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.