Emergency Room Drop Out

The last time I was in the ER, for myself, was when I broke my arm in 4th grade. The way I was raised, most things didn't warrant visits to the hospital. Not because I wasn't hurting or in pain, but because ER's are for emergencies and I had come from a family of nurses. Emergencies are for like, missing limbs, and shit. Last Friday night I learned that sometimes your internal organs warrant trips to the hospital too.

A few Fridays ago I had finished a long day of work when I felt some rumbling in my tummy. Honestly, I figured it was just an overdue poop. About two hours later I was back in apartment and thought I was directly addressing the issue, if you catch my drift. Somehow, that didn't work. Another two hours lying on the couch with one ibuprofen in my system and I thought the pain was subsiding. PSYCH! It wasn't. I went to bed and kept in touch with my own personal nurse, my mother, over the course of the evening. I was certain that I could sleep this off and be totally okay. I've slept off many things and still woke up with all of my internal organs, limbs, dignity, etc. This was fine. I was going to be fine. 11 p.m rolls around and I pull out my phone for the umpteenth time. This time, instead of trying to placate my pain induced boredom, I was looking into the diagnoses appendicitis. I carefully scrolled past WebMD because I wasn't ready to be told I had terminal syphilis just yet. After some reputable source sifting I was pretty certain my appendix was trying to kill me. A quick exchange with my mom and I was desperately asking a colleague to take me to the hospital. I make bad decisions, but those decisions don't include driving when I am incapable. Luckily, my colleague was able to take me and stuck with me through the majority of the ordeal. Here is where the story telling gets really good.

I show up the hospital and instead of explaining my symptoms to the triage person, I flat out told her that I have appendicitis and kind of left it at that. Apparently I have no social skills and can't adult and also think I am a medical professional. Fortunately, when school isn't in session the wait for the ER is much shorter. I had that blood pressure cuff around me in no time.

About the blood pressure cuff. I fucking hate blood pressure tests. SO MUCH. They have always made me panic. The feeling of the tightness on my arm makes me nervous because I feel like my arm is about to pop off. Or that it's going to collapse a vein. Or that it's going to cause an aneurysm. As a result, I give pretty alarming and inconsistent blood pressure readings. Which then leads to even more blood pressure tests. Which leads to more panic and an increased blood pressure and heart rate. Pretty soon everyone, including myself, is convinced I'm about to go in to cardiac arrest.

Moving on. After the standard vitals tests and invasive questionnaire I was given my very own backless gown in a color I like to call "nursing home blue". It even had a boob pocket. My primary nurse was absolutely lovely. A older gentleman from Alabama, he was a traveling nurse and had only been in Iowa for a few months. He was hoping that his next rotation would take him to Alaska or Maine. We exchanged our life stories, mine via standard hospital assessment and his via enthusiastic disclosure. Finally, I was ready for my IV. At this point I was still feeling quite a bit of pain, sort of like my appendix was about to burst. Little did I know this was about to become it's own ordeal.

I am a pale ass motherfucker. Pale. As. Fuck. I hate being in the sun and I've endured enough sunburns to have racked up enough vitamin D for a lifetime. My skin is the lightest possible shade of toilet porcelain, therefore, making it pretty fucking translucent. One would think that this would make it super easy to locate veins. In fact, I can identify four in my left arm right now. Now, shots don't bother me but I am a wee bit put off when there is a needle in my arm and two nurses are playing battleship with my blood supply. All this time I am alternating between watching them miss every possible target and my friend growing paler by the moment as she watches their desperation. At one point I was looking at the cabinets in front of me when the nurses began to pull out the needle to try yet again. The second I felt the needle leave my arm both nurses exclaimed "whoa!" and my friend looked like they were about to become personally invested in the cold, hard floor. I asked them if i just squirted blood and they both emphatically told me I hadn't. I was pretty disappointed because that is metal as fuck. Come to find out, I had ejaculated blood on to the floor, they just didn't want me to freak out like a normal person would have. After three attempts they finally succeeded in nailing a vein inside of my left elbow. At last I was in a morphine induced euphoria. Life was good.

The doctor eventually arrived. He poked my stomach once and said they would do more tests, then left. Basically, I should have been doctor. I'm good at poking stuff and making statements too. The doctor left and a radiology nurse came in. This is the part where the reel tape runs out and the audience misses out on an hour of the story. Some embarrassing shit happened and as much as I love sharing just a bit too much, I'm going to decline this time. What happened was terrible (imagine me looking off in to the sunset, longingly, with pain in my weary eyes).

After my radiology nightmare which will certainly result in 'Nam style flashbacks I was back on the gurney. When I left the radiology nurse, I was told that I would have confirmation about my appendix in less than 10 minutes. Thirty minutes passed and I was still without an answer. By this point my mind had actually fabricated several diagnoses, all terminal. Finally the doctor returned and confirmed I had acute appendicitis and would need to stay over night until the surgeon was in the next morning. At this time I bid my friend adieu and was reunited with my Alabama nurse. He came in to tell me that he waiting on getting me a room prepped, but instead of leaving me, he proceeded to tell me about his most recent visit to his uncle's house. Apparently his uncle had the highest selling Cadillac dealership in the US for almost 10 years and had done very well for himself. So well, that when his father died they paid for all of the funeral costs. But wait, there's more! After he finished elaborating on the financial status of his family tree, my room was prepped and he was going to wheel me down to my room. While being wheeled around in an oversized wheel chair, I was again regaled with another story. This time my nurse informed me that I looked just like his ex-wife. A spitting image. So much so that he had to do a double take when I came in. Right here would have been a great place for him to stop sharing. But he didn't and neither will I. His ex-wife divorced him and got back with her first ex-husband, who was a drunk. They adopted a baby from a crackhead who was black (this was apparently very important to the story I guess). After a year his ex-wife would call him every day, begging to get back with him, but he had to deny her. I have no idea what I was supposed to do with this information. I still don't know what I am supposed to do with this information. We arrived at my room for the evening and the nurse left me to my overnight attending nurse.

By this time it was almost 3 a.m. and I was on my seventh blood pressure cuff for the evening. I was answering the same questions about my health and wellness habits and was trying to fight off the sleep that was baited by the 11 p.m. sleeping pill, further seduced by the morphine drip, and dramatically escorted by the time of night. Shortly after three I was allowed to close my eyes for the first time. Unfortunately, I'm a light sleeper and was woken up every half hour by a visit from different medical staff. At one point a different nurse shined a flashlight in my highly closed eyes. CAN I HELP YOU?

6:30 a.m. rolls around and I've managed less than an hour of sleep when Dr. Sexy McBabe comes in. At this time I became very aware of my bedhead, eye bags, lack of makeup, and vacant stare. This doctor was an easy 10. He actually broke the scale by being in his scrubs and cute little doctor hat. He lost one attractive point by jabbing me in the stomach to gauge my reaction and confirm it was consistent with people who have temperamental appendixes.I thought we had established this multiple times over. He confirmed my surgery for later in the morning and left with his nurse entourage. We would never meet again (imagine me looking off in to the sunset, longingly, with pain in my weary eyes).

Another few hours roll by and I occupy my time by playing with my IV and online shopping. Around 9 something I'm wheeled out of the room to be prepped for surgery. They quarantine me in a room and start pumping some surgery related drugs in to my IV. Now, I'm not a doctor, but I am 100% sure that when a medical professional is putting anything into your body, whether through needle or IV, they should always have on gloves. Based on the IV flush and three other medications, this must not be entirely necessary. I'll report back when I find out if I have some sort of contagious illness that would have been avoided through proper procedure. The nurse tells me the doctor will be in shortly. Shortly meaning an hour later. I don't have my phone and no means for online shopping, and playing with your IV gets old after 20 minutes, so I drift off to sleep. Again, because I'm a light sleeper I jerk awake every time someone walks near the door to my room because god forbid anyone see me sleeping. Around 10:30 a second particularly good looking doctor comes in and confirms that he will be performing my surgery. At this point I'm convinced that the saturation of attractive doctors in this town of 9,000 people isn't because they were in the top of their class. Once again, I'm certain I am going to die.

Just before 11 I get wheeled in to the OR and hoist myself on the crucifix looking operating table. One oxygen pumped gas mask later and I'm waking up to my vitals being taken...again...this time with one less organ in my body. The more I think about it, the more freaked out I am by the concept that medicine has advanced far enough that through a mixture of gases and liquids, a person can be rendered unconscious enough to be cut in to a bevy of times, and wake up an hour later with no recollection of anything, not even the moment they drifted off. It's equal parts fascinating and fucked up.

I drift off and come to a few more times in recovery. I wake up as I'm being wheeled back in to my room. Three nurses surrounded by gurney and ask me to get up and walk to my other bed in the room. I do as I'm told and promptly shriek and collapse back on to the bed in pain. Apparently we all forgot that going from horizontal to vertical requires almost exclusively the contraction and release of the abdominal muscles. The same muscles that were just dissected less than one hour ago. I try to hold back tears as I am then instructed to scoot my body from Bed 2 to Bed 1. I manage to convince the nurses I'm not at all about to sob because I have my eyes closed to tightly nothing can come out. Then, like an angel emerging from the clouds, my mom arrives. I get loaded up with some more drugs and am finally left alone. An hour later the nurse comes back to check on me, telling me that I can go today if I'm feeling up to it, or I can stay. I've already decided I'm not staying, for any number of reasons and wait for more information about my release. On the next set of rounds, the nurse brings me a mug of water in case I was thirsty. Little did I know I was supposed to drink all of it to prove that I am worthy of going home. Two hours later I'm told, condescendingly, that I need to show them I can drink the water and pee before I go home. Irritated and ready for a challenge, I down the mug-o-water like I'm shotgunning a beer (which I've never done because I'm not tacky). I evacuate my bladder like a champ. Clearly, I've proven myself. A different nurse returns and asks how I'm feeling. I ask for some more drugs in order to subdue the pain. This kind lady tells me she will check with my head nurse and come back with some drugs....never to be seen again. I don't recall ever getting the drugs I needed so clearly I'm the victim here. My attending nurse comes back and gets me ready to leave. I'm pretty excited at this point to put on some clothes and abandon that gown with the boob pocket. But for the record, all clothes should come with boobie pockets.

Today I had my follow-up appointment to verify that all of my insides are where they need to be. A brand new nurse who takes me back, straps up that god forsaken cuff on me, and starts talking about how I had my gall bladder removed. For the record, my gallbladder hasn't been in my body for over six years. Again, a quite concerning statement. I corrected the nurse and she proceeded to tell me how she had called me and left me a voicemail telling me that it was acute appendicitis. Again, this is a concerning statement because I never received a phone call. Moreover, I didn't sign the release which allowed me to leave a voicemail about my medical records until 10 minutes ago in the waiting room. So, at some point the week before some unsuspecting individual was informed that they had appendicitis. For their sake, I hope that it true. At this point I am 70% sure I'm missing my liver, perhaps a kidney, and maybe even a lung. But, if anything goes tits up, I have probably at least two malpractice suits ready and waiting to be pursued.

And that's the story about how my body could have killed me because I was too reluctant to go to the hospital and had two very attractive doctors slicing my abdomen open. I always thought that appendicitis was something 12 year olds got that kept them out of school for a few days. Who heard of a 26 year old eating strawberry jello in a backless hospital gown as a direct result of the same affliction?

Arid Ghetto, of Turdy Seconds to Czars

Some of the best feelings in the world include a cozy nap on a rainy day, a soul cleansing poop, and getting celebrities to block you on various social media channels. This is the story of when I, Big Bad Leah, hurt musician-turned-actor, Arid Ghetto's, feeble feelings on Instagram. 

Believe it or not, I don't actually set-out to have my social media privileges revoked on an individual basis. More often than not, a blunt yet innocuous statement is interpreted as a threat to humankind and I am blocked only to become an even stronger and funnier before. It's kind of like a reoccurring boss fight in a video game, except I can never be defeated. This most recent situation was just that. 

The celebrity I emotionally maimed is best known by the masses for his work in a recent Oscar winning movie about drugs and AIDS. Arid Ghetto, as I will refer to him, also fronts an angsty band band that frequents festivals like Warped Tour. I actually saw this band perform while I was in my emo-turned-scene high school days. The show was on St. Patrick's Day and the band members all wore kilts during their performance, because geography, cultural markers, and a quick Google search are hard. I've followed the band loosely since then mostly because 2/3's of its members are sexually appealing, including Arid Ghetto. I wouldn't say I take the band or its members seriously because unlike its almost exclusively white, female, under 21 fan base, I have slightly more refined taste in music. Or more simply put, I have taste. 

Anyway, I follow Ghetto's Instagram account for the occasional shirtless picture. For the most part, Ghetto's posts garner no reaction from me simply because can only withstand sifting through the thirst of a thousand hormonal teens for brief moments. It's kind of like being within three miles of the still radioactive bits of Chernobyl. Actually, it's exactly like that. A few weeks ago Ghetto posted a photo suggesting that everyone should lower their home heating temperatures slightly to reduce carbon emissions. This is certainly a great idea and one I even endorse. Unfortunately, what I don't endorse is celebrities fanning themselves in their ivory towers as we plebeians look to them for scraps of life advice, particularly when these celebrities seem to disregard their own dictates. Being my helpful self, I decided to take a moment to remind Ghetto that he frequently takes private jets to and from shows and this is a massive contributor to climate change that can easily be eliminated. Unlike my last social media blow out with Rat Von P, I never received a response and continued on my merry, and informative, way. It wasn't until yesterday evening that something struck me as odd. I was scrolling through my Twitter feed hoping to find someone as funny as me deserving a retweet. Instead I came across a tweet from Ghetto that linked to his Instagram account. I check my Instagram account pretty frequently and realized I hadn't seen this most recent post, even though I had been on Instagram not five minutes earlier. After some anonymous investigation it occurred to me that I had missed three weeks of Ghetto's posts because he had blocked me. Another few minutes of sleuthing revealed that the last post I ever saw was the one I had (helpfully) commented on. Nothing makes me feel quite as energized as knowing I caused a self-aggrandizing celebrity a moment of unadulterated emotional distress. I wish I could bottle it and sell it. The problem with celebrities blocking me is that I get an unrelenting hard-on that can only be relieved through vaguely aggressive social media commentary. To meet this throbbing need, I took to my Twitter account to ask Ghetto some very important questions, all listed below. 

Do you prefer to look at yourself in the mirror when you masturbate? 

Do you cry before or after every highly redundant song you record? 

Which end of your Oscar do you insert in to your anus first? 

Do you rub your nipples in a clockwise or counterclockwise motion? 

Do you soak your balls in lavender oil or sandalwood oil? 

Do you ever wish you had a clone of yourself to make sweet love to? 

When stroking your ego do you use a water based lubricant? 

Have you ever considered that your primarily female fan base has ulterior motives for their interest in your music? 

Is Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs your acting muse? 

Do you secretly envy every person you have ever had sex with because they got to have sex with you? 

Do you wish to connect with people on a molecular level? 

How excited were you when you found a way to integrate the word "rape" in to one of your jingles?

Have you ever open mouth kissed a bear? 

Do you think everyone has forgotten the one time you were photographed making out with Paris Hilton? 

Are you the reason Lindsey Lohan barely made it out of 2007? 

Who would win in a fight between a tiger and a lion? 

Are you actually a reptile? 

Do you have a toilet paper preference or have you never actually pooped? 

What are your thoughts on the new Star Wars movie? 

Are you a little pissed that God appears in the bible more frequently than you? 

Do well-timed and calculated retweets make you the leader of the social justice movements? 

Should oatmeal and raisin cookies even exist? 

Is it fair for Chipotle to charge extra for guacamole? 

Is it hard to hide your boner when you are directing 14 minute music videos under your pseudonym? 

Can you tell why kids love Cinnamon Toast Crunch? 

Was the moon landing a hoax? 

Is your favorite part of the Illuminati the secret meetings, fruit punch, or dungeon torture porn? 

What is your favorite pizza topping? Smugness? 

Is the Suicide Squad movie going to be bad or really bad? 

How long can you stare directly in to the sun?

Do you think the bubonic plague should make a come back? 

How often do you take Buzzfeed quizzes to find out what type of sandwich you are? 

It seems to me that using this sample size of two instances, 100% of celebrities don't like it when you make valid, ego-crushing statements on their Instagram pages. In fact, 100% of the time they will block you, practically requiring you to turn to Twitter to patronize them. And 100% of the time it will be the most gratifying part of your day. 

Women Being People

For the longest time I refused to use Twitter because I had very important things to say that could not be confined to a unforgiving word count. Then I begrudgingly sold my thoughts, ideas, and overall wittiness to the social media leviathan (follow me: @leahreuber). While I don't tweet with any sort of consistent pattern, I do occasionally find myself writing a long ass series of tweets related to a singular topic. Most of the time these are inane and absurd, such as my recent tweet series on foods that would be served in a Hell themed restaurant (ex: the Antipasti Christ), and sometimes they are poignant. Last night I caught myself tweeting one of these series which I became more and more invested in as the words became more and more intentional. This tweet series was centered around how the media sensationalizes every god damn thing women do in an attempt to appear pro-woman or feminist. Instead the outlets just come off as pandering and pedantic; fervently attempting to let subscribers know that they too, think of women as people sometimes. I have the firm belief that if we collectively stopped aggrandizing normal behaviors and functions these mythical "women" creatures will stop being fabricated minor characters in the scene and start being leads in the play. Below are the tweets that made up the tweet series and call out the bullshit that the media use to catapult themselves out of the overtly misogynistic narrative and into the covertly misogynistic narrative. 

"Feminist" things the media can stop reporting on in order to actually be feminists: 

People having babies.

Women's body types: thin or thick. 

Women doing literally anything unrelated to gender. 

Women being shitty to each other.

Women being good to each other. 

Women getting haircuts. 

Women enjoying things that are enjoyable. 

Women being single.

Women exploring multiple relationships over any given period of time. 

Women expressing their own gender.

Women expressing their own sex and sexuality. 

Women enjoying their sexuality. 

Breastfeeding.

Women being good at stuff. 

When women and womanhood is no longer portrayed as one dimensional, suddenly being a woman is considered normal and not some achievement unlocked by being awarded a participation award. 

Rat Von P

Let me tell you a story about the one time I pissed off a D-list celebrity. Now to avoid any sort of Internet warfare, I will refer to this celebrity not by her real name but by a pseudonym. Let's  go with....Rat Von P.

To give some relevant context to this story, it is important to note that I am particularly devoted to the Instagram makeup community. Makeup is my primary hobby and Instagram is the ideal social media channel to learn about new products and techniques. Rat Von P has two popular accounts on Instagram: one for her personal self and the other for her professional makeup brand. I have always found Von P to be rather desperate and annoying. She seems like one of those women who heavily relies on the phrases "I prefer to hang out with guys" and "I'm not like most girls." I briefly followed her personal account but found it just about as unfulfilling as her actual life might be. I maintained a connection to her professional brand account because her makeup truly is phenomenal. Whichever chemists she hired to curate her products and then pretend she had a role in their creation are very talented. 

During a lapse in new product releases the account began to post boring stock photos with pedantic and uninspiring Von P quotes on them. Imagine a photo of a black and white rose with the words "I think oxygen is important" off center, or an abstract shot of shattered glass with the text "the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell." These are not the actual quotes but a sample of the caliber of statements that would be attributed to Von P. Her thousands of followers would practically wet themselves over the sublime brilliance of her perspective on existence and humanity. One day, after being plagued with far too many of these posts, I commented on one of the photos saying the account should knock it off because these photos were self-serving and irrelevant to the brand. A few hours later I received a reply from the moderators of the account (not Von P herself) stating that the unfollow button was in the upper right corner and I should use it. Duh. The "duh" was their touch, not mine. Feeling as though the response was disproportionate to the comment, I replied stating that I found their remark rude. I was promptly informed that they were going to block me, and they did. 

Later that evening I noticed that Von P was relatively active on Twitter so I decided to see if I could draw her attention to the rude behavior. After a series of five or so tweets directed at Von P regarding the incident, she took notice and engaged in what I like to refer to as the most unnecessary pissing match to have ever occurred. Von P remarked that "you are the one my moderators told me about" and that she didn't need my negativity or want me to purchase her makeup. Now, employing my favorite tactic to piss people off is remaining calm and composed, dangerously docile in comparison to their palpable anger, I cooly explained that her synopsis of the situation was rather reductive and inaccurate. I rarely encounter a "fight" worth participating in so I quite enjoy the art of gradual provocation disguised as genuine communication and understanding for the sake of eliciting an absurd and embarrassing response from the other party. Sure, it doesn't lead to resolve but it teaches others to never, ever, fuck with me. 

Von P finally wrapped up her angry tweets moments before I blocked her as the exchange was not gainful. To this day she is the only person I have blocked on social media. After her display of misplaced anger, I revisited her page to find she was still tweeting about me, as she could no longer tweet at me. Need I remind you this all began because of my perceived negativity...

Moral of the story: D-list celebrities have very fragile egos that malfunction when their irrelevant attitudes are addressed publicly. Therefore, you should always tap on the proverbial glass and see how long it takes for a social media meltdown to occur. In this case it was less than 8 hours. 

A Note on the VS Fashion Show

As many of you may know, the Victoria's Secret Fashion show filmed this evening and debuts on December 8th. Which means I am being proactive in addressing the body shaming and body policing bullshit.

First and foremost, calling the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show a "fashion show" is like saying Gigli is the pinnacle of cinema. The VS Fashion Show is as much about fashion as MTV is about music. VS sells bouncy boobies and cheeky bums set to popular live music performance once a year. Let's tell it like it is. That said, Victoria's Secret is a consumer brand in a capitalist market. They make a shitload of money off of over-priced bras and slightly less shameful looking sweatpants, and they are really good at it. Victoria's Secret sells an image and that image requires svelte bodies with curves in all the right places. That's their thing. That's what they sell. Furthermore, the extravagant winged body suits and capes that walk down that runway aren't exactly daily wear for anyone who isn't Batman. This should be common knowledge.

The VS Fashion Show models are some primo genetic specimens, that's undeniable. That said, the brand opts for whomever is (pop) culturally relevant at the time and can reel in the most TV views and Twitter mentions, hence their usage of Gigi Hadid and one of the ubiquitous Kardashian offspring. These aren't normal people. They live lives many of us will never understand or experience. Their existence and their bodies are nothing short of stellar but that doesn't give anyone the floor to body shame these models as a whole. I loathe Hadid and Kardashian #4 or #7 or whatever she is; they suck. BUT, their disappointing personalities and failures to contribute to society doesn't mean their collective bodies are up for critique. The same applies to everyone else on the fucking planet. This is probably the dumbest matter to even address. We are all massive sacks of skin, bacteria, bones, and fluids, just in different measurements and distributions. Therefore...I am going to stop everyone right fucking now before they break out the "real men like curves," "she looks anorexic," "eat a cheeseburger" comments. First, "real" men like whatever they want and unless you are talking about sentient mannequins then I have no idea what you mean by "real" and if sentient mannequins exist then we have far larger issues to address. Second, anorexia, bulimia, and other types of disordered eating are serious medical and mental health problems and not fodder to mask your personal insecurities. Third,  donuts are better than cheeseburgers and you don't know someone's food preferences you fascist.

The VS Fashion Show is for entertainment purposes only, just like the Super Bowl. Don't use these individuals as measures of your own self-worth or material for your unsolicited critiques. I shouldn't have to tell you not to be a dickhead, but here I am.

Snowy Bliss

I haven't blogged in a few months simply because I had run out of things to complain about. I'm not entirely sure how that is possible because on a daily basis 90% of my spoken vocabulary and 100% of my facial expressions are directly associated with things that piss me off. My last post seems to have been at the beginning of August and was all about how much I hate summer, therefore, it would seem quite appropriate that my first out-of-hiatus post be about how winter is infinitely more tolerable than its seasonal counterpart.

• Winter is all about being cozy, and that opportunity presents itself in many forms. First and most importantly, there is the option of clothing. There is a very strict and distinct limit to how much of my body I can expose in order to alleviate temperature discomfort in the summer. In the winter, though, the limit does not exist and I can put on infinite layers until my spine collapses underneath the weight of fuzzy sweaters. Additionally, winter clothes are far more attractive than summer clothes. The fabrics are better quality, the colors are more appealing, and there is more to cover. In summer its all about nylon, spandex, sweat stains, and pretending your shorts aren't lodged in your colon.
• During the winter everyone is cold and wants to minimize the amount of time they are exposed to wind, snow, ice, sleet, and otherwise aggressively low temperatures. I find this particularly satisfying because it also minimizes anyone's inclination to stop and talk with me. I can gleefully ignore others and not feel the least bit of remorse, as our conversation avoidance is really doing them a favor. 
• Honestly, that last point is so important to me that it should also be recognized in this point.
• My makeup prowess isn't questioned in the winter as it is in the summer. In the summer my makeup melts off my face like some sort of Barbie meets Easy Bake Oven experiment. In the winter my makeup is frozen to my face, maintaining its integrity.
• Winter food is fucking amazing. There are so many cold weather holidays to celebrate and no one cares if you get fat, they only care that you are slightly more corpulent than them. First we start with Halloween and its surplus of boss ass candy. Then we wobble into Thanksgiving which is a celebration of comfort food (except pumpkin pie because that shit is nasty and should be banned). Then we roll right in to Christmas which is basically Thanksgiving Part 2 with Presents. Finally, we cap it off with New Years Eve which is the birthday party for hors d'oeuvres. And every other day in between is intended to be filled with creamy soups, sugary baked goods, and anything else that will expedite your pending cardiac arrest. 
• Perhaps one of my favorite parts of winter is the extended darkness and overall dreariness. I love lying in bed all day without pants and void of all human interaction. No one expects me to participate in social niceties like they do in the summer. 

Satan's Asshole, AKA Summer

You know what's great? Dripping in sweat before 10 a.m. Burning your hands on your gear shifter or steering wheel. Your skin sizzling as a result of the sun just being its ol' asshole self. Those things are awesome. Great. So great. So. Fucking. Great.

I live in Iowa, so for about 6 months out of the year I complain about how much I hate summer. This state is like some special seasonal anomaly where 2 days out of the year are perfect spring or fall weather. The other 363 are equally divided in to Satan's Asshole hot and Santa's Left Nipple freezing. I am one of the few people who really enjoys winter. When the temperature is below freezing and it is dark for the majority of the day, I am at peace. I personally identify with that kind of weather. My heart feels at home in the bitter cold abyss. Summer on the other hand, can go fuck itself.

Let me break it down for you; the many reasons that summer is offensive to all of my sensibilities.

It is flat out uncomfortable. Personal hygiene is pretty far up there on the list of things that are integral to me maintaining to a tolerable temperament. Showers are meant to be relaxing and cleansing, but in the summer all they do is blur the line between "am I sweating or just post-shower damp?" The answer is always the former.

Makeup application is futile. I have invested a lot of time and money in to my makeup collection, but because of the Sun's Violent Vengeance, my face can only withstand the bare minimum of powders and pigments. Every day I apply makeup in hopes that I won't look like I spent the last thirty-two years in a maximum security prison. Every day I am reminded that nature always wins.

Clothing options are limited. Much in the same way that summer doesn't do any favors for my face, it does the same for my wardrobe. Nothing is comfortable because naked isn't considered socially acceptable. No fabric has the breathability that buck ass naked does, and therefore, each additional layer feebly mocks the thermometer.

Summer activities suck. Literally the only thing that I enjoy doing in the summer is visiting the Farmer's Market, and even that is pretty low on the "enjoyable" scale due to the amount of unpleasant children (i.e. all of them) around. Everything else it just a weak attempt at entertainment.

• Pools are gross. They are always overcrowded and filled with equal parts children and pee. 
• Outdoor physical activity, like volleyball or hiking, is painful and requires way too much forethought to be enjoyable. Forgot a water bottle? Enjoy your impending doom. Didn't apply enough sunscreen? Have fun with five days of excruciating pain on the largest part of your body.
• Picnics are 100% disgusting. Eating outside is just miserable in general. There are bugs, the wind always seems to be hellbent on giving your picnic an combined area of 100 square feet, the temperature is either just too hot or just too cold, and finally, food generally requires temperature control and my large intestine is not about to play a game of chicken with some suspect looking potato salad. 
• Large bodies of natural water, such as lakes and rivers, seem like nature's olive branch for summer fun. No. It smells bad, you can get flesh eating bacteria, e.coli, and it's like submerging yourself in to one big sewage treatment facility. You know what else they have? Fucking snakes and big ass fish that you can't see beneath that murky water's surface. Hard pass.
• Water parks and amusement parks are overcrowded, overpriced, and straight up stressful. Literally no one enjoys standing in line for hours, paying $5 for a bottle of water, and listening to Timmy and Jane screech about not being tall enough to ride the teacups while they contemplate pissing their pants.
• Grilling is dumb. Here is your slightly burnt tasting food. Enjoy.

Summer is the earth's way of telling humanity to rethink it's behavior and reconsider what is defined as "enjoyable." Unfortunately, we take that as some sort of pissing match and try to finagle logic into being outside during such an uncomfortable time. Enough people have joined in on this facade that I am also expected to pretend I enjoy it. I won't perpetuate the lie anymore. Stand up people! And then sit down again because it's hot out and the air conditioning is on.