Happy Fucking Holidays

A lot of people might be inclined to think that I am Anti-Christmas, and they aren't exactly wrong. There are few things I find pleasant about the holiday, and it is layered underneath heaps and heaps of peppermint scented bullshit. Sorry, reindeer shit, if we are keeping it festive. Let's dive in to some of that fecal matter and see what ridiculous red and green colored nonsense we can unearth.

I'm not a big fan of lying to children, mostly because children suck. They deserve to know about the shitty truths that artfully compose the clumsy human existence. You get like, 13 years of being carefree, then the rest of your life you are stuck paying bills for the things that serve you only a little. You will resent everything that has ever meant anything to you. This all happens around the quarter life crisis, and boy, it does not get better from there. Holidays have this weird, almost requisite feature, of lying to children. Most of them involve creepy adults or anthropomorphic creatures giving them gifts and candy. This is particularly fascinating when you consider that we beat it in to children's heads not to talk to, take anything from, or even acknowledge strangers. But, apparently, unless it is a designated day of the year then that shit is totally legit. In fact, leave out some food and invite some fat fuck in to your house via chimney. People. This is how repressed memories start. To be fair it isn't just Santa I'm looking at, it's also the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and Christopher Columbus (homeboy had a penchant for breaking in to places that didn't belong to him). Pretty soon we are all going to be telling the little Timmy's and Tonya's that the guy walking around with a big ass branch and smelling of gin is Arbor Day Man and that if you sit on his lap he has to go speak to his probation officer.
On a more serious note, I recently heard this great classist perspective about the concept of Santa. Think about when you were in grade school. The week following Christmas indicated, beyond any doubt, who was naughty and who was nice. By perpetuating this idea that this mythical, but very real for children, being delivers gifts one night a year to good little boys and girls. It shows the have-not's that maybe they weren't good enough and when they got a sweater and some socks instead of a new bike. It isn't about whose parent's have money and whose don't on December 25th. It's about this jolly, geriatric man who wants to give you things, and if you receive less, you are valued less. And that, my friends, will fuck kids up for life.

Moving on, did you know the Salvation Army is SUPER DUPER against gays? The Salvation Army is practically in bed with Santa and his side chick. The cadence of cheap bells is a Christmas carol all it own. It even comes with its own holly jolly hate speech. A few years ago a high ranking representative from the organization suggested that members of the LGBT community should be put to death. This year a leaked internal documented suggested that "unmarried" (i.e. those big scary gays) bell ringers and other volunteers and/or employees should remain celibate. Maybe this year, instead of dropping some pocket change and lint in to those red kettles you can walk right past them and give your money to a shop keeper in exchange for goods. It's the Christmas spirit! No longer do you have to feel guilty for pretending to talk on your phone as you walk past those bell ringers.

Source:
Celibacy and Death

Running fresh off that last paragraph, let's talk about that obligation to give. No,  I'm not suggesting that consumerism is one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. I'm talking about that urge we feel to give people we don't care two shits about some sort of token of our feigned appreciation at this time of year. We feel obligated to carry out such acts in detriment to our own bank accounts. Don't do that. I give gifts because I want to give gifts. Furthermore, I give gifts whenever the mood strikes, not just because some "virgin" pooped out a baby, allegedly, a while back and as a result I need to give everyone within a 2 mile radius a Starbuck's gift card. By this point, my blog should have clearly indicated that I fucking hate feeling obligated to do anything. I believe in free will and the ability to make my own god damn decisions. And if I think you are a platter of turds then I will certainly not feel required to give you a box of cookies to reward your mere fucking existence in the month of December.

I can tell you almost the exact moment my loathing for the key components of Christmas began: when I started working at Target. I worked exactly one Black Friday at Target and one Black Friday at Gap. That was more than enough for me to solidify my plans for total desecration of the human population once I become World Empress. Unless you have worn a company assigned name tag on Black Friday, then you have no idea how fucking insane middle-aged white women are at 6 a.m. No longer are they riding high off those 4 (5 when you weren't looking) glasses of pinot, and they are still pretty pissed off that no one laughed at their vaguely racist joke during dinner. Pair those two explosives with an inexplicable sense of entitlement and self-worth, and you have enough Coach bag fueled fire power to destroy every hapless sales clerk they encounter. The people who wait outside of stores on Black Friday are the precise reason this holiday was probably Hitler's favorite. Nothing says I don't care about anyone but myself and the aftermath of my broken condoms quite like asking everyone in retail to give up their holiday to serve your superiority complex. What makes these people even more charming is when they have the gall to say, "I can't believe they have you guys here this early!" Holy shit, go consume an entire gallon of dicks, please. And while you have your mouth full, let me inform you that the gifts you buy your little shit-bird children will only stave off their resentment for you for a maximum of two weeks.

In all actuality, I'm not trying to ruin Christmas for anyone. I am just brushing aside the tinsel to make it clear that Christmas sits on a throne of downtrodden and broken souls. Not mine though, I don't have a soul. So continue to celebrate with your loved ones, shove a candy cane up your ass if that's your sort of party, but don't you dare act like Christmas isn't a big, tedious, load.

Short Hair Manifesto

Up until I was in forth grade, my hair was down to my butt. It was stick straight, light copper, and it garnered me a lot of attention. Once a woman came running up to my mother and myself in a parking lot (because that’s safe) to tell me that I had the prettiest hair she had ever seen (bitch, I know). It was when I was about 11 years old that I wanted to try something new. I cut it all off in to a very short bob and donated my hair to Locks of Love (that was before I knew about their sleezy practices). I then slowly progressed in to shorter and shorter looks, until eventually I was maintaining a pixie cut. On a few occasions I decided to grow my hair out because I wanted to feel more feminine (don't ask). Usually I didn't get further than a few inches (roughly two to three months of growth) before I thought better of my decision and went short again. At no point has my hair ever reached past my shoulders since that fateful day in fourth grade. 

I have no idea why I decided that I wanted short hair. Honestly, I think it was a chance for me to stand out and look different. Which is weird because no one wants to stand out in fourth grade. My favorite haircut, up until this point, is my mohawk. About 3 years ago I had run out of ideas and needed something fresh, but I knew that when you only have five inches of hair to work with, you don't have a ton of options. I threw caution to the wind (you know, the notion that ladies should have long locks otherwise their vagina ceases operation) and went for it. I put my hair in the very talented hands of my Aveda stylist and she created a monster rockstar. She brought out the clippers, slipped on a guard, and buzzed my sides down to a few centimeters. She spiked and tousled the 'hawk and that was it. I absolutely adore knowing that when I walk in to a room, people remember me. I never get confused for anyone and I love it. I practically subsist on compliments alone. The only bad thing about the compliments is that they are often followed by "I could never pull that off." I have no idea how to respond to that self-deprecating nonsense. 

If I could, I would force every woman to have short hair at some point in her life. It is the most empowering decision you can make. Whenever I hear the words, “My significant other doesn’t like me with short hair.” I want to give a backhand to everyone within a ten-foot radius. Fuck what your significant other thinks about the motherfucking hair on your motherfucking head. Seriously, blow me. Blow me so god damn hard if that is something you honestly believe. First and foremost, it’s your god damn hair on your god damn head on your god damn body. You can do whatever the fuck you want with it. The only person, other than yourself, whose opinion on your hair matters is the person cutting it, because maybe you have a funky shaped head. Second, there is no second. Fuck right off with that, “he/she doesn’t like it.” You are in control of what happens to your scalp. You are not a dog at the groomer.  You are not at the will of some other human being’s opinion of the fucking hair on your head. Of all of the insignificant bullshit someone could be so unnecessarily concerned with, this one happens to be the most impressively enraging. If the person whose genitals you put in your mouth on a regular basis has ever told you anything than “I love your new haircut,” you break right the fuck up with them. Don’t trust anyone who is that offended your boss ass hair. You don't need that shit in your life.

There is no hiding behind a pixie cut. You have to own everything about your appearance on both your good days and your bad days. And contrary to popular belief, short hair is time consuming and high maintenance. Sure, my haircuts take 10 minutes but I have to get them every two weeks and I have enough hair product to serve every Broadway production for the next 40 years. And if you aren't familiar with good hair products and good hair cuts, well, that shit is e-x-p-e-n-s-i-v-e. Furthermore, there is no "throwing it in a pony tail and running out the door." Every single day I have to do my hair. And every single day I have to do my makeup, otherwise I look absurd. It's a commitment. 

The important thing to remember is that hair grows back. If that isn't enough, there are really cute hats and scarves at your disposal. I mean, maybe you do have a funky shaped head.

You Scared?

Right now I'm watching "Reefer Madness" and it inspired me to to write a post about the stupid shit that plagues my sensibilities. No, not really. That just seemed like a great introduction rather than me trying to find another one-of-a-kind opening line that garners a pithy giggle, or at best a weary sigh.

In a world filled with shit that is just aching to kill you (lookin' at you Australia) there is more than enough to make you soil yourself before you kick it into the great, big abyss. With my well-developed frontal lobe and higher reasoning abilities than the average human, I have kept myself from harboring a slew of needless anxieties. Snakes don't concern me much and I named the resident spider in my office Jane Fonda. Heights are just a cool perspective point and planes are a great way to be stuck in a small, flying cabin with 100 people you hate. While I am clearly more grounded than most, I am not without my phobias. Here are my big three: mascots, automatic car washes, and sharks in places they shouldn't be.

Let's start with the least ridiculous of the three: mascots. Until about four years ago I had no misgivings about mascots. I mean, I always thought they were annoying and I felt pity for the poorly paid intern who had to marinate inside of the vacant-faced and soulless costume. I worry that four years ago I unleashed some repressed memory because now I possess the most immense fear of these dopey-smiling assholes. When I say "immense fear" I don't mean mild discomfort, I mean hyperventilating, sweating, sobbing, and looking for the nearest exit. I shit you not. Mascots are like Satan's dickhead mother-in-law and they want nothing more than to destroy any last glimmer of happiness in my heart (just kidding, I don't have a heart, but mascots still suck).

Next on the list there is (are?) automatic car washes. I like when things are clean and spotless. I do not like being locked in an immobilized vehicle while being slowly pushed through a dark tunnel that is monstrously loud and disorienting. Whenever my car needs to be run through the Tunnel of Terror, I have to mentally prepare myself ahead of time and weep that I don't have a Xanax prescription. It is important to note that I am not claustrophobic or afraid of any of these independent qualities. It is only when they are all assembled like the nightmare sect of The Avengers that I lose my ability to rationally fulfill my mundane adult responsibilities.

Finally, the most inane, absurd, and laughable of my fears: sharks in places they shouldn't be. This fear first presented itself when I was young. I recall going to my grandfather's house and swimming in the above ground pool that he had installed specifically for the use of his three grandchildren (but mostly me because I'm the best). When the pool cover was pulled back it would slightly hang over the far edge of the pool. This overhang caused a shadow to be cast over 1/8 of the pool and I was absolutely convinced that said shadow would actually reveal itself to be a human-eating shark. I would avoid that side of the pool at all costs and sometimes, when my mind was particularly overreactive, I would refuse to turn my back on it, or float carelessly across the surface. This fear further perpetuated itself when I was slightly older, but still a child, and would swim in the lake at my maternal grandparent's summer cabin in northern Wisconsin. I only swam in the lake a few times, because let's be real, lakes are gross as fuck. Still, that dark and murky water was certainly hiding some sort of vicious sea beast that was going to reduce me to a human bobber with intestines for fishing line. This is where it gets really dumb, so brace yourselves. In my childhood home, our upstairs bathroom had a bathtub, and while I preferred showers, I would occasionally want to soak in a tub of poorly heated water. It was during the tail-end of my bath-over-shower preferences that I became concerned that a shark, or other large, aquatic animal, would manifest in the tub and tear my ass apart. This wasn't some sort of metaphorical worry, this was a literal burden on my mind. To make this even more senseless, I was the first of my family to jump feet first into the ocean on our trip to Mexico. I had zero concerns that a shark, in its natural habitat, would consider tearing me limb from limb. Rather, I saved all of those thoughts for when I was bathing because a shark wasn't supposed to be in a bathtub or a lake, but they were supposed to be in oceans. BECAUSE THAT MAKES TOTAL FUCKING SENSE. This fear has become substantially less pronounced in my adulthood as I am able to retain maximum control of what activities I will and won't participate in, but the moment someone entertains the idea of throwing me in a lake I will rip their eyeballs out from the back of their skull.

Instead of being afraid of the very real things in the world that could kill me, I have managed to develop deeply rooted fears that are straight out of Final Destination or some other D-list horror movie. This explains so much.

Take Me Out

Baseball is the fucking worst thing to have ever happened to humanity and dinosaurs.

I'm a little surprised I didn't write this blog post earlier considering how much seething rage the activity of baseball causes me. I can't recall a single time in my life where I have ever enjoyed baseball, either as a player or spectator, so clearly this isn't the result of some sort of well-repressed memory. Hold on to your butts because I am about to break this shit down.

Athleticism:

I can't think of a single other sport that is so void of necessary athleticism, but parades around as though it's motherfucking Atlas on steroids. Which is humorous because the steroids part is true, but more on that later. Sure, the sport requires some measure of athletic ability but the amount of time spent standing in the same five by five space and pinching at one's scrotum hardly constitutes moderate physical effort. 

Steroids:

Nothing screams America's past time like the moniker, "cheat to win." From Lance Armstrong to Mike Tyson, athletes are the bastions of manipulating circumstances to ensure a particular result. I'm no one to judge here because I've never lost a game of Monopoly (mostly because it is impossible to finish) because so few people ever questioned how I had twenty of the orange $500 bills two minutes in to the game.

Time:

Probably my biggest issue with baseball is the amount of time each game takes. Who the fuck has 4 hours to observe men in ill-fitting clothes fondle their junk mindlessly, but with impressive vigor? Apparently a lot of fucking people. Almost every sport I can think of takes way more time then should be allotted for any activity. Baseball, though, takes it to a whole new level. It essentially operates under a never-ending system of innings. Each inning then takes the better part of forever to conclude because there is a remarkable series of fouls, strikes, and balls that prolong each inning to a length equal to any of the Lord of the Rings movies. 

Games:

On a similar tangent of the shear length of time it takes a single game to complete, viewers are given the opportunity to see the exact same game play out multiple times over the course of a few days. Whatever happened to losing once and hanging your head in shame, rather than asking for a do-over? Like, is one four hour game not a sufficient amount of time to fondle your junk?

Summer:
Oh my fucking god, summer is the worst. Why would anyone choose to stand outside, in a full body uniform, under the August sun at noon? Can you imagine the severe cases of swamp ass occurring in every baseball stadium (is that what they are called?) across the U.S? The amount of sweat and booty grit festering in between thousands of sets of corpulent ass cracks is worrisome, to say the least.

World Series:
Lol. Toronto. Suck it World.

Inspirational Masturbation

My favorite use of Twitter is mocking those who rip famous quotations out of context and ride them in to commiserating retweets and favorite notifications (lookin' at you Marilyn Monroe's corpse). Last year I ran a series of about 25 - 30 tweets that were used for the sole purpose shaming these quotes and the people who use them. I was too lazy to access my tweet archive, so I just browsed the Midol and Pinot Grigio dregs of Pinterest for some material. If you say or reference any of these things you should feel bad. Enjoy!

Don't forget to love yourself.
Insert masturbation joke here.

Nothing is impossible. Even the word says "I'm possible."
Fun and mental are both in fundamentalist, but I don't see you making a t-shirt about that.

Live. Laugh. Love.
Fart. Poop. Wash your sheets.

Some girls are just born with glitter in their veins.
And then they die immediately because your circulatory system doesn't work that way.

Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it is better to absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.
Joan of Arc and 2007 Britney would certainly agree.

I'm selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best.
But if you ever step out of line I will cut your face off and wear it around the office.

Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars.
Nope. Nope. Science does not work that way. But you know what, go ahead, try it. Report back.

Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today."
That's a James Dean quote, and look how he ended up: in a coffin at 24 and sharing his namesake with a porn star.

Everything happens for a reason.
...what?

Eat diamonds for breakfast and shine all day.
And then your poop will literally be associated with immense corruption, suffering, and death in Sierra Leon. You will also probably go in to septic shock.

Well-behaved women rarely make history.
Eva Braun is a role model. So is Aileen Wuornos.

Never a failure, always a lesson.
I feel like it says that on the box of an at home STD test.

I'm not a racist but...
Oh my, please keep going.

We accept the love we think we deserve.
File this bullshit under things that aren't true.

This too shall pass.
Nuh uh, Gandalf said so.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.
Unless that is genocide. Please go confidently in the opposite direction, or back to art school.

All you need is 20 seconds of insane courage and promise you something great will come of it.
No one has ever said that about premature ejaculation. Hnnnggggg.

Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth "you owe me." Look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole sky.
You are right, the sun didn't say that to the earth because the sun can't fucking talk. Also, in a few million years the sun is going explode in a spectacle of fire and kill absolutely everything in our solar system, so I wouldn't qualify that as love unless your definition of love is some Romeo and Juliet bullshit.

An arrow can only be shot by pulling it backward. So when life is dragging you back with difficulties it means that it is going to launch you in to something great.
Perhaps a wall, or oncoming traffic.

It is always more difficult to fight against faith than against knowledge.
Great quote right? Hitler thought so too BECAUSE HE SAID IT.

Now go read a book.

Body Shaming

Currently listening to: "Plush" by Stone Temple Pilots.

One of the most impressively irritating epidemics washing over every corner of the internet is the concept of body positivity. In short, body positivity is loving every part of who you are as illustrated by your various outward physical features. For example, if you're tall then you should embrace that you can reach things on the top shelf and ruin the concert going experience of everyone behind you (I know I do). The reason I find body positivity so irritating is because I can't believe how fucking necessary we find it to have to teach ourselves and others that your blood, skin, and bones can somehow be inadequate. Fuck all of that noise. The human experience is shrouded in this idea(l) that each person should aim for a very specific and very narrow range of what they should look like. Both men and women have incredibly strict standards which they feel obligated to fulfill. That's shitty. What is more important right now, though, is not the unwavering social standards we impose upon each other, but rather, the bullshit body shaming that is posed exactly along side of purported body positivity.

Body shaming is making specific individuals or groups of said individuals feel as though their bodies are inadequate for one reason or another. The most common example of this, and the one I will focus on for the sake of this blog post, is skinny shaming and fat shaming amongst women.

In the most recent decades, women defined as "voluptuous" or "curvy" are seen as nothing other that "fat" and "lazy." The media is the Body Gestapo and has been remarkably successful at assuring that women who don't get a paycheck from Ford or IMG models are broken or inadequate and their most important goal in life is not education, philanthropy, or self-discovery but making sure they can shimmy into that pair of size 0 jeans. In recent years, women began to fight back at this ludicrous self-image. The fight used to be a good fight, but then it slowly became the official Trampling of Confidence. Women who didn't personally identify as thin or statuesque began to berate those who did. No longer was anyone promoting that any body is a good body. Instead, the closer your physical self aligned to the media's expectation, the more likely you were to become a pariah of the cause. This switch of the pendulum's direction came with such pithy statements as "only dogs like bones," or   "real women have curves." The original blonde bombshell Marylin Monroe became the ironic poster child for the war. I say this is ironic because Monroe was actually a size 2 - 4 rather than the size 14 "internet experts" like to claim she was. She's also dead now. I find it equal parts impressive and depressing that a cause born from body shaming did nothing more than perpetuate the hate.

Here is what I have to say about all of this nonsense. Real women are whoever the fuck they want to be. So are real men. Everyone is fucking real. If you have a pulse, you are real. Bra-fucking-vo. It doesn't matter if you are a size 24 or a size 2. It is entirely irrelevant if you are 6 feet tall or 4. Your body is your body and it can do some seriously amazing things. It turns food in to poop. It can produce one of the two key components to creating a child. Your body is made up of star dust and is 4.5 billion years in the making. So eat that donut. Run that mile. Take the nap. Shave your head. Buy the short shorts. Curl up in the oversized sweater. Do whatever the fuck you want and tell everyone else to go blow themselves.

PSA

I like to drop knowledge on people like the US likes to drop bombs on unsuspecting civilians: more than necessary and without remorse.

Today I am going to inform you, the masses, about a necessary textile and clothing based distinction. Flannel and plaid are not synonymous terms. Flannel can be plaid and plaid can be plaid, but they first function independently of each other.

Flannel is a type of fabric. 

Flannel is a textile made, typically, from wool or cotton. What makes it different from other fabrics is that is is treated through a process called "napping." I happen to know a lot about napping. Napping, in this context is when a fabric is mechanically brushed back and forth to create a slightly raised texture. The combination of thick fibers, such as wool, that are brushed to a raised point, generates a textile that is conducive to preserving warmth.

Plaid is a type of pattern.

Plaid is an easily identified pattern that is defined by crossing parallel and perpendicular lines that are of a contrasting color to the solid base of a garment. While there are multiple varieties of plaid, each with their own signature features and representative name, plaid is almost always made of lines that form boxes or squares in a linear fashion. You might recognize plaid from kilts, Frat Stars in the colder months, or smarmy hipsters at any given time of the year.

In summation, a plaid shirt may very well be made of flannel and a flannel fabric may very well be made in to a plaid shirt. That said, flannel can exist without plaid and plaid can exist without flannel. So check the tags on your clothes and get your shit right because when you don't distinguish between the two you make my ears bleed.

You're welcome.

Be Nice

Let me tell you a really cool story about today.

I've been jonesing for Kat Von D's entire line of studded kiss lipsticks, in particular, a navy blue color called Poe. My mother, being the rockstar that she is, went in to her local Sephora in Rockford, IL to see if they happened to have it in. The last time I went to check was right after the launch and all of the women from the Mac counter had gone to that particular Sephora and bought them out of everything. I was clearly miffed because it is imperative that I have navy blue lips. Anyway, my mom asked the clerk if she happened to have any in stock and in turn the clerk inquired if it was for my mother or someone else. My mom said it was for her daughter, Leah. The Sephora clerk then exclaimed (no hyperbole), "Leah Reuber?!" My mom, very hesitant that a stranger, in a state I don't live in, would know me by first and last name, replied, "yes?" The sales woman then stated that, "Oh, we love Leah here!"

FLASHBACK

I work on a 10 month contract which means that during the summer months I go hang out at my parent's house and leech off of their food and take daily comas with my cat. A few times over the summer I popped in to the Rockford Sephora in search of lipsticks and nail polishes that I don't really need. This would explain why I have so many fucking things. My shopping habits aside, every time I was in this Sephora I was treated with the utmost care and respect. The sales people were always friendly but not pushy (don't try to sell me stuff, I know what I am here for). They know exactly what I am looking for and they give me the hook-up with samples. Even more importantly, they shower me with compliments and I am all about that shit.

FLASHFORWARD

During one of my summer shopping trips at this store I received a survey link to complete. In hopes of winning a Sephora gift card, I completed the survey with genuine responses about how awesome their service always is at this location. The other Sephoras I frequent tend to be extremely dirty, which is absolutely unacceptable when your primary product category is shit you put on your fucking face. Additionally, the staff is always way too pushy or way too cold. I think they are just jealous that my makeup is always better than theirs. After one particularly wonderful visit around by birthday (July 31 for those keeping score) I tweeted at Sephora and caught the attention of the Powers that be.
It seems that these two acts of genuine recognition were forwarded on to the Rockford Sephora staff. They even Instagrammed my feedback and printed a copy of the validation for their break room.

Long story short (this story isn't that long but I ran out of good segues), I took two minutes out of my day to recognize someone I didn't know and would probably never see my comments, but in the end, they did and it made their day. Despite my constant musings on how eradication of the human race with the exception of myself, Tom Hiddleston, and Jared Leto, would be a great PR move for the universe, I genuinely do care about making people feel good about themselves.

Awkward Pose

I spend a lot of time of social media because I thoroughly enjoy passing judgement without leaving the comfort of my own bed. Scrolling through seemingly limitless photos and updates of the same old shit is my type of spectator sport. One particular phenomenon I have discovered through my dedicated browsing is the epidemic of the awkward photo poses.

With the rise and reign of the selfie, it is in one's best interest to look as appealing as possible in the majority of published photos. As a result, we humans have apparently evolved particular poses to maximize preferred stature, indicate possession, and look as uncomfortable as possible. Let's take a look at these poses.

The Pooper:
This pose is best used to identify if a group of females is part of a sorority.* It's practically fail safe. Get a group of five or more women, line them up in to two or more rows, and ask them for a picture. They will instinctively start to squat like their colon just sent them a friendly reminder that they had a venti latte and Taco Bell 15 minute ago. The knees are bent at a 45 degree angle, palms are pressed flat to the thighs, and shoulders bring the torso forward. Generally this pose is used to maximize space for the entire group to be featured, but in my observations it doesn't matter if the backdrop is an airplane bathroom or a football field. It's like moths to a flame, but instead of fiery death it is violent diarrhea.

*Please note that I am not anti-Greek by any means. I was actually in a sorority during my sophomore year of college. The sorority I joined was an absolute shit show and their special bid for my admission was the result of an impressive amount of smoke and mirrors. The women in this particular sorority were the girls that were a staple at every party because every party needs someone to bring the vomit, crying, and yelling. I was not about to associate myself with that any longer than I had to. If I could go back, I would have still gone Greek but chosen better.

The Scoliosis:
This is another sorority staple that lends itself to groups of three or two. Instead of appearing to need a list of every toilet within a 20 mile radius, individuals look as though they are suffering from crippling spinal injuries. With this pose, both the left and right most individuals place one arm around the center person (or each other) with their other hand perched on their hips. Then, like five vertebrae fractured at once, they throw their chests forward and their shoulders back (bonus points if they position their head so their hair cascades off to the side). In a rudimentary sense, this pose is physically flattering. The body is turned and arms positioned to make oneself look more svelte. It also makes the subjects look like they just got a Falcon Punch to the back, which is so super sexy.

The Pregnant Man:
This is probably one of my favorites simply because the imagery is entertaining. Utilized by engaged couples or women who really want to indicate to other women that this man is either property or in the process of becoming property. To effectively execute this pose, the male faces the camera head on while the woman poses at his side and turned slightly inward. They then put one arm around each other. This is where it gets good. The woman then places her free hand (the one nearest to the camera) on the male's stomach. Every single time I see this photo, all I can think of it that man is incubating a child or a large parasite (same thing). Like, is is about to fall out of his butt? Can you feel it kick, or is that just a fart brewing? Is an alien about to burst through his abdomen?
What continues to make this pose even more interesting is how it is used to indicate possession. Side by side poses between men and women are too innocuous, but by placing your hand on his chest or stomach, you are using a non-verbal cue to announce your romantic intent. On the other hand, if a man puts his hand on a woman's chest it also announces non-verbal romantic intent but with an entirely different outcome.

Hole in Your Pocket:
The previous poses are relatively one-sided because women tend to be the dumb-looking culprits. This pose, however, is the most fratty-frat-frat thing to happen (outside of binge drinking and saying "no homo.") Bros seem to only be able to physically interact with each other in one of two ways: aggressively entering every viable orifice on each other or with enough space for the Holy Spirit to fit in-between. There is no middle ground. It is the most polarized spectrum with only two points. This pose features any number of men standing facing the camera and forcing their hands so far into their pockets that they are preparing for their monthly testicular self-exam. The pose is intended to give off a relaxed and chill vibe, but instead I just assume that they are grasping for their penis.

I get it. Everyone wants to look good in pictures. Except me, I don't want to give anyone false hope. That's why I give my most unflattering Snapchats (LeahIsRaddd) the longest time frame before expiration because I want everyone to bask in how derpy I am. There are few feelings better than seeing a photo and knowing that the pint of ice cream you just ate hasn't yet taken up visible residence in your ass. It is also important to know that no one cares about your photos as much as you do.

The Committee

Let me give you a little background on my job. I'm a Residence Hall Coordinator which means I get paid very little to have a Master's degree and live in a residence hall (dorm) with 200+ eighteen year olds. Sometimes I think it is the fifth circle of hell, other times it is one of the most unique life experiences someone my age could have. Ideally, I don't want to do it for more than another year but I would also like to pay my bills.

Each year I hire a new staff of Resident Assistants and hope that it is more Brady Bunch and less Manson family. This is my fourth staff and easily the Oreos in a row of supermarket generic brands. Each group I get to work with has its super stars and sometimes, unfortunately, its dick holes. This year is all Michael Jordan's and I'm Phil Jackson.

That's about where all of the happiness in this post stops. Over the past two weeks I have had some incredibly cathartic conversations with my employees. They all know an uncomfortable amount of information about me. I also know a wildly uncomfortable amount of information about them. But in the last two weeks we have talked about some really deep shit and dug up some extremely painful and raw emotions. I want to talk about those emotions. Ugh. Every atom in my body doesn't want me to write any of this. 90% of me wanted to delete this post, 5% of me wanted to post it privately, and 5% of me was like "Leah, stop being a little bitch and get your shit together." That last 5% prevailed.

A few evenings ago I met the mother of one of my staff members and during a 10 minute casual conversation, she mentioned this idea of having a committee in your head that is always battling and combating for your attention, emotions, and actions. Sometimes that committee is British Parliament and sometimes that committee is a group of Tibetan monks. Let me talk about my committee.

My committee is tied up in a bank vault and slowly wasting away from malnutrition and emotional abuse. They also smell pretty bad. There is one person that isn't tied up, though. Homegirl has on her Doc Martens, leather jacket, pack of cigarettes (I don't smoke) in a rolled up sleeve all James Dean style, mohawk, blacked out eye makeup, and covered in tattoos, and this bitch is the one who has everyone tied up. She has since been dubbed Sergeant Leah. Sometime during adolescence the committee was working well together like a functional set of civilized individuals. They could come to a reasonable consensus over which flavor of pudding they were going to have as a snack and whether today was meant for Looney Toons or Power Rangers. Then, one day, Sergeant Leah broke down the door and took over. She tied up the committee and pushed them back in to the vault, then closed the chamber door. Occasionally she would open the vault up and peer inside at the helpless committee members, potentially considering letting them walk around or giving them a slice of pizza, but she would always think better of it and sashay away. Sergeant Leah has yet to relinquish control. There has never been a coup or even a negotiation. It's like a hostage situation that the SWAT team passed up on addressing.

The committee members aren't just any regular group of people. The committee members are every insecurity I have ever felt: self-worth, body image, emotional availability, likability, value, self-esteem. Before the takeover, the insecurities were just a regular part of life but they were a few years away from retirement. In other words, I was willing and able to deal with them. But when Sergeant Leah showed up and they were locked away, their retirement party and commemorative plaque became the faintest memory. They were never going to leave the vault and ever since then I have never liked myself.

At some point in my adolescence, I became completely and entirely emotionally unwilling and unable to address my insecurities. I accepted everything I felt that was wrong with me. The culprits who opened the door for Sergeant Leah to stomp her way in were a fear of failure and rejection. If I were to accept the chance that dealing with some or all of my insecurities would result in potentially varying degrees of failure and rejection, then I wouldn't be able to function. I mean, if I tried to overcome them and was rebuffed by any insignificant individual, what was the point? I had little hope for ever overcoming what plagued me because there was too much room for disaster.

This long running bout of one-sided guerrilla warfare has created an ongoing and seemingly never-ending battle with cognitive dissonance. The person who I am today formed on a series of functional contradictions that teeters between 100% authenticity and 100% deception. For example, when I walk in to a room full of people, I own that shit. I make sure people know who I am and that I have arrived. I have unlimited confidence. While on the outside I exude the persona of Baddest Bitch Around, on the inside I wonder about whether the individuals in the room think I'm funny, smart, or worst of all, pretty. I am void of self-esteem. This the type of contradiction I am talking about. Seemingly mutually exclusive qualities manage to exist in tandem with each other inside of my head.

This dissonance has been at least 15 years in the making and is so inherent to my existence and my identity, that the committee has begun to develop Stockholm Syndrome for Sergeant Leah. The insecurities now understand that Sergeant Leah is actually protecting them, rather than keeping them from healthy development. Every time someone compliments me on my writing, my humor, or my appearance, Sergeant Leah runs back to the committee to show them what she has managed to do from them. "Hey look everyone, they all loved my hair. I'm clearly doing something right for you guys." I look for my own value in the approval of others. I long to feel like I'm not on my own and that its okay to not always be the strong, independent one. 

There you go. That is the shit that fucks with my head each and every single day. The discussions that generated the need for this post were easily my most painful and emotional moments of being called on the carpet. Because I have developed such meaningful connections with this year's staff, it has left me less guarded when I am perhaps most in need of it. In simple terms, they call me on my bullshit and know when I am trying to dismiss or cover-up my emotions. I present myself as an independent woman with a cast iron heart who you can't fuck with because it is the only way to keep the committee in the vault.

The conversation hurt. It hurt so bad and it will continue to hurt. I would like to think that it is going to result in some major life epiphany and I am going to be able to open up the vault and let the committee finally get to their retirement party. To be honest, I know that won't happen because Sergeant Leah is very good at what she does.

Last year I read an anonymous quote on Tumblr that summed up my life to this point. Somehow in one sentence, a complete stranger was able to address up my entire emotional struggle. "I don't want others to see me the way I see myself." It is not lost on me how fucked up that mentality is, but I think it is important to be honest with yourself above all else. That was the purpose of this post. It was the expectation that I be honest with myself and a slew of other people, some I have never met and some I see daily. It was an uninterrupted explanation of how my mind is essentially the plot of Misery, just without Kathy Bates and James Caan.

The Basic Brigade

Currently listening to: "She's So Up" by The Knux

The concept of being "basic" has been floating around for the past few years. This concept promotes the idea that an individual (typically young women) flock around the same simple and average joys that make them unremarkable, a cog in the consumer machine, and really easy to make fun of. The season of fall brings a massive spike in calling out basic bitches simply because there is a heavy concentration of basic things to enjoy (fall is just so magical). Right now, this spike is plateauing for the year. Considering I have been in higher education for almost a decade, I consider myself an authority on what constitutes basicness.

Basic Bitches:
Pumpkin spice anything
Instagram filters
Marylin Monroe quotes (you know, an assassinated president's mistress who was a drug fiend that died in a pool of her own vomit #inspiring)
Dream catcher, anchor, or infinity symbol tattoos
Motivational quotes over arbitrary nature scenes
Yoga pants without the yoga experience
Puffy vests
Ombre hair
Uggs

The fatuous fascination with these seemingly mundane objects/activities/icons makes women basic because it represents a sense of identity achievement. In less pretentious words, it means that the basic bitch is a woman like all other women. She doesn't stand out from the crowd or have her own unique identity.

But you know who else is basic? Men.

Somehow basic bros manage to fly under the radar and their assimilation to the group never seems to be a topic of conversation or public disdain. The male equivalent of being like everyone else is permissible, but the female side of things isn't. All things considered, history is very consistent.

Basic Bros:

Salmon colored chinos or shorts
Sperry's or any other manner of boat shoes (Iowa is known for its profitable yachting industry)
Snap backs
Flannel shirts
Adidas slide sandals and mid-calf athletic socks
Ironic and/or excessive patriotism
Themed parties
Gym selfies
Playoff beards
Vineyard Vines

I would like to believe that I have been on the forefront of disliking basicness ever since I was in high school. Until I was 18, I lived in a tiny town of about 2,000 people. My graduating high school class was about 60 people, and of that, only 7 or so went to (and completed) a college program. I went to school with a bunch of unremarkable assholes. My story of triumph is as inspiring as Hellen Keller's or Gandhi's. I've been on the vanguard of the Anti-Basic Brigade for years.

While I don't consider one any more or less irritating than the other, I do think it is necessary to highlight how vapid both groups appear based on their inherent need to fit in and be just like everyone else. I'm not saying these things can't be enjoyable. In fact, I have my own collection of colored khakis, Sperry's, and flannel shirts (TIL I'm a basic bro). But let's be real and acknowledge that you are all basic as fuck.

I Like Stuff

I spend a disconcerting amount of time discussing the things I loathe. There are just so many. Remember the movie The Truman Show? My life is like that. Except instead of casually orchestrating mundane daily experiences, everyone is conspiring together to discover new and advanced ways to provoke me. If the NSA is reading this YOU ARE DOING A VERY GOOD JOB YOU SMARMY DICK HANDLES.

In order to convince you that I am actually not miserable (thanks Zoloft!), I have composed the first of many lists that detail things which bring me enjoyment and pleasure. Whenever I feel that I am bitching and moaning about the dreary nature of the human condition a bit too much (not possible), I will throw one of these lists in to lighten things up and remind you, dear reader, that I'm not a sociopath.

Mozzarella sticks
I get a little teary eyed just thinking about mozzarella sticks. Crispy exterior, molten lava cheese center, limitless dipping options, and convenient ergonomic shape, 'dem sticks is perfect. If foods were deities, mozzarella sticks would have the corpulent body of Buddha with the hair of Jesus and the trident of Poseidon. The best thing about mozzarella sticks is that even bad mozzarella sticks are still mozzarella sticks. It's like sex but there isn't any weird crying after.

Jeff Buckley's version of Hallelujah

As I was about halfway through this post this song came on my Spotify playlist. As much as I love and live a musically inclined life, I don't usually feel any strong sort of emotional connection to songs. Happy songs don't make me happy, sad songs don't make me sad, angry songs don't make me angry. This song, though, is a different story. I could heard it 50 times in a row and still get goosebumps every single time. There is something so somber, yet sweet, about Buckley's voice. It's absolutely brilliant.

Wilma Jean Reuber
Wilma Jean Reuber is the biggest badass on four legs. If my cat were a deity she would be the biggest asshole one that no one worships. Maybe Zeus? He was powerful but also a total dick and didn't he have non-consenual sex with basically anything that emitted a pulse within the last 24 hours? Wilma is a dick but she is my dick (wait, what?). Wilma was rescued by my eldest brother from underneath a porch in Kansas. She was a tiny kitten who was still very much reliant on her mother who was no longer around. For the first few weeks she lived with my brother who didn't give her a name and just referred to her as "the cat." She came to Iowa with him and promptly became my furry minion when he disclosed he couldn't keep her. By day she would shit on my floor and by night she would curl up in my hair. We were made for each other. Wilma is now 7 or 8 years old and lives with my parents in Illinois. Every time I FaceTime them, she runs to the computer to show me her asshole and rub up against the speaker. She sleeps by my side and doesn't talk to me, which is just the kind of companion I need.

Entertaining
Contrary to popular belief, I am far more selfless than I may appear. I actually enjoy doing nice things for people simply because I find pleasure in making others happy. I like to tear the human collective down, but I enjoy to build its individuals up. I love to make people laugh and smile, whether that is through self-deprecating humor or a sincere, albeit awkward, compliment. The world tends to suck and I like to be a back-alley supplier of happiness (read in to that as you will).

There you go, four things I enjoy. Now, back to my snarky social commentary.

The Shaving

Currently listening to: "Spectrum" by Florence and the Machine

We are now four days in to November which has, historically, been a consistently shitty month for me. It seems as though every year Life waits to throw the biggest piles of steaming bullshit my way. For example, right now I have a wisdom tooth trying to Shawshank its way out of my mouth and I have to sacrifice two hours of my morning tomorrow to have a dentist confirm that my tooth, in fact, is not performing its singular toothly duty.

Anyway, in the past decade the month of November has gained the ever-annoying reputation as the month where men don't shave their facial hair. Some women have also joined in the activities by not shaving their legs and/or armpits. No Shave November is here. Joy.

I, as a woman, always choose not to participate in the hygiene embargo for the month of November for a few reasons.
A.) Non-shaved legs are itchy as hell and so incredibly uncomfortable. I have woken up in the middle of the night just to shave my legs because they were preventing me from my most favorite activity: sleeping.
B.) I have blonde body hair so it isn't like there is any sort of visible gauge of my commitment to the cause.
C.) I'm not a twat.

If you haven't been able to tell, there are just so many things in this world that I find intolerable. It's not exactly a challenge. There are a multitude of things I enjoy, but they will be forever shadowed by all of the horse shit. No Shave November is like the cherry on top of that chunky pile of animal excrement.

First of all, it's gross. I don't have a personal affinity for facial hair on men. A full beard can be nice to look at, but for all other intents and purposes it is itchy and unbecoming. I have a hard time disassociating men with beards from what I assume all serial murders look like.

Second, my work environment leaves me surrounded by a lot of young men who lack the testosterone levels necessary to grow a beard that isn't reminiscent of a 70 year old burlap sack. Patches are for quilts and pirates.

Third, there are no words to express how much I fucking loathe slacktivism. Any activity, or lack of activity, that gains notoriety through inane acts published on social media challenges (ex: dumping a bucket of ice water on oneself or putting a pink ribbon as your profile picture) is a constant reminder that humanity is beyond redemption. No Shave November began as an awareness cause for testicular and prostate cancer. Clearly, when I think about beards I also think about balls and butts. I could literally write a dissertation length document on my festering hatred of social media backed causes, but I don't want to break the internet. No Shave November is now used as a means for men to wave their metaphorical and literal dicks in the wind about their dedication to not shaving their face. Tough stuff.

Fourth, when the month finally comes to a close there are pubey looking hairs EVERYWHERE. Sinks, bathroom floors, pillow cases, window ledges, seemingly any and every stable surface. Furthermore, I can't help but feel that every rejected beard hair is far too similar in resemblance to a hair that grew from a nut follicle, instead of a chin.

Fifth, adding the other half of the population in to the scratchy madness just provides me with more people I have to develop thorough disdain for. Women, there is a 99% chance that you don't have a prostate or testicles. Therefore, not shaving your legs or armpits just makes you somewhat unpleasant to have sex with (an assumption on my part I suppose) and nothing else. Also, smooth legs on fresh sheets in probably the single most ethereal feeling aside from playing with a puppy. Why would you willingly deprive yourself of that? You know who else had hairy legs? Hitler.

Sixth, there is now a 100% chance I am going to find a beard hair in my food because No Shave November participation is practically a national requirement and beard nets look ridiculous.

So darlings, please stop making November so awful for me.

In Defense of Cunt

I love swearing. Actually, wait, no. I don't love swearing. I love using my entire vocabulary however the fuck I see fit and you can blow me if my choice of words offends your delicate sensibilities. When I was little swearing was not permissible for a child. My parents swore and I was around swearing, but I knew that I wasn't allowed to say "naughty words." Then I turned 18 and the proverbial motherfucking flood gates opened. You see, my parents never said swearing was "bad," it was just something that I wasn't allowed to do until I knew what exactly it the words I used meant. To them, calling someone a "butt" and an "ass" were the same thing. And it didn't make sense that saying "go have sexual intercourse with yourself" was perfectly acceptable, while "go fuck yourself," (which means the exact same thing) was not.

When I was in 4th grade I was reading at a college level, so have no doubts about my ability to manipulate and understand the English language. I grew up in a household that cherished reading and imagination and expected hard work in school. Words have always been important to my understanding of the world, and I have yet to be convinced that some words are more acceptable to use than others. Unfortunately, this doesn't seem to be a vastly shared opinion. The best example of this word warfare is the beautiful word: cunt. Even as I wrote this post, my computer refused to acknowledge cunt as a word. It recognized fuck and bitch, but not cunt.

For me, there was never a swearing hierarchy. There weren't any words that were more or less impactful or hilarious than other words (slurs being the big fucking exception; that shit's not funny). Choosing to refer to someone as an ass clown or a fuck nugget had equal value and emphasis. Then I discovered that not everyone felt this way, in fact, most people didn't. This was particularly evident whenever I would use the word cunt, or any of its variations (cunty, cuntish, cuntier). People would visibly cringe if this four letter word ever escaped my lips (pun intended). People would respond with, "that's such a horrible word!" or "I can't believe you said that." I would respond with, "why not?" I refer to all people, regardless of perceived or actual gender and/or sexuality by the various types of human genitalia (sometimes animal if they are being particularly fucking twatty). The most macho of all men can be a floppy vagina. The most demure of all women can be a enormous ball sack. Someone who identified as neither can be an enflamed asshole. I'm an equal opportunity jackass.

So what, exactly, makes cunt so awful an utterance? Is it because the mere concept of the vagina is historically viewed as dangerous, mysterious, and confusing? Perhaps it's because penises are funny and vaginas aren't? This has to be true because I see a surprising amount of men drawing dicks on absolutely every solid surface available. Vaginas are hard to draw. Why is it that twat is the watered-down version of cunt and it considered minimally offensive, rather than the beginning of WWIII?

Why?

Because it is all some serious motherfucking bullshit. 

Cunt is funny. Cunt is no better or worse than all other swear words. When I say "cunt" I mean no more offense than if I called you a "fuck" or a "overflowing cum dumpster." My choice of words depends on two things: how funny it is in context and how uncomfortable I want to make the person in question (calcification: the value is equal to me, although I realize it is not equal to others).

You can all go on referring to others as "axe wounds," "see you next Tuesday's," or "c-words." I'm going to go ahead and use words like an educated adult and call everyone who deserves to be called a cunt, a cunt. I am responsible for what I say, I am not responsible for how you respond.

Shut the Fuck Up

As I mentioned in one of my previous posts, I work and live at a university. It is the furthest thing from a glamourous job, but it requires a Master's degree and I get to hold that over people's heads. It's not much, but it keeps me from wallowing in crippling depression, so there's that.

My office is located in the main thoroughfare of the largest first year student hall on campus. This means that every day I am surrounded by student chatter about their classes, their hook-ups, their STD's, and their dumb fucking sayings that have driven me to the brink of violent rage on more than one occasion. Don't get me wrong, I love my students. They are smart, inspiring, and ambitious and that is a truly wonderful environment to be allowed to work in. However, the bubbling diarrhea that overflows from of their gullets is on par with some Jenny McCarthy pretend medical science blather.

I have decided to put together a small glossary of the words and phrases I hear most frequently from the mouths of these young ones. Maybe if I put them on my blog it will save me from the imminent need to slap someone in the throat every time I hear them used in real life.

AF
Read: as fuck.
This phrase is nothing special, and perhaps that is what makes it particularly annoying. It is almost always used at the end of sentences and uses two letters to replace two single syllable words. That's some efficient shit right there. Rarely is it ever spoken, but considering I read student writing as much as I hear it, it's sufficiently qualified to make this list.

What makes it annoying: are we trying to save time? Are we afraid our parents are going to ground us for swearing? Are you dumb?

"These ball sweat flavored burritos are delicious af."

Bae
Read: before anyone/all else.
This one has probably irritated me for the longest period of time because it doesn't make any fucking sense. It is used to refer to someone of affection but essentially it has been diluted further (not that I think that is even god damn possible) to refer to anyone and everyone.

What makes it annoying: whenever I hear people use this, I think two things: are you congested and having trouble communicating like a healthy human being, or, what does a large body of water partially surrounded by land have to do with jack shit?

"My bae brought me seven ball sweat flavored burritos and now I have congestive heart failure."

Or nah?
Read: or not?
This phrase is unlike the rest because it has more than one ultra-annoying usage. It can be used to indicated a pseudo-wishywashy question, or in a hyperbolic manner.

What makes it annoying: turning an annoying phrase in to a question that expects a response is like the level five Boss Satan from a video game made by Hitler and Stalin's love child. Not only do I get to hear your inane vocabulary, but now I'm expected to acknowledge it.

"You tryna' get them ball sweat flavored burritos or nah?

You da real MVP
Read: you have done something I approve of.
This phrase didn't spawn from mythical origins, bur rather, a real life occurrence. NBA player Kevin Durant used the phrase for the first time during a post-game press conference. It wasn't intended to be humorous at the time, but I couldn't be more overjoyed that some pre-pubescent boys were able to wrap their jaded minds around it and integrate it flawlessly in to every day conversation.

What makes it annoying: for starters, it makes a mockery of a genuine statement that was relevant in context. Second, 50% of the words in that phrase are annoying independently of any other words.

"To the burrito chef who gave me extra ball sweat for no charge: you da' real MVP."

Bruh
Read: bro, brother, friend, comrade.
It just sounds annoying and is too close to the word bra.

What makes it so annoying: see above.

"I don't think you understand the magnitude of my need for a ball sweat burrito right now, bruh."

Get at me
Read: come hither, I am interested in associating with you.
Generally said with enthusiasm, this phrase denotes some sort of interest in a person, something that person has, or something that person does.

What makes it so annoying: poor grammar. So. Much. Poor. Grammar.

"To the person offering hand jobs in exchange for some ball sweat burritos, get at me."

That's got me feelin' some kind of way
Read: this situation has had a positive impact on me emotionally.
This phrase is almost always used in a positive or light manner and indicates that whatever action has occurred has resulted in real positive feelings or emotions.

What makes it so annoying: like many of these, it is so ambiguous that it means absolutely nothing. Literally half of the words in the phrase indicate nothing. How is it possible that a bunch of 15 year olds have created such a linguistic enigma?

"These ball sweat burritos my mom made me as an afternoon snack got me feelin' some kind of way."

The shit I do like
Read: This item or interaction has made me feel approval and/or joy.
This is the final phrase and I actually find it the least annoying, somehow. I find this phrase most frequently used as a means of indicating approval.

What makes it so annoying: absurd sentence structure and non-funny use of the word "shit."

"When the burrito maker drags his scrotum across my burrito, now that is the shit I do like."


In summation, just because it is a cultural trend doesn't absolve it from being absolute bullshit.

Resting Bitch Face

I am sure that by this time you have all heard of "resting bitch face." It's a term used to describe the most confident and beautiful of all women (ex: me) Our standard facial expression looks like we were either just the recipients of a surprise enema or preparing to metaphorically or literally rip someone's throat out of their neck.

The standard resting bitch face can be identified through two primary qualities. The first quality is observed in the lips and mouth. The mouth is relaxed, but closed, resulting in slightly downturned edges. The second identifier is the eyes. The eyes are also relaxed, generally looking straight forward, presumably focused (although in actuality they may be entirely unfocused), and the lids are slightly slacked, but not droopy. One additional variable is the eyebrows. Occasionally a resting bitch face can come with either a delicately furrowed brow or an incredulously lifted arch. The overall expression is blank or vacant, but perceived as irritated or annoyed.

Individuals who encounter someone with resting bitch face tend to think that something is wrong, she is mad, or someone just farted. It's none of those things. It is literally nothing. Nothing. This is just how my face looks when I am not currently emoting or outwardly expressing anything. So, when you ask me, "what are you so mad about?" you are essentially saying, "you have an angry face." That's pretty rude. It's not okay for me to tell someone their face is ugly and makes me want to vomit. I get called on the carpet if I tell someone they look like a lemur or the Hulk.

There is nothing more insulting than telling me that being focused or relaxed is unbecoming of me. My face is fucking flawless and your observations speaks more poorly of you than it does of me. Asshole.

Breadcrumbs

Currently listening to: "Rebel Yell" by Billy Idol

Yesterday evening I found myself engaging in a passionate dialogue about the delicate and highly orchestrated dance that is mutual attraction. How pretentious did that last sentence just sound? I toyed around with the implications of this conversation well after each party had said their final arguments and decided that it was extremely important for me to express my opinions on my blog because every single one of you is extremely interested in what I have to say.

Context: A male staff member was describing his preferences for women expressing their interest in him. This was expertly illustrated via bread based metaphor (all metaphors should be carbs). According to his metaphor, women shouldn't be clear in their intentions in regards to their potential attraction to men (insert gender preferred nouns and pronouns as you see fit). He explained that they should leave a trail of breadcrumbs between interactions to insinuate their interest, but not blatantly express it. Maybe a  text on Monday, no communication again until Thursday, cancelled plans on Saturday, followed by a casual coffee meet-up on Sunday. Regardless of how interested the female is in the male, she isn't supposed to be clear about her feelings. In other words, she is supposed to play a "game."

This conversation continued over many days and saw many renditions and means of expressing the same idea. All expressions were weak and nonsensical.

Now, for my perspective. That paragraph above is straight up B-u-l-l-s-h-i-t, with a capital B. I can't help but find it absolutely absurd for anyone to conceal their feelings. If I have an attraction to someone, I am certainly willing and capable to express that. This means I don't time my eye contact or obey guidelines about how many days must pass before engaging in technological communication. I don't tally how many of their jokes I will laugh at or how many statements I will ignore. For the most part, I stopped that approach at my last middle school dance.

Caveat: I suppose it is important to offer up one minor detail that makes my case slightly different. I am #blessed with the capacity to hate everyone. Generally, my interest in people fades quite quickly and it may seem as though I am taking Approach 1 instead of Approach 2. I'm not. In reality, I have probably already stated my case and moved on, lost interest, or decided that this individual is not an anomaly and I do, in fact, actually hate them.

So what does this all amount to? Discussing this topic made me realize how much I hate the absolutely fucked up idea that playing coy, manipulating someone else's emotions, and/or disguising intentions is somehow cute, endearing, or mysterious. No. It's dumb, annoying, and juvenile. It's also a huge waste of time and I've got important shit to do, like eat mozzarella sticks and take naps.

Keep in mind this isn't me giving dating advice. Relationships make me feel uncomfortable and people are just the worst parasite this earth has ever seen. I'm am probably the last person outside of Jeffrey Dahmer who should be giving any sort of input on how to interact with others, especially when there is romantic intent.

Here is my plea to everyone: stop be annoying little twats. Say what you feel. Don't apologize for being honest. Don't play fucking games. Be real. Text after one day or one week, whatever feels right. Have safe sex. Wear a jacket. Call your mother. Use your turn signal. Get 8 hours of sleep. Compliment Leah all the time.

This post made me feel like Carrie Bradshaw, but then I realized I don't look like a horse and I am not helpless. Fancy that.

Sperm Lizards

Currently listening to: Glitch Mob "We Can Make the World"

When I started this blog all of 3 days ago, my mom (who from this point forward I will officially refer to as Bro-lleen) requested that I write a post on people's shitty offspring. I told her it would have to wait until I found myself particularly incensed by one of these three foot tall assholes. It didn't take long.

It should be a surprise to no one that I absolutely loathe children. I have never meant something as honestly as I meant that last sentence. Never have I felt a biological need to reproduce and every human under the age of 12 annoys the piss out of me. Every person over the age of 12 annoys me too, but it's the first group that is it's own special circle of Hell. When Dante wrote his series, this is what he had in mind.

This afternoon I stopped by Target to pick up a new pair of glasses (they look marvelous, by the way). While I was waiting for my lenses to be popped in and the frames to be adjusted to fit my beautiful face, a mother and her darling sperm lizard came in to have his glasses adjusted. At first things were going okay. My blood pressure immediately escalated as they entered the small off-shoot of the store, but that is normal any time I am within 20 feet of one of these sticky assholes. About 30 seconds in, the little douche grabs one of the optometrist stools and starts rocketing himself around the small optical center. I counted his mother asking him to stop a total of nine times. He stopped a total of zero times. In between weak pleads for him to stop making her look incompetent as a parent, she ignored his unruly behavior, which is pretty impressive because no one else could. The only solace I took in this situation was that the turd had his head pressed up against the seat of the wheeled stool for a solid five minutes. I hope he gets pink eye and tastes farts for at least a week.

I'm not saying I would ever be a good parent (but I would be fucking phenomenal), nor that I have any desire to be one, but I would not suck nearly as much as everyone else seems to. Additionally, some kids are Grade A assholes from the start and there is little that proper parenting is going to be able to mitigate and I would probably give up on the living parasite that ruined my vagina too. What I don't understand is every single parent's belief that their little sunshine train wreck that was the result of date night and too much white wine is totally warranted in ruining everyone else's meager existence. I hate grocery shopping as much as the next person, but I don't need some noisy heathen informing me of how much he hates Cheerios, from the safe but still audible distance of ten aisles away. In other words, don't make me put up with your shitty hell-spawn because your pedestrian life isn't what you thought it would be.

Before I go, can we take a moment to acknowledge that I referred to a six year old as a sperm lizard? That is so brilliant.

Tape Worms and Cookies

Sometimes I am overcome with a need to inform people about some of my particularly weird habits. Yesterday I was meeting with a student (I work at a college) and we began discussing french fry preferences. I, personally, have a hierarchy of deep fried potato food stuffs. Waffles fries are what all other fries aspire to be (specifically the one's from Jethro's BBQ in Des Moines). The ratio of potato to crispy exterior is ideal, the size is made for perfect distribution of dipping sauces, and they just never disappoint. After a lengthy discussion of fries, we delved into the topic of weird food cravings. Apparently, this students babysitter had a penchant for mayonnaise and bananas. Just think about that for a second. Not only does the flavor combination seem absolutely repulsive, but the texture….oh god the texture. Even thinking about it now, I can still feel the mushy, creamy abomination in my mouth. 

This spurred me to think of any weird food preferences I have. I suppose that what makes me different isn't the weird foods I do like, but rather, the totally common and mundane items I find remarkably disgusting. For example, would you believe that never in my entire life (all 25 years) have I consumed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. In my mind, sandwiches are intended to be savory, not sweet, and since when does peanut butter go with fruity goo? To me, the PB&J is a reflection of the downtrodden American soul. It's that damn depressing.

You see, I have a lot of these food based idiosyncrasies. Perhaps what everyone seems to be the most astonished about is my vehement rejection of all sweet foods that are any warmer than room temperature. 

Gooey cookies? No. 

Warm pie? No. 

Fresh-from-the-oven brownies? No. 

Hot fudge sundaes? No

Now, I have never had much of a sweet tooth, but I can't recall a time when I have ever craved a melty chocolate chip cookie. It doesn't even sound good. That said, I gave it a try once. It was awful. Chocolate on everything. Immense thirst. Wanting the whole experience to end as quickly as it started.

I can't explain how I developed such a particular preference, but I have one theory. You see, I am a damn good cook. I don't enjoy baking too much, but I know my way around a kitchen (I am a woman, after all. BUH DUM TISS). Baking takes time, patience, and precision. Baking also yields various delicious doughs. All of the patience creates an insatiable hunger that must be met. So, put two and two together and fifteen minutes in I have salmonella and potentially a tape worm (not really). By the time the timer goes off, I want nothing to do with whatever it produced. I feel full and have no desire to ever look at a packet of sugar again. That's my theory: ate too much dough that when the product was finally done I was already over it, only to decide to enjoy it five hours later when it was nice and cold.

So if you are ever in line at a coffee shop and hear someone act inordinately offended when the barista asks if they want their muffin heated up, it is most likely me.

Leggings Aren't Pants

Currently listening to: Black Keys, "Keep Me"

It's fall, which means every White Girl within a 100 mile radius is reading this with her Pumpkin Spice latte in hand, her Northface zipped up tight, and her cotton leggings cutting off circulation to the lower half of her body. It's an easy picture to paint because it is so god damn true. Additionally, the target is so easy (read in to that how you will).

Now, for those of you who have observed my existence, I am, in fact, a white girl. You will notice that I am referring to two different types of people: White Girls and white girls. White Girls are clones (probably cyborgs, too) that are essentially interchangeable with one and other. They enjoy the same, very mundane things, share a limited vocabulary, and are easy to spot. You are probably within 20 feet of one right now. The other type, white girls, are less run-of-the-mill. We are definitionally white, caucasian, or translucent (like me!). We don't necessarily fit an uber-annoying social mold and are less likely to be cyborgs (maybe). All White Girls are white girls, but not all white girls are White Girls. Get it? Moving on.

I find White Girls just as annoying as the next person, but I also find everyone very very annoying in their own right, so why discriminate? These next few paragraphs may seem like they are in defense of White Girls everywhere; it is not. I am simply providing my commentary on one of the three points of the White Girl Trifecta: leggings.

Leggings get so much hate unless you have a perfect ass. Legging opposers (read: terrorists) hang relentlessly on the saying, "leggings aren't pants!" Which is weird because it's true. Leggings aren't pants. Shorts aren't pants. Dresses aren't pants. Skirts aren't pants. Tights aren't pants. Crocodiles aren't pants. Boxes of chocolates aren't pants. People aren't pants (unless this is some Silence of the Lambs shit). So many things aren't pants. Pants are not a vital component of the average clothing outfit. Pants are pants. Lay off.

That said, there is a big ol' caveat here. Huge. Impossible to miss. Frequently, leggings are not entirely opaque. Most leggings are made of thin, dark cotton, that when stretched mercilessly across one's bum, become rather see-through. Now, that doesn't mean you can't wear them however you want, you should just be aware that cute underwear are going to be very important at this point.

Leggings are probably one of the most comfortable and forgiving articles of clothing that has ever been mass produced. They allow for maximum warmth, laziness, and chicness, at a low, low price. But leggings aren't pants, and that's okay. Not everything can be pants. Because leggings aren't pants, they lack opacity and as a result, can be an indicator of your grooming habits. I'm just trying to helpful here.

Leggings are for the people. Viva la leggings!

Back on the Wagon

Currently listening to: Johnny Cash, "God's Gonna Cut You Down"

Hello my darling readers, it's me, your long lost leader. I've been gone, on a quest, if you will (there was no quest, I just had an identity crisis and realized that I really enjoy pudding). Now I have returned and will make a minimal effort to blog more regularly. Minimal, at best. Seriously, don't count on much.

Now, blogging isn't exactly hard. There are thousands of assholes who do it every few days and they have a way more committed readership than I do (ya' bunch of jerks). Writing about things that interest me in an offensive, aggressive, and rude manner isn't something that I feel is particularly challenging or out of my element. Which is why, from this point onward, my posts will be less neutered. You see, before I was trying this whole, "don't be a dick" thing and that was no fun, which is probably why I was terrible at posting on the regular. So, like all good z-list, internet celebrities, I've cut off my first born blog for my much smarter, prettier, and funnier, second blog. Welcome to Leah is Judging You.

Leah is Judging You is exactly what it sounds like. There is literally no hyperbole. Now, LiJY (every serious blogger needs an acronym, because time is money) is basically the same thing as my previous blog, but with a much more wide and vicious scope. I will be reviewing fashion, style, makeup, trends, pop culture, and the like, but I'll keep my snarky anecdotes in each post rather than deleting with the same fervor as I do my internet search history.

So, where did this all come from? First, I have seriously, like, no hobbies. I like sleeping and eating and shopping. Sleeping is free and passes the time, eating costs money and makes you fat, and shopping costs money and usually results in me calling someone an asshole. Blogging and being a dick from behind my computer screen seems like a great bridge in to the social world. Second, my other blog felt annoying. After taking break from it for a few months, I reviewed some of my old posts and realized I was neither being successfully informative or funny. While, I intended to be informative I would find my that my posts were about as exciting as passing a kidney stone. So I decided I needed to be funny, and boy, am I fucking hilarious. Shimmer and Spikes was like the one friend that is nice and everything, but doesn't really contribute at all. You hate to be around her and are not sure of her social function. The only time she isn't a bore is when her best friend, the sassy spitfire, is around. They almost cancel each other out. Third, and somewhat on a similar note, my other blog wasn't me. I was hoping that some awesome makeup brands would just admire my no-bullshit approach and send me a whole bunch of free products. Well, that didn't happen (I blame you). I'm prone to identity crises, not unlike 2007 Britney, and Shimmer and Spikes wasn't helping. The things I enjoyed most were becoming a burden and I wasn't giving my captive audience anything that great to read. 

That said, here we go.