. Fuck you and your lame ass apology.

Dudes my age, what the fuck is with you and not knowing who John Hughes is? I get it, most of his movies were from a few years prior to my birth, but I don’t think I want to know anyone who hasn’t seen The Breakfast Club, let alone allow them to see my tits. What were you even doing as a teenager, dude? Not feeling up angsty chicks in a basement?

Get a therapist! I got a therapist mostly for the ability to start a conversation with “My therapist says…” Because who doesn’t love doing that? Paying someone to listen to my annoyances AND tell me what I want to hear every week? Awesome! She told me not to give a shit about anyone else’s problems because I’m the kid whose mom has cancer so, sorry I’m busy.

I’m sorry I’m acting like Tara Reid today.

Fine. I’m difficult. But I blame the fact that I was born a Gemini. I was meant to be a brat. I find most people irritating, so it’s not always the best to put myself in situations where I must deal with individuals when I’m tired, cranky, had four cigarettes and five cups of coffee for breakfast and a mint for lunch while I sifted through 18 emails I couldn’t give a fuck about because I foolishly allowed Gmail push notifications on my iPhone and I have no idea how to turn that shit off because of technological retardation. It’s a disease, I promise.

I have this condition where, if someone is blindingly irritating while they’re speaking to me, my eyebrow will be raised to the point where I will be afflicted with a migraine after 20 minutes, and I judge things like heinous fuckups in their hairlines. I was raised like this, believe it or not. My family finds my incomprehensibly rude musings to be more entertaining than, well, rude as fucking hell. Trust me, the migraine I end up with is serious punishment. Migraines make me blind and then I throw up.

Anyway, I had the misfortune of making an appointment to speak to a balding doofus in an area of Chicago littered with projects and a lot of parking lots. Reason why I was doing this is beside the point, and largely unimportant and I don’t care. The building in which I wasted precious time was, apparently, a former drug den. Which totally makes sense because as I was sitting in the waiting room I delighted in peering out the window and watching a drug deal occur in the adjacent parking lot. But don’t worry, like all shit neighborhoods in Chicago, the area is “really coming back.” That just means they put million dollar condos across the street from the projects and dilapidated buildings.

When asked if I know why there are so many parking lots in the area, I said “gang violence?” I was being a dick, but apparently my answer was correct. I didn’t receive a gold star for my brilliance, which only fueled my distaste for the afternoon.

I had already given up on the day when I had attempted to balance a book, my phone, a pack of cigarettes, and a cup of coffee in one arm while walking. I failed and the coffee money shot was less than promising. Good news is, this is Chicago, so when someone screams over something, no one pays attention.

After my less than attractive public scream, I realized I had spilled half a cup of coffee in my hair, which I didn’t wash because washing my hair projects the idea that I give a damn about speaking to the person I am going to see, and this man rescheduled my appointment without even 24 hours notice, so we’re not friends. The fact that my appointment was changed from 10 AM to 3:30 PM meant I got to endure absurdly inappropriate amounts of traffic, which translated into my spending 20 extra minutes thinking about all of the specific strangers I don’t like at my gym. I don’t care how “over it” you are, dude/ma’am/whatever you are, those seats attached to weight machines aren’t for resting. There are real chairs at my gym, but, fine. You guys go ahead and sit on stuff, I’m not your mom, whatever.

I don’t know if it was an omen or something, but I naturally assumed that this blowhard I was meeting with would have a brainless wad of tackiness as a receptionist, which normally I wouldn’t be too concerned with, but I had to sit and listen to this woman loudly conduct a personal call while I was waiting in a room which was decorated oddly similar to Southwest Airlines. I’m in my mid-twenties, so I’m a bit taken aback by someone in their 40s spelling out “fuck” instead of just flat out saying it. Did she think I was 6? I look younger than I am, but I won’t flatter myself into thinking my skin is as perfect as it was in 1995. Also I can most certainly figure out what “F-U-C-K” spells, as I dropped that word a few times during my actual appointment. The receptionist also seemed a bit concerned with something that was “hella bougie ass” in the office, and I’m just going to assume that she was talking about me, the only one in the waiting room aside from a man in sweatpants who was talking about chairs to no one in particular. Sweatpants aren’t bougie, and I happened to have shown up in an unfortunately “bougie ass” outfit I bought when I was drunk and bored in Laguna Beach. There’s not much to do in Laguna Beach.

I’m not normally a total twat when I first meet people. In fact, I’m usually fairly sweet unless I get the feeling that you’re full of lies/trying to kill me/have something weird locked in your basement/grew up in that part of New Jersey responsible for the comeback of neon pink and leopard print. I’m also less than thrilled with anyone who has a poor handshake. Be it weak, limp, dainty or sweaty, if it’s anything less than firm and assertive, I suspect you’re hiding something. And this man I was meeting seemed to be hiding something. He also had very small hands and was profusely sweating. Very small men make me uneasy because of that whole Napoleon Complex thing I’ve heard so much about. We get it, you’re mad, Tom Cruise wears lifts and stands on Oprah’s couch to combat this problem so there’s hope for you. That was a word used to describe me today – “combative.” At that point I said “I’m irritated.” Then quit speaking.

I now understand why Naomi Campbell threw that phone at her maid’s head. I don’t have a maid, but I totally get it. I was probably just too tired to reach my hand into my coat pocket to get my phone and throw it. But my migraine was setting in a little at the time so I figured I deserved a rest.

I haven’t gone blind or thrown up yet, but the day is still relatively young.

You can’t flip your hair to get out of shit as an adult.

Joan Didion said, “My own fantasies of what life would be like at 24 tended to the more spectacular.” And I tend to agree, as I turn 24 in two months.

I’m sure as a little kid, maybe five or six, I had a wonderfully delusional take on what would happen between then and now. I didn’t like to speak much back then, unless what came out of my mouth was a new swear word I learned from eavesdropping, or something I read that could not wait for my mother to get off the phone with my aunt. It was always imperative that I tell her what I’d learned about how sharks have serrated teeth or something, or how my older sister knocked my teddy bear out of my hand and I’m taking her to court, or to use an insult I’d picked up from The Sandlot. It would have been pretty unsettling for my childhood psyche to imagine a future like the one I have. My aunt recently told me that, probably due to my chronic over-analyzing, I cooked up quite the terrifying childhood for myself. So it’s probably best that my dreams for the future were more Disney-esque than reality.

At this point I’m more liable to come off as a person who lacked a childhood. I assure you, I had a nice childhood. There is photographic evidence, even. However I’m still unclear as to how I managed to smile and laugh while wearing an denim vest/khaki shorts number identical to my sister, who is four years my senior. She usually had a puppet attached to her arm, which I’ll point out I found that to be more terrifying than entertaining. Her puppet had “gender issues.”

One of my closest friends told me recently that I have to stop acting like I’m in a movie or something. I shouldn’t be a shithead and pretend it’s okay just “because I’m pretty and can flip my hair and it will all end up okay.” Because it won’t always end up okay, and I’m not eighteen anymore, so this behavior is anything but adorable. It hurt to hear, and it made me mad, but the sentiment was necessary.

It’s easier to come off as though you’re full of ravenous poison than it is to be a good person. It’s easier because it’s lazy. It’s always going to be easiest to be mean. I’m not exactly sure where I picked up this bitchy shell, but it’s getting a bit too tight.

Any character in television or film who holds a single one of my uncouth qualities is almost always the preferred one to be killed off first. I’m still in my fated Marissa Cooper (from The O.C.) “feral phase,” as my best friend put it. Do you know what happened when Marissa stopped being a feral twat who put stolen vodka into her coffee? She died. Somewhere in between there she made out with a lot of cute guys. One of those cute guys died during her brief time of normalcy between feral periods. He fell off a cliff, smashing a bottle. No one fell off a cliff and died during my break from feral activities, I just hit my head so hard I forgot what part of life mattered to me.

I got in trouble, but instead of having fun when Riff Raff bailed me out, I wanted to go home. I was Selena Gomez, cuffs in less than appropriate attire, and going home because the damage had been done and I was over it. (Note: Riff Raff didn’t bail me out personally.)

Any time I’ve gotten into trouble, I’ve avoided playing “the cancer card.” I didn’t want to seem like the little girl who is just acting batty because her mother had lung cancer, chemotherapy, surgery, biopsies, brain cancer, radiation, more biopsies, more chemotherapy and now can’t drive or walk properly without assistance, and sometimes she forgets what happened two minutes later. Either that or she takes trips down memory lane so far that we’re back to talking about the time I used to chew on sand just to spite my parents. She said she always knew I was going to be more difficult than my sister.

I didn’t want to be the girl who took over the parenting role too soon and freaked out. Even tough, maybe that would have gotten me out of a few scrapes. Being the untouchable girl instead of the one with bruised wrists and a stream of eyeliner down her left cheek. My left eye has always been more active than my right. Mom says that was because my tear ducts were blocked as an infant. I imagine they liked me as a baby better before I realized I was capable of crying. I started crying when they shaved my mother’s head, but I’ve been pretty good at avoiding any facial liquid for a long time since.

I started building a mean shell because I was sick of how often I was being told that my mother has one foot in the grave. It made me angry, and even angrier when they would tell me I’m not doing enough to help, or that I should enjoy these last few months, because she won’t have many more.

I’ve been breaking my fucking back for my family. I run all of the errands, I drop off and pick up medication prescriptions, I drive to the hospital, I clean the house, I cook all of the meals, I make sure my mother and my father eat. Sometimes I don’t eat because I’m tired, and I prefer my parents eat first. My dad works overtime in the city as a lieutenant because my mother, who was a registered nurse, is unable to work in her condition. They’re still paying off my five years of ridiculous and expensive art school and their insurance won’t cover the next MRI on another spot in her brain.

I suppose anyone who likes to poke fun here and there about a 23 year old woman living with her parents just lost a joke, because I live at home because I take care of my sick mother. But that makes me sound like a saint, or at least a better person than I’m starting to think is reality. I get irritable, and I feel I deserve a break here and there. So I take a break and sometimes I get into trouble. I used to wake up feeling like I was in trouble, even when I hadn’t done a single thing wrong. Now if I wake up with that feeling, it’s because I know I fucked up and I have the restraint marks on my wrists to prove it.

Why am I telling people this? Because I’m blaming myself, because it is my fault. And I’d like for it to be known that I don’t glide around like a wicked witch who has yet to be smashed by a house. I know when I’m the problem and I was raised to know that I’m the one who has the ability to pick myself back up again. I’ve had too many saving graces, and whoever my guardian angel is (Ryan Dunn, is that you? Liza? Fuck.) has their work cut out of them. I’m a piece of fucking work. A guy at a bar said that to me once. That’s another reason I avoid dating. Not because a sleazy guy in a sleazy bar called me a piece of work, but because I need to be told no sometimes, and I’ve never dated anyone who had the balls to stop me and tell me no about something. A close friend said that to me recently, too. She said she wishes people would just start saying no to me, but they don’t. I just flip my hair and win like a total asshole. Perhaps I would do well in politics.

I’m not blaming anyone for not being able to say no to me. I can be manipulative because I want what I want. And most of this falls on me, I should just be able to take control of myself on a more regular basis instead of surrounding myself with people who let me loose like a wild wolf. But as I get older, and the fact that I’m an adult, makes it clear that I can’t always do things on my own. I do need to be around people who have the strength to tell me no, or that I’m acting out of character. I was on the phone with one of my best friends earlier and she said “You’ve always been one of my most responsible friends, just the past few months everything has been coming down on you at once. You’ll get out of this.” And while she’s right, and I hope her last statement is true, I know it’s on me.

I can only cut out so many shitheads from my life before I realize I’m a shithead too, and I don’t want to be a shithead. I don’t want to be feral Marissa Cooper anymore. ODing in TJ didn’t seem that fun anyway.

Anecdotal information to solidify the theory that I’m terrible.

I spent a large chunk of my life being absurdly embarrassing, so it’s pretty hard for me to actually get embarrassed by anything these days. And unlike Taylor Swift, I know I’m the problem. So here is a list of embarrassing things I have done or said in my lifetime that shows that I might just suck:

I flicked myself in the eye to get out of Sunday school. I was in second grade and hated Sunday school because, it’s Sunday school, so whilst my mother was at work and my father was in charge, I flicked myself in the eye. I scratched my cornea and told my mother that I “ran into a doorknob” because that seemed less embarrassing. I had to wear glasses for six months. I also briefly had an eyepatch. But I didn’t have to go to Sunday school, and that’s what’s important here.

A bike cop tried to arrest me at NIU. I was 21 and stupid drunk, and when I’m stupid drunk I like to take walks. This walk landed me in front of a frat house. Said frat house had giant gold lions and giant gold animals are cool if you’re a drunk idiot. I tried to take one, however, it was too heavy for my lady arms. I was also still holding a can of Bud Light. A bike cop strolled up and yelled at me, so I laughed and went to go on my merry way. But no, he wanted me to pour my beer out and he lectured me about something I don’t remember. Being a total idiot, I said “What, are you going to arrest me and put me on your handlebars?” I ran away muttering about how dumb everything is and opened another beer.

I gave myself a concussion. Ice is fucking stupid.

I put a peanut butter sandwich in the VCR. I was a small child, I’m not sure why I did this, as I have a vague recollection of telling my mother that I’d totally eat peanut butter sandwiches all the time forever and ever. Incidentally I don’t really eat peanut butter as an adult. I ruined the VCR.

I cut my hair off with sewing scissors. At age three, I had lovely, long dark blonde hair. Mom was sewing something ridiculous and giving me scraps of fabric to cut up, because I loved to cut shit up as a child. She stopped giving me scraps, I got bored, and chopped my hair off to my chin. I wanted more attention, so I went up behind my mother and cut her hair to her chin, too. Twinsies! I cried at the hair salon thinking they would glue my hair back on. And then my hair turned brown over the next couple months. This lead to an identity crisis where I refused to look in reflective surfaces.

I cut my hair off with cuticle scissors. I was really bored after school when I was 15, and also really tired as I hadn’t slept in over 24 hours (finals probably). This lead to thinking such as “Perhaps it is time to have bangs again.” My sister wouldn’t share the regular scissors so I worked with what I had. I chopped some bangs with the cuticle scissors real quick, took a nap, and woke up with the immediate thought of “Shit, what did I do.” I figured dyeing my hair burgundy would fix this. It didn’t.

For many years I thought Melissa Etheridge and Rod Stewart were the same person. It’s still really fucking hard to tell them apart. Same goes for Jodie Foster and Helen Hunt.

The first time I figured I was depressed, I was 13, and it was because Taylor Hanson got married. He has so many kids now and I just don’t understand how life ended up this way. Also, he bumped into me really hard once and didn’t apologize.

I got really drunk on Christmas Eve when I was 20 and told the whole room that my great aspiration in life is to be a Revolutionary War reenactor. No good excuse for that one, except I fucking love The Patriot. Everyone just looked at me weird so I said “Fine, you guys don’t get it. Go ahead and think I’m weird. I’m going to go sit on the porch.” Even the neighbors thought I was weird and their kid actually was a war reenactor. This is actually why I don’t drink white wine very often.

I got really drunk on Christmas Eve when I was 23 (Ok, last Christmas Eve) and gave my 11 year old cousin a lecture about boys. I know nothing about dating, nothing. I date like a frat douche. I judge men on their shoes. When men hit on me I give them fake names. I gave up halfway through the lecture because the booze hit me so I just put on Pretty In Pink and told her to watch it and figure it out.

I nearly lost the bottom of my bikini after jumping off of a boat. The boat was full of 14 year old boys. I was 19. This was not the best scenario for me. At least I ended up tan.

I called one of my teachers “Dad.” I was really fucking tired and you cannot send a little tired child to school and expect nothing to happen because of it. He made fun of me. I was in third grade.

I got hit in the head really hard with a tennis ball during practice in high school because I was staring at a boy for some reason. My coach said “And that’s what you get for having hormones.” He said this loudly. In hindsight, the getting hit in the head with a ball part wasn’t so embarrassing, as I have been hit in the head with a basketball, a baseball, a softball, a golfball, a soccer ball, a hockey puck, a kickball/dodgeball, the ball I used to throw for my dogs, a football, a volleyball, a frisbee, and a goddamn birdie.

“It’s so swollen I couldn’t fit a dick in there if I tried.” I said this to my mother, about my jaw, at a family Christmas party. I was sober.

I read a Twilight book in public. I was also wearing Uggs and jeans. A friend saw me, said “I’m so mad at your outfit right now,” and no one saw me for the next eight months because I went off the grid and left the country and didn’t tell anyone. I’m really sad that someone’s last memory of me for more than half a year was Twilight and Ugg boots.

I jumped into Lake Michigan at night, while drunk. Not my finest hour. I had a life vest on, but I ripped it off and threw it.

I hugged a cab driver. He listened to me complain about my weird ~love life.~ That deserves an embrace. But if I ever do that again I hope I’m not wearing a rubber miniskirt.

I had a sexy dream about Brody Jenner and I told people about it. I watched a marathon of Laguna Beach and that was the result. Also the dream wasn’t so much sexy as it was a mashup of Laguna Beach and that scene from Jackass where Steve-O puts shrimp in his mesh bathing panties.

I accidentally kissed my stalker. I was also wearing a party dress. I ended up puking in the middle of the street 15 minutes later so I think everything worked out how it was supposed to.

I think leggings are pants. I have a big butt, okay.

Sometimes when my phone rings I just stare at it. I hate talking on the phone because I like to do things constantly. Maybe I’d like to pee, maybe I’d like to shower, maybe I just hate you. It’s really hard to be on the phone during these times.

When I was 17 I laughed at a boy I hated for asking me to prom. I will say the laughter was an accident, but considering how it went down, I couldn’t control myself. I had been complaining about something in my eye, so he said “Maybe it’s a sign.” “A sign of what, that I’m going blind?!” “No… a sign that I want to go to prom with you.” Cue laughter, rejection, and me asking a boy I actually liked to go with me, and proceeding to go with him instead.

My best friend called me and said in response to my behavior over spring break “You were ACTING like a frat douche? You ARE a frat douche.” She’s right. Considering I was in the woods wearing nothing but a bikini and a leather jacket wielding a machete. I woke up one morning in a bikini, and woke up the next morning fully dressed. I’m also really good at beer bongs and beer pong and that kind of lowers my self esteem. That is, until I outdo an actual frat douche.

Sometimes after I go on a date with a guy, I block him on Facebook. To be fair, if I suspect you’re a serial killer because you stared at me without blinking for an hour while complimenting my teeth repeatedly, that’s uncomfortable for me. Also if you’re 33 and take me to FLAT IRON and spend two hours saying how “cute” it is that I’m 23 and proceed to “when I was your age” me, I hate you. If you went out with my sister once, that’s weird. If you take me with you to your AA meeting, I’m probably hungover. Because of this I haven’t accepted a date in several months.

I’m mad 50 Cent didn’t respond to me on Twitter. I had a question, which was simply “Why on earth is your cologne not called 50 Scent?” Which, is quite an important thing to wonder. If Devon Sawa can retweet me for being funny/appreciating Die Hard, 50 Cent can answer my thoughtful and deep inquiries.

When a guy I know, who has a girlfriend, sent me a dick pic, I took a screenshot. I have no real intentions with this piece of blackmail, but I did send it to my gay friend. I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again, what the fuck am I supposed to do with a dick pic? Send back “OH YEAH BABY, NICE CIRCUMCISION JOB!”?

I get irrationally angry when men think I have crushes on them. Are you Taylor Hanson? No? Then no crush. But to be perfectly honest, I am the pickiest human being when it comes to men. I get legitimate crushes on guys once every few years, and I’ve almost always ended up dating them, so my instincts are pretty good. Except for some reason almost everyone I’ve dated has a back tattoo. Do I need a therapist for that one? I don’t believe in therapists. They can’t prescribe funny pills.

When I was a bartender, I clocked a guy while I was working, then proceeded to go back to work. He shoved me because I used the men’s bathroom and he had to pee, but the line for the women’s bathroom was too long and I had not yet realized I could be like fuck yall I work here so I’m cutting in line. So, when he shoved me, I hit him and went back to business. He tried to order a drink from me five minutes later so I told him to go fuck himself.

I turn into a feral Marissa Cooper when I’m allowed to drink too much. I’ll say the hot tub is too deep, I’ll spend an hour on the phone and tell people “don’t worry about it” when they ask who I’m talking to, and I’ll go to sleep in my swimsuit.

I judge my peers when they constantly change their relationship statuses on Facebook. You were engaged last week, you were single the week before, you’re “it’s complicated” now… I’m confused, but I also think anyone who is ever “it’s complicated” on Facebook is a tool. I hide my relationship status because fuck you guys.

I can’t keep plants alive. I killed a BAMBOO plant that my exboyfriend gave me. After we broke up, I kept looking at it and saying “What, do you expect me to water you with my tears? Fuck off.” So, it died.

My college advisor told me that one of my teachers hated me because I’m “classically pretty and remind him of his first wife.” This isn’t my fault, right?

I am basically Snow White when it comes to animals. I have four squirrels who come up to me like puppies waiting to be fed everyday. Also, a possum.

I drank two dirty martinis while writing this. Shit happens.

Despite attending art school, I actually like things.

Recently one of my friends, who did not attend art school like I foolishly did, stated that art school made it seem uncool to like things. Which, is partially correct, if you like anything other than thrifting, old as fuck camera equipment, painting with your eyelashes, glitter everything, obscure foreign films, fixed gears, neon, ironic and unnecessary eyeglasses, statement mustaches…. Ok, well, art kids like a lot of things I guess, but the point is, if you like anything in a non-ironic way, or something that isn’t a pile of fucking idiocy but happens to be vintage, you’re a totally uncool douche. So, I am a totally uncool douche. Lists are uncool too so here’s a list of things stereotypical art kids really fucking hate:

Sports. This is a big one. Either the stereotypical art kid REALLY hates sports, or they ironically own an array of t-shirts with various team logos and they probably paid either two cents for these articles, or they paid $173.55 on eBay for that vintage Bears sweater but have, most likely, never had the willingness to sit through an actual football game. These people also ask things like if it’s baseball season in November and if Jay Cutler plays for the Cubs or the Sox.

The Kardashians. We get it. Kim Kardashian is pretty vapid and is only famous because Ray J peed on her and videotaped it. But come on, R. Kelly is famous and he peed on someone, but we still love him! I’m not on Kim Kardashian’s side or anything, and I think Kris Jenner probably takes pictures of Kim in the shower now and again and sends the photos to NFL players and rappers, but she’s not doing anything to me so I don’t really care what she does. And sometimes I just really wish that E! would produce a show that is solely Scott Disick and Khloe Kardashian. God, I love those two.

Things idiots like me find funny. I love the American Pie movies (none of that Naked Mile shit or whatever else they came up with between American Wedding and American Reunion), and for some reason, people tend to think I’m kidding. I’m not. I fucking love that shit. I love Seann William Scott in a totally serious way, too. His face is kind of funny but I’d completely be willing to date that guy because he’s goddamn Stifler, and I love Stifler.

Hygiene. There is a reason that when anyone compliments an art kid’s hair, the first thing out of their mouths is “It’s clean!” I used to do that too, but I tend to wash my hair ever day or two, so, I’m usually clean. I also use enough hairspray to murder the entire O-Zone layer in one go, so I need to wash my hair, and I just don’t get being a hairy girl. It lowers my self-esteem if I haven’t shaved my legs. But a lot of people in art school just don’t understand the concept of showering, shaving, brushing their teeth, washing their faces, using deodorant, or… really… anything that could be perceived as general cleanliness.

Meat. I like tofu and all, but do you have any idea how much I love meat? I love meat. I was a vegetarian for two years once, and I think it’s just because I was listening to way too much Morrissey and I was a really upsetting 16-18 year old. Impressionable mind. And have you ever been yelled at by a vegan? It’s basically like poking a bear with a stick for funsies and then dealing with the fact that you just poked a bear with a stick, aka, you’re going to get your face ripped off. I think they only get so mad because they aren’t eating meat. Also beware of the vegans who lie about being vegan in order to be Tumblr-important. They will eat your bacon when you’re not looking.

Dogs. They all seem to just really like cats. I like cats. They’re weird and cute and clean themselves, but, dogs are always way better. Ex: attack dogs, guard dogs, seeing eye dogs, dogs in general.

Guns. If I have to hear about gun control one more time, I’m going to shoot someone. (Yeah, I know, you “see what I did there.”)

Mainstream teen drama TV shows that are not Dawnson’s Creek. I get it, Dawson’s Creek was pretty good, but can we stop talking about it as if it just aired recently? I was nine when it aired, and 14 when it was snuffed out. I missed the entire boat on this. I’ve seen it, because, Netflix, but it’s not like I grew up with it. Pacey was far superior to Dawson’s whiny ass, and that’s all I care to point out. Dawson’s Creek was just that show that my older sister’s friends would watch when they were 13 and I was just like ok I don’t know what that is but that blonde guy has a big head. However, you cannot tell me that The O.C. is not an absolute masterpiece and should be referred to in all of life’s situations. Also, One Tree Hill. Chad Michael Murray in his prime copiously quoting Steinbeck. To say that I’d avoid quitting it after hitting it is an understatement.

Bret Easton Ellis. Art kids used to LOVE Bret Easton Ellis, which actually gave me something to talk to them about. However, it came out that he really loved to take Ambien and go on Twitter rants, which resulted in the fact that he thought David Foster Wallace was a dickhole, and he kind of poked fun at his death, and do you have any idea how much art kids love David Foster Wallace? Like, as much as they love knit beanies and art that makes no sense.

Malls. Malls are annoying, I get it, but if you think I am going to go to 100 different locations when I can just go to one giant cesspool, you’re insane. Also I like it when The Gap at the mall has men’s flannel shirts on sale. And I really love the scarves from Banana Republic. And pardon me if I like walking past Abercrombie and Fitch because it smells really awesome. Also I will do all of these things in 15 minutes, because if I spend more than 15 minutes at the mall, I feel like I’ve failed. I did all of my Christmas shopping one year, for five people, in under 20 minutes, including walking time. I spent a couple hundred dollars and was back home within the hour. If I’m lucky, I will get to see mall goths smoking menthol cigarettes while wearing Tripp pants, and disgruntled North Face-clad boyfriends holding their girlfriends purses outside of Bebe. It’s like going to the zoo!

Bros. I wanted to go to a show in Wrigleyville once. No one would go with me. To be fair, bros can be total fucking idiots if they are the type that seem to think their frat can beat up your frat and consequently out beer pong and bong all you weak sauced loooosers while they see who can date rape the most blondes. But there are also OK bros and they just happen to shower regularly and attempt to avoid the post-grad beer guts of Logan Square. But if any bro laughs at a Chuck Norris joke, then yeah, go ahead and call him a pussy because that’s not even okay.

Cars. Wah wah wah environment wah wah wah gas emission wah wah wah parking fees wah wah wah mainstream radio top 40 bullshit wah wah wah can’t sit on leather seats due to veganism wah wah wah. No one complains when I’m giving them a ride, though.

Top 40. Sometimes I will find a song I like on the radio. Imagine that! Hey, while we all suck our own dicks over our awesome music taste that probably peaked somewhere around 1985 when we weren’t even born yet, let us remember… That shit was once popular on the radio. We just weren’t alive to be chastised for our taste back then.

Starbucks. Say what you want, but I pay $2 and some change for a large cup of coffee and I’m not even mad at it. Also, Caribou may have better coffee but their large coffee is smaller. I measured. In this case I will take quantity over quality.