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.