"I have work. Then a dinner thing, and then I am busy trying to become who I am." - Hannah, Girls

Sunday, December 11, 2016

The Light Dilemma

I'm not sure what the best way is to tell a person to leave the morning after you hook-up. But I do know that "would you like to get out of here?" isn't right.

The boy deserves a nickname by now. He will be dubbed Breakfast Boy. He's oddly passionate about Special K, we compared our milk to cereal ratios once in the dining hall, we both attended a Friendsgiving brunch, and I have woken up next to him at breakfast time on three occasions now.

Last night, I went to a "Bad Bitches Only" party, fully inspired by Susan B. Anthony. I met up with him after. I was drunk, and he was sober. I confessed to him that I thought he was too nice and explained why that was a turn off initially. He told me that I'm super unresponsive to his advances. Which he probably said because I talked for a full hour before I even kissed him. SUCH a classic slagzy thing to do. I mean we both know why we're there at 2am on a Saturday. But hey, I'll just keep talking like an idiot about that box of oatmeal over there! and look at my cool socks! and I played Mario Cart drunk!

I don't talk because I'm nervous. I talk because I don't understand how you get from Point A of being in full winter wardrobe to Point B of being naked with the lights off. I've told him two separate nights that I think the distance from the bed to the light switch is so far. I just don't get what comes first: the lights or the clothes?

I feel like there should be a universal rule about when you TURN OFF or DIM the lights. I'm too focused on the GOD DAMN LIGHTS all the time. Not because I don't want him to see me naked in the orange florescent light. But because the lights are this small, weird THING that has to be decided before the end of the night. It's like when you are picking between grocery stores. It doesn't matter which one you go to because they sell the same exact stuff, but someone has to JUST DECIDE at SOME POINT because WE ALL KNOW its going to happen before dinnertime.

God. Anyways.

This morning, Breakfast Boy asked if I got much sleep. We were both squished in his dumb twin XL bed,  and I was pushed up against a brick wall. The answer was obviously no, I didn't get much sleep. And then he asked, "Would you like to get out of here?"

He was really suggesting that I leave so we could both get some sleep. But the way he phrased it wasn't nice, it was strange. Then he said he was going to get breakfast, study, etc. I guess he just wanted to get on with his day? But why couldn't we go get breakfast together?

My feelings were hurt, even though I know he didn't mean to hurt them. Like I've said before: this boy is so nice (TOO nice), and there is no way he meant to be rude. I feel dumb. I feel dumb because I shouldn't be sad. I feel dumb because I worry about the lights. I feel dumb because I still don't know what to do once the lights are off. I also feel dumb because his ex-girlfriend of two and a half years goes to Harvard. Awesome!

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

We Think Nancy Met Him at Mass

I’m standing on my front porch, wearing my dead grandfather’s blackwatch flannel pajama pants. My ears are red, the snow is white, and my dogs are peeing yellow. They wander around, trying to find the right place to go, but the frost is confusing them. Each of their paws leaves an indention in the the ice, and they turn around to sniff the tracks they leave behind them. I hide my nose from the cold air inside the collar of my father’s sweatshirt. It reads “Jesuit High School” in faded baby blue letters. I'm hunched over the porch railing like the curve of a candy cane and look at my cuffs. Both are ripped along the seam, and the right one has elastic threads escaping from the fabric. My dogs are almost two, and today, my father is sixty.
Every year for my father’s birthday, my grandmother sends him a fruitcake, a jar of fig preserves, and an ill-fitting sweater. And every year, I watch my father devour the fruitcake and slather preserves on english muffins. And as is tradition, my dad prances around the kitchen in his new sweater. The collar squeezes his thick neck. The argyle over his stomach stretches diamonds into squares, and we all laugh and eat cake.
Cars hum, driving across the bridge over the river. I can’t read without my contacts, but know the pink neon blur in the distance is the sign for Jake’s Diner. Drunk couples wander out of bars and towards the parking lot behind our house. Most people who walk by pet the dogs through the fence. No one ever seems to notice me on the porch.
We live downtown, and our house is squeezed between another town home and a bakery. The house on the corner belongs to Sandy, a divorced woman with eight dogs and a dozen plastic surgeries. Her town house has double-decker wrap-around porches, and most people assume our house is a part of hers. But we’re here, with our own front door and address and everything, I swear. Living next to a bakery means that we can smell the daily special before we get out of bed. The wall that separates us from their ovens has been soaked with butter and caked in flour over the years. We know when the bakery is making biscuits or banana bread. Mom always has focaccia on hand, but if she didn’t, we could fix that problem in less than two minutes.  
Our front yard, isn’t really a yard at all. It’s a generous patch of grass. The thin layer of snow on the ground reflects the moonlight, and the atmosphere is a hazy violet. The hope of seeing violet is the only reason I volunteer to get off the couch and let my dogs out to pee.
The violet of the sky is the same shade as the walls in my grandmother’s home. Her carpet is white, but has stains and marks like the ones my beagles are leaving before me. But I think her stains are from spilled coffee and food, or at least I hope so. Up until last week, I had not seen my grandmother for a decade. Last time I saw her, I was ten, and it was my sister’s funeral. Now, I am twenty, and last week was my grandfather’s funeral.
Before getting on a plane to Texas, I knew little about my grandmother. I knew that she had bad taste in sweaters and no idea what size my dad wears. I knew that she had a fig tree at every house she’s ever lived in. And I knew that growing up, she gave my dad foot rubs whenever he asked. I did not know the color of her walls until I saw the fresh coat of magenta paint the day before Granddaddy’s funeral.
It was a winter day in Dallas, and my grandmother answered the door in a Mickey Mouse bomber jacket and light wash jeans.
“Oh my gosh!” she yelled.
“Hey, Mom,” my dad said as he hugged her five-foot frame.
“Hey, Nancy!” we all said in unison.
According to Dad, she made everyone call her by her first name except her children. It made her feel young.
“Well come on in. I have some ham and cheese and bread for little sandwiches. The rolls are soft and fresh,” she explained.
She waved us towards the kitchen. The front hall had picture frames of recent yearbook photos of all the grandchildren. These were alongside baby photos. I saw a picture of my cousin Drew and me. I was wearing a pink smock dress that was hiked up to reveal my diaper. I was holding a cookie in one hand and a fistful of Drew’s hair in the other. Seeing pictures of yourself that you have never seen makes me feel like I am aging backwards. It’s like I’m adding time to my life, meeting a part of myself I have never known. This self is sloppy and angry, but only to entertain the person behind the camera.
In the kitchen, the island was set up with slices of lunchmeat and pepper jack cheese. Nancy started to open the a package of Hawaiian Sweet Rolls. Nancy’s house smelled like paint, but I hardly noticed. I was too busy looking at her decorations. On the wall that followed the curve of the stairs there were crosses. No fewer than fifty of them. And that doesn't include the small crosses that were painted on a larger cross. My dad had warned us about the crosses before walking in. Nancy used to work at a gift shop, and got a discount that she had obviously used. On the wall above the fireplace were dream catchers. Dangling from their strands were colorful beads and feathers, and there were enough to ensure that anyone within a mile of the house never had a bad dream.
“Y'all just make yourself at home. Watch anything you like, and I have some and peanut butter cookies in the dining room,” Nancy said.
Her phone started to ring with the name Peter.
“One second. Y’all make yourselves at home,” she yelled. She bounced past her green chair and into her bedroom. When she came back out, she picked up her crocheting and walked into the kitchen with it. She let the yarn ball drag behind her, collecting crumbs and dust. Her metallic nail polish reflected the light as she moved her needles and thread. She was making a brown and blue blanket.
“Mom, where's dad’s chair?” My dad asked.
“Oh that old thing?” she asked back.
“Yes, that old thing that he always used to sit in. You just ditched it?” he said.
“Oh it was old. And no one would use it now anyways.” she explained.
My dad scratched his new beard and nodded. The last time he had a beard was when my sister, Ruby, was sick, and I'm sensing a pattern.
“And what the hell have you done to the walls?” he asked.
“Oh isn't it cute? They’re finally pink,” she cheered.
Finally. Like she had been waiting until Granddaddy couldn't tell her no anymore.
“Dear Lord, Mom,” my Dad breathed. He walked to the fridge and took out one of the twenty jars of preserves. He placed it on the counter and opened the silverware drawer. Twisting the lid off made a pop! and he dipped the spoon in and ate a mouthful of gooey figs. The rest of us made sandwiches with our fresh, packaged sweet rolls.
I walked around the house, exploring a place I did not remember. I recognized the grand piano from the picture of me and Ruby sitting on its bench. I saw random pots and and jars stacked around the house. I opened lids and discovered what was inside. One in the living room had wasabi peas. One on the breakfast table had Caramel chews. Another by the pantry had glitter. The armoire had stacks and stacks of plates and bowls that I assumed had not been used in years. There were way too many plates for a family of six, let alone an old woman without kids at home. By the windowsill there was a napkin with two large avocado seeds. I didn't think planting an avocado tree would go well in Texas, but maybe I was wrong.
People started to arrive. There were some relatives that I knew, like Uncle Mike and Steve. Mike was an exact copy of my father, except he had blonde hair and blue eyes instead of brown hair and brown eyes. Steve looked nothing like either of them and frequented a tanning bed, fighting the winter season and the pale skin tone that even he had inherited.
Most people who rang the doorbell I had never met before. There were people like my dad’s cousin George, an ex-Catholic priest, and and his cousin Jennifer who may or may not be an alcoholic. She preferred talking to anyone who wasn’t an adult.
“Let me tell you. I had a good time in college,” Jennifer told me. “One time I went to a rave in the woods. And when we got there, Salt and Peppa and Run DMC were playing,” she said.
“That’s insane!” I laugh.
“Well the really crazy thing was that they were serving pork loin between two pieces of white bread. The bone was still in it, and there wasn't beer, just water.”
“Huh,” I said, confused.
“I'm going to go outside to smoke. You want some? It’s grape,” she offered.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I said as I shook my head no.
Jennifer made her way towards the sliding glass door. She pulled her tight shirt back down over her belly button, but let her low-rise jeans slip further down her waist. I decided to sit on a kitchen stool and munch on the hors-devours that my grandmother set out. There was shrimp dip and cream cheese with pepper jelly. My grandmother poured herself a glass of Welch’s grape juice, and then mixed it with a splash of cheap tequila. She took a sip, and then added some prosecco. I assumed, this was her drink of choice. She had been sipping the same honey blossom colored concoction since we arrived. It could easily be mistaken for juice, unless you saw her quickly prepare it in the kitchen or noticed that half a handle of tequila had disappeared by the end of the day.
My brother was on the couch, looking at my grandparents’ old high school yearbook. Granddaddy was a receiver for the football team. Nancy won “Most Popular Girl.” Together, they won “First to the Altar.”
“And then they got married a week after graduation,” Uncle Steve said. He had one hand on his hip and slurped a Diet Coke in the other. After he gulped, he fiddled with the top buttons of his paisley button-down. It seemed he couldn’t decide just how much chest-hair he wanted to show.
“Where are those?” I asked as I pointed to the can.
“The fridge in the garage, baby,” he said twirling his hand around, smiling as wide as his botox would allow.
I walked to the back of the house and knew that my mother was right. Steve was gay. And he married Lisa to hide it. And because she cleans houses for a living, and she’ll do his for free.
As soon as I stepped into the mudroom the washer dinged. I thought I would prove myself to be a helpful granddaughter. I opened the washer to move the wet clothes to the dryer. I pulled out a clump of clothes and a pair of khakis fell to the floor. I shoved the wet ball into the dryer and then picked up the khakis. I tossed them in, and then pulled them back out. The waist size was a 33, much too small for my grandfather who had always been severely overweight. And well, he’s not even alive to even wear khakis. I searched through the clothes and found a man’s flannel.
I snap back to horns honking and my dogs are scratching at our front door, begging to get back inside our warm townhome. I open it and they run in, but I decide to stand outside a little longer. I can see my breath against the navy sky. I imitate Jennifer smoking her grape flavored weed and make a huge cloud. The sky glows a more saturated lavender shade as the clouds dissipate. I shiver because I'm cold, but more so at the thought of Nancy making out with some gross old man.
After a few minutes, I go back inside, and my father is ready to unwrap his gifts. The first, is from mom, and it's just an envelope. My dad opens it and finds a photo of a grill.
“The patio store didn’t have it in stock, but I ordered it for you,” she explained.
“Thank you love,” he said and kissed her cheek.
“It’s from all of us,” she said as she gestured to me and my siblings.
“Alright does anyone want anymore cake?” Dad asked.
“Wait I have another gift,” I said.
I ran up to my room and grabbed the gift I had wrapped and hidden earlier in the evening.
“Here. From all of us,” I said. I handed my father a large square wrapped in paper with reindeer all over it. Dad’s birthday is December 27th, so he’s gotten used to Christmas wrap. Dad pulled back the paper and revealed a picture frame. It was a drawing of a forest. There was a burly man with a knit cap and a cigar hanging out of his mouth. He was swinging an axe, determined to chop down a tree to keep his fireplace burning.
“Why do you have this?” Dad asked.
“What is it?” my brother asked.
“It’s one of Grandaddy's pen and inks. Why do you have this?” he asked, rushed and angry.
“I found it in in Nancy’s garage,” I said, “I figured she would probably throw it away.” I prepared for a lecture, but then Dad smiled.
“Good work,” he laughed, “I know exactly where we’ll put it.”

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Well

Fun fact: I lost my virginity to a boy whose first name is my last name.

ha ha

This is a boy I took to a party weeks ago. My friend Aly set us up. A week later he asked me to get drinks at Friday Happy hour. I didn't pay him much attention all night. Then asked me to a Friendsgiving that Sunday. I went and, again, paid his friends more attention. (Wow I'm mean). BUT I was very sure I wasn't into him. 

So then he asked me to coffee exactly a week ago. I have NO idea why he asked me out again because I had been pretty unresponsive. So I ignored his text for 48 hours (again why am I so mean to such a nice boy). I responded on Wednesday inviting him to my Semi instead. I'm not sure why I asked. If I really didn't like him, I should have shut it down and not led him on. But I guess I didn't know how to respond to the whole coffee thing. And its not like I had another boy to ask.

And so Friday we hooked up. And then again on Saturday after I went to a date party with a guy friend. 

And here I am on a Sunday morning. The boy left, and I need to shower. I am so confused by the past 48 hours. I'm still not sure if I like this boy as more than a friend. He's so nice (too nice), which is why I was so turned off by him.

He brought Bailey's to brunch because he knew I liked that more than mimosas. He remembered my drink order from the first time he met me. He opens doors. He remembers all of these little details that I don't recall even telling him. He's so considerate and nice and smart. And why is that a turn off??? 

I wanted him to be mean for some reason. But then I thought, why would I want a boy who paid me no attention? I've dealt with that before, and nothing good ever happens.

***THIS IS AN EXAMPLE OF NICE GUYS FINISHING LAST***

All my life I have thought that was a stupid saying. I thought if a nice boy came along and liked me, I would recognize it. BUT THERE I WAS! TURNING DOWN A NICE GUY! 

So I decided I liked him on Friday because he's a nice, smart, and cute boy. He likes me, and that's cool. I don't know if it will go anywhere. I don't know if I care too much about what happens with us. Regardless, he was a good boy to be my first. 

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Still With Her, Still Making It Nasty

November 8, 2016: 
I wake up at 5:45am. I can't go back to bed because I am too excited to vote for the first time in my life. I am in my car by 6am. I am voting for Hillary Clinton by 6:30am. I am watching the news at Aly's at 7pm. We walk to a bar around 11pm. I hear cheers when Hillary gets Nevada. I go home at midnight. I sit and watch the news on my couch. I do not remember the moment that I realized we had lost. What I do remember, and what I will never forget, are the emotions I have felt in the past 20 hours.


November 9, 2016: 
I'm in bed at 2am, crying myself to sleep as I watch CNN on my phone. I wake up at 6am, unable to rest. I cry on my way to the gym at 6:30am. Cry on my way back from the gym around 7:30am. I cry to my mom on the phone at 8am. I cry at 10:40 am in class as I watch Hillary address young women and girls in her concession speech. I cry in my painting class around noon because I'm so overwhelmed. I cry at 3:30pm on my way to babysit talking on the phone with my mom again.

Now: I am not crying. But I am livid. I am confused. I am scared. And I am ashamed.

Thursday, November 3, 2016

Thursday Pep Talk!



Now go out there and conquer the day! Kick ass! Smile! Be funny and nice!

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

poetry isn't my bag, baby (but it was my homework so here)

"Yes" by me, slagzy

Because we knew that mom couldn’t eat
A sandwich from your favorite lunch place,
We would go get turkey clubs and sweet tea
With our grandmother instead.

Your favorite food was tough
Lunch: sandwiches
Dinner: cheeseburgers
Dessert: ice cream and Moon Pies

At first, even the smell of mayonnaise
Made me sad, but my sadness has
ripened
Into the only way I know how to
preserve
memories that I do have
Of you

So I
Sneak out for waffle cones and
Drive with my windows down and
Stop for Sonic Happy Hour and
Always buy Cadbury Eggs at Easter time

I ate for ten years
With you
And am eating for ten
Years without you

Even when it’s
Colder than the hospital cafeteria
And I’m
Sick to my stomach of sweets
I always say
Yes

Saturday, October 22, 2016

I quit hostessing and am now a babysitter rolling in the dough

I met the most wonderful woman in the park a little over a week ago. I was about to turn back towards campus, but I decided to stop at the water fountain. A couple was in front of me, and when the woman turned around, she noticed my shirt. 

"You know I was in insert sorority here," she told me.

*I want to point out that this is one of the few instances where I ever wear a tank-top, it is still a very long tank-top

We went on to talk about how she had babysitters from my chapter before, and needed a new one. Long story short, I quit my job, and am now babysitting a 15 year-old girl and her 9 year-old brother. I'm not doing much sitting, just picking up and driving them places. But I like the kids, and I make about $20 an hour so. I firmly believe that meeting Mrs. F was fate. The opportunity fell into my lap. How could I not quit my job?

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Hook, Line, and Sinker


*Yo, zero compliments on this painting, but TWO compliments on my shoes. Both from cleaning ladies. Both took place in bathrooms.

Sunday, October 2, 2016

I cried in the park today and i don't give a shit

Last night I ate a lot of food. A lot of food. No matter what I ate, I still felt hungry. A year ago that would have upset me much more than it does right now. (progress)

I was walking in the park today, and since I ate a lot of food, I HAD to use the bathroom right then and there. So, I found a random porta-potty next to a playground and a baseball field. It wasn't too gross. There was 2 ply toilet paper! Wow! But when I grabbed the toilet paper, a moth came flying out and attacked my face. But whatever.

I wiped and kept walking. I decided to call my mom, which I tend to do on my walks these days. Every time I've called, I've wanted to tell her how I've been feeling. But our talks are normally just life updates and funny stories. 

But today, I finally told her that I'm angry. I was crying and walking and playing Pokemon Go. I could feel my sweat and face astringent dripping into my eyes. I hoped people thought my face was puffy and red from running, and then I realized that I didn't really care.

I was crying, but I wasn't sad. 

Last year, I was sad. Last year I was sad about the all the guilt and anxiety that food and exercises caused. I was skinnier but sad and confident but terrified. This year I'm pissed off.

I pissed off because I'M GREAT. I'm fun and nice. I work 3 (kind of) minimum wage jobs even when I don't have to. I'm involved on campus. I can run a half marathon. I have a kick ass family. I'm a girl of average weight and decent looks and I'm healthy AND FUNNY. GOD DAMMIT I'M FUNNY AND HEALTHY AND FUN AND NICE.

I'm mad because I literally do not know how to become a better person. I am my best self and I still feel like I'm doing something wrong.

I deserve a fucking break. After everything I have done over the past two years to finally feel okay about myself I deserve fucking break. Granted, I could be more social and put myself out there more. But god dammit I'm awesome, and I'm mad no one can see that. 

But I'm also happy that I am so sure of myself these days. Better to be certain than sad I guess. (more progress)


Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Target at 8am

We celebrated my sister's seventeenth birthday at Target, trying on dresses for her funeral. I'm ten, and I’m not cursing cancer cells or contemplating the meaning of life. I’m planning how to convince my mom to buy me a Coke Icee after we checkout. Afterall, I don’t get cake today like I should have.
"What about this one?" my mom holds up a black dress.
"Sure," I shrug.
I'm not being difficult today, a rarity that dually calms my mother and confuses her. She thinks I’m just upset or sympathetic, but really, my mind is elsewhere, still thinking about food. How much poppy seed chicken casserole is still in the fridge at home?
Ruby died two days ago sometime between my afternoon soccer practice and supper. That night, I straddled Mrs. C’s lap breathing hot air and sobs into her neck. I looked like an oversized baby--or maybe a coddled six-year-old who should really walk in the grocery store instead of being carried. When I finally sit up, I see the stain I’ve left on Mrs. C’s shirt. My tears created mark that starts at her shoulder and ends just below her left breast. The rest of her shirt looks chartreuse against the forest green wetness. My head pounds with a headache, I sniffle, and then I laugh. I laugh partly because I feel foolish I’ve been crying long enough to soak her shirt. But I laugh mostly because I realize that I don’t want my mother back. At least not yet. My mom has been with my sister while she’s been a patient at St. Jude’s in Memphis, and they’re coming home--one in a suburban and one in a casket. I feel absurd and depressed when I realize that the daydream is over. The carpooling, sleepovers, baking, and babysitting with makeshift moms is over. I’ve been having waffles for breakfast and frozen pizza for dinner. Mom makes Special K and chicken.
I turn around on Mrs. C’s lap and find men in suits sitting in my living room. I don’t know how long they’ve been there, but probably long enough for them to be annoyed by my crying. I recognize my sister’s headmaster, and assume the other man is the headmaster of the brother school. To my right, I see women lingering by our front door. The ones coming in have casseroles in their hands. The ones leaving have pity on their faces and frowns that sink and say bless your heart. I leap off the couch and run into the kitchen. I stuff my face with banana bread and wash the entire loaf down with Milo’s sweet tea. I choke on excitement, binge on biscuits, and gag on gravy. I shove the poppy seed chicken casserole down my throat, looking wild and feeling manic. I scrape off just the top layer of buttery Ritz crackers, breaking an unspoken dining rule. I dance in the kitchen, twirling and dancing with a cookie in my hand. I help escort the housewives in and wave them away with a piece of warm garlic bread.
Back in Target, I think about how Ruby could only have packaged food because of her weak immune system. I remember her sickly citrus colored eyes and tan skin. The summer after she turned sixteen, we would sneak out of the house and get ice cream without our parents knowing. I decide to have the casserole for lunch and dinner tonight, unless another tragedy whore drops off a better meal option. Maybe we have ice cream in the freezer. She liked anything chocolate.
We make our way through the maze clothes and towards the dressing room.
"Only six items are allowed per person," the worker yawns.
"Okay. Well, then she's taking these six with her and I'll have these four," Aunt D explains.
"Those aren't your dresses, though. Those are junior sizes. She'll just have to wait to try on those four until she's done with the first six," she says. The woman’s red uniform polo seems dull, and I can see the fine hairs on her chin that need to be plucked. Her belly rolls are soft, but her stance is firm. Aunt D can take her.
“Let me tell you something. Her daughter died two days ago, and we need to find clothes to wear to the visitation and funeral. You just opened, and the store is empty. We’ll be taking all of these back there,” D retorted. We breeze by her. I wonder if she’ll live with that guilt longer than my sister did.
In the dressing room, I strip in front of my mom and throw my Umbro shorts and Life Is Good shirt on the ground. It’s the first time she’s seen me down to my underwear while wearing a training bra. Puberty has been on my heels for the entirety of my fifth grade year. For years, I swore to my mother I would never wear a bra, but when I saw myself growing in the mirror, I started wearing hand-me-downs. I begin to try on a series of appropriately morbid dresses, until we pick one that’s decidedly ugly, but fits my new body. We collect our things and start to leave the dressing room. Mom never mentions the bra, afraid I would throw a fit, but more ashamed that she wasn’t there to take me to Limited Too to buy a new one. We leave without my Coke Icee.
Two days after Target is Ruby’s funeral. I keep looking down at my new dress, hating the way the fabric is stitched on the chest in order to allow room for a growing girl. I can feel myself getting older, expanding. My chest is scraping against the rough fabric, and every motion shoots pain through my body. I sit. I hurt. I see strangers mourning. I hate and envy their emotion. I fake cry at the graveside service. I wonder what food they’ll have at the reception. I’ll be eating enough for me and Ruby. She always liked buffets.

Saturday, September 24, 2016

i seriously peaked in middle school

Me, when I'm feeling myself:

Same slagzy, but more jazzed up when I go out. I added some glam to my t-shirt.

When I'm getting ready to go out, I look in the mirror and I think "Who wouldn't want to talk to me? I'm amazing." I love when I'm feeling confident. I'm awesome, and its their loss if they don't see that.



I check off all of the important things.


I'm a catch, but am starting to question myself, because no one else seems to think so.

Monday, September 19, 2016

My dad used to make us grilled cheese with sliced hot dog wieners, and they were 10/10


^^^ I made a thing in Digital Arts. ^^^

I thought this Monday was going to be horrible. I have 2 projects due. BUT my Audio Project is easily one of the 2 best in the class, if not the best. And My painting project is better than others! I always shoot for average. I may be slightly above! Definitely not the worst. WOOO!

Happy Monday~

Sunday, September 4, 2016

Art is to Vegetables as Entertainment is to Dessert

On Tuesday, I had my creative writing class. I can already tell I'm going to like my teacher and classmates. And I already know I love writing, but sometimes writing can be hard. Sometimes writing is the last thing I want to do, even though I know I will thank myself after I've written something.

My teacher said, "Art is like vegetables and Entertainment is like dessert."

He immediately starting backtracking, not wanting students to think his class is like a dirty parsnip. He explained what he meant to the room, but I already understood the comparison.

When I have free time, I get giddy over all the possibilities. I could sit on the couch for hours and watch reality tv. I could paint canvases for my apartment. Deciding to watch the Kardashians or be productive is exciting. The moment before you do anything is the best part. It's like waiting for something to come out of the oven.  Or watching the clock in your final class before the weekend. (Read Ode to A Grecian Urn.)

Here's me staring at the oven. Whether your roasting vegetables or baking cookies, anticipation can stink, but truthfully, the waiting before the thing is the best thing.



 I'm red and flushed because my kitchen is hot as shit.

So let's say I pull out dessert out of the oven...or I decide to spend all day watching TV. I will be mad at myself the next day. Dessert is like entertainment because it's the easy choice. It's easy to pick an instant of pleasure over prolonged satisfaction. That cake tastes good in the moment, but 8 slices of it won't make you feel good the next morning. One episode is fine, but an entire season in one day isn't the right choice. Dessert and entertainment are great in moderation, but too much of it isn't healthy.

But if I pull out vegetables...or decide to make art. I will be happier the next day. Vegetables are like art because it takes time to see the longterm rewards. But if I eat more vegetables and create more art, I will eventually see the good. I could labor over a drawing or essay for days and hate every second of it. But once I'm done, I will say every moment of work was worth it.

And after eating a substantial amount of vegetables, or making enough art, you actually crave it. I crave brussels sprouts every day. I'm trying to create more, so I can get to the point where I crave the actual act of drawing and writing.

The best way to remind myself to make the better choice, the choice I'll be proud of a week from now is this formula:


PB with anything is really my kryptonite, but too much of it is like a combination of reality TV, Facebook, and Instagram. They both end in regret.

So create more things! Eat more vegetables! Know that entertainment and Peanut butter are best in moderation and not in mass. Bulk up those brussels and break out your canvases, Picasso Veggie Pants is in town.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

Surprise! I have no job prospectives, but I'm interesting I swear.

This is how I feel before people know I'm taking Painting this semester:

                      
Look at me. You assume that I am in the Business School. I am studying Marketing, or Economics, or maybe taking Calculus. WRONG.

I'm an English major first and foremost. I like writing. No, I don't want to be a teacher. I took a lot of Film Studies classes with the intention of that being my second major. But, I decided that film theory and analysis is bleh. So, I declared Digital Media Production as my second major! It's like Film Studies, but is more hands-on. You create things instead of sitting in a class talking about things that other people created. 

"Well that's cool!" you're thinking. Hold on. It gets better. 

I'm technically a senior, because I've taken  w a y y y y  too many credits. So I am playing around with my time.

Here is how I feel after people discover that I am taking Painting this semester:



I feel super cool and trendy, despite the fact that I haven't even touched paint yet. I always wanted to an artist when I was little. For Christmas one year, I got a blue beret and an easel. My prepubescent self would be thrilled to know that I am painting. But, she would also be heartbroken to know that we don't get cool splotches of paint all over our clothes. And she would be devastated about the fact that we definitely don't wear berets in class. 

Liberal Arts rocks. I like doing things that I liked to do when I was 5-years-old. So what? Painting 101 > Finance. I need to remember that when I'm regretting my majors/minors come graduation time.

Monday, August 29, 2016

My Life is A Sitcom, I Just Need A Laugh Track

Let me breakdown who I have lived with in my new apartment:

This is ShayBayBay and me. I got to the apartment on June 1st when our lease started. ShayBayBay had been here taking classes. Shay is on the right, and is very excited to finally live in her own home. She had been squatting for a while. I am on the left, and feel at ease. Chaos has not yet occurred, and I am living with someone I have already shared a small dorm room with. Everything is amazing.




Laura moves in. She is a 65-year-old woman who is deathly allergic to cats and smells like cigarettes. She is visiting her daughter, but cannot live with her because CATS. Laura decided to essentially Airbnb our apartment. Carls found her online, and gave no warning of her arrival. I found her creeping outside our front door one afternoon. ShayBayBay and I spent our days with Laura in a state of shock and confusion. We don't see her much, but when we do, it's weird.



ShayBayBay leaves. Her sister Sassy A moves in. We both are still confused, but know Laura is leaving soon. Sassy A and I bond over The Bachelorette and our shitty jobs/managers.

Sweaty Subletter moves in. We are more confused than we were with Laura. Sweaty Subletter is sober and super sweaty. He attended our school, but left in the middle of sophomore year. Sassy A knew him when he was here, because they would have been in the same graduating class. We don't understand why he decided to come back, or why his parents thought it was a good idea. I hide alcohol in the house to make him more comfortable. He drops one of his two summer classes. He watches The Bachelorette with us and our friends.



Kate The Hermit arrives. She is very overweight and unfriendly. She cooks dinner in the microwave and locks herself in her room. She doesn't come out to brush her teeth or pee. We are all dually grossed out and impressed by her bladder. The Hermit is here doing her "clinicals." Her mother told me this in a way like I should have known. Her place of work is far away, and Sassy A and I don't know why she wants to live here. She never says "hi." I decide to give up being nice and don't speak to her as she prepares her concoction of featuring off-brand shredded cheese and sour cream. The Hermit has friends in town for a few days and all 8 of them drank daiquiris in her room with the door closed. They all appear nerdy and never introduce themselves. Hermit and her friends are quite possibly the most boring and impolite people I've ever met. In The Hermit's final days, she actually sat on the couch and watched TV like a normal person.

Sweaty Subletter is still sweaty. But Sassy A and I appreciate his friendliness. He means well, but can be overly-nice sometimes. He bakes subpar treats, which we don't eat. He bangs one of Sassy's friends. We are confused about the attraction, because sweat and bald and socially awkward and sober. I mean I want to be able to drink with a guy I'm into, but maybe I just really like wine.


This is my house for the fall semester. I was supposed to live with two Spanish girls studying abroad here, but that fell through. They flipped out when ShayBayBay found Mr. Law School as a subletter. They did not want to live with a boy. So, Sweaty Subletter was supposed to move out, but is still living in Caro's room. The Foreigner was a last minute edition. Mr. Law is in ShayBayBay's room and is a 3rd year law student. He is bald and has tattoos. He is nice and smart and will be studying a lot. The Foreigner is in Carls's room. He is very tall and from Copenhagen and has blonde hair that he frequently puts in a ponytail. He is cute in a foreign way.

If you look closely at this picture, you can see me, not giving a fuck. I no longer care who enters my home. Hell, I could room with Satan at this point. I've drawn myself shrugging, deciding to treat this semester as a learning experience. I raise my arms, and my XL t-shirt and its baggy sleeves gives my wings, like a sugar glider.

My name is Slagzy, and I am quite possibly too low maintenance. I am a pimp, living with three men. I will continue to watch TV without pants.

Sunday, August 28, 2016

Apartment Sweet Apartment


Here's me with my keys outside my puke orange home!



I moved into my apartment at the start of June, and it still doesn't feel like my own. I love my house. My room is amazing. I have my own bathroom. I have parking. I can walk to school in no time. I signed a lease with my suit from sophomore year, but they are going abroad this fall. BUT....

My house doesn't quite yet feel like a home. My friends are abroad and I am left to deal with random subletters. Life is WEIRD.

Saturday, August 13, 2016

Call me Slagzy the Snail!!!!

Look! You can see my handwriting!


My name is Slagzy. Slagzy the snail.

This blog is semi-anonymous. I'm not going to go to great lengths to hide my real identity. But I'm also not plastering this blog all over my social media. This blog isn't meant to have people in my real life know everything about me. This blog is 1) my way to vent and document my life and thoughts and 2) hopefully entertaining and relatable to people that stumble across it.

I need some sort of name. And as far as you are concerned I am Slagzy. Why you ask?

My sister tried to type my name in our family group text and autocorrect changed it to slags, which is not even close to my name. She thought it was so funny, she continued to call me Slags. Her friends also call me Slags on occasion. Slags has since morphed into Slagzy.

The snail part is also a nickname from my sister. Back when we were both still in elementary school we used to sing this poetic 5 line song:

Snailyyyyyyyy
Yeah Snailyyyyyyyy
You rock snailyyyyyyy
Yeah
GO SNAILY!

I don't know why we sang it. I don't know how we came up with it. All I know is that I was "Snail," and this song was my theme song. I would groove and dance and we sung about me being awesome.

My sister and I made up a lot of weird songs. We did a lot of weird things. Snail stuck as a nickname. Slagzy is more recent. Put them together, and you have a combination of old and new me. You also have alliteration.

I may rename this blog "The Cynical Snail" or something. Still unsure.

I know is that I like writing about my life (which right now is just absurd). I know I want to draw out some events because pictures are fun and huge blocks of text can be overwhelming. Let's hope this project goes somewhere. Cheer me on plz! GO SNAILY!

Friday, August 12, 2016

Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Update on Subletters

I drove Sweaty Subletter to the airport the other day. He is going home for a little before school starts. I asked him in the car if he kissed A's friend he matched with on Tinder. He didn't answer, I pressed, and he admitted he had.

Later Sassy A and I found out that not only had he kissed her, he slept with her at about 3 in the afternoon. So Congrats to him for landing a girl! Except she's leaving for a nursing program. Fleeting five day relationship.

From this I have learned:
1) Sweaty Subletter christened the apartment and had sex in my housemates bed before she has even lived here
2) Sassy A then told me that she actually christened the apartment, meaning she had sex in her sister's bed
3) I have zero game apparently

In other news. The Hermit had a lot of friends in town, and as I expected, they were dweeby. And they also neglected to say hi or introduce themselves to me. Odd.

Also, Hermit has come out of her room. I have found her sitting on the couch twice watching TV. The first time it was Real Housewives of New Jersey. The second time it was the Olympics.

The next subletter has texted me saying he will be here in a week. Which means Sassy A will be leaving soon, and I'll miss her.

I will be sure to write a report on the new guy, we're calling him Mr. Law School, because he's a law school student from Maryland.

I made myself a cake and blew out my candles alone

...and I don't even think that's sad.

In fact, I think making myself a cake and celebrating 20 years alone was the best thing I could've done for myself. 

I have a hard time with food. I get nervous when I eat out. I can't justify buying certain "unhealthy" foods at the grocery store. Buying the ingredients for a cake (especially after not working out) was an act of defiance. 

I could have easily made a batch of some kind of vegan-oatmeal-almond-butter-stevia-flourless-eggless cookies and felt less anxious. But no, that's not how I should honor my 2 decades on this earth. It's not how my mom would want it. And deep down, I knew I wanted a cake. 

I wanted a super dense, rich, and cold chocolate fudge cake with salted caramel. It took me all day. And when I was done, I was proud of myself. 

I'm proud because I broke in my new Kitchen Aid mixer. I'm proud because I'm learning to cook and bake on my own. I'm proud because I treated myself. And mostly, I'm proud because no one made me do any of these things. 

No one sliced me a piece of a store bought cake and said "enjoy." No one told me they loved me and were excited to see what I do in my 3rd decade of life. I did all of these things myself.

I took a fork directly to my cake at 1am. I allowed myself to. I felt good about it. I went to bed with a thankful stomach. I told myself that I'm pretty great as I turned out the lights. I'm doing the best that I can. And I'm me. That's all I need.

I deserve to be happy when I think back on my 20 years and on the years ahead. I deserve to buy my own candles, light the candles, turn out the lights, make a wish, and blow them out. I deserve to celebrate myself.

I labored on a cake all day and had party all to myself that night. It may seem pointless. But it was one of the most purposeful days I've had in a long time.

I can't think of a better way to start off the final countdown to 21. 

 


Tuesday, August 2, 2016

When people tell me I should write a blog and they don't know that haha I have one

My housemate Sassy A and I were discussing the strangeness that has surrounded my new apartment.

"You should write a blog," she told me.

The subletter stories deserve multiple posts, but here's a quick run down:

Right now, we live with Sweaty Subletter and recovering addict and The Hermit a girl who locks herself in her room and doesn't come out to brush her teeth.

I share a bathroom with Sweaty Subletter, and like most boys, he doesn't know how to clean. His little beard hairs collect around the sink and I *cringe* have to deal with it.  I've walking in on him shitting once. I plan on keeping track of how many times this happens throughout the semester. Don't worry, readers will be updated.

The most recent story has to do with Sweaty, the sober subletter. Sweaty matched with Sassy A's friend on Tinder, and they've been secretly hanging out. But Sassy A and I know they hung out last Saturday AND were texting last night during the Bachelorette finale.

The Hermit never leaves her room. She must have a bladder of steel. Her self-quarantine might be past the point of weird. It may just be flat out impressive. The Hermit confuses me because 1) I tried to be friendly and she's rude.....I've given up 2) she's very overweight but is never in the kitchen.....candy stash under bed

The first subletter Laura is where the strangeness began. Picture a 65-year-old woman who reaks of cigarettes and is deathly allergic to cats. She greeted me outside my apartment door with the worst handshake I've ever received and was wearing a wide brimmed hat. Her ponytail was long and grey, and her hat strap was secure against her chin. She looked like she was ready for a safari.  Laura is long gone now. She was here for about 2 weeks, and used a college apartment like an AirBnb. Interesting choice in my opinion.

In 20 years, I'll look back on my fond memories of Laura. There was that time I faked concern when she told me about how her soup spilled all over her paper hat. I'll never forget how she showed Sassy A and me the spider she found and captured in her room. She stared at us in silence from across the room, holding a ziploc baggy in her palms. She waited for about 5 minutes for one of us to ask her what she was doing. A swallowed her pride and entertained Laura's craziness.

As of today, Mr. Law School, a law school student and The Foreigner, studying abroad from Copenhagen will be joining me and Sweaty Subletter in the fall.

My life is like a bad sitcom. An even shittier version of New Girl.

Monday, August 1, 2016

Mystery Box

This arrived in the mail yesterday:



I started painting yesterday, so I didn't get bored like I usually do. I decided to wait until today to open it. 

Ideas on what my parents got me: 
1) Kitchen Aid Mixer
2) Espresso / Latte machine
3) Ice maker 

Update: I was right it was a Kitchen Aid mixer and it's top 3 of presents I've ever received. It's up their with my car I got last summer and my easel I got for Christmas years ago. 

Sunday, July 31, 2016

Yesterday I woke up late, showed up to work still drunk, and have a large red mark on my face.

Friday night was my friend's birthday and shocker: I drank too much. 

I was a sloppy drunk too many times sophomore year. I encourage drunkenness, but not drunkenness to the point where friends have to take care of you. I've had to be taken home way too many times in the past year. At a certain point, it wasn't a mistake. I was just being selfish. I was being a bad friend.

I don't want to be the person that people have to take care of. I want to remember the moments from last night, instead of having people tell me what happened. I'm hoping that junior year will be different from last year. I want to keep my shit together. But then Friday happened.

Most nights I've gotten super drunk, I was trying to be wasted. I would decide "I'm getting super fucked up tonight." I wasn't even trying to get super drunk on Friday, it just happened. 

And I hate myself for it. It was a brown out, not a black out. It wasn't the worst night I've had. Anything is better than the first football game last year (that will forever be the worst night).

Here's a run down of Friday:
I had an IPA at my friend's house. We took an Uber to another girl's house. I had some Franzia in a mug and from a hollow bat playing dizzy bat. I played beer pong with Pinot Noir (ew bad choice). I snorted a line of a crushed up caffeine pill from a dirty one dollar bill. Classy. We took and Uber to another party. I talked to a boy that comes into where I work. I have no idea what I said to him. I hope he doesn't come in when I'm working. We started walking to a bar. I started running. I was taken home. My Sweaty the Sober Subletter saw me super drunk and possibly naked sleeping in my bed.

What I learned from other people:
The large red mark on my face was because I fell. That's probably where my right leg was hurting too. The boys we were with didn't see me sloppy. I'm not sure if I believe my friend when she told me that. But I hope she's telling me the truth because those boys have seen me sloppy, know I'm sloppy because of a boy they live with (said boy took care of me at the first football game), and they will probably tell that boy I am still sloppy. 

And I'm over being sloppy. It's not cute to be sloppy. It's not attractive to be desperate.  

Actually confused about what people do with their time

I'm genuinely confused about what people do from day to day. I feel like I spend my days exercising, working, eating, or watching tv. If I'm not doing one of those things, then I'm bored out of my mind. I have a list of things I need to do: hang up my pictures, hang up my lights, get my sister's birthday present together, go to my academic advisor, etc. I should do all of those things.

But still, what do people do with their time. I'm actually confused. I could do some sort of craft I guess, but it's so hard to get started. Ugh.

What did I do with my time before I worked and started exercising? Like what did I do every summer in high school? I wasn't running, working, or hanging out with friends. I guess I watched a lot of tv???

I have never felt so unproductive and bored and confused in my life what do people do with their time???!?!?!

Sunday, July 24, 2016

I HAVE WOKEN UP AT 6AM TO PLAY POKEMON GO

I love/hate video games. They're fun and a waste of time. They can keep me from making memories with a real human, but also I look back on my virtual conquests with fondness.

Alas, the saga of my gaming continues with Pokemon Go. But first, let's take time to reflect on my video game past.

I don't remember the first video game I ever played at home. It was probably some variety of Mario. Or maybe it was that game where you shoot the ducks with a fake gun. ACTUALLY scratch both of those. My family had this amazing gaming system where you could race cars. No, not Mario Kart. The game had controllers that were real life-sized steering wheels. They had actual break and gas pedals. That may have been my first game ever.

Since the beginning of my gaming career I've played on Nintendo 64, Playstations, Dreamcast, Gamecube, Gameboy Color/Advance/SP, Nintendo DS, Xbox, Wii, and wow we spent a lot of money. It was money well spent though. Except Dreamcast has always been a little weird to me.

Growing up, my mom would take us to Blockbuster every Friday after school. We all got to pick something to rent. My brother always got a video game. My sisters and I usually got movies. I've always liked video games, but obviously not as much as he did (and still does).

My brother is the gamer in the family. He has beaten and collected the most games over the years. He likes all video games: from Zelda to Spyro to Sonic to Mario to COD and everything in between. I play some, but not all, of the games he plays. And he never plays the more "girly" games that I occasionally play.

My video game life has different chapters, but some are longer than others. I remember spending hours playing Supersmash Bros with my sister. I sat on our corduroy bean bag and played every Paper Mario. I played Sly Fox 3 over and over again because it was better than the first two. I took my golden retriever on Nintendogs for countless walks. I've been addicted to several video games over the years, but the most addictive of them all is MMORPGs.

MMORPG is a massively multiplayer online role-playing game.

orrrrrrr....a mind melting obsession ruining productivity game.

Basically the point of these games is to level up. You gain expierence in different skills, increase your character's strength, thereby attaining some weird sense of superiority over lower level players (noobs).

I've fallen into this video game trap time and time again. I've wasted HOURS that can probably be measured in DAYS and possibly WEEKS on these games. And I have no idea why. Because these games are impossible to win, but I keep coming back for more. I've found that MMORPGs and games that are MMORPGish are the most addictive. They're the hardest to leave because 1) they never end and 2) you're competing with the people around you. Any game where you level up, collect coins, or prove you're better via some (literally) virtually worthless internet swag is the most addictive.

In elementary school, I played Club Penguin every day after school on my brother's laptop. I played for 1-2 hours before I had to go to soccer practice. I always ate two slices of buttered toast and drank a glass of orange juice. I collected coins, bought virtual outfits, and showed off my rare pink Easter bunny ears to the lame penguins around me. My memories of playing Club Penguin are so strong, I remember what songs I listened to on my brother's iTunes while playing. I recreated a playlist of these songs a few months ago. Some interesting ones are "Mrs. New Booty" by Bubba Sparxxx, "For You I Will (Confidence)" by Teddy Geiger, and "Yo (Excuse Me Miss)" by Chris Brown.

Yes, every time I hear Bubba Sparxxx rap about some chick's ass, I think of my innocent blue penguin.

I started Webkinz when I was 10 and still log on a decade later. In fifth grade, we were allowed to play on the computers during snack time. I never even tried to fight the other girls for a monitor. Maybe when I log on now days, I'm making up for all of that lost time. My proudest Webkinz achievements are my trophies from Wacky Zingoz and my two (not one) rare item rooms filled with furniture from the Curio Shop. I have 12 Webkinz to date. One of those twelve exists because my name was picked in a drawing at a local store. I won a Unicorn. It wasn't my favorite animal, but I was happy and named her Sprinkles. Obviously.

I started Runescape when I was 12 or so. Now, listen when I say that this game sucks souls. I can't tell you how many rocks I've mined, guards I've killed, trees I've chopped, and quests I've completed. I still get on at least once a month. Runescape was a precursor to of course....

World of War Craft. But I never got to play it.

My brother should have attended World of Warcraft anonymous. Seriously. He drank gallons of Mountain Dew and stayed up all night playing. He would complain in the backseat when he wasn't home in time for his online "meet-ups" with his virtual friends. He would talk to them through a microphone. If you haven't seen the South Park episode about World of Warcraft, please do. This game was Runescape on steroids, and I had to play.

One day I asked my brother if I could try it. He said, "No, I won't let you."

His tone was serious. He wasn't just hogging the computer. His denial was out of concern for my well-being. He was protecting me from falling into the largest, time warping black hole of all computer games.

Still to date, I think this is the nicest thing my brother has ever done for me. Thanks, brother dearest.