I'm in love with a stripper

Well....sort of. I'm actually in love with Jenna Marbles. And I don't even know if she is still a go-go dancer, but I still love her if she is not.

I went on an absolutely RIDICULOUS rampage last night of watching Jenna Marbles videos. I'm pretty sure I have now watched the majority of her stuff. From both of her channels. It was truly pathetic. I was just in my room by myself, laughing out loud and watching youtube for over an hour.

I know. Serious girl crush here. But let's take a look at the reasons why Jenna Marbles is the love of my life:

1) She doesn't give a shit. She just does not. I love that she says motherfucker every other second. She just shows that you can have hilarious comedy with cursing in it. I mean, not to say I'm not going to think somebody's not funny if they're completely clean, but I mean come on, she uses the word fuck really well. It's like she invented it. It spices everything up. It's the difference between McNuggets and Buffalo Wild Wings.

2) She shows off her awesome tittayyyys. As per one of my previous blog posts, I'm all for some cleave. And her video with tips and tricks about how to make your boobs look like they're from space is the best thing ever. Yes, it's OK to be sexy!!

3) She has the best relationship ever. At least it seems like it. Her and her boyfriend are so funny together and I love that they are just completely blunt with each other. Another lesson from Jenna. Honesty is the best policy.

4) She'll say it to your face. I mean, she posted videos about her neighbor and her roommate on the Internet, which is, you know, public domain. And she talked about how she just called her roommate out for being an asshole. Words to live by, dude. It makes me feel not alone. Because I am that bitch that will say something if you're being a dick. Which doesn't really make me a bitch, I guess. Really I'm just being helpful.
And also about boys. I don't understand what is so difficult about boys. She said that she'd rather just come up to a guy and say, hey I like you. Because it's stupid and a waste of damn time to play games. Like, the reason I have such a lengthy and numerous man past is because I'm a super forward flirt. And when people come to me for advice, they are always frustrated when I tell them to just go talk to the guy. Because apparently that's extremely difficult. But I mean, I've had pretty good results. So if you're not a complete hag, 9 times out of 10 you win. If you're scared of a 90% chance then I quit. I can't work with you.

5) She's independent. I love that she's paying for all her own stuff. And she's doing what it takes to do it. She's got a rockin' bod, so she gets money "dancing in her underwear." Hey, if you've got it, flaunt it. Slash get money for it. In a completely legal way.

6) She doesn't lie about looking good. She straight up says that nobody looks good when they wake up in the morning. She wears makeup, she does her hair, and she works for her health and her body. Because, yes, it does take more than 10 minutes to look good in the morning (unless you have genes like Giselle...in which case you are extremely lucky), and looking as fit as she does doesn't just happen.

I literally have to stop myself right now from rambling on and on. There is just too much to love. She is living my life. I feel like we would be best friends. Or we would hate each other because we're too similar.

Either way, she is legit one of my inspirations, because she reminds me that it's OK to cuss and look hot (and take a long time to do it) and speak up and do your own thing. Classy is overrated. Not everyone can be Kate Middleton. Be true to yourself, friends!!

*Cameron from Ferris Bueller's Day Off voice* Jenna Marbles, you're my hero.

Excuse me, I'm allergic to peanuts.

My best friend is allergic to peanuts. He really just is. I mean, if you ate peanuts and then made out with him, he would probably have an issue. 

But I like peanuts. And all nuts. And I eat them in front of him. 

AND HE IS ALIVE.

However, apparently the effects of peanut butter can be more detrimental than I initially thought.

There is a girl. She is in a class with two of my roommates. We will call her Unusually Sensitive Peanut Butter Girl. One day last week, Roommate A was eating a snack of graham crackers and peanut butter, five seats down from USPBG. After class, USPBG came up to her and asked, "Um, were you eating peanut butter during class?" And Roommate A said yes. And USPBG said, "You can't do that. I'm allergic, and I could smell it."

I would like to point out at this point that USPBG still has a nose. It is not, in fact, apparent that she had any kind of bad reaction to the peanut butter that she could so clearly smell. 

A few days later, Roommate A was hungry during class again, and all she had was a snack bar. Peanuts were the fifth ingredient, but she wanted to be courteous and make sure that she would not actually cause the death of this USPBG. So here is how the conversation went. 

Roommate A: Excuse me. I have snack bar, and I was wondering: if peanuts are the fifth ingredient—

USPBG: No.

Roommate A: .....Ok....I really like your shirt.

Here's the kicker. Not long after that, the boy that sits DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF USPBG ate a peanut butter Clif bar during class. Then, a pack of Nutter Butters. USPBG said nothing. Nothing at all.

So here are the choices. 

1. On Halloween, Roommates A and B go as Peanut Butter and Jelly, all out. Like, coat themselves. And then say, "Sorry, but we've had these costumes planned for MONTHS."

2. Next time Boy in Front of USPBG eats something with peanut butter, say (obnoxiously loudly), "Excuse me, but the girl behind you is REALLY allergic to peanut butter, and you can't eat those."

3. Have Roommate B get onto Roommate A about eating grapes (her new snack of choice), because she is EXTREMELY allergic.

I say number one. Anyone else? Bueller? 

The detour: OOTD Log #6

So...this actually happened yesterday. But I was so fried by the end of all of this that I couldn't even begin to blog about it. 

Yesterday, I took a little trip to visit my lovely lady (lumps) doctor in B-ham. (I notice a disturbing trend here...the last time I went to see the lady doctor in B-ham I had OOTD too...read about it here.) So that is the first problem here. Such doctor visits are never fun, and are always uncomfortable. 

But really, this is about what happened afterward.

Here is something you need to know about 280: When you're going TO B-ham, it runs right into the expressway that takes you downtown. But when you're coming BACK, you have to merge off of said expressway back onto 280, or else the expressway dead-ends into The Road To Nowhere. 

How do I know this?

Because instead of getting on 280, I took TRTN and ended up 50 miles off course from where I should have been and ended up in a gas station parking lot by the Shelby County airport near I-65, crying to boyfriend on the phone because I was so lost.

Let me give you a visual. 

So I ended up having to drive in this giant L shape through Montgomery to get back to Auburn, taking me an extra hour and a half. See my route here:

CURSE YOU, LACK OF DIRECTIONAL SKILLS (and, in my defense, poor designing and small and insignificant road signage)!! You've foiled me once again.

AND THEN I couldn't get on the damn highway because the entrance was so freaking complicated, and I had to turn around three times before I finally got it. So I was riding around the I-65 ramp—like when you drop something valuable in the sink and it keeps teasing you by almost but NOT QUITE going down the drain—blasting Marilyn Manson, crying tears of frustration and singing/screaming along in anger.

What. Is. My. Life. 

If you're under 21, and you want to get drunk: OOTD Log #5

Today started off as a normal day. One of my roommates and I decided we wanted to go shopping. Sometimes girls do this. So we thought we'd go to the mall. Before we left, I remembered, "Oh hey, dude came to fix our alarm, so it should be working now! Let's try it out." And it was really complicated to set it, because it didn't set the way the instructions said. But I finally pressed some combination of our code, the asterisk, and the pound sign that turned it on.

So Roommate A and I went to the mall. I bought things that I shouldn't have bought because I am poor. And then we were in Maurice's about to spend more money when I received a frantic call from Roommate B. There was a horrid shrieking in the background and she was seemingly in a state of panic, telling me that the alarm was going off and it wouldn't turn off and she'd tried everything and nothing worked. 

And over the course of the next 30 minutes, my recent calls list filled up completely with calls among Roommate B, the Auburn Police, and the alarm company. And the police said, "Oh yeah, we got a call from your alarm company and we're sending someone over." And then they said I had to call the company to get them to figure out how to turn it off. So I called them and a robot lady said, "Our business hours are Monday through Friday from 8-5," and hung up on me. WELL HOW DID THEY CALL THE POLICE THEN?? 

I do not know.

So we left Maurice's and went home, where we indeed found Roommate B speaking with a cop. Whom I was afraid of. Because I am in fact afraid of all cops. And the alarm was still screaming. And the cop tried to rip it off the wall with a butter knife and then a screwdriver. And the cop opened all of our electrical boxes and unplugged everything. And finally, our neighbor (who lived there last year) came over and said, "Hey the alarm company just called me." HOW?? But anyway, then she was like, "Well since they called me, maybe my code works." And so we put it in, and then, after an HOUR of struggling with this madness, it turned off. It activated with my code, but wouldn't turn off without hers. And I stood there, staring at the alarm box after I'd input her code, and said, with a cop standing directly behind me, "Are you FUCKING kidding me."

So apparently my condo place still, after three weeks, has not changed over the codes. Really? Really. OK.

And then we looked at the cop and we were like, well sorry dude. And he was like, "It's all good! It's my job!" And I said, "Please take a brownie." And I cut him a gigantic caramel double chocolate brownie and put it on a paper plate, and he proceeded to spend some time telling us some of his favorite arrest stories. All of which started with the line, "If you're under 21, and you want to get drunk..."

Some examples:

"If you're under 21, and you want to get drunk, don't stand over there peeing behind a bush and laughing loudly. Because I will catch you."

"If you're under 21, and you want to get drunk, don't walk in front of my cop car with a bottle in your hand."

"If you're under 21, and you want to get drunk, it's probably not in your best interests to have a giant, loud party where you get the cops called on you. Then you all get arrested."

But my favorite...

"Did you guys hear about the guy that got arrested because he was riding a bike naked?" (answer, yes, this man is famous in Creekside) "Well, I'm the guy that arrested him. It's true, you're meeting a celebrity."

So officer Steve Martin (not a joke) made that shitty situation just a little bit better with his hilariousness. Sorry we brought you out on a Sunday afternoon on a holiday weekend....

It's been one of those days.

I had a dream

I am going to start a new thing. A segment, if you will. It is going to be about my ridiculous dreams. (side note: I sliced my finger on a food processor the other day and I'm typing with a band-aid on right now and it's REALLY DIFFICULT) I have hilarious, abnormal dreams. Here is one.

I will call it: 

Powdered Sugar No Eyes Marijuana

In my dream, I had to play this game where I had to blow powdered sugar on all the trees to make it look like it was snowing. So I'm literally holding a flour sifter and turning the handle and my mouth is pressed on the meshy part and I'm blowing powdered sugar through it. And when I finished I looked around like, wow, that really sucked. It just does not look like winter at all. I guess I lost the game. 

And then I went up the hill to some house and my brother was there. He had also lost the game and therefore the game runners took his eyes out. (I think this is because I finished The Quillan Games from the Pendragon series last night, and in the last part of the book, people that lose the games get penalized. Hence: the eye cutting out penalty)

And I was like, whoahhh this is way too much. I need some weed. (side note number two: I do not actually smoke pot. Crack is whack, kids. Or, pot is...not...good.) And so I pulled out my dollar bill that was actually just weed made to look like a dollar bill and lit it on fire and smoked it.

End of dream.

Interpret that, Freud.

WHAT DOES IT MEEEEEAN??

Plights with the universe: OOTD Log #5

Oh friends. It has been one of those days.

Tuesdays in general are a crazy day for me, because I'm pretty much going from 8 a.m. to 7 p.m. I have a couple of breaks in there, but they offer me just enough time to do not much of anything, except grab a bite to eat and read a little. 

And today it was HOT. Like a freshly fried egg. And there were no tables inside, so former suitemate (that is sad. I miss being her suitemate) and I ate outside...this was a mistake. I was as fried as the egg that I so recently used in a simile. My poor shoulders :(

I also have a condition that occurs when it is hot outside. It is called "Sweaty Back." I was just a mess. I was back-sweat Bertha. And my backpack (which claims to have an "airway" so that you never get too hot) is a LIE. It is a dirty lying whore. My back has never been hotter. And I had on a lovely dress that shows sweat like it's its job, so I had a nice backpack-shaped sweat X on my back. Delicious.

Then. THEN. Boyfriend and I hung out for a while after chorus. This outage of hanging lasted until about 10 after four, at which point I left so that I would have enough time to get home, get all my shit, and get to work by five. As I entered the transit bus and found my seat, I attempted to sit down like any normal person would. But I am not normal, and therefore I slammed my funny bone on the window so hard that my whole forearm went completely numb. I dropped a really loud f-bomb in the middle of a bus, folks. I did it, and I apologize. But I will show you the bruise on my elbow and I hope you will understand.

Now, the transit ride back to my place is usually about 20 minutes, but the Opelika bus decided that it would sit for a reeeeeally long time at Haley Center. During which time we acquired probably two other passengers. And so I got home at 4:45, and ruuuuushed to get everything, and left around 4:50. So I still should have gotten to work on time.

Not this day. This day, the stop lights got together and the head-stop light said, "Hey guys, I have the best idea ever of all time. Kelly is on her way to work. When you see her car approach, TURN RED. This is especially encouraged at lights where rush-hour traffic is built up, so that she will sit through two light cycles. Ready? Break!!" 

And the lights did as they were told. 

And as I was hurrying my ass up to get out of my car at 5:02, my purse got caught on my emergency break handle and jerked me back to the car like it was a giant magnet and I was the laptop that Jesse and Walt needed to destroy. I hit it hard. Then I cursed at it loudly, avoided the weirded-out stare of a passerby, and slammed the door nice and hard so my car—and the universe—would recognize how angry I was. Then I clocked in just in time to make the seven-minute cutoff that would have put me 15 minutes late. Whew.

It. Has. Been. One of those freakin' days, y'all. 

Rant about racism

I love my job. For the most part. I make good money tutoring writing, something I love to do, and my boss isn't an asshole. But there's one thing that keeps coming up in staff meetings and at training that just irks me. And I can't say anything more about it there than I have already, and so I sit there in frustrated silence. So now I'm going to blog about it.

My boss has this thing about racism. And just in general about things that might make people uncomfortable. And here is the scenario we always talk about, not directly quoted:

Someone comes into the writing center for help with a paper that, after reading it, seems to contain some racist things. What do you do?

You freakin help them.

But he always says that if something in a paper makes you uncomfortable you don't have to work with that person. But do you know how many things make people truly uncomfortable?? For example, boyfriend HATES cotton balls. And by the above rule, if someone brought in a paper about cotton balls, he could be all, "Uh, no, sorry, I can't do this." And then if the other tutor in that time slot has another appointment, poor cotton ball writer is just SOL. Which is so not fair.

Now I understand that racism is much more inherently offensive than little white things you use to take off nail polish or whatever. But here's the thing:

1. People are always offended by something
2. There will always be racists in the world
3. There is nothing in our mission statement that reflects the fact that we are anti-anything; in fact it states just the opposite: that we help with all kinds of writing.

I highly doubt that helping a racist with his grammar is going to increase the number of racists in the world. And lots of things are going to make you uncomfortable, so you should probably get used to it. I mean, if someone came to me with a paper clearly stating views against same-sex marriage, I would probably be uncomfortable. And I would also want to punch them in the face. But I would do my damn job and tutor them. With a smile : D

If we can turn racists away, who's to say we can't turn anyone away? It's just ridiculous, and we put so much focus on it. If we're going on that rule, we need to put it somewhere where people can see it. Because as of now, there is nothing about it, so if someone like boyfriend gets a cotton ball paper and no other tutors are available, and that paper is due in in a few hours or even the next day, that person might get a shitty grade on their paper. And that sucks, because they came to a place that offers a great service to all writers. 

I don't wish racists ill. I think that being racist is pretty dumb, but I don't want them all to fail their papers or whatever. We are not furthering racism in the world by tutoring a person who wrote a racist paper. Seriously. It's OK. 

SAVE THE COTTON BALLS