Thoughts while watching HGTV

House Hunters: Where people seem to think that carpet and wall paint are unchangeable.

House Hunters International: Where people appear confused by the fact that dwellings in other countries differ from those in America.

Property Brothers: Where people seem surprised that the brothers show them gigantic expensive houses even though the show is in its zillionth season and literally everyone knows the gimmick.

Fixer Upper: Where you pay more attention to how adorable Chip and Joanna are than anything happening to the houses.

Love it or List it: Where people have giant expectations for tiny budgets and there is nothing better than Hillary and David's banter.

Love it or List it, Too: Where you start to miss Hillary and David real fast.

Rehab Addict: Where her accent starts to grate on you real hard about 15 minutes in.

Flip or Flop: Where you never cease to be amazed by the shitty condition in which people leave foreclosed houses.

Extreme Homes: Where you get really excited because this show is so cool and it's NEVER ON.

Designed to Sell: Where people have to sell houses that look really really nice when the designer is done with them and it just makes your heart hurt.

Selling New York: Where people pay $30 million for what you could buy for $3 million in literally any other city.

Property Virgins: Where people expect granite counter tops, a pool, an open floor plan, and new construction in their first house. For $100,000.

Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!

To begin, let's just briefly recount Kelly's issues with back injury:

1. In the summer before my second year of college, I tore a bunch of my spinal muscles because I picked up a kid that I was babysitting and twisted around weirdly. Got some muscle relaxers, did some physical therapy, it all turned out okay.

2. The summer after my third year of college, I was struck by a vehicle as I was walking to class. I walked away from that just fine (relatively), but it likely caused some soft tissue damage leading to...

3. The following fall semester, I had what I was told was a slipped disk, though after speaking with my dad and another doctor (and remembering that the medical care in Auburn is beyond shitty), I have come to the conclusion that it was actually the same thing that happened to me yesterday, just less severe.

Yesterday morning, I woke up and was having some pain in my lower back. It happens every once in a while since that "disk injury" a few years ago. I wasn't terribly worried about it, but it just kept getting worse and worse throughout the day. It probably didn't help that we were driving to and from Knoxville to see a play, so I was sitting down for about six hours.

When we got home, I lay down on the floor, put a pillow with a heating pad under my lower back, and put my feet on a chair with my knees at right angles. I was told by the Auburn disk doctor that this was a good position for your back. And I gotta say, I had zero pain for the 20–30 minutes that I was laying like that. Woohoo!

So after about a half an hour, I decided I should get up to take a shower. You know, hygiene and all that. So I gently rolled onto my side. It hurt a little when I did that. Then I tried to push myself up, and oh my LANTA, something was very, very wrong. I tried pushing myself up with just my arms. I tried twisting my torso so I could put both my arms under me and get more power, all the while feeling like I had a fleet of microscopic Roman soldiers jabbing their spears into my spine.

Eventually the pain got so bad that I started crying a little bit, and at that point I called my dad, who was watching football in the basement. Once he got upstairs he told me to try moving in several different directions to see how we could get me up. Every single movement was AGONY. I cannot adequately describe how badly this hurt.

So at this point I'm sobbing and hysterical. Finally he gets me to roll (literally, just like flop over) onto my back, and he and my mom pulled me up to standing (this whole ordeal took about half an hour, by the way). Once I was standing, I couldn't breathe; I couldn't move; I couldn't speak; I just stood there gasping for air like a dumb fish. A big dumb fish. It was terrifying and unreasonably painful. Like, I cannot adequately get across just how much pain I was in.

Dad called the ER, and we drove down there (Side note: super proud of myself for being able to hobble to the car in my state). My parents are trying to ask me things in the car about where it hurts and all the things a concerned parent should ask, and I responded in two words or less, sounding like what I would imagine people sound like when they just got done running a marathon.

Dat hospital bracelet doe

I had also taken a 5mg of valium, because when I say I was hysterical, I was fucking HYSTERICAL. I was shaking partly from the pain, but also partly because I was panicking myself half to death. And even with 5 mg of valium in my system, my pulse was still at 98, and my blood pressure was...um, real high. Like I'm not even going to say it because it's embarrassing.

Anxiety is fun.

So what actually happened is that I tore a ligament between my iliac crest and sacrum, so the joint moved ever so slightly out of place and got all inflamed, and shit went down. You know the rest.

Dat joint doe

I received two shots with three medications altogether that went into my muscles and made my arms quite sore. 

Dat needle bruise doe

I have also received a lovely cocktail of medications including steroids, muscle relaxers, and what is essentially souped up ibu profen.

Dat medication cocktail doe

Apparently this is going to happen to me a few more times in my life, so I should probably go ahead and just get one of those life alert buttons. You know, the ones from the commercials where 90-year-old grandmas say, "Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!"

Because I'm 90.

1st year vs. 2nd year Grad Students

Currently, I'm halfway through my second year of graduate school, which means I am 3/4 finished, which means I have one semester left until graduation.

I'm a little excited.

I've been reflecting on my time in graduate school and how much I've changed in such a short amount of time. To demonstrate this change, I've come up with several situations and the differences in how a first-year grad student would react vs. how a second-year student would react. Enjoy.

Presentations

1st year: How on earth am I supposed to fill 30 minutes?

2nd year: How on earth am I supposed to fit all of this information in 30 minutes?

Group Papers

1st year: Ugh, how annoying, I would rather just write it myself.

2nd year: Oh thank god, I only have to write a third of this.

Grad school in general

1st year: I’m so happy to be in grad school!

2nd year: WHEN DOES IT END.

Mornings

1st year: I should probably look professional even when I’m in class, you know, just in case.

2nd year: Do you think they’ll be able to tell these are my pajamas? How important is it to wear a bra? How long has it been since I washed my hair?

Food

1st year: I should pack my lunch. It’s healthier and cheaper.

2nd year: A coffee and a cake pop is an acceptable meal, right?

Internships

1st year: Foundation practicum was pretty fun. I learned a lot. 

2nd year: OH GOD. This could be my future job. Must act professionally. Don't fuck up. You could work here in six months. Keep it together. I am so hireable. LOOK AT HOW MUCH YOU WANT TO HIRE ME. PAY ME MONEY. 

Alarms

1st year: Okay I need time to eat, get dressed, make myself look presentable...I’ll just set an alarm for an hour before I have to leave.

2nd year: *snooze* *snooze* *snooze* Shit.

Networking

1st year: Everyone could be a potential connection! Go to all of the events! Meet all of the people! Form many bonds!

2nd year: Oh, I'm so sorry, I can't go to that event. I'm super busy. *Puts on sweatpants* *Pours glass of wine* *Watches Netflix*

Shit my family says

My family is a stone cold pack o' weirdos, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I have an archive of hilarious things my family has said, because it happens fairly regularly. Here are some of them for your enjoyment pleasure.

The That's What She/He Saids

The Situation: Brother and I are heating up leftover BBQ pork and homemade biscuits for dinner.
Brother: "Do you want the meat on your biscuit or next to your biscuit?"

The Situation: Brother tells me of the time he tried some of his roommate's whiskey.
Brother: "He took it out, and I had a sip. Then he left, and I could still taste it 30 minutes later."

The Situation: Mom, brother, and I are watching HGTV (typical) and someone spilled paint on a hardwood floor.
Me: "How would you clean that up?"
Brother: "It's not that hard when it's wet; you just have to wipe it up before it dries."

The Situation: Brother and I were discussing some type of food.
Brother: "I like the really long ones...the thick ones."

Brother has a special talent for saying these types of things and then never noticing how "TWSS" they are. I have developed the "TWSS Stare," which consists of me looking at him with my eyebrows raised until he replays what he said enough times in his head to understand just how dirty it sounds.

The Ridiculousness

The situation: The family is searching for parking in downtown St. Augustine. Dad circles around the block a few times before casually parking next to a curb where there is clearly no type of parking space whatsoever.
Me: "Is this legal?"
Dad: "You have to be flexible in your interpretation of legal parking or you never get any."

The situation: Dad is discussing his day at work over dinner. He tells us about how he accurately guessed the weight of every baby he delivered that day.
Dad: "I am the BEST fucking estimator of fetal weight."

The situation: Mom and I are discussing stomach issues after I had the poops for a day. Mom sympathizes and says that everyone has been there.
Mom: "Like when you've been farting and you get to that last fart and you're like...oh, that's not air."

The Truly Unbelievables

The situation: I had called dad and left a voicemail. As I am getting on the bus to go to campus, he calls back. When I pick up, the man is breathing like he had just run a marathon.
Dad: "I'm sorry I couldn't answer! I was holding a placenta."

The situation: I have called mom to ask her about heating up something in a tupperware without melting the plastic. Mom tells me that I can heat it up for short periods of time and it will be fine. I say thank you and prepare to hang up.
Mom: "Oh! By the way, you're dad got in a car accident. He's fine. I was going to text you, but I've been taking pictures of bees."

And The Sweet One

The situation: I called brother to discuss some drama that was happening in my life. I was pretty upset and down about it. I told him that it felt like this year was just out to get me because it's been pretty rough. And that little philosophical mofo busts this out.
Brother: "Well, it's like Bob Ross says: 'You gotta have dark to have light. It's like in life: you gotta have a little sadness once in a while so you know when the good times come.'"

I'm unbelievably lucky to have such a bitchin' family. I know I can tell them anything (seriously...nothing is too far), and that they will always be there for me 24/7. Mostly, though, I'm glad I have a place where I can be as weird as I want, and not only will they not judge me for it, they will be right there with me. Like my dad said:

"I'm so grateful for you and Michael. You guys are nuts. It's great. What would I do with normal children?"

Well, life would certainly be a little more boring, wouldn't it?

Three Small Words

Time for another "Kelly gets all introspective and shit" type of post *insert party hat emoji*. I was distracted all day Friday for a number of reasons, not the least of which was my level of end-of-week exhaustion even after a morning caffeine boost. My distraction led me to thinking of what leads people to make decisions about life, love, career, and happiness. I came to the conclusion that generally, decisions are governed by three things: pride, comfort, and fear (I ended up writing three short poems inspired by each word, which I'll include at the end. Man, I miss writing).

I also made a decision that day. I decided to do my damnedest to never make any more decisions based on pride, comfort or fear. So here are my new governing principles, still based on those words, but on overcoming them rather submitting to them.

Pride

Admit when you are wrong. Understand others' points of view—do not listen to their points of view; seek reasons and ask questions. Maintain independence without cost to relationships. Apologize in four steps: 1) What you are sorry for, 2) Why it was wrong, 3) What you will do to make amends, 4) Why it will never happen again. Strive for compromise, and be prepared for sacrifice. Wait to respond. Argue without sarcasm.

Comfort

Pursue passion like a gladiator would pursue a lion. Attempt to know the unknown. Remember that money and security should not take precedence over love or your passions. Get up a little earlier. Be a little more vulnerable. Foster your sense of wonder. Cross the other arm on top. Cry. Feel. Freak out.

Fear

Start over. Say "I love you" too soon. Trust. Trust. Travel. Move away (or stay). Make new friends. Confront. Get undressed with the light on. Be honest. Go it alone. Say what you feel. Put yourself first. Put others first. Jump in the shower before the water's warm. Write a love song; play it and mean it.

Pride
"Don't back down,"
Urgent, hot breath in his ear,
"You're right."
Consumed with justifications,
Overcome with stubbornness,
He left.

Comfort
Wrapped in the warm blanket
Of morning coffee and rush hour,
She fell into a deep sleep.
Her passions lie dormant
As she rose from the dead
To begin another day.

Fear
Like a clock, his mind ticked between yes and no.
Desire
Stability
Passion
Familiarity
Racing pulse and sweaty palms
Dictated the final pendulum swing:
Stay.

OOTD Log: The Roaming Roach

Everyone is familiar with this #NastyAF bug right here:

It is the cockroach, famous for its ability to terrify even the manliest of men and the womanliest of women. We hear about their infestations in tiny New York apartment kitchens, of the horrors of roach bombing. Yet, thankfully, in most parts of the country, it's unlikely that you will run into these nasties on a regular basis.

In the south, though, these rare run-ins are made infinitely worse. You see, in the south we have mutant cockroaches that we call palmetto bugs or water bugs. Same bug, but bigger, faster, and not afraid of humans.

Great.

*Shudders*

Last night at about midnight, I was curled up in bed thoroughly absorbed in Chuck Palahniuk's new collection of short stories. Suddenly, I heard a violent rustling in the corner near my dresser. Fergie heard it too and leapt off of my shelf to go investigate. I sort of half sat up, peeked over, and saw a crumpled up receipt (one of the best non-toy cat toys) moving on what seemed to be its own accord. 

I got a sinking feeling in my chest because deep down I knew what was crawling around in that receipt. I've lived in this godforsaken bug-infested area of the country long enough to know that the only thing that could make that much noise in a piece of paper was one of the south's own freakishly large cockroaches.

Fergie was super into it—a toy that moves on its own, wow!—but I knew he would want to play with it for a while before he killed it. I had to take matters into my own hands.

I began moving everything out from underneath my dresser (where I had been storing all of my shoes while I've been home. Yes, I shook them all out). I grabbed one of my neon pink sneakers, the thickest-soled shoes I own, and prepared myself for a grade-A smushing. 

The stupid cat kept freaking out the roach with his attempts to play, though, so the roach was running around like crazy. I took a moment to gently push Fergie out of the way so I could better reach the bug, and the roach saw its exit and ran.

Directly toward me.

And crawled over my leg. 

You know, I used to have this piercing horror-movie-level shriek when I was a kid. It was truly impressive. My parents have a wealth of stories involving my public tantrum throwing involving these shrieks (I was not the most fun kid to be around). As I grew up, I lost my ability to do these high-pitched shrill shrieks and developed a lower, throaty, hoarser scream that is also pretty cool and came into great use when I was in Dracula, but wasn't of the same caliber as the shrieks of my childhood hay-day. 

Last night, I rediscovered the child shriek. Man did I fucking SCREAM. I absolutely lost my marbles. I was sobbing like a bachelorette that didn't get a rose. The stupid roach ran over my leg and under my bed and found shelter beneath my jewelry bag that was lying on the floor. It was at this point that I called in the big guns. 

The big guns, above left

The large man in that picture is my (younger) brother. He is 6'2" and BROAD and STRONG and the greatest 100% human 0% chemical additives bug-fighting weapon you will ever meet. Bless his heart, the kid made it upstairs and into my room at warp speed because when I called him I was hysterical, and he thought that something actually life-threatening had happened. 

He hunted down the roach (which had scurried back across my room while I was on the phone with him, prompting more shrieks), smushed it as I had intended to with no interruption from Fergie, and flushed that motherf*cker down the toilet. He then sat with me for about an hour and a half while my body slowly relinquished panic mode. 

Then I removed all non-essential items from my room to lower the number of potential roach hiding places, re-checked all corners, curled up in a tiny ball in the middle of my bed, and fell asleep having dreams about being chased by hoards of roaches. 

Someone should seriously film my life. 

Regarding Vomit

Here's a fun thing I have: Emetophobia. I didn't know it had a name until recently, but basically it's a phobia of vomit—the verb or noun version. It's actually pretty annoying, and can really impair your life, but as per usual I'm going to attempt to turn a terrible thing into a hilarious thing.

Nobody likes puke. It's not like there's someone out there who feels a rumble in their tummy and runs to the bathroom like, "YES THIS COULD BE THE TIME." Shit, maybe there is a person like that. You never do know.

But you get my point. Vomiting is not an inherently fun activity, whether it's you or someone else doing it. It hurts and it's smelly and not very tasty. So what is it like to be sick to your stomach when you have a phobia of being sick to your stomach?

Basically I spend my whole life fearing it, which is an absolutely ridiculous thing. I typically avoid activities that could induce vomiting, such as drinking too much or eating copious amounts of food at once or vigorous physical activity or prolonged periods of time spent in heat. If my stomach makes even the slightest rumble, I'm already starting to sweat. I then become the Jason Bourne of barfing. I become hyper aware and within moments can locate the closest bathroom or trash can or other appropriate receptacle just in case terror does strike.

Of course, the vast, VAST, majority of the time, a tummy rumble does not equal need to purge. Tummies make noises and do weird shit all the time. But in my poor emetophobic mind, it is already a catastrophe.

The truly delightful thing is when the panic sets in. When I have a panic attack, my whole digestive tract just flips the fuck out. It's super fun because it becomes a vicious cycle. Tummy rumble-->panic-->nausea-->panic-->nausea. It's a real party.

The truly truly especially excellently delightful thing is when I am actually sick, and it's not in my head. Because then it's like, "AHA, confirmation bias! See, I was actually sick!! Oh no...THIS COULD HAPPEN AT ANY TIME. OH GOD." And so starts the relentless worrying all over again.

There is, however, a brief period of reprieve that I experience every time I do actually get sick. I sort of have a moment there on my bathroom floor and think to myself, "Huh, well that wasn't actually the WORST thing in the world," but that rational thought leaves as quickly as it comes in and the phobia returns to its throne.

Vomit is a really, really stupid thing to be afraid of. I mean, I would say that I worry more about my stomach more than I worry about, say, getting mugged again when I'm out at night. That's not normal. But I know I'm not the only person with this odd fear.

I find it somewhat funny that I talked about fear and the ability to conquer things you've already experienced in my last post and specifically made reference to the stomach flu. *Sigh* I guess I should take my own advice.

Veni Vidi Vici, Vomit.

We die with regret for what we wouldn't let begin

Let me ask you a question. How much of your life is dictated by fear? How many things have you avoided because you were afraid of the consequences? Let me ask you another question. Have you felt pain? Loneliness? Sadness? Anxiety? Of course you have. And when you did, did you get through it? Of course you did. So what makes you think you can’t do it again?

I find myself in a graduate program for social work, unmotivated and overall unhappy with my coursework and what I’m studying. I’m here because I received my BA in psychology, and a graduate degree is the next logical step. I received my BA in psychology from Auburn. And I went to Auburn because I was too scared to go to Belmont for commercial music.

I find myself single and unsure of how to navigate dating. I don’t like “the game.” I don’t like waiting for people to text me first or call me first. If you like somebody, why wouldn’t you text or call them? Or, if you text them first, are you just doing so because you’re afraid they won’t contact you at all if you don’t do it first? Is everything motivated by fear?

My brother is more courageous than I because he followed his passion to study theater at MTSU. My father is more courageous than I because he followed his passion for teaching. My mother is more courageous than I because she followed her passion for singing and belted out a song from one of her favorite musicals on stage (and nailed it, by the way).

I have an entire family of brave people who follow their passions. So what the fuck am I doing here?

Life would be easier if we all just did the things we wanted. If I had done what I wanted to do, my life would look a lot different. Five years ago, I would have gone to school for performance despite being afraid that I wouldn't make it. Two years ago, I would have left a relationship that I stayed in at the time because I was afraid I wouldn’t find someone else. A few months ago, I would have been more up front about my feelings with a guy I was dating instead of being afraid that they would drive him away.

What if I had gone to school for performance and not done well? I would have been upset, probably heartbroken. And then I would have found another job or gotten another degree and moved the fuck on with my life. What if I had left that relationship? Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to find anyone else for a while. Maybe I would have been sad for a really long time. But see, the relationship ended anyway, and it was really difficult, but guess what? I got over it. What if I had been up front about my feelings with the guy I dated recently? Maybe he would have run away. But at least I would have known that I was honest, and that I tried. Would I have been sad? Of course I would have, but I’ve been there before. I’ve felt the sadness and the hurt and the loneliness and eventually it goes away.

Why are we so afraid of those feelings? Yeah, they suck, but they shouldn’t be a reason to go through life avoiding things. I hate to tell you, but those feelings—hurt, loneliness, pain, sadness—are like the stomach flu. No one wants it, but there are going to be a few times in life where you have to deal with it. The great thing about those terrible feelings—and, for that matter, the stomach flu—is that there is an end. There is another side. You won’t feel that way forever. And once you’ve been through it once, and you know that you can conquer it, why fear it?

You know, maybe this is where I’m supposed to be. For the first time, I’m writing and playing music with a pretty excellent group of musicians. I’m playing out at open mics. I’m writing more music than I ever have. I’m sure this all would have happened a lot sooner had I chosen a performance path, but whatever, I’m doing it now.

For the first time, I’m doing things alone. Going out, going to open mic, going to concerts, whatever. I was terrified to do those things without a friend at my side, but it’s not so bad. In fact, I think it’s been good for me to realize that no matter where I go, I can always find someone to talk to or make new friends.

For the first time, I’m actually dating. Not like, exactly right now, but in general. I’ve never been great at dating or commitment, but I’m figuring it out and dealing with the blunders and the pain along the way.

It’s time for me to be honest with myself and with other people, whether it’s about goals, motivations, feelings, or anything else. I can’t live my life being afraid of consequences or what might happen. Have you ever heard anyone say, "Boy I'm sure glad I didn't do that thing I really wanted to do because it might not have worked out"? No. No you have not.

I’m done being afraid. I’ve been to the bottom and I’ve come right back up, and if need be, I can do it again. Just try me.

Silver Linings

I am done with this semester. I am done! I AM DONE!! And I'm feeling pretty damn good about myself because I did well in all my classes. So today I'm going to talk about things that I am good at.

1. Making my face look absolutely, stunningly, incredibly disgusting. I'm not that girl who makes cute goofy faces like, "Oh look at me being funny, hee hee!" I look fucking GROSS, and I'm hella proud of it. Here are some examples. Gird your loins.

Looking hot at prom

A series of photos taken at formal during my undergrad in which my ugly face making was leagues above anyone else's. Just saying. 

Pretty sure this is from that same formal

Just an average dinner out

2. Drinking alcohol far too quickly. So I'm like a super impatient person (working on that...), and if I'm not feeling any effects after like 15 minutes I will get more drinks. And on and on and then suddenly WABAM, it hits me like a train. I haven't really drank just to drink in a while, so this might have improved, but I never learned my lesson in college.

3. Drinking caffeine far too quickly. I have many anxiety disorders (okay just two), so I really shouldn't drink caffeine, but I just get SO TIRED sometimes and I need a pick-me-up. But the same damn thing happens where I'll drink a cup and be like, "DAMMIT I DON'T FEEL AWAKE YET, MOAR." And so I drink moar and then I get hit with the caffeine poops and it's all downhill from there, folks.

4. Writing things. I feel like I've always been a good writer, but my lyrics and poetry improved drastically after I took a creative writing class in undergrad. I'm way too obsessed with making things sound good, and I totally have a boner for internal rhyme. 

5. Doing nothing. God, if this was a job, I would be the freaking millionaire CEO. I have a lot of friends who will say they feel stressed out and unproductive if they sit around all day. Do you know how I feel? AWESOME. If you don't know what I'm doing, it's safe to assume I'm sitting on my couch and watching netflix. 

6. Music. If I'm not netflixing, I'm musicing. Now, I feel like I'm not a particularly talented singer or guitarist, but I do feel like I write some pretty good songs, and I'm great at playing the piano. I'm also stupid good at sight reading. I don't know why, but it's always come easily to me. Fun fact: I won an award for that shit in my high school choir like three years running. 

7. Theatre things. Another fun Kelly fact: I was the recipient of two acting scholarships. I was in almost every play/musical at my high school and was on the Comedy Improv team all four years. Those were the DAYS, man. I competed in all sorts of acting, and sometimes I even won. 

8. Doom. I've been playing Doom since I was 10 years old and I just got really good at it. I don't like the newer games (idk I just like that whole crappy old graphics thing), but Ultimate Doom, Doom II, and Final Doom are my shiiiiit. 

9. Memorizing things. This definitely helped me back in my theatre days. Now it's just sort of used for useless things such as remembering all of the song lyrics and literally every conversation I've ever had with anyone ever and also probably what the other person was wearing during that conversation. My hippocampus got skillz. 

10. Makeup. You will never know how terrible my skin actually is because I have become professional at making people think it's flawless. Last fun fact: I have acne scarring like crazy and pretty ridiculous rosacea. But my mom is a makeup artist and I spent a whole lot of time just dicking around with things and figuring out how to make my skin look smooth and also skin-colored, as opposed to bumpy and red. 

That's all I have to say and I don't know how to end this so here is a picture of a cow.

The Day I Met Satan: OOTD Log

Let me tell you about an even that has occurred. And yes, we're back into the general hilarity that is my life and moving away from the deep blogs of deepness that are deep.

The date is April 23, which means that the end of the semester is approaching. I've never been so excited for something to end. I'm sick to death of these stupid grad school core classes and writing papers and doing massive projects about things that just don't fucking apply to me AT ALL.

End of the semester means two things: I'm lazy and I'm tired. I just really don't feel like doing much of anything. But some things ya gotta do. Laundry is one of those things.

So I took myself down to good ole Demun Cleaners a few days ago because I'm not about to climb down four flights of stairs every half hour to do a load of laundry in my dungeon basement when I can do it all at once at a laundromat. I parked my car out front, grabbed my basket and my detergent and whatnot, and I went inside. So far, so good. I separated colors, like you do, and I put my dark load into washer number 3.

And that, children, was a terrible mistake.

You see, on this day, washer number 3 was possessed by Actual Satan. In fact, for the purposes of this story, I will refer to washer number 3 as Beelzebub.

So I loaded my things into Beelzebub and sat down at a nearby table to work on the various projects and papers that will be of no use to me in my social work career. There I was, working away, and I looked up to see Beelzebub leaking a bit. This was concerning to me, so I got the attendant (who, thank god, was still there at 5:30 p.m.). She went to the breaker box to turn Beelzebub off, but apparently didn't know which breakers controlled which washers, and I feel like maybe that's something you should know if you work in a laundromat. Just saying.

While she was diddling around on the breaker board, Beelzebub grew angrier and angrier and was basically just releasing a river at this point. Laundromat Lady finally figured out how to turn him off before ultimate disaster struck, but then she did something so dumb it's unbelievable.

Laundromat Lady walked over to Beelzebub and OPENED THE FREAKING WASHER DOOR.

If I could use one word to describe what happened when she unleashed Beelzebub, that word would be "Titanic." You know the scenes when the water is rushing down the stairs or down hallways and just seems utterly unstoppable? It was like that.

She flooded the whole damn laundromat. To put the cherry on top of this shit show sundae, I was stuck in the middle of this flood wearing flip flops, and the floor is tile. It was just a treat trying to transfer my clothes out of Beelzebub and into a more Godly washer while gingerly stepping through an inch of water and wearing slippery shoes.

Let it be known that I did not fall one single time. Not once.

And that's the story of the fateful afternoon when I stared the devil right in the face.

Good ole Beezy Bubs. Do not use washer number 3. 

The Bridge

This blog post is about to get hella personal. So just be ready for that. It's also not funny or lighthearted. I'm not the biggest fan of veering from my typical style of post, but this shit has been on my mind, so I'm just going to say it. Or, rather, I'm going to let Nayyirah Waheed say it, because no one has ever said it better:

"Someone can be madly in love with you and still not be ready. They can love you in a way you have never been loved and still not join you on the bridge. And whatever their reasons you must leave. Because you never ever have to inspire anyone to meet you on the bridge. You never ever have to convince someone to do the work to be ready. There is more extraordinary love, more love that you have never seen, out here in this wide and wild universe. And there is the love that will be ready." 

--Nayyirah Waheed

My previous relationship—my only relationship—ended because he wasn't ready to join me on the bridge. That relationship was the greatest love I have ever known. It's been about three months since it ended, and I've been dating and exploring and pushing my mental and physical boundaries. Honestly, I've been pretty happy overall. But I have my moments.

No matter how quickly (relatively) I was able to pick myself back up, and despite having moved on, and regardless of my recent realization and acceptance that I actually do not want that relationship back, it still really fucking hurts to think about how the manner in which it ended. I think it will always sting a little bit.

But I was on the bridge, and he wasn't even on the other side of the bridge—he was on the ground. He was in the river. He was floating in the clouds. Wherever the hell he was, we somehow ended up on completely different pages of a book that we had been writing together for years. And boy, did I try to convince him to meet me on the bridge. I must have called him 20 times the morning after he broke up with me. I spent several hours texting him and telling him that I was wrong, and that I understood, and that if we both tried we could make it work.

But the thing is, I wasn't wrong. I don't understand. And I don't know that I could have learned to trust him again and make it work. The bottom line is that I shouldn't have sat there for hours, texting my way through my battery power trying to inspire him to want me again.

No one should ever have to do that.

Do not do that. Do you hear me?

No matter how long you have been with a person, no matter how long you have known them, no matter what level your relationship is at, you NEVER. EVER. have to convince them. In fact, the longer you've been together, the more offensive it becomes that you would have to convince them of anything.

Even in the short time that I've been dating, I'm starting to realize that I might be chillin' on this bridge by myself for awhile. I'm the type of person that truly cares about people. I want to get to know you and I want to understand you. But when I do, I tend to develop feelings faster than I should. It's a somewhat annoying trait of mine, but one that I do not want to ever change. See, feeling that intensely and connecting with people like I can is an amazing feeling when it happens, even though that trait can also tend to put me right back on that bridge alone. 

It fucking sucks to feel unwanted. To feel like you're not worth it. To feel like you're not good enough to warrant a bridge meeting. It is the most soul crushing feeling that I have ever experienced.

It's hard to recognize your own worth sometimes. It's definitely hard for me, and I tend to give people way, way too many chances. I'm here to tell the world that I'm done, and that you should be, too.

I'm confident that I'm a really awesome person. I'm fun and I'm funny and I'm a great listener. I'm a baller girlfriend and friend and the best movie watching partner you will ever come across. I generally get along well with people, and I feel like I'm good at making people feel comfortable around me. I'm very likeable—loveable, even.

And I'm done trying to convince people to see that. Sometimes I get down on myself and I think that I peaked in that relationship and that I'll never find anything that good again. Which is sad if it's true to be honest, but I don't think it is true. Even though I'm not relationship-ing again yet, I've met some pretty awesome guys. There are guys out there who are goofballs like me and have great senses of humor and who I'm unbelievably attracted to, and eventually, there will be a guy like that who will be on the bridge already. Maybe it'll take some time to find him, because it's easy to get distracted by those ground/cloud dwellers, but he exists and he'll be there.

And if I find someone who's super great and awesome and amazing and he's not on the bridge, I will just have to move on, no matter how much it hurts. My breakup was not a good breakup, but it's been a chance for me to figure out exactly what I want in a man, and exactly what I do NOT want in a man.

I'm not settling. Don't you dare settle.

The Tinder Trials

Well. I promised it, and here it is.

For those of you who live with Patrick Star and don't know what Tinder is, it's a dating app. It can be really great. I've talked to some cool guys on there and even met one in person.

But Tinder is like a carton of blueberries. Most of them are just regular ripe old blueberries. But every so often you get one that's mushy and disgusting.

Below are the mushy blueberries of Tinder.

Our first blueberry is Tony, who uses Snapchat the way we all expected Snapchat to be used when it first came out. The devil emoji really drives home just how naughty Tony wants to be.

 

Blueberry number 2 is Francisco, who goes to the church of Love and who also devours lady parts. You do you, Francisco. 

You may recognize our next blueberry from my Facebook post previewing this blog post. His name is Coty. Bad spelling runs in his genes. He is a #senior. And he is majoring in psychologist. 

Blueberry Douglas clearly does not understand Tinder.

Matt is a blueberry that wants to show you amazing pleasures in a 3way to remember. These pleasures include mouths, tongues, water, hand holding, worshipping (Jesus first), vegetables, numbers, Autumn, wind, fire, alcohol, biceps, vegetation, and rainbows. What a fucking night. 

Who wears short shorts? Our next blueberry wears short shorts. And also provocative vests.

This is DeerCat. He is an entrepreneur whose height and handling will give you a religious experience.

This blueberry has it all, from the epic facial hair right down to the star wars crop top.

This blueberry is so naked right now.

Blueberry Bryan is peeing on fences at the ripe old age of 27. He also likes things, so you probably have that in common.

Meet Sallybear, the blueberry with a gun, fauxhawk, fancy tie clip, and a smoldering bear stare.

An honest blueberry is the best kind of blueberry. In addition, any blueberry that uses fun slang words for vagina is a winner in anyone's book.

Our next blueberry wants to give you a Pretty Woman experience, but only if you call him daddy.

This blueberry is a little desperate, but he also loves MILFs, so the decision has gotten infinitely harder.

Last but certainly not least, our final blueberry is Panda, and he is not afraid to wear denim on denim on denim while he makes you dinner or serenades you. And also his name is Panda.

Happy swiping, my brothers and sister in Tinder!

The Single Life

Everyone knows by now that I'm a single lady. To quote one of my all time faves, She's the Man: "It was just, like, a big, huge, dumping."

It's been a shitty few months and I don't want to be a stupid sad cry baby anymore because I'm too awesome for that. To quote another all time fave, How I Met Your Mother: "When I get sad, I stop being sad and be awesome instead." 

To make up for the fact that I am in a program that is 95 percent women, I have taken the plunge into Tinder.

Met a super hot Spanish photographer. Met a really cool, funny dude named Matt (really? come on). Met a guy who "just wants to cuddle." 

In the approximately 48 hours that I have been on Tinder, I have compiled a list of rules that I feel all you lovely dudes on Tinder should abide by. Here they are.

1. No one gives a shit about your truck/ATV/motorcycle. And if one or more of your pictures isn't actually you but is instead some kind of motorized vehicle, I'm just sad for you. 

2. No one gives a shit about the giant fish you caught or that one time you held a *insert name of snake here*. These are things I would've expected to see back in Alabama. Also, Britney looked better with a snake than you do so don't even try because you can never reach her level of badassery. 

3. Maybe this is just me, but if the first thing in your bio says "God first," or "Jesus saves," I am already beyond over you.

4. Consider having at least one picture of you by yourself. I'm not a gambler. I will not guess which one you are in a group photo and hope for the best.

5. Pictures with half-naked girls? Really? Wow, we're all really impressed by your ability to get chicks. 

6. Do not call me baby. I do not know you. 

7. Sorry to break your heart, but asking me to hang out at midnight will not work because a) it's rapey and b) I get out of bed and put on real pants/a bra for no man. 

8. Why are you married?

9. WHY ARE YOU MARRIED? 

10. Shirtless gym pictures? I'm over it. 

But if we're being honest, none of these really matter because

11. Get over yourself. You're on Tinder. So if you have a list of deal breakers or "reasons to swipe left" (especially if they're stupid reasons, such as "If you're like cats more than dogs") in your profile, you need to get your big ole egotistical head out of your butt. 

Boys, I promise, if you follow these guidelines chicks will totally dig you. Or at least they won't be disgusted/creeped out by you. One step at a time.