So, is this how it ends? Does our not so perfect heroine of this blog for the last 3 years descend upon the world without telling her readers what the fuck is up?
God no. Think again. Because in the months I’ve gone without posting, I’ve realized that despite all the rantings and ravings of yours truly (writer jew sassy badass bitch hybrid extraordinaire) I’ve become throughout my college career, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from all of it it’s that I know nothing at all. I don’t mean this in a negative way, but rather, I never really could have predicted I would end up here; I’m on my bed, floor littered with bins, paper, garbage bags, and all the ridiculous items I acquired in college, face puffy from tears, joyously reminiscing on all the curveballs, tears, successes, questions, answers and immaculate memories college has given me.
Like not to micromanage every moment.
Like to let friendships ride a bit before you choose to give up on them.
Like how there is always a reason to eat pizza.
Like how you should always give yourself credit, because someone out there thinks you’re pretty grand.
Like how no one is out of love’s reach, not even me. Not even a girl who cried buckets over bro after jock after neo nazi after guido. A girl who said all she’d ever need to be happy when she grew up was a dog. A girl who claimed she hated serenades and swore she was far too damaged to love or let herself be loved. Love’ll getcha, and get ready for it. =)
Like how a good knee dance sneaking up on you can inexplicably and instantly make everything make sense.
Like how a beer with a best friend can help you find clarity.
Or a hills marathon.
Or a real housewives marathon.
Or the perfect mix cd.
Like how life has a way of fucking with you, and all you can really do is laugh at the chaos of it all. All of it. All of the things.
Guys, I have no clue who’s been reading, but thanks for hearing me out all this time. Even if you resent my hatred of kitten heels (I stand by it.) or think my Dawson’s Creek drinking game is dumb (which it’s most certainly not.). And to answer your burning questions: All the guys I’ve written about in this blog are now irrelevant (but great material for further writing), all the lessons I learned via my these blog rantings still apply, and all the friends who have helped me learn those lessons are still here, older, wiser, and (if possible) more fabulous.
With school starting tomorrow as well as my first rehearsal for a show, along with trying to figure out how I can fit American Horror Story, Vanderpump Rules, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and Girls into my schedule, I’m feeling a little stressed. It’s important to come up with coping strategies for the inevitable stressors we often endure, especially at the start of a new year. Here are my strategies. All in consumable form.
- Cookie dough: Some might argue that cookie dough cut into squares is the way to go for portion control. This is just not the case. Stress coping knows no logic. I recommend going for an entire tube, Nestle chocolate chip if we’re getting really specific. In my youth (i.e. my awkward 7th grade days when my best friends were my mom, the boys in Stand by Me and food), I would just take a spoon to the open tube and go to town. Then I realized that if you put the dough in a bowl and microwave it for 30 seconds it becomes half baked and a cajillion times more delicious. One bowl (or five) of that and you’re a new woman.
- Alcohol: I hate to put this on the list. I mean, how cliche am I right? But anyone who says that a cold beer or glass of wine after a long day isn’t extra delicious and well-deserved is just plain wrong and needs to be beaten with a fun stick (Keep your mind out of the gutter— I’m imagining a cane made of candy and glitter!). Then if it’s the weekend, you can multiply said beer or wine or fancy hard liquour drank by a few.. I’d say anywhere between 2 or 5 given all the awesome shit you’ve obviously accomplished this week. Like, I’d say if you managed to do your laundry and hit the gym more than once that earns you a solid 3 drinks. If you cured cancer you’ve easily earned 10 of something fancy. Like a margarita. FANCY PANTS AMIRIGHT?!
- Celery: Okay right? Like how did I go from cookie dough and alcohol to celery? I should be beaten with a fun stick for sure. But for some reason I like the crunch of it when I’m stressed. I feel like a badass angry rabbit on a mission. Granted, sometimes it’s slathered in ranch. And eventually I’m all “fuck this” and grab…
- Chocolate: It has caffeine and is good for your heart or whatever. So obviously a bag of Lindt truffles is totally justified when you’re stressed. Like when you missed American Horror Story and FX won’t put it online and you’re too poor for DVR and your computer won’t buffer any of the shady free sites and you just have no idea WHAT will happen to Sistuh Jude!
-Pop Culture: It all seems a lot easier when you see that even if she DOES own a Chanel bag, yet another Real Housewife is amidst a brutal divorce, or that after copious amounts of unnecessary surgery, I have a fighting chance of being on par with Lindsay Lohan on the prettiness scale.
- UV Rays: Yeah. I go tanning even though I’m pasty as fuck and it legit makes no difference aside from a little redness on my chest and a sprinkling of freckles on my nose. But in my mind, 15 minutes later and I emerge from the bed looking like Charlize Theron in the Dior perfume ads— a golden bronze GODDESS (emphasis on the “dess” part of that word)!!!
-Diet Coke: If it’s gonna give me cancer I can deal. It’s fucking delicious.
I wish I could say I consumed things like Tolstoy’s writings when I’m stressed, or vats of green tea sweetened with stevia, or hours of vinyasa yoga. But alas, I’m still just cloudy with a chance of juvenile. Whatever ways you choose to cope, I hope the beginning of this year brings you success with some of that stress! Just remember to check one thing off your last at a time, even if it’s something little like “cut toenails”. That’s a major feat (that so called for a “feet” pun, but I’ll resist because I hate feet). Managing tasks one little thing at a time keeps you from going nuts, and lets you go to bed feeling productive. Like dammit, I took out that garbage so hard today! Happy almost Monday! Let’s rock this week, mmkay behb?
In my extensive experience with the opposite sex, I have become familiar with something that I am now naming The Remorse Text. The Remorse Text is a text that a contemptible gentleman boy sends you months after realizing the emotional ramifications of his abhorrent behavior. It usually is short, simple, and a very sorry attempt to open a conversation. For example, “Hannah freakin Brown. How the hell have you been stranger?” The funny thing is, The Remorse Text is always framed to be about you when it’s actually totally about him. Because like, after watching numerous episodes of King of The Hill and downing some Busch Light for a few months (hopefully in his mother’s basement), he has realized that like, all other girls suck and whatever. “And you, babe, you were just… so… awesome. Ya know?” (Go back and read that sentence again in the voice of a stoned male. Think Jeff Spicoli a la Fast Times At Ridgemont High. Ringing any bells now? Enter the classic collegiate male specimen.)
Do not under any circumstances let The Remorse Text fool you. It’s not really about seeing how you’re doing, but more about making himself feel a little more relevant on his own sad little planet. The Remorse Text does not undo the fact that he brought home another girl in front of you, that he just got “too busy” to reply to your text messages, or that he just never made it to that major event of yours (I.e. your sorority semi-formal, the play you had feverishly rehearsed for for months, or that wedding you desperately needed a date for). The boy is still a complete and total buffoon. Hence, when he texts you The Remorse Text, you have options. And this is when it gets fun.
1. Ignore it.
There is something to be said for the fact that sometimes the best comeback is silence. This option enables you to totally ice him out, and depending on his previous crimes, that might be the healthiest choice. You shouldn’t indulge his already inflated ego with a response. This option is totally a strong-willed badass Gloria Steinem move, but kind of boring. Therefore, I give you the next option.
2. The cold response.
In this option you do respond, but not in a friendly way. At all. Rather, you respond in a short curt way that says, “Oh hello there Lord Doucheington of Doucheland. What the actual fuck do you want?” For example: Hi there. Doing great, thanks. Don’t even think about asking him how he’s doing. A. Do you really actually care? And B. Even if you do care, he will say he’s fantastic no matter what. Which, regardless of whether or not it’s true, won’t be what you want to hear. You’ll want to hear that his hairline has started receding and he’s been facebook stalking you for the last 3 months wondering how he let such a goddess go. It’s not gonna happen. If you keep your response short and sweet, the ball is back in his court, and you can see what he says from there, solely for your amusement.
3. What you actually would say in my fantasy. (Which really calls for a spontaneous run-in over a text because it would be like a 7-pager and that would be super embarrassing and the text might send out of order and then end up being very convoluted and confusing and not so empowering at all.)
Oh hey stranger! How am I doing? Well, I’m actually experiencing fabulosity on a whole other plane of reality. It’s like my life is a pop up book, and every time I turn a page something awesome is popping up right in my face. Take that how you will (*condescending Joe Biden laugh*)! Sometimes it gets overwhelming being this happy, because it feels too good to be real. Like, I feel like sometimes it will run out. One person cannot possibly live such a wonderful life, and it feels greedy. But the thing is it’s not greedy because I never expected it. Oh you see it just fell into my lap! Good fortune absolutely just plopped from the sky recently right into my lap since you kind of, ya know fell off the face of the Earth… and I’m loving every second! Oh and also you know how you never believed in that astrology stuff I was always pushing on you? Well as it turns out, my horoscope for this month was totally right! I DID in fact meet Ryan Gosling! And we’re actually seeing each other now! He’s a really special person. But then, I assume you’re seeing someone special yourself right? No? Aww. Well. I mean yeah, I mean it’s hard finding someone who just fills those holes in yourself. Ryan and I were actually just talking about that yesterday over coffee, that’s so funny. Anyway I’m sure you’ll find someone. There’s someone for everyone right? Well hey, great running into you buddy, (USE THE WORD BUDDY. OR BRO. IT IS LIKE A VERBAL CASTRATION.) Take it easy!
Okay, so I majorly digressed. Oops! But in conclusion, do not become a slave to The Remorse Text. Realize when something is a tactic to get something out of you, rather than a genuine interest in your fabulous self. And never use the excuse that he could be your Mr. Big as an excuse. Someone who breaks your heart multiple times is nothing more than a very self-assured pathetic fungus who probably has some sort of unresolved mommy issues.
And so dawns another New Year’s Eve, and I’m not sure how to handle it. Before I do, I just- I’m sorry—I just have to beg the qeuestion… excuse me for just one moment *clears throat**
WHAT THE FUCK, 2012? Like really. What, the actual FUCK were you thinking? Throwing all those curveballs at me? Like, what?
I mean honestly what were you thinking giving me 2 terrific roles in awesome plays? What were you thinking challenging me and my best friends to get closer? And please, I dare you to explain what on Earth you were thinking when you found time this year to make me into a waitress who doesn’t suck at her job. I’d really love to know what you were thinking there. And please pray tell— and this question is a 2-parter: What made you think that I would actually read the entire Harry Potter series? Or that I’d like it as much as the average human? Sorry 2012. It didn’t happen. 150 pages into Order and JK is just getting a tad self-indulgent.
Oh but could you also tell me why the eff did you scare me into thinking that Mitt Romney might ACTUALLY be our president?! That scared me. It wasn’t funny. Don’t do that again.
And what possessed you to possess me to actually dye my hair brown? Because it was awesome, and I thank you for that. And how did I actually turn all these curveballs into fabulosity? Could you riddle me that, 2012? Could you explain to me how in this year I realized aside from all those moments where I was insecure and scared and frustrated— could you explain to me how aside from all that I realized more than ever that I’m a PHOENIX?! I’m a fucking boss? I am though! I mean shit. I had a guy call me boss as a nickname this year. That was pretty awesome. The rest of his purpose tho.. I’m not sure about that 2012. We’ll talk about that later… but on the reals. You can tell 2013 to bring it, because I’m just looking forward to all the other unexpected things I’ll do, social faux pas and all. Those always make great stories. By the way, while you tell 2013 that, also would you mind relaying this too?…
2013, could you do me a favor and:
- Give me something that scares me shitless so I can overcome it.
- Keep my people in my life. I don’t know where I’d be without ‘em.
- Keep me humble.
- Keep my friends and family safe.
- Convince Netflix to keep all the seasons of The Hills on instant watch.
- Let me fall in love. I’m ready. I’m fully ready to drive an awesome guy gloriously crazy and deal with him not putting the seat down. (Eh. That last part is a maybe.)
So resolutions for 2013? To unplug. And to continue being awesome. That’s about all. Have a glorious New Year’s friends! Be safe, get drunk, look hot, and please get ready: 2013 is ours.
Thanks 2012! It’s been real.
Oh and one more thing! Give the Mayans shit for me.
As my second to last semester of college comes to a close, I’ve realized how much life is about perspective. I suppose it sounds obvious, but I’m shocked how incredibly in the dark I’ve been about that.
I spent a lot of this semester away from you tumblees mostly because I haven’t felt any of my writing has been anything of consequence, but one of my best friends proposed to me it was actually because I’ve been out living my life instead of behind my computer manipulating it or reflecting on it. And now that I’ve taken that hiatus and I’m looking back on everything from this semester all at once, the words that pop into my head surprisingly are not, “success” or “lost love” or “regret” or the ever popular phrase “let’s get drunk”. I just keep circling back to that word— perspective.
There were so many nights this fall spent clutching my phone or staring down at it at the bar, itching for someone to make some sort of connection with me. I yearned to hear from an old friend, a celebrity response to my tweet, a text from the right boy— the boy who gave me up or the boy who wanted to pursue me now. And when none of that came, I was washed in a huge feeling of irritation and sadness and my night became about what wasn’t there, and all that was there quickly dissolved around me. Now here I am at the end of the dark shadowy terrifying and sometimes beautiful tunnel that was my 2012 fall semester and when I look back on it, none of those ill feelings fill me up. No, I look back on this semester and I see what was there all along: my best friend dancing on his knees (only when you get him just drunk enough), I see all the drinks and pizza I hated myself for then but I remember as delicious and joyous now, I see riding the bull with (yes, WITH) my best friend angry at the operator for bucking us off too fast, I see the boy I liked and lusted for as the flawed human being he really is, I see the best show I have ever been in and the clan of wonderful weirdos that made it possible, I see an estranged friendship growing closer than ever over many coffees and beers (sometimes at inappropriately early times). I see dancing ridiculously in public knowing that everyone else at the bar absolutely hates us only to cancel that realization out by the epiphany that (like Icona Pop) I don’t care. (“It’s cute now because we’re young and pretty. When we’re 40, it’ll just be sad.”) Yep, I see that it’s all perspective.
And maybe the semester ended and I partied a little too much and said no to the gym sometimes and didn’t get my dream boy holding a boom box over his head playing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes” to say he was sorry. But when I think of all the sparkly little gems of life I have had with people who constantly surpass my expectations of what a human being should be, I can’t help but feel privileged to live the life I’m living. I’m not a victim or a survivor; I’m just blessed.
So as this year comes to an end and I’m leafing through this year’s mistakes in my mind, I have already come up with the perfect resolution: Unplug. Take time to recharge. Don’t spend waste time staring at your phone, basing a tremendous amount of self worth off of a device. Don’t leave your number for him to use if and when he feels like it. Don’t do the work. Be where you are with the people you are with, and just enjoy. Don’t let your favorite song become about him, let it become about the fact that you and your best friend both love it and explode into dance every time it comes on at the bar. Turn off your phone because you want to, not because you’re making a point. GET OFF THE PHONE AND COMPUTER AND JUST WATCH TV. Watch your favorite show! Watch a marathon of something dumb! Find out just where Carrie Bradshaw DID get that skirt. Find out what the hell is happening in the world. Bury yourself in a book because you want to. Bury yourself in wordswordswords. Bury yourself in bubble bath. Live life for you. And when ya do that, the ones who are worth it somehow find their way in. It truly is amazing how that happens.
I guess you take a semester off of really writing and then there it all is: a bunch of wordwordword vomit. But there’s clarity somewhere in there for me. And tumblees, I hope whatever it is you’re working on right now becomes clearer for you. Happiness is a choice. And why aren’t we worthy of making it? We are. We really really are.
Then there was the year I was a cotton ball by molding balls of paper towels and gluing them to a Hanes undershirt and white tights and white athletic shorts and I donned a pair of white fluffy slippers. No one knew what I was.
What are you supposed to be? A sheep?
What are you supposed to be.
A cotton ball.
Then there was the year I was a dinosaur. I wanted to be a sexy dinosaur like a way sexy hot dinosaur like a dinosaur the guy at the bar would want to take home and we could act like a meteor shower was gonna kill us because I would be dressed as a dinosaur and then we could live our night together like it was our last, and in the morning I would wake up and regret it and realize that there was no meteor shower to end my life and I would actually have to live with my shameful choices. I wore a green bra that I got with a Victoria’s Secret gift card I had saved from Christmas. It was green lace with a sheen in the light. I glued sequins all over a pair of green athletic shorts and wore green high heels I bought at a thrift store and then spray glued them and covered them in green glitter. The glitter and the sequins were my scales. So was the sheen on the bra. I painted my nails white and grew them out for two weeks in advance so they would look like claws and when a guy said something I found to be sexy (“I love this song. I love Poison.”) I could coyly sip my drink and say “Well don’t make me eat you. After all, I am a carnivore.” And then I would lightly scratch his chest with my claws like a way sexy hot dinosaur.
What are you supposed to be? A bug?
Don’t tell me. I want to guess.
No. I have no clue what you are. What are you supposed to be?
Oh. That’s cool.
Well don’t make me eat you. After all, I am a carnivore.
I don’t know what to be this year. I am grappling with my Halloween costume choice the way one grapples with a bad idea. The way one grapples with a really bad idea like calling him even though you promised yourself and your friend and your goldfish Mr. Pebbles (who you joke about talking to but you actually talk to) you weren’t going to. But in the event that I do call him or in the event that I even see him I want to be something good. Something that makes him say, “My God. That is the most stunning apple I have ever seen.” or whatever I end up deciding on. I want my costume to have the perfect balance of creative and ironic and seductive so I am sexy like the other girls but more intelligent, witty and special. The intelligent girls get to meet his mom. I could never meet his mom dressed as a slutty girl scout.
Halloween kind of embarrasses me though if I think about it a lot. Guys often wear awkward masks resembling that of the Phantom’s in Andrew Lloyd Weber’s ’80s musical sensation The Phantom of The Opera. They also often wear costumes that show off their muscles by being a Greek god or that guy from the 300. It’s awkward to see guys trying to be overtly sexy. It’s awkward to see me trying to be overtly sexy. I’m not sure how to handle it. If I see him I’ll accidentally jostle him and laugh with false embarrassment.
DO NOT no matter how stubborn, intelligent or drunk you might be, run into your teacher at a bar and proceed to verbally shit on on his face for 5 minutes about how much he sucks. Even if he bullies you in class. Even if he’s a grad student. Even if he’s debatably attractive.
You will look and feel like a moron. Just.. no.
I cannot wait for class on tuesday let me tell you.
Hannah is a tool who speaks in the third person. Hannah hasn’t tumbled in forever. How can Hannah have begun to suck so bad? So bad. The worst.
Welp kids, I have come up from the depths of binge drinking and partying I have resided in as of late to join you and give some old fashioned thoughts on things that I’ve had going on lately. Perhaps you shall derive something, perhaps you shall not. Perhaps you just miss reading about my problems so you can feel better about yours. That’s a pretty cool thing. It’s like me with the Real Housewives lil’ bit. It’s a cool thing I’d say.
Oh before I go on please open a new tab or window and youtube the trailer for the Les Mis movie. Like, I’m not even a musical person and the trailer makes me cry. Additionally Anne Hathaway has had to pull a Natalie Portman circa V for Vendetta to play her role as Fantine by hacking off all her luscious locks, and yes, she too looks perfect and Hepburn-esque with the short pixie-‘do post production. Bitch. But I love her. But bitch.
So Senior year. We all talk about it like some kind of abstract thing or like some kind of excuse to do whatever the hell you want. Well, it’s not. You still need to watch your bank account, work out, not start drinking at 4pm 5+ days of the week because “oh you’re a senior and yolo and bullshit”. Rather, I’m kind of peeing myself a little bit as opposed to the “yolo ideology” that often coincides with this point of life. I’ve realized that seniors are separated into factions depending on how we choose to handle this “oh shit real life is coming hold me someone PLEASE” year of our lives.
You have the aforementioned “yolos” who go downtown to the bars multiple times a week whether they have a test coming up or otherwise. They look like shit in sweatpants all day so that they don’t waste their going out clothes and the transformation is all the more dramatic. The yolos might sleep around or throw themselves into a spontaneous dumb relationship that’s more of a “meh why not?” than a “ohemgee I actually like this guy for real” kind of thing. Usually this relationship results in a lot of drunk fighting but an equal amount of make up sex so that’s cool I guess. A yolo-er likes to come to class drunk/hungover/stoned and then brag about how awesome it is on twitter. #youreanidiot #aspirations #getsomeofthose. Then when the end of the year comes the hypothetical yolo-er has a freak out about graduating on time after abandoning class work for their blooming social life, and after walking at graduation, they move back in with their parents, end their dumb relationship and pretend to have a lot of problems so they can be babied and maybe see a shrink. Excuses excuses. Such is the life of a yolo.
Then we have the “do-ers”. The doers are a group of android-like freaks who start planning their lives after college the Summer before senior year. They already are networking with people in their desired job field, are applying for summer internships in the fall, and are working with a very strict timeline. Doers do go out, for they like an excuse to let loose and remain socially relevant. But should a doer have a test coming up, there is no room for such tom foolery. They’re looking to be a an exec at Cramer- Krasselt with a family and a golden retriever by the time they’re thirty. Doers get their partying out of their system mostly between freshman and sophomore year when they go apeshit. “Ke$ha and peach burnetts”, the doer says rolling their eyes in memoriam and shame, “Those were the days…”. Also doers usually lack a very strong aesthetic for style, and you might find them sporting an unfortunate going out top clearly purchased as “my going out top” from someplace like Wet Seal… think drapy, perhaps with weaving or lace on the back of it, probably in purple or teal.
Finally in the middle we have “the classic”. This senior falls somewhere in the middle. The classic senior goes to class because they kind of have to pass and whatever but A’s are not a priority and a classic never makes an excuse not go out. A test won’t keep a classic in, meager funds won’t stop them from spending money. They’ll just make sure they know the specials and always get that discounted bevvy. A yoga class every now and then isn’t out of the question. But on a bad day a hit or two of weed doesn’t suck. A classic will go on facebook for a few hours daily whilst doing homework, possibly resulting in them staying up a little later than planned but they’ll probably just watch some American Horror Story on project free tv ‘till they get whisked away to slumberland by the rubber man. A classic will graduate, and get some job, and live their life. One day at a time and shit and whatever.
So what you may wonder am I? I’d consider myself more of a doer/classic hybrid. But honestly, it is a one day at a time and shit and whatever kind of thing. This year has been boring and amusing and scary and has thrown curveballs at me already. I’m not looking forward to being a grown up, but being a senior makes you appreciate the little things more. Like dropping your side of BBQ sauce in the Prime Time bathroom with your best friends by your side and calling random people fat and ugly when they make fun of what you’re wearing. Or just slothing around watching real housewives because why not? It makes you admit when things are a good time. And honestly, I don’t think senior year needs to be an excuse.
I don’t want to doodle. I want to do something else. My doodles are always of the same things and never carry the element of careless yet impeccable artistry I desire. When i doodle I always hope that the tree, eye, garment, face I draw (for these are what I doodle) will prove me to be a doodling savant.
But alas, they always look the same; Childlike, but decent to look at, I suppose. However one could argue that my doodles are not doodles at all. Indeed one could argue that a doodle is not a doodle if it is judged or critiqued. It is not their purpose to be beautiful or exquisite or meaningful. No. The purpose of a doodle is merely to ocupy your time and keep you entertained just enough to avoid that thing you have to do; taking notes, making a call, listening to that daunting voicemail you know your mother left you.
"Mary-Ann is coming over for Mahjong at five, but Pickles has an appointment at the vet at three, so really you can only call me back between… well… I’d say between four thirty and five. Which won’t give me nearly enough time to tell you all about Lily’s chirstening but I’ll talk fast."
So I guess in some respects doodling really is quite tragic if you think about it. For it is in turn avoidance. My shrink told me avoidance is one of my demons. I’ve avoided paying the cable bill for about two weeks now. I’m currently avoiding carbs and the aggressive young buck whom I drunkenly gave my number to at the bar last week.
"But avoidance is a weak choice. And you," My shrink said with a knowing grin, "You, are not a weak girl."
But sometimes avoidance is indeed the easiest route. This belief is reinforced by the little babes on the playground we played with when we were small.
"You like Tommy! We all know! Just admit it!" "What? NO! That’s not true!" (Start vigorously digging a hole to China in the sandbox.)
Then later in life the stakes are raised but the situations are fundamentally the same. “Will you marry me?” (Start vigorously chugging wine)
Avoidance all the same.
So I don’t want to doodle. I don’t want to subconsciously critique and avoid and analyze and reanalyze what emerges from this pen of mine (my favorite bright yellow pen from a Chinese Restaurant. #potstickers #mushubeef) as it weaves and loops across this white valley of paper. Rather I’ll let it dance freely and allow the breeze to play with my hair and flirt with the hemline of my skirt as I sit here outside my favorite coffee shop. And I imagine if I do that it’ll result in a composition that resembles something like what you’ve just read.
Cake. Onions. Sandwiches. Lasagna. My personality.
All beautiful and delicious things are layered. And with the fall approaching, I am positively smitten with the trend of layering lovely pieces for an eclectic cozy look. Each year I come back thinking I have my style completely evolved… freshman year it was anything loud and memorable, even if that meant it had a huge gnarly rip in the sleeve. Sophomore year it was anything body skimming. Last year it was eclectic prep. And this year it has swung right back to the wildness of freshman year with a classic twist.
For instance, with layering in mind, I’m dying to take a girly floral mini skirt and pair it with a neon sweatshirt layered with a pretty ivory collared shirt underneath. There’s something gloriously punk about neon that is a gorgeous juxtaposition with flowers. I die.
Additionally I’m thrilled to wear my new gold glittery studded (yes, this is all in one item. And it’s fabulous!) across the body bag and layer that over my favorite metallica concert tee with some cozy leggings, an oversized cardigan and boots. Maybe throw a chunky knit scarf or a fur vest over that. I just love the idea of being this little thing gobbled up by gorgeous garments. I just decided that’s the way I want to die. Drowning in a heap of ZacPosenMarcJacobsOscarDeLaRentaDiorArmaniDianeVonFurstenbergMichaelKorsRalphLauren. Mmm. What a way to go…
Feeling inspired yet? My mind is reeling because I’ve been watching The City on Netflix for hours and I have more ideas! READ ON.
How about a pair of those daisy dukes you made from an old pair of jeans so they’re nice and buttery and soft LAYERED over a bright pair of tights with booties and a classic white button down? Maybe even watch some youtube tutorials on how to do the sock bun so you can be office chic on top and party girl pretty on the bottom.
From a surprising summer rain to a text from an old flame to what I pick to wear in the morning, I just relish in the unexpected. There’s something amusing and daring about working what you’re wearing because it makes sense solely to you.
Finally, I’d suggest layering accessories. I used to put pressure on myself to pick and choose one bracelet, one necklace, one ring in paranoia of over-accessorizing. Pish posh! As long as your pieces are delicate, I’d say go crazy. Be summer chic with layered friendship bracelets or bring out your inner gypsy with layered bangles. Chain necklaces look great, and don’t be afraid to mix your metallics. Also layer with different chain lengths— a long geode pendant with a delicate gold chain closer to the collarbone is so bohemian and ladylike at the same time. It emotes the sort of effortlessly sexy vibe I’m constantly striving for.
Okay I just fashion vommed all over you, and I’m sorry for that. But I can’t wait to be a spritely fashionable piece of layer cake this fall, and I hope you’re pumped to do the same!
Whoever said back to school was a downer was just silly. I view it as an opportunity to look my best for both myself and a large audience of classmates. Now that’s fabulous. =)
I think a lot of people view summer as this sort of abstract thing that will solve a lot of their problems. Like New Year’s resolutions, the season of summer represents a beacon of hope for people who just need time to get things done, things they always wanted to do.
"This summer I’m gonna lose weight, watch every movie I’ve ever wanted, make a Weasley family sweater, finish that scrapbook for my study abroad trip, meet a summer boyfriend, get a fierce tan…"
The list goes on and on.
And this summer, I definitely had my own aspirations. As it was in fact the first summer I was home in three years I expected, well, more. Yes, I absolutely expected to build a Snooki-like tan, drop 10 pounds, make a lot of money, frolic with my girlfriends, sneak around at night with my perfect little nature boy (ideally someone who drives a pick up truck), and get back to doing regular yoga.
Well, my best friend put it well the other day when I asked her where the hell summer went. “Up my asshole.” She replied. Up my asshole indeed summer went. A couple weeks ago I literally had a crying fit over the lack of positive action this summer has held for me. In fact, I lost my best guy friend from home to a girlfriend who just so happens to be half my size, I severed ties with someone I had once thought was my Mr. Big, I worked countless hours at the restaurant and spent even more countless hours alone, free at opposite times of my friends who mostly work 9-5.
And then somehow a switch flipped, and eventually I did something a little healthy, and one might dare say mature (or not). I stopped writing and editing the mental list of what my summer didn’t hold, and learned to embrace the silence I often had to myself. I decided I had this summer to do little things as personal gifts, even if those gifts weren’t what I had initially planned.
I picked up string and made friendship bracelets again for the first time in years, even if they’re mostly for myself (sorry not sorry), I caught up on my favorite tv series, I picked up old books I had once started and finally finished them, I rode and rode and rode my blue Schwinn, I fell in love with a new band, I got freckles instead of a tan, I put lemon juice in my hair, I was humbled by a new job, I was humbled by the new people it brought me to, I learned that the concept of Mr. Big is bullshit. No one can fuck up that many times and be the love of your life. I re-learned that at the end of the day a phone conversation with your girlfriends sifting through your lives means worlds more than a text from some guy. I learned that when you slough off the bad people, there’s always plenty of good ones left. I learned ice cream is always justified. And that I have an inappropriate addiction to salmon. I bought wacky glasses because I wanted to wear them when I write. And I am. And all of that is more than just okay, but downright beautiful to me. In a simple stupid kind of way that I’m finally not judging at all.
I haven’t been this disconnected from blogging in a while simply because I didn’t feel I had anything to report. I wasn’t doing anything noteworthy like getting wasted or going to bars or getting my heart broken or fighting with a girlfriend. And now I see that the lack of drama is one of the most noteworthy things I’ve come up with in a while. So when you think your life is boring or lacking adventure, embrace the silence. Or maybe fill it with the voices of those closest to you or the perfect song at the perfect moment, or just the sound of the wind rustling that tree you used to climb as a kid in your front yard. Hell, maybe try to climb it again.
So that’s where I’ve been. That’s been my summer. Embracing the silence. It’s nice. You should try it. Night, friend.
So sometimes in Summer you find yourself in random social situations, and that’s one of the most delicious things about it. Sometimes your plans simply come down to the thought process, “Well shit, you’re in town and I’m in town and you’re bored and I’m bored so okay!”
And sometimes that lands you with people who would not have looked at you twice in high school. Not until you lost 30 pounds and learned how to dress and do your hair and bust peoples’ balls instead of constantly worrying whether or not they think you’re nice. And sometimes hanging with those people is super uncomfortable, but it makes for a fucking awesome story.
So I had a friend in high school who was a year older and hung out with a notoriously attractive athletic outgoing AWESOME group of guys! (Just ask them.) While he was humble and always nice and eager to hang out with me, his friends… eh… they scared me. And the accompanying groups of girls… well…. they were kind of like if you bred a Real Housewife and a rottweiler. Terrifying. So I ran into said friend a few days ago, and we hadn’t seen each other in ages. It was great catching up and he quickly invited me and my friends to hang out with him and his friends later. Awesome.
But unfortunately, my girlfriends could not be in attendance, and one of them even got almost angry when I invited her.
"I mean Hannah, are you SERIOUS. Like I AM NOT comfortable with those guys. I mean, like, it’s whatever. If you wanna go FINE. But I am NOT going. … So are you actually going? UGH."
So I decided to finally prove to myself that the insecure Hannah from high school who looked kind of like if you bred a fairy and the Michelin man (terrifying.), was a distant memory, and that since high school I have grown into a sparkly confident young woman. Henceforth, I DID meet up with my friend and his scary friends sans my friends. Yes kids, I WENT SOLO.
And it was fucking scary. The music was loud and dubsteppy and the girls looked at me like I was an alien and I snubbed them because I was scared and defensive and out of the 12 or so guys there only about 4 acknowledged me including my friend and only 3 out of those 4 were actually nice. I ran into a kid I’ve gone to school with since kindergarten and upon being formally introduced he looked at me with hazy asian drunk eyes and lightly shook my hand as he slurred, “Oh. The new girl. Hey.” I cocked my head confusedly to the left. Um. Hi?
Then I basically made my friend babysit me as I rambled to him quickly— nay, MANIACALLY like in that episode of Sex and The City when Carrie meets Aidan’s new girlfriend and can’t stop talking and Aidan’s like ahhh what’s wrong with you? AIDAN SHE WAS UNCOMFORTABLE, OKAY?! AND SO WAS I!
Eventually I left. I had brunch early with dad the next morning, and thought it best to quit trying to prove anything to others or myself, because that was clearly an epic fail, and decided hunker down to bed instead.
But clearly I didn’t strike out too badly, as the next night he invited me to hang with him and his boys again, and this time I had two girlfriends in tow. Thank. GAWD. Everything was going smoothly enough until he managed to utter the words, “Hey, remember the time you were socially awkward last night?”
Aw heyell no. Things were about to get hella reality TV up in this bitch. It was like at the RHNJ reunion when Teresa accused Caroline of not being a good mother. In short, shit was about to get real. So I sat up straight, stuck out my boobs a bit, used animated hand gestures and barked,
"Okay no. Honestly, I came ALONE to hang out with you and your friends who apparently need to be given a reason to be nice to me. You only introduced me to like two of them, and clearly they didn’t see any reason to be warm and fuzzy without you asking them to be. I mean your one fucking friend with his big pretentious glasses and his preppy douchey shorts glared at me, and the others didn’t even look at me. So the fact of the matter is most of your friends are cliquey and entitled and mean, and happen to intimidate the shit out of me. And THAT’S why we never hung out in high school."
"Hannah!" my friends scolded.
"Whoaaa!" He reacted laughing awkwardly. "I mean, they’re… cool…?" He said. Well gee, brah, you convincing me or yourself?
"I mean yeah, some of them are nice. Like 2 of them were really great. IIII don’t know about the rest." I said skeptically.
"Well that was my fault. I’ll introduce you to more people next time, I’m sorry."
That’s right. “Socially awkward”. Pft.
"It’s fine." I nodded, looking away and swinging my legs from the bar stool I was sitting on, feigning nonchalance.
The rest of the night culminated in my friends making sure I didn’t offend anyone else and ultimately ended with the following facebook status: “I either need a muzzle or my own Bravo tv show. Stat.”
So moral of the story: no matter how confident you might THINK you are, sometimes people can always make you feel like you’re not. And then when you feel like you’re not, you can always bounce back and prove to yourself you really are. I’m thinking my Bravo show will be called “Little Miss Knockout”. Not as in I’m hot, but as in I will actually verbally knock you out. Or maybe it’s both. But I’ll leave that up to you. =)
"But— but… you were supposed to miss me." She said, tears welling in her eyes. She hadn’t invested in the waterproof mascara. She hadn’t anticipated moments like these.
"Huh?" He asked. She knew he heard her. He liked to play dumb. Life was lighter that way, and responsibility was more of an option than an expectation.
"You were supposed to… miss me?" She repeated. It came out as a question this time. Quizzical. Like the first time she felt a sparkle of something between them. That moment had been confusing and scary, not unlike this one. But much unlike this one, the first time had a magical element of excitement. This moment just felt hollow, like the inside of an empty beer bottle she had finished on the nights things were blurry and complicated between them; the nights they wished things could have been simpler.
"I. Um. Um." She picked at her neon pink nail polish while she stepped quickly from foot to foot, eventually sinking into a stance with her left hip sticking out bouncing quickly. She was speechless. She was never speechless. She was nervous. He usually made her nervous.
"I thought you would miss me. Enough to like, call or something or… whatever this is stupid." She rolled her eyes and looked away trying to appear careless and frigid. Two things which she definitely was not.
"Well, I didn’t. I didn’t miss you at all. In fact, I feel really uncomfortable with how pathetic you are right now. Can you just let me be? Because honestly, I don’t care. I don’t care about you or ‘us’ or any of it. Leave me alone."
And just like that he walked away into the fog and disappeared. She felt as if she had been socked in the stomach like when her sister used to beat her up. And her chest felt tight and full and sharp, like the time she smoked a joint and didn’t want to. The outer corners of her mouth were frowning uncontrollably and she started to cry.
"Wait." she whispered. All she heard was the eerie nothingness around her; the enormity of her surroundings filled with thick fog made being alone all the more apparent and unsettling. She hoped he would emerge laughing, revealing his cruelty as a practical joke. But the only reply she ever got was her alarm clock ringing.
And then I woke up in a hot sweat. He was supposed to miss me.
My Summer is officially made. Just yesterday I found out that every episode— yes, EVERY EPISODE of Dawson’s Creek is on Netflix instantwatch. So basically between working out, working at the restaurant, and having any minor sort of social life, I’m just hanging out at the creek watching every episode ever. And then I had a stroke of genius. Nay— a stroke of EPIC genius. Kids, let us take this 90’s nugget of tv gold and turn it into a drinking game. Yes, let us reflect on this angsty teen soap that we barely understood when we watched it inappropriately as 7-year-olds solely because we thought it made high school look really cool and we all had crushes on Pacey even though the creek belonged to Dawson. Yes. So, here are the rules. Play the game IF YOU DARE!
Take a drink:
-Every time Joey half smiles
-Every time Pacey hits on someone
-Every time one of the teens uses a long word no high schooler would ever actually use
- Every time Dawson mentions Spielberg
- Whenever Jen’s grandma tells Jen not to swear
- Whenever Jen’s grandma goes to church
- Whenever Jen’s grandma says something pious
- Every time there is a gratuitous shot of the creek/rowboats/sunsets. You get the gist.
- Every time sex is mentioned. Take an extra drink if it’s mentioned uncomfortably.
- Every time someone kisses someone they shouldn’t. (Pacey and Tamara the slutty english teacher, anyone? Jack and Joey in the restaurant circa season 2 when we still think Jack is straight? Whenever anyone kisses Dawson because he’s so lame?)
These are just a few. Come up with your own! Have fun playing this game until you get sloshed like Abby in season 2. Then she dies. Too soon? Enjoy!
So these first few days learning the ropes I get to taste everything to have a better understanding of the menu. Basically I’m loving life right now. The staff is amazing and so understanding of my newbie idiocy, and they’re ballbusters just like me. I learned yesterday that apparently the restaurant industry is notorious for its booze and cursing, so it’s looking like I’m in the right place. Every 5 minutes someone says something noteworthy as everyone is badass and awesome, but this moment I had in the kitchen today was too great not to report.
Me: (tasting a sample of the homemade icebox pie…whipped cream, caramel sauce, chocolate sauce, sex.) Holy shit. This is amazing. AMAZING! **Stunned look on my face, one might even say an orgasm-like expression**
**The following was said by some of the amazing guys who bust ass in the kitchen and are way too cool for me. I have not learned all their names yet, but I am determined to get them to teach me some Spanish!**
Saoul: It’s good?
Me: It’s amazing. I’m gonna be… um.. gorda. (does an expanding gesture around body)
Other kitchen guys together: Si. Si! Gorda! (they know how to roll their R’s as they all speak Spanish for the most part. I cannot roll my R’s. At all.)
Me: NO! I work out! I will NOT get gorda.
Saoul: You work out?
Me: Yeah! I hit the gym!
Kitchen guys: You work out for… an extra hour. Then you will not be gorda.
Me: ….An extra hour, huh? Yeah I’m gonna get gorda.
**This is an assignment I wrote for my literary genres class back in March. It’s so strange but I love it. We were supposed to write something in the fashion of the German author Urs Alleman— essentially meaning steam-of-consciousness freakshow writing. So don’t worry, I haven’t totally lost my mind. I just did a little bit for a grade.**
I eat Ramen noodles. That’s what I do. Do it daily. Do it drunk. Do it sober. Do it without thinking.
Wavy yellow strands of noodle. Kind of look like hair. But no hair I’ve ever seen. But the hair I kind of always wanted. Long. Nood.Les. Kind of like Rapunzel’s hair.
Question. If Ramen were actually made of hair would I still eat it and love it the way I do? Would I? That’d be gross. Of course I wouldn’t.
But if it was hair if it tasted the same. Tasted good with hot sauce or soy sauce or pepper or salt or garlic or parsley flakes or marinara sauce then would I still eat it and love it the way I do? Would I? That’d be gross. Of course I wouldn’t. Ew. What’s wrong with you? Of course I wouldn’t.
Oodles of noodles in a bowl. Strands of awesome. If I could put the word awesome in a strand it would be a curly strand a noodly strand a curly yellow noodly strand and it would taste awesome and it would be a Ramen noodle strand.
Made dinner last night. Didn’t have anything else. Made some Ramen. Don’t know if I would have made anything else even if I did have anything else. Nothing else is as fun. Golden doughy threads weaving themselves around my fork, glistening in the fluorescent light of my kitchen. I hate that kitchen light. What is it about college apartments that they must all have fluorescent lighting? No one looks good in fluorescent lighting. Nothing looks good in fluorescent lighting. I have harsh wrinkles where I smile in fluorescent lighting. I have big purple painful looking bags under my eyes in fluorescent lighting. Can’t sleep. Try but can’t. Listen to music. Simon and Garfunkel. The Shins. Doze off but I wake up. I always wake up once, twice, thrice. Like to wake up a lot to see if this boy texted me—if the little red light on my phone is flashing red. People look good in red lighting. Sexy. Perhaps a little bit dangerous. I like a little bit of danger. But no one looks good in fluorescent lighting. But Ramen noodles look good look sexy in fluorescent lighting. I eat Ramen noodles. That’s what I do.
My roommate claims I eat too much Ramen. I said fuck you, you eat too many pickles. Pickles aren’t as many calories she said. You’re not as many calories I said. Fuck you she said. Of course I wouldn’t. Ew. What’s wrong with you? Of course I wouldn’t.
Wonder if I’ll ever love a man the way I love Ramen. I like when this boy texts me and makes my phone flash red when I can’t sleep in the night but honestly I like eating Ramen more. Ramen doesn’t care if I’m clever or not and isn’t going to leave. The price of Ramen isn’t an emotional one but just a question of a mere 25 cents. But if it were going to leave I would follow it and cling onto those strands of awesome so I could eat them and ingest the awesome thus becoming more awesome if that’s even possible. Wouldn’t follow the boy. That’d be gross. Of course I wouldn’t.
Well kids, another year of college has ebbed, and man was this one jam packed full of shit. Good, bad and ugly. Now it’s officially struck me: I only have 1 year left of ISU shenanigans during which to mess up and learn, because everyone knows mess-ups are only charming in college. In the real world, collegiate mess-ups are just kind of sad and pathetic. Like, any other time being drunk on a Tuesday afternoon while you procrastinate an assignment is super sad, but in college it’s just like “Aww behb! YOLO!”
**Oh also how do we feel about the whole YOLO thing? I was against it, but fuck, since it’s everywhere I’ve embraced it. It’s one of those ‘Isayitasajokebutnotreally’ kinds of things. Whatever. YOLO.**
Annnyway… I’ve learned some pretty bitchin’ lessons within these first 3 years. And although I know next year will be yet another sparkly glorious confusing curveball, I figured I should share some of my nuggets of knowledge for your use. Well, if not for your use, at least for your entertainment.
1) Being the other woman/man is always an option but never a solution.
2) Never feel guilty for saying no— no to going out, no to a person who continues to let you down, no to the cute yet sketchy guy with nothing going on behind the eyes. No means no, and that’s just fine.
3) There are a plethora of things to do with Ramen noodles. Just forego the seasoning packet, boil the noodles and add whatever sauces/spices you want. Genius and so cheapy.
4) There is never a wrong time to wear heels IF you can walk in them like a human.
5) A night in can be all you need.
6) The best comeback is silence.
7) When you come from a place of confidence and power, yelling and cursing becomes useless.
8) It takes a lot of unnecessary energy to hate— focus on the love!
9) Why yes, Bud Platinum DOES get you drunker faster!
10) Incorporating quotes form Real Housewives/The Hills into your daily life makes you a happier person. Ex: “LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING ABOUT MY FAMUHLY. WE AH AS THICK AS THIEVES AND WE PROTECT EACH UDDAH TILL DE END.” -Caroline Manzo, Real Housewives of New Jersey
11) When you don’t think you want to go to the gym, go anyway. It always makes you feel better.
12) Singing along to commercials with your roommate makes them way more bearable. It’s the little things.
13) Always say yes to dancing. On the quad, at a party, in a school building. JUST DANCE! **wink**
14) Don’t be afraid to prune. Prune away the clothes you haven’t worn, the shoes you love that broke, the people who don’t make you feel good about yourself. No shame in growing, changing and moving on. It makes room for the exciting new stuff life has in store for you— or just makes room for the new dress you’ve been eying at Akira.
That’s all I got for now. Happy Summer! Time to go do some yoga followed by some tanning. I mean, YOLO.
Oh my god tumblees! Wherever hath the year gone? I cannot believe it is Cinco de Mayo yet again. Remember the time Cinco de Mayo kicked my ass last year as drunkenly documented on this VERY BLOG?! Me too.
I’m really just blogging because the fact that yet another school year is over is totally blowing my mind all over my face. And while I think about the insane social anxiety I had at the end of last year compared to now, I just can’t help but be uber happy and smiley and thankful for all the sparkly wonderful people I know. Keep sparkling. Meanwhile, I’m gonna go get drunk and then try and dress up like a raptor which will probably end up looking more like Ke$ha but I’m okay with that.