But at least it’s coffee scented?

Humor, People

I know I have not posted in a while, but that is because I have been burning my coffee scented candle at five ends. And now wax is starting to get in my hair.

My very unkempt hair.

The past few weeks I have been on an emotional roller coaster.

Unfortunately this roller coaster does not pause at the high points, where you can enjoy the view, but instead slows down to a near halt at the low points, where I just keep wondering when the ride is going to freaking end.

But as I’ve mentioned before, I am not even tall enough to ride the freaking roller coaster (See Post: Why Can’t I Be Tall?). Instead, I am sitting below on an uncomfortable bench, shoveling ice cream into my petite body and waiting for my friends to come hang out with me again.

Everyone keeps sending me that predictable “How are you?” text and I just keep replying:





Anything that is just 23% shy of actually being a word.

This makes it worse because I just provoked them to send me the other predictable “What’s wrong?” text.

Which might be fine. Except for it’s not.

I don’t know what’s wrong.

So I throw a not-so-curved curve ball and reply, “Nothing is wrong.”

That’s right.

Nothing is wrong.

Nothing keeps me up at night. Nothing makes me eat two bags of popcorn. Nothing makes me regret throwing away Taylor Swift’s last album. Nothing makes me tear up when I’m drunk. Nothing IS wrong!

FYI: This weekend I’m throwing a pity party. Everyone’s invited! BYOB! And maybe bring some 2nd B in that acronym for me too because, in case you haven’t noticed, NOTHING IS WRONG!


Nothing has gotten so wrong that I might start using hash tags in my blog posts again (See Post: A Crowbar Huh?).


It’s been so long that I have a million things to tell you and not sure where to start.

I used to lay it down in chronological order, but my aforementioned, never- fucking- ending candle, has me all confused about where things begin, where things end and what the fuck is even happening.


But at least it’s coffee scented?

I’m going to go wash this wax out of my hair and then come back at you with a post about my spring break trip!


Sneak Peek: It involves drunk dialing, guitar playing and hunger striking, which for those of you who don’t know, has virtually nothing to do with eating.


Hell Week

Humor, Lifestyle, People

I’m only happy when it rains, except for when it rains it pours and I’m not happy at all because regardless of rainy metaphors there was a big cloud hanging over my entire last week. Hell week I call it.


My week started with Monday as they so often do, contrary to the calendar’s misleading habit of placing the Sunday column at the beginning of the week. Last I heard, Sunday was still very much apart of the weekEND but alas, something I’m sure I will never understand.

First thing in the morning, my lowlife, good for nothing hair straightener died. It seems odd to me considering the electrical outlet really does all the work.

Hey straightener, I am an electrical outlet, for all other purposes your power source. All you have to do is connect with me and make some sort of spark that initiates you to work, but you can’t even do that now can you?

While I first attempted to sweet talk my straightener, telling it how beautiful its lack of curves were and how I loved waking up to it in the morning but no response resulted.

My second attempt was a little angrier,

“Hey you! Straightener! Who do you think you are not working on me this morning? Have you seen my hair? Do you see this face? It’s the look of someone who is going to beat you to death if you don’t power up! Ole curly over there never pulls this shit on me at the beginning of the week, which does not start with Sunday just so you know!’


I had a paper rough draft due for the one college course I am taking. I stayed up until 3 a.m. to complete it and it was by far the worst paper I have ever written. I started many a sentence with “But” as a way of sticking it to my third grade teacher. I used 5-6 oxford commas. I wrote in first person, second person, third person, sketchy person, pretty much all the people were present. I am also convinced that I plagiarized. She did not ask for a soft draft ya know?


Some call this Hump day, which I’m sure did not originate from Fergie herself because my top showed no cleavage and my jeans could convince no one that I actually have a “butt” goin on back there which is probably because I wasted all my “buts” on my plagiarized, going off-roading in this Jeep Wrangler rough draft.

This was the worst day of all because I spilled scalding hot coffee on my arm. That was the first time I have ever used the word “scalding” in a sentence, but it felt necessary because that shit fucking hurt. God damn fuck bitches fuck balls fuck my life it was so fucking awful. I had microwaved the coffee for approximately thirty seconds too long and because of this was destined to spill it on my arm, which too became scalding hot after what I now refer to as the “hump day accident.”

Getting burned by a hot liquid is far worse than your average hair straightener-to-the-neck burn, not that I would know since my hair is indefinitely frizzy and wavy as fuck.

I called in at my second job and spent the entire day studying for my exam on Thursday, which constitutes the title hell week alone. I would much rather be balls deep watching Gilmore Girls on my phone at work than studying. Speaking of which, I actually cried when Rory got named valedictorian even though I have seen the show before…just to give you a small insight into how emotionally invested I am in this show.


Despite my 8-10 not countless but countable hours of studying, my exam was a catastrophe. There was a fire, flash flood, tornado and volcano eruption all at once, followed by a set of really tough free response questions to which I did not have the answers. If my hair had been straight, I may have remembered what torsion stress was on the body, but nevertheless it was not. It had been thrown up in a bun like my non-straight hair so often is. Literally thrown. I used an underhand toss with a little twist of the wrist at the end. I am talking slow pitch here.

While the exam has yet to be graded, I am sure my professor is in for a surprise because students so rarely go from getting a 97% on the first exam to a 23.5% on the second. That awkward moment when a teacher hands back your exam face down after handing everyone else’s to them face up. My face will definitely be looking down.


At the ripe hour of midnight, which although on Thursday night is technically considered Friday, I dropped my phone and prevented the touch screen from working. I prevented it so hard. That is the moment when I drove my little self to Walmart to buy an alarm clock so I could wake up for work in the morning. It turns out my coffee pot does not have an alarm clock, but if it does I would not know because we are not on speaking terms after the hump day accident forced me to reheat my coffee.

My new alarm clock, Go-Getter I call him, was the loudest fucking waker-upper in this county, taking initiative in ways my hair straightener never could. I ripped the plug from the outlet so fast it would have made your head spin. Talk about a rude awakening. I shelled out $100 for a new phone the next day, which I would have done solely for the purpose of waking up to a more pleasant iphone indigenous sound. I am unsure if that was the appropriate context for indigenous but fuck, I just don’t care.

While my week was nothing short of hot hot heat coming from both coffee and the opposite to heaven down under, my weekend turned out to be much better. I spent time with my ‘rents, which I call them not only because they are my paRENTS but also because they cannot accurately be called home owners.

We had a grand old time at the antique mall, dancing down the aisles singing Electric Avenue. At one point we actually harmonized to America’s “A Horse with No Name.” You can see where I get “it” from…whatever “it” is. I will present to you a fun picture slideshow of this; photography credits to myself and snapchat.

Saturday night, I partied with my 30 something year old brother who acts like a 21 year old and thinks like a male. I could now write a novel on things I wish I had never heard my brother say. It was a no take-backs kind of ordeal.

He actually stayed the night with a girl he just started seeing, leaving me to get a ride home from some guy who claimed he liked Slipknot. I thought I was laughing with him until I realized he was not laughing at all. If I am going to spend the time tying someone’s shoelaces together in a knot, it is definitely not going to be the kind you can just slip off.

My skeeze of the day should go to him for his awful taste in music alone, but he gave me a ride home and I had already awarded it to my pool opponent who kept jacking off with his pool cue and then laughing hysterically. Hahaha. Fuck you.

Monday is here, it may or may not be queer, but if it is…I accept it for exactly what it is, which I cannot stress to you enough is the first fucking day of the week, despite your average calendar year!

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My Weekend: Part 1

Dating, Humor, Relationships

After having a full day to recover and half of my Tuesday morning coffee, I am now prepared to tell you about my weekend…which most unfortunately has to start with Friday…Part 1 as I like to call it.

Friday night, I came home from work to celebrate my friend Leah’s birthday, only to be greeted by none other than…you know him, you hear about him and I’m not entirely sure how you feel about him…the Fire Whisperer. Beer in hand, he welcomes me into my own apartment offering me a beer which automatically smoothed over my mildly ruffled feathers.

After a shower and makeup prep in front of like 6 people at our apartment, we receive another guest…the Fire Whisperer’s hott blonde roommate, because let’s face it one hott blonde in his life was just not enough. In fact, his general inclination towards hott blondes suggests I should just get one myself.

My general approach to his ever-continuing presence in my life as of late has been none other than cordial. Hello, hey there, have a good day…you get the idea. Although I have installed a “help Fire Whisperer out if he really needs you” clause into my manifesto, I still felt there was no need to tell him what I had for lunch that day, what songs I was sinking my teeth into or why a chunk of my iPhone screen is MIA.

In honor of Leah’s b’day, we all headed to the bar driven by the FW himself. I quickly purchased a beverage then headed straight for the pool tables, because FW or no FW, that is just where this petite girl belongs. After nudging my way into a game of doubles, I found myself approached by the one and only…Dean. (See Post: Who The Fuck Is In My Bed Right Now?)

Drunken Dean, in the most adorable Southern accent you have ever heard, confesses his true feelings for me. I am beautiful. I am a great writer. Again, I am beautiful. etc; Unfortunately, this has become quite uncomfortable for my doubles partner who is desperately trying to make his way towards getting my phone number.

Dean leaves me and then returns several times, each time telling me I am “degrading” myself by hanging out with these guys…which I am by the way doing nothing of the sort. My head is always in the game.

Dean: I am leaving Savannah.

Me: Okay Dean.

Dean: No really, I am leaving. I am going to go now.

Me: Okay Dean, I will see you around.

Dean: (slowly walking away) I am leaving. (whips back around and turns towards my doubles partner) You’re just another blog post to her!

Despite being hilarious, the whole dramatic thing was quite endearing and definitely held major motion picture potential. The night did not end there.

After a rough night of avoiding the FW, an awful girl from high school and my own conscience which must have been stumbling around somewhere drunkenly, I was ready to head home.

The bar closed as I stood outside with the FW’s roomie, where she said these confusing words…

“I don’t know what you’re waiting on, you should just go.”

Her drunken state and mild tone suggested there were no mean intentions, but I was like…

Fuck, she’s right. 

I walked home which led to a lot of angry friends and some volume raising comments coming from the FW in my kitchen. I texted him an apology only to receive a fairly harsh text back saying how unwelcome he felt in my presence. I was like…You have stayed at my apartment several nights this week, how much more welcome can you be? I can hear your voice from my bedroom at 3 a.m., I am guessing that that’s your beer in my freezer and our alarms go off intermittently all morning until you become the first person I see after waking up…something tells me the Welcoming Committee has come and gone ya know?

Despite my general aversion towards his comments, I knew the convo was still a work in progress so the next morning I tried to explain myself.

After another fairly angry text calling me childish, I was just like…

Fuck, you’re really asking me to be mature right now?

To be honest, being cold-hearted was way more fun than I imagined and has led me to believe I have a much firmer grasp on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, having now seen and participated in the dark side for at least 3 full days of FW attendance. While I may seem to be back at sweet and sunny, I now find myself lighting candles more often, drawing pentacles in my notebook and hanging out in cemeteries where to my knowledge no family members or friends are buried.

I digress.

My courteous but not overly friendly disposition towards the FW had no cruel intentions, but were rather designed to extinguish my crush in a more permanent sense of the word. To me, this crush had become equally annoying and probably way more distracting, particularly when reading dystopian novels, watching action films and trying to study for my waste of time college coursework.

This crush just kept coming back to me like a fucking horseshoe. In fact, I was sure I would take it to the grave with me which is just fine because I’m so small my casket should have plenty of room for unrequited love, ones that got away, oh and regret…That will definitely be present, or past depending on how you look at it.

I have, however, been determined to put this crush to bed, no pun intended. Pun intended.

After playing the pity card, the FW seemed to understand the plight of a “trying to get over you” 20 something year old girl and all was maybe not forgiven/forgotten, but more than likely moved on from. Want to know what else was moved on from?

My crush.

Just like that, I felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

Although I know getting over him did not happen instantaneously, his reaction to the night extinguished my crush…for good. I realized quickly that the only thing the FW and I needed to share was our love for pizza, annoyance with stupid people and our best friend…Catman Connor.

Dying for part 2? Me 2!

After you have your morning coffee, leave me a comment and we will see where My Weekend: Part 2 takes us.

The rumors are true, turns out I really am afraid of heights.

Dating, Humor, People, Relationships

Three months ago had you asked me what a “beat” was,  I would have dropped one right then and there using a pen and a hard surface until a full acoustic session could be developed.

Three months ago had you asked me what a “lede” was, I would have started with something like…

“You see when someone is winning in a race…”

Three months later, I still want to drop beats with the multitude of props surrounding me and begin articles with the word “I.” Here are some “ledes” that I have come up with:

I am starting my article now.

Let us begin.

I have gathered you all here today to discuss (cue article topic)

Start me up, start me up I’ll never stop! (Sorry, I am a big Rolling Stones fan which you will believe once I start drunkenly singing shattered out the window over and over from the passenger seat).

When I try to write an article, the whole world suddenly revolves around me. When I try to write my personal statement, I suddenly resolve around the whole world. Here are some examples of me starting my personal statement:

How bout that Scotland vote eh?

The KC Royals are killin’ it this season right?!

#worldpeace yo

Dear university to which I am applying,

My purpose in life appears to culminate around two general activities, watching Netflix and drinking coffee, both of which I have fulfilled and surpassed in ways you cannot imagine. Wait, you want to know my purpose for applying to your school? That’s easy…desperation.

It is hard to think about your passion for writing when your utilities bill has doubled, your running shoes are giving you painful blisters and your hair is trying this new thing called…sucking.

Do you want to know what I am really passionate about?

Taking hot showers. With our gas turned off, I am convinced that my nipples, goose bumps, and all other bodily cold responses are in general working condition. It is both fight and flight all at the same time.

Heights. I don’t like them. Last weekend I went zip-lining with my brother. Out of our group of 10, I volunteered to go first. Our guide looked at me confused and said, “Was this your idea?” to which I responded, “If I don’t go first, I’m not going at all.” After getting stuck halfway across the zip-line my very first “zip,” I knew it was going to be a long day.

Some guy asked me later if the zipping had helped with my fear of heights and I was like…”No, it just confirmed them. The rumors are true, turns out I really am afraid of heights. Who knew? Oh wait, I did.

What has been going on lately? Amidst the 8-5 grind, I have discovered a few things:

1. I love talking to my roommate Connor in a southern accent. We both work security at the library, so when he tells me to go work the south doors I just repeat phrases like Oh heavens and the South will rise again.

2. Blisters suck. I keep taking my shoe off at work so I can give my poor ankle some breathing room but people give you death glares when you work in an office uni-shoe.

3. You should always give me one extra of whatever I request from you. I prefer my coffee with 2 sugars…and by 2 I mean 3. Napkins, ketchups, candy, compliments…always give me a plus one…so to speak. That does not apply to weddings because lets face it, I am a table for 1 kinda girl these days. In fact, just put me in a room full of girls because I promise I’ll find a way to mention Emma Watson.

Speaking of tables for one…Remember in my last post (see last post) when I said I was going to take a chance….on Chance on chance on chance etcetera. I am not taking a chance on Chance.

Truth be told, I don’t want him anywhere near my heart or my Halloween party. In fact, I want him to go far far away, maybe to somewhere full of poverty like Bangladesh so that when an essay comes up where he has to write about overcoming some sort of adversity in under 500 words, he will fuck approximately 498 words and be all like…dude…Bangladesh. Period.

No one is allowed in my heart unless they pay a ridiculous cover charge like $20, the coat off your back and…your soul. That’s right buddy, hand it over. You want to hear this sick beat and you’re gonna have to give up your soul.

Too bad my heart has reached capacity. I know there’s a long line, but I just don’t have that kind of space. I let you in and I’ve gotta let everyone else in and I’m pretty sure that would violate like 8 1/2 fire safety codes so no can do.

The only chance I will be taking is on myself…on myself on myself on myself…got it?! Good.

Tomorrow I will be job shadowing at a magazine which I am pretty excited about. I am going to throw on my blue dress which has proved time and time again to have magical powers of getting me what I want, curl my hair which holds its own magical powers but only near a pool table and wear my t-strap heels…mostly for the sex appeal. Answer me this, when has anyone ever said no to a girl in t-strap heels? Just ask Bill Clinton.

In fact, I’m just going to put them on and start asking for things.

“Connor can you get our gas turned back on?”

“University, can you give me a degree in journalism for free?”

“Hey you! Can I have all your money?”

Behold the power of the t-strap heels.

Last week my fave bartender Abigail and I discovered the key to solving all the world’s problems. Taking shots.

When you take a shot, everyone just feels this great sense of community. Who cares why we’re drinking as long as we’re doing it together!

Abigail and I imagined a bunch of Congressmen sitting at a bar with their glasses held high!

Cheers to…wait are you a republican or democrat…Who cares? Let’s get snockered!

Sorry it was too difficult for me to imagine a congressmen saying shit-faced, white girl wasted or turnt up. Forget nuclear warfare, healthcare, abortion and any other controversial topic, just start handing out jello shots and I’ll be damned if you don’t see some world peace headed our way.

9 out of 10 dentists recommend leaving a comment on this blog. Don’t trust me, take their word for it!

Not Because You’re Drunk…although you probably are.

Dating, Lifestyle, People

My roommate and I tend to have our conversations in the kitchen.  I’m not really sure why, but I can only assume it’s because it is in between our rooms.  I usually do this primal thing where I sit on top of the counters and bar rather than a chair because I am marking my territory.  I started to notice that every time Connor and I talked about relationships or dating I started cleaning the kitchen.  “Ya, he cheated on me.” said Savannah with Windex and towel in hand.  This did not only happen once, but like several times.  I’m pretty sure this is the only time our counters have actually been cleaned.  I told Connor he could trick me into cleaning the whole house if he could keep me talking about it long enough.  We would start talking about our day, school, whatever…no cleaning….then we start talking about an ex-boyfriend and a broom magically appears before me.  Better sweep that floor and all the damn memories it came with!

Last night, I had some friends over for a wine night and you know what that means…………………beer and whiskey.  I always play the hostess even if people aren’t at my place.  I’m always like, “Oh, you’re not having a good time…guess we will just have to take a shot about it.”  I fail to remember that if they are taking a shot, I have to take a shot which means this girl almost always gets white girl wasted.  I pretty much love this until the next morning when my breath smells awful and I get these evil looks like, Who does this bitch think she is? because I’m ordering a Dr.Pepper at a coffee shop.  Screw your gourmet coffee, I’m fucking hungover you cunt!  For the record, I only say these things in my mind.  I usually go with a solid, “Thank-you.”  Cunt.

One of the things I love about drunken nights at my places is that almost every time, someone ends up sleeping in my bed….and almost every time it is NOT me.  I’m always like, “Sure you can sleep in my bed.  No no, it’s no problem.  I really don’t mind at all.  No, I’m serious.  You worry too much.  Go ahead, sleep in bed.  I’ll just take the floor.”  You fucking whore.  Luckily my new apartment has extra spaces for sleeping like this fancy loft above my walk-in closet where I end up sleeping…a mere 8 feet away from falling to my paralysis if I roll over on the mattress one too many times.  “But like again, no worries, take the bed.  Do you need a pillow?  A glass of water?  A car…you need a car….just take mine.  I don’t really need my heart either.  I barely use it.”

There I am, the doormat.  I just lie there in waiting.  Elegant even.  I’ll let you walk all over me.  And I’ll probably encourage it with one of those inviting messages like, WELCOME.  Welcome to my kitchen, my bed, my car, and then my heart.  The more people that walk on me, the more crooked I become.  Before you know it, I’m not even in front of the door frame anymore.  Welcome to this wall because that’s where I’m now guiding you…And then at the end of the night I will be saying EMOCLEW and not because you’re drunk…although you probably are.

So…what’s been on my mind lately?

1.  I often have this strange desire that instead of Kultida (says Wikipedia), I were Tiger Woods’ mom so I could say phrases like, “Go get em Tiger.” and like really really mean it.  “Our family is in town.  Seriously.  Go get them Tiger.”

2.  I hate it when I’m really angry about something so I say, “If I have to hear you talk about this one more time I’m just gonna….” because I almost never know what to say after that.  What am I going to do about it?  Fucking nothing.  “If I have you to hear you talk about this one more time I’m just gonna do nothing.  Ok?!”

3. I often scroll through wordpress to check out different posts.  One of them was titled, “How To Pick an Instagram Filter For Your Gun.”  At first, I was like…rise above Savannah.  You’re better than this.  Different people have different interests.  Different strokes for different folks.  Then I was like NO, why the fuck are you interested in that you stupid fucking cunt?  Why are you having a photo SHOOT with your gun?  Get the pun?  I always have to ask…just in case you did not get it.  Pity laughs are worth it 5 out of 6 times.

4.  This New Year’s, instead of making resolutions, I’m going to create problems…99 to be exact.  I’ll have 99 problems and a skeeze…will probably be one.

My skeeze of the day goes to Kanye West.  I don’t really have a reason.  I just went with my gut on this one.

Why Can’t I Be Tall?


I love that I always see the best looking guys at the gas station because there is almost nothing I can do about it under those circumstances.  “I notice you too are fueling you vehicle with regular unleaded gasoline.”  “Soooo would you want to share this diet coke I’m buying…over dinner….before a movie?”  “No?  Cool, me neither.”  Don’t worry I’ve already had every conversation with myself that I could possibly ever have with you.  I’m always talking to my friends like, don’t you know I already had this conversation for us?  You said you didn’t want go to this thing, I said I didn’t care and really wanted you to come, you said you had to do this other thing, I said you can do that other thing later and I’ll even help you, you said I don’t know, I said I think you do know…so can we just skip to the part where you are coming with me?

I hate hate hate when you are signing up for an account on a website and you start typing your new password when this pure EVIL message pops up saying Too Short.  Are you fucking kidding me right now?  I’m not even finished typing yet!  Get off my back!  My anger could also be stemming from my over-sensitivity to the word short.  Even the world wide web knows I’m vertically challenged.

Short Girl Problems:

1.Sometimes when I walk into a bar, coffee shop, or other public place, I immediately sense it.  Somewhere in that public place, he has spotted me.  The short guy in the room has spotted me.  I can just feel him thinking, Oooooooohhhhhh yyeeeaaaahhhh, target acquired.  I am shorter than him and unbelievably cute, meaning that I have already met 2 out of his 2 criteria for sleeping with me.  I just hope he can feel ME thinking, Access denied.

(FYI: I don’t discriminate based on height when dating.)

2.Everyone in the world has this innately desperate need to inform me of my height.  They are always like, “Awwww you’re so short.”  Then I’m like, “Awwww I fucking hate everything about you, you fucking tall fucking freak.”  Excuse my language.  Or don’t.

3.Sometimes I’m not tall enough to ride the roller coaster….of life.

4.Sometimes, although I fight the urge desperately, I have to recognize that my height often means my head is going to meet the level of some basketball player, Lebron wannabe crotch.  (For those of you who read my previous posts…that has to be on the rape spectrum somewhere.)

 5. Not only does my face look like I am twelve….and a half years old, but my height confirms that I may not be of legal drinking age so you should probably stare at my driver’s license for twenty minutes diverting your focus from me…back to the id…then to me…back to the id…then to me…well you get the IDea (get the pun?)  But go ahead, continue looking at me like I’m smuggling drugs across the border…

(FYI: I am 22 years old, look at my bachelor’s degree bitches.)

Don’t get me wrong, I love being short…like more than life itself, but these things get pretty damn irritating!  What does a girl have to do to be 5’6…and blonde…and blue-eyed… (sorry I’m trying to breed the fittest, whitest population here).  Just kidding, I’m not Hitler (most days), but really…Why can’t I be tall?  (tall people, collectively, are my skeezes of the day)

Hey, before you go, I have an idea!!!  Share this post!  Better yet, leave a comment you fuckers!

Yoga is sort of like dating…


My First Time Doing Yoga: (non-fiction)

I turned on a beginner’s yoga video on youtube, set the laptop on my bed, and sat on my wood floors.  This blonde chick immediately starts talking about breathing and suddenly I’ve forgotten how.  Am I breathing incorrectly?  Is it supposed to be this fast?  Have I been breathing wrong my whole life?  It makes it almost a hundred times worse that I have this lame tattoo on my arm that says “Just Breathe.”  There is almost nothing I hate more than becoming aware of my own breathing (ironic I know).  Then this bitch starts throwing out names that sound like sex positions involving directionally challenged dogs and zodiac symbols…downward facing dog, upward facing dog, cobra, a dog facing a crisis. (This last one was a joke…not a very funny one at that.)  As I attempt to imitate these positions, I’m slipping and sliding all over my wooden floors because I don’t have a yoga mat.  I also keep looking back at my doorway like a paranoid methhead (we don’t have doors in my apartment) making sure my roommate Connor doesn’t see me.  He laughs at everything and I’m pretty sure my attempt at yoga could make almost anyone burst into laughter.  I made it through most of the video until blondie asked me to touch my hands to my feet…but like backwards…and sideways…and on the ground…if you can imagine.  At the end, she claimed that I was supposed to feel more at peace, but I felt quite the opposite.  I felt like blondie and her unnaturally flexible, fit body had taken me back to Vietnam along with the rest of the 1960’s generation.

End of Story

Last night, there I was….just watching a chick flick, crying, and drinking root beer (as I sometimes do).  I had come face to face with…well something I just didn’t want to face.  My never boyfriend had several never girlfriends, and as fate would have it, I am meeting them all.  While when other girls have boy problems I’m all like, “Girl power!  We don’t need guys to make us happy!” ; when I have boy problems I’m all like, “Fuck you, fuck everyone.  I hate you all!”.  Clearly I have no double standards.  Pot meet kettle.

My date with fate (again with the unintentional rhyming) led me to having a very sentimental morning.  As I made a pot of coffee at the church where I work, I suddenly missed the time in my life when I didn’t even know how to make a  pot of coffee.  I missed the time in my life when I didn’t know how to write a check.  I missed the time in my life when I had never met my never boyfriend.  I missed the time in my life when there weren’t any ethical gray areas about whether or not to eat horse meat, have an abortion, or wear white after labor day.

I’ve often heard people ask the question, “If you could go back in time, would you change anything.”  People always rise above the question and are like, “No, my mistakes made me learn and figure out who I was…blah blah blah”.  Are you fucking kidding me?  I would change everything.  Why would you be so complacent if you had the chance to change things for the better?  However, since we do not actually get the chance to go back in time, I’ve realized how important it is to make decisions carefully and choose words wisely.  While the carefree side of me wants to let loose and do whatever I want when I want, ending up alone in my room crying about some skeezy guy makes me think that that was not working for me.  Trying to get over him has sort of been like that last yoga position…backwards, sideways, on the ground, and difficult as fuck….Just like that yoga position, I fell.

Ladies and gentleman, there will be no skeeze for the day as I have taken to hibernation in an effort to avoid those of the male persuasion.  For those of you who read my post “That’s My Roommate,” I thought you should know……………I got my lamp back.