A Cry for Help, Thinly Veiled as an Update on my Life

Listen, I cry a lot. It’s not really a secret and it’s not really weird. I cry at dove commercials (Hello? The little girls who think they are beautiful and then grow up and don’t anymore? I’m not a fucking robot) and at BudLight commercials (Dogs) and at songs which feature women overcoming bad relationships. I cry at Landslide and Rather Be and people who are nice for no reason. This is just a fact about me and I’ve come to accept it. My friends I’ve made in grad school think its endearing even though every time I tear up one of them laughs at me and then we inevitably get yelled at by our teacher.

I don’t think my crying at these things point to the fact that my life is a mess, but there ARE things I cry about (and other things in my life) that do point to this conclusion. For instance, when my teacher cancelled my 8:30 class, which means I get to “sleep in” (til 8am), I cried. Not normal. I also cried when I walked into Monmouth’s gym for the first time and saw how empty and beautiful the track was. Very not normal. Last week in class, we watched a video in which a young woman came out to her mother (I think…it was completely in Vietnamese) and I. Fucking. Cried.

These facts alone might make you think “ok, she’s definitely a sensitive gal, but maybe she’s just a softie” you might even think it’s kind of sweet. No. It’s not. Here are some other things you should know that truly show you that my life is just an all out disaster and I’m slowly spiraling out of control:

  1. I suspect my neighbor is stealing my garbage. Long story but basically my garbage went missing. Not my garbage CAN, my actual garbage. I never put the can out at the curb and it wasn’t even garbage day. SOS.
  2. Last Tuesday, I lost my flash drive with all my assignments for school on it. On friday, after three days of constant rain, I found it in the parking lot. It had clearly been run over and had some serious water damaged, but I decided to plug it into my computer anyway (I had to do some handy work to un-warp it so it would fit in the USB drive).
  3. My uncle just delivered me four boxes full of wine and champagne and so I have a lot of solo drinking in my future.
  4. I have a midterm due tomorrow that I haven’t started yet.
  5. I decided to give up cheese. Then cooked a casserole in which cheese was a main ingredient.
  6. I just received pepper spray in the mail from my friend’s grandma because I’m “all alone at the beach.”

I also ignored my co workers all day in favor of listening to the new Taylor Swift album and it was the most productive I’ve been in weeks.

Normally I would say if you want to help, send alcohol but at this point I have more wine and champagne than I know what to do with. My second request would probably be pepper spray but I have that covered too.

I guess my main request is a camera system so I can find out why my garbage keeps disappearing and also so I can more accurately gage the percentage of the day I spend giving myself pep talks out loud.


Running out of wine (and how it’s kind of a metaphor for my life)

A time will come shortly after you graduate college when you’re too old to drink like you used to but you’re also too young to accept that fact. It will be during this time that you will find yourself having a glass of wine with dinner every. Damn. Night. And it’s kind of sad because you’re drinking wine because you genuinely like the taste AND it’s from a bottle not a box AND you (almost) never get a wine hangover because you’re only having a glass. It’s weird. And then the wine runs out and you find a bottle of vodka in your freezer literally LEFT OVER FROM SENIOR WEEK and you make yourself and mixie and you wonder how you got to where you are. And that’s when you write a blog.

Once when I was in London, my friends and I wanted to have beer olympics. One thing led to another and we ended up playing with Strongbow (a cider brand that should be put in jail for trying to kill me via hangover multiple times). After drinking 20 liters of Strongbow between ten people, I looked around and I weirdly had a Gyro in my hand that I didn’t remember ordering/leaving the apartment to get. One of my friends was drunkenly constructing a trophy out of Strongbow bottles while muttering “this was my life for two years,” and another friend was screaming “IT WON’T BE FUNNY WHEN I’M DEAD TOMORROW.” I was confused how any of these events had happened independently let alone how they were connected in any way. It was surreal and I couldn’t make sense of it. My point is that THAT is kind of how I feel every morning I wake up and I remember I’m not in college. Except in this scenario I don’t go home and drunkenly email my boyfriend to tell him that he has “the emotional capacity of a caterpillar” because I’m a fucking grown up and vodka just doesn’t inspire me to write scathing emails in the same way Strongbow always did.

If you’ve read this far, you’re probably currently compiling a list of AA meetings in my areas to gently send my way with the subject line “something to think about.” Well, that’s rude because passive aggressive (mostly aggressive) emails are clearly MY thing and also if you’re thinking that way you’re obviously still in college and you don’t understand how I feel. Talk to me when you graduate and you run out of wine and the wine is kind of a metaphor for your life.

…….And now I need a drink.

Four bras is too many bras (and other airport disasters)

My prediction is that I will die in a plane crash because the universe has been trying to turn me off from flying for quite some time now. The first odd airport interaction I had was flying back to London from Florence. After getting a lot of weird looks for carrying around a stuffed animal, I decided to put Pluto in my backpack, which I felt insanely guilty for because he was the only one in that airport not giving me looks and whispering nasty things about Americans as I walked past. I guess I may have been talking to him through my bag which may have inspired some of the nasty looks but either way an Italian security guard pulled my aside and insisted he check my bag. When he opened it, there was Pluto squished in smiling up at him. I think they thought I was trying to smuggle a baby back to London and they had to put an end to it. As a nineteen year old, that may have been less embarrassing.
Every time I travel I’m subjected to “random bag checks” which I suspect is because I am blonde haired and blue eyed so they can say “see? we’re not racially profiling this is the most average, least threatening looking girl alive and we are checking her.”
Then there was the time I was going on spring break to New Orleans. The night before we left was Parade Day at school (a 24-hour binge drinking episode in which you set your alarm for 8am so you can begin drinking my 8:30). I think I drunk packed for spring break and was really determined to work out on this trip which is why i packed one single 10-lb hand weight. Not the pair. Just one. Drink Me probably thought two would be too agressive but just one made me seem really fit and cool (???). Anyway, I forgot it was there and though Hungover Me was wondering the next day why my purse was so fucking heavy, I didn’t even think to check what Drunk Me had packed the night before.
When I got to security, of course I was pulled out of line for a “random bag check.” I was quite used to this by now. “Is there anything is your bag that could be used as a weapon, ma’am?” I wracked my brain because to be honest if Drunk Me had decided it was appropriate to pack a knife for cooking or scissors for crafts on the plane I wouldnt have been shocked. “I don’t think so” was my answer. The TSA agent reached into my bag, pulled out the weight, and confiscated it. WTF am I gonna do with just one? Was my first thought, even thought Drunk Me had obviously been convinced that just one was enough.
Once my plane from Charleston to Newark was delayed because a fucking tornado had touched down in Jersey. I sat in the airport longer than it would have taken me to drive home. I got so ridiculously drunk alone at the bar that when my flight was boarding 9 hours later, I almost missed it.
Then there was the time I had to sleep in JFK airport with my sister and I missed going to Paris for a second time. I still can’t talk about it because I’m scarred for life. My sister insisted someone be fired from American Airlines and I’m ashamed of the things I told God I would do if I didn’t get to Paris. Whatever.
But the worst of it was the time I got strip searched in Heathrow. In a sick cosmic joke, I spent most of my semester abroad exhibiting all the symptoms of depression. I decided I had to cancel my trip to Paris (the first time I missed out on that city) and fly home the next day or else I would seriously hurt myself. With only a few hours to pack, I did the best I could and decided whatever was left over, I would wear through security. Good girl, I thought to myself, you can still think rationally, you’re not doing that bad. I literally thought this was brilliant. The next day as I was leaving for the airport, I was wearing one pair of leggings with a pair of jeans over them, a tank top, a short sleeved short, a long sleeved shirt, a sweatshirt and a jacket. Oh, and four bras. It was April.
When my friends saw me, they knew something was up right away. “Uhm. Your boobs look amazing.”
“Thanks, I’m wearing four bras,” I said smugly, still believing this idea was gold.
I explained that I was just going to wear all my extra clothes through security and then throw it all in my carry on after it had been weighed. They insisted the underwire in my bras would set of the alarm. As it turns out, they were right.
To make a long story short, I cried so much in Heathrow that they didn’t even charge me for my extra checked bag. When I cam to security, sure enough, my bras set off the alarm.
“Oh, I think thats my underwire.” I pretended to be embarrassed but this was the least of my worries at the moment. So then they wanded me, which is more precise so it won’t go off for everyday articles of clothing (like only ONE underwire bra). But my FOUR set it off. Next thing I know I’m being pulled into a side room by two female TSA agents and being asked to remove my shirt. “Okay, but I’m wearing four or five shirts.” Cue the odd glances. “Oh, and also I’m wearing four or five bras.” Now they were ready to lock me up for my own safety.
“Honey, why?”
I started crying hysterically and explaining that I packed in a hurry and they were sympathetic but they still had to feel me up. So there I was in my four bras with a British TSA agent feeling under every single one of my four bras to make sure I wasn’t hiding a knife or drugs. As I was leaving the room one of the agents said to me, “well, now you know.” As if every girl has that one experience that teaches them not to wear four bras at an airport.
What I took away from all this was that Paris is not “always a good idea” and that quote is dumb as fuck. Nothing is always a good idea. I also learned not to rush packing and to never ever wear more than two bras at once.

Proof that I hang out with a stuffed animal when I travel