A List of Things that Have Happened This Week, & It's Only Tuesday

1. I played cards with my fiance's parents. I view this as a win because, even though I hate cards and anything that makes me feel competitive outside work, I did this for his parents.
2. Then I told his parents that I didn't like playing cards, as a way to not-so-gently gently-hint that I will not play cards as a family again. I'm not sure if I was rude or not, so I don't know how to view this.
3. I found The Angry Heart and made a plan to resume reading it. I viewed this as a win since I no longer go to a therapist (she's always late), so I should get help by reading the book.
4. I put the book back on my childhood bedroom floor and picked up a Doctor Who novel. I viewed this as a loss because I was already in the middle of at least 15 books (honestly.)
5. I put the Doctor Who novel down after about 6 pages. I viewed this as a win, because I should finish a book before starting a new one. At the same time, I viewed this as a loss, because the book couldn't have been more than 200 pages and, in my mind, I should be able to read that many pages in just a view hours and check it off as read on Goodreads to show up all my Goodreads friends who read less books than me this year.
6. I resumed Bridget Jones's Diary. I viewed this as a win, if I could finish it.
7. I woke up Monday for work, ready to be optimistic about my career. I viewed this as a huge win. Very different from usual when I wake up wanting to cry (honestly.)
8. When I entered the office at 6:35am, I realized how much I forgot needed to get done over the weekend and had about three different min-panic attacks before 8:30am. I viewed this as a loss.
9. I reviewed a client's file because his website just went from the design phase to the development phase and realized that I forgot he was paying for SEO work. This entire time. And I hadn't been managing any SEO work, so I knew it wasn't going on. I viewed this a death sentence for any possible promotion.
10. I panicked, tried to find my boss to pathetically apologize, and realized he had just started a meeting. I viewed this as a loss because I wanted to get my scolding over with.
11. I waited an hour and a half, pretending to his wife that I wasn't fearing for my job while working with her on a focus study, and then, finally came to terms with the fact that I screwed up a few months ago by dropping the ball and that all I could do was start his SEO work now. I viewed this as growth.
12. When my boss got out of his meeting, I asked if we could talk, sat down nervously, showed him the file, and asked when he had intended SEO work to start. He said after the site was launched. I viewed this as a miraculous surprise.
13. Practically screamed inside my head because there was a chance I didn't do anything wrong (but did I accidentally have our bookkeeper charge the client prematurely? Should I check?) I viewed this as a possible win.
14. Decided not to check with the bookkeeper yet. There is always Wednesday. I viewed this as a win because the main problem I had feared had been determined (by my boss) nonexistent.
15. Came home, wrote some web pages for extra pay, and listened to my mom get upset about work. I viewed this as usual.
16. Let my mom's anger about work make me angry about my work and life and living arrangement and began throwing soft things in my room, to not make a sound. I viewed this as a loss and a serious problem, because I always let her mood become my mood (when angry.)
17. Hid in my room at 7pm instead of watching regular Monday family show with my parents out of fear of my mother's anger about her job (which wouldn't be directed at me, but I didn't want to deal with it.) I viewed this as a loss, because what if my parents where upset I didn't watch Kevin Can Wait with them?
18. Came out of hiding for 7:30pm family show and realized everything was magically okay again. I viewed this as an obvious win.
19. Went back to my room at 8pm and realized that I had accomplished absolutely nothing with my day (besides finishing optimizing one page of content and writing another page.) I viewed this as another great loss of valuable time where I could've been doing something with my pathetic life.
20. Went to bed hideously upset with self. Loss.
21. Woke up at least 5 times over the night in a panic that I hadn't been reading my daily automated project reports enough and probably missed a new task assigned by my boss and was going to get yelled at. BIG loss.
22. Still couldn't sleep at 2:30am, so I checked my daily project report from the day before and realized that I missed nothing. Win!
23. Went to the bathroom then lied in bed for at least another hour. Loss of valuable sleep time.
24. Woke up, repeat. Had the exact same day as before, only with different client issues arising and I actually had time to take my hour lunch break and read more of Bridget Jones's Diary. I viewed this day as neither a loss or a win, overall.
25. Felt guilty about taking my lunch instead of working. I viewed this as a loss of valuable time I could have been making myself indispensable to the company and ensuring a promotion.
26. Decided to reward self by letting me watch TV and read Bridget Jones's Diary instead of "doing something productive." I viewed this as a win I deserved for a day of hard work. Surely I would work even harder tomorrow.
27. Heard from my fiance that he missed a call from the voluntourism company that I had talked to about going to China for a week to volunteer at a Panda Breeding Center. I viewed this as a loss of a great opportunity to make myself, my life, and my possible career life more like something I actually wanted.
28. Made my fiance call them and tell them that he wanted to help out (which he doesn't) and ask more about the program he was interested in (which he wasn't.) I viewed this as a loss because I was not considering him.
29. Felt a little guilty about trying to make my fiance go to China to help feed pandas with me, where there probably would be no other volunteers and workers who spoke almost no English, but not really because it's important to help others, especially pandas. I viewed this as something I hoped would work itself out.
30. Was reading Bridget Jones's Diary and suddenly felt immensely worthless for not reading this sooner. Every other book-loving woman in the world has read this, right? What's wrong with me then? Then I felt immensely worthless for not finishing a book last month. Then for reading so slowly. Then for not reading enough. Then for not working on The Basil O' Flaherty, my online literary journal. I felt incredibly, horribly bad about being worthless and a waste of space for about 30 minutes for about 10 different reasons (and this worthlessness-guilt-I am a waste of space-should die-am abandoning my journal and readers and contributors-feeling is my constant state.) I viewed this as a loss of my life and reputation and future since I obviously don't know how to be productive.
31. Started talking in my head like Helen Fielding in Bridget Jones's Diary. I viewed this as a humorous win.
32. Realized I actually had nothing in common with Bridget Jones because I am 23 and already engaged and not living in perfect, perfect London or working in book publishing. I viewed this as a loss for three reasons.
33. Became tired and wrote this blog post. I viewed this as a win, actually (only if someone reads and comments.)
34. Decided to buy the $61 Build-A-Bear Charmander stuffed toy my fiance had been pressuring me to treat myself to all afternoon.

Reasons I Can Never Be Jane Goodall

This is going to be an ongoing list to remind myself of all the reasons why, despite really wanting to, I can't do what Jane Goodall does.

I have always wanted to study animals, even before I enjoyed research and nonfiction. When I was in middle school, I was immediately struck by the idea what I, with no experience or training, should write the great book on manatees. I'm sure my reasoning for being interested in manatees had something to do with their connection to mermaids. I didn't even like, or tolerate, nonfiction at the time, but I wanted to research manatees and collect all that research in one book, but I never did.

In the end, I became a business major.

Here is my list of reasons why I can't be similar to Jane Goodall (yes, I know she studied chimpanzees not manatees, but after manatees I became very interested in Jane Goodall after becoming very interested in Tarzan):

1. Reading does not make you an expert or give you the skills you need (for the most part.)
2. I hate bugs. I scream when I see a tiny ant on my bed.
3. I become too attached to the smallest bugs. When I kill one and flush it down the toilet, I am immediately coated in grief, regret, and fear for the fate of my soul. It usually ends with me whispering a prayer for the bug's soul and it's family (and I'm not religious.)
4. I become very irritable in heat.
5. I become very irritable walking long distances.
6. I become very irritable without proper feminine products or toilet paper or hand soap.
7. Sometimes, I'm afraid of dogs. On leashes. And also my own pet dogs that I've had since childhood. How would I handle a chimp or whale?

Being Borderline: Recovery Exercise 1

A few months ago I started seeing a therapist who said I have Borderline Personality Disorder, which, frankly, I have been thinking since middle school.

To recover, she recommended I buy The Angry Heart and follow the exercises in it. I bought it, read part of the first chapter, and then lost it in my hoarder-esque bedroom.

Then I found it, and lost it again. I think my therapist, I will call her Camilla, is disappointed in me. I would be too, but hoarding can be a part of Borderline Personality Disorder, right?

Anyway, she gave me a copy of the first chapter so I could finish it, do the Recovery Exercises, and maybe even start a Recovery Journal.

Dealing with all of this is why I haven't been writing blog posts lately, but I think I would like to transition the blog from just a place to post silly things about my life to my Recovery Journal as well. So, to help myself and maybe even help someone else, and because I don't like keeping too many secrets locked in myself, but at the same time I don't like telling people I actually know, I am going to use some blog posts for my Recovery Exercises and Journal entries.

From The Angry Heart, here is Recovery Exercise 1.1:  Beginnings

Objective
To focus on other times in your life when you started something new, and what it means to start a self-help program.

I am supposed to talk about some of the significant beginnings in my past, and what I hope to achieve by reading this book.

1. I hope to find the damn book again, but reading it made me angry, because apparently I have a naturally Angry Heart.

2. I don't think I have ever cared about a beginning, ever. High school, community college, four-year college, job:  all of this was just what I was supposed to do, and they were a natural progression of life. I think if I had liked my location better, I would have cared. But I never did. I think if I had done something other than this natural progression, I would have cared, but I didn't.

My parents wouldn't let me move out when I started ICC, so I didn't care because I wasn't allowed to be my own person. I was still getting yelled out for staying out too late, which I almost never did, except once during community college for my best friend's birthday, or slamming the door too loudly.

The only good thing about college, besides classes, which I always liked, would have been moving out, living on my own, getting a boyfriend and keeping him away from my family, and having sex. I wasn't allowed any of these things, except I did get a boyfriend. I wasn't very fair to him, though, because I was still mad at my parents for letting my sister take away my first boyfriend. I can explain more about how my sister took away my boyfriend later.

The only important beginnings I can think of was when I got out of the hospital the first time, when I was four, and began physical therapy. But I don't remember it. I had to learn how to walk all-over again. It was the beginning of a lifetime of me learning something, then forgetting it, and stumbling around the floor like a baby. (This is figurative, I know how to walk now. I just forget other things I should remember, like riding a bike.)

Recently I started yoga. If that helps me, I suppose it will be an important beginning. Even though it's free, I think I care more about doing yoga poses than therapy.

But I didn't have time to do yoga yesterday. My sister kicked me out of the basement.

3. I just wanted to be less angry. That and I was worried I would kill myself.

Recover Exercise 1.2:  My Genes and Me

Objective
To help understand the role of genetic inheritance in who you are.

Background
In this book, the piecing together of one's genetic code is described as a "microcosmic dance."

I imagine the dance would look like a seizure, because my uncle used to fake seizures. Don't ask me how that's possible, but we know it is.

It would look like a seizure because I had seizures and that's why I can't drive away.

It would look like someone sleeping on the floor or slumping on the wall, because no one in my immediate family is very active. My mother comes home and lies on the couch, watching TV. I do the same. My sister locks herself in her room, but is active when she's not home. My brother goes on the computer. My dad is constantly disappointed that no one ever wants to do anything.

It would look like someone going to one side of the room, stopping, staring at something curiously, and then going to the other side of the room and doing the same thing. No one really knows what our genetics are made of. Here's a short list:

• German
• Irish
• Swedish
• Scottish
• Polish
• English
• French (maybe)
• Native American (supposedly)

When I was at community college, my mother told me that my cousin Alex had her father's (Mom's brother's) Native American nose. I told her, Mom, that's not a thing, we aren't Native American. She said, Yes, we are. And I was flabbergasted. Native American! That explains why learning about Native Americans was one of the only things that ever fascinated me about history! It was Native Americans, Salem Witch Trials, and the Holocaust that I cared about.

Before I knew this, when I was in high school, I wanted the freedom to not celebrate Thanksgiving. I didn't refuse to go to my great aunt's house (I actually think this ended up being the last Thanksgiving before her Alzheimer's took over), but I didn't want to eat. I thought continuing to celebrate Thanksgiving was cruel.

When I was really little, I had a large tunic I thought made me look Native American. I would braid my hair, put on the tunic, and celebrate Thanksgiving the way I thought it was meant to be celebrated. Then I realized, when I got older, that was racist. Oops.

I was not allowed to not celebrate Thanksgiving. My mom wouldn't even listen to my reasons. She just told me to stop. My parents didn't care how I felt because they, apparently, never cared about anything as teenagers.

The dance would look like someone being slammed against a wall and staying there.

It would look like someone having a ball, and then stopping, mid-dance. They forgot their dance, they forgot their life.

Recovery Exercise 1.3:  Defending Your Life

Objective
To understand the role of denial and other defenses in daily living.

The book says: Painful feelings and memories may be replaced by fantasies.

That is definitely true. I don't even live in the real world. My head makes up scenes of everything that is going to happen to me, everything that has happened, and everything that won't happen. I see it acted out in my head like a script, and if one of these fantasies particularly interests me, I will replay the same one, maybe expand on it, for hours. Weeks. Months.

I also actively dared myself to become an alcoholic. My uncle was, so I thought it was in the family, right? I'm not supposed to drink—I could have a seizure. Well, I don't care. When I was 23, I finally tried some margaritas and other mixed drinks and ... I hated them. 

Who would combine fruit with alcohol? It tastes like the cold medicine I drank so, so, SO regularly as a child.

So I tried beer. I like it better, but still, it doesn't taste like much. I could never be an alcoholic.

Another thing I could never become. (This is bittersweet.)

Recovery Exercise 1.4:  Needs

Objective
To understand something about what you needed in the past and how your needs have changed over time.

• I needed someone to give a damn about my opinions, but I got over that. There were people who cared, but my sister, with the help of my parents, took those people away from me and said I couldn't see them ever again.

 How are you trying to satisfy your unmet needs today? How has this changed over the last few months? How do you think it will change over the next few years?

• I don't know. That's why I see a therapist. Isn't Camilla supposed to tell me this?

• Right now I just need to focus on my need to write a book or publish my work. It's almost impossible to get noticed today if you don't write action or suspense, it seems.
• Maybe I'll write something like Girl, Interrupted. I'll call it On the Border, or Growing Up Mad.
•  I don't think I'm good at this exercise. I think I need to move on.

Recovery Exercise 1.5:  Changes

Objective
To get in touch with how you have tried to change in the past.

Two steps forward and one step back, that's corny, but here I am!

Write down as many positive steps as you can that you have taken to change your life.

1. Yoga (This is new, and inconsistent, but I'm most proud of it. Even though my sister mocks it. Not real exercise, let me know when you want to do real exercise.)
2. Writing more
3. Helping others publish their writing
4. Reading more

Things I can do in the future:

1. Eat better
2. Spend less money (I spend so much, my addictive behavior)
3. Take more vacations (Counterproductive to spending less money, but a good use of money)
4. Dress better again
5. Watch more Saturday Night Live when the new season starts (Yay—but it doesn't help with my habit of escaping into fantasy life)

Recovery Exercise 1.6:  Breathing to Relax

I'm going to be honest, I think breathing exercises are stupid. I believe in yoga, I read Chopra, but I hate being told by others to do breathing exercises. I hate the one-on-one. If I read it in a book only, maybe I will do it. Maybe I will feel a sense of achievement when doing it, but when someone like a therapist, doctor, or my mother tells me to breathe, I don't want to breathe.

The book tells me to use their Nose Breath if I feel stressed about writing this. I don't feel stressed, I am a writer. I'm just stressed my mother will read this and cry. Even if she treated me differently than my sister and brother, and still does, it doesn't mean I'm angry at her about it. My parents clearly aren't abusive people, they just had trouble raising three kids when the youngest has Asperger's and the middle (me) always had one health crisis or another.

 

Short Post on My Mom Picking Up My Birth Control

I live in a city that doesn't have the mass transportation New York has, which is problematic when you have no peripheral vision, anxiety issues, and you're just not tall enough to see over the dashboard.

So, my mom has to pick some stuff up for me, like birth control. No big deal, or so I thought until my mom told me that she felt weird picking it up the other day.

Me:  Why?

Mom: Well, the guy was younger, like 21, and he asked me if I knew that insurance didn't cover your prescription.

Me: Yeah?

Mom:  And I told him that I know. I was about to leave, but then I added that my daughter doesn't do anything that isn't expensive. Then I went home and thought about what I said. . . .

Me:  Thanks, Mom.

For making me sound a little like a whore.

My Thoughts On "Free the Nipple"

I'm not trying to do everything that a guy can do. Physically, can I stand at a urinal while peeing? Yes, technically I, and all women, can. We can lift our legs up like a dog and make it work. Do I actually want to do this? No. Honestly, I'm far too lazy and like sitting. Sometimes I even cross my legs on the toilet. My prerogative.

But I don't like my body being treated like it's dirtier than a guy's. Why should my body hide? Why can't men just control themselves if they see a topless girl? I have no problem controlling myself when I see a hot, bare-chested man jogging.

"Free the Nipple" is still more complicated than just freeing the nipple to me. Why is it my job to keep men at bay? 

I'm not just referring to covering up so men aren't tempted, but I'm talking about it all:

• Purity balls
• Holding out till the third date, or third month
• Holding out till he "respects" me (this is a little vague, and implies that men should not respect women who actually can't wait to sleep with them)
• Not sleeping with too many guys so it's special for the one I'm with now
• The term "virginity" in general (it leaves women with a sense of loss once they "lose it," and, traditionally defined, it does not apply to same-sex couples)

Some conservatives believe that not only should woman live under different sexual standards, but that it's our job to "civilize" men. That by holding out, we are keeping men from just having sex all day.

I don't really want to sleep around with hundreds of men, but I also don't want women to be the keepers of men. 

Also, most men can't just sleep with women all day! First they have to find someone who is also sexually attracted to them, find a location, and fit it into their busy schedules of work, friends, and whatever hobbies they have (not applicable if hooking up is their hobby.)

And I'm surprised that conservatives are the ones who think we should be. Conservatives tend to have Christian values, which they get from the Bible. In the very beginning of said Bible, Eve leads Adam to temptation after she takes the first bite from the Tree of Knowledge.

Conservatives, clearly, by your own standards, women have not done a very hot job of being men's keepers from the get-go.

Tales From a Sugar Mama

It's a little ridiculous that I consider myself financially secure. I touched on this earlier when I mentioned to you (my readers) that I have a $1,800 mono-printing piece of art I call Natalie hanging in my childhood bedroom. In my parent's house. Where I still live.

If I can afford a $1,800 piece of art, you may be wondering why I still live with my parents? Good question, audience! Well, the answer is simple:  when I was nine, I had encephalitis, had two seizures, and lost my peripheral vision. No driving for me.

Of course, my doctors didn't bother to find this out when I was nine. For years, my eye doctors (I went to two different providers regularly in my mom's failed attempt to find out what was wrong with my eyes) marveled at the oddly pale backs of my eyes, then did nothing. No tests. No guesses. Just a lot of Hm, that's weird, but she can still see, right? Then I guess she is okay! If her eyesight starts going, then we will look into it.  It wasn't until Obamacare forced my eye care center to give their patients routine tests that it was discovered. The test ran all while the eye technician (or whatever she is called in eye-doctor language) complained loudly to me about Obamacare and the unnecessary testing and costs and time and paperwork (my god, the mountains of paperwork!) it was causing her.

Then the eye results came back and she shut-up about Obamacare.

So, I don't drive, so I continue to live at home where I have to rely on others for awhile. This allows me to save up a lot of money, which I spend ... erratically, to say the least. A really cute $12 tank top at Target? Hm, I don't know if I need this. . . . A trip for two to Disney World? Fuck yeah! Fast food three times a week? Hm, do I need food? Really? But I'm so little.

Even though I put a lot of thought into what I spend money on (sometimes), somehow I became my boyfriend's Sugar Mama. Trip to Milwaukee for Summerfest, trip to Disney World for a week, action figures, food, movie tickets, etc. . . . Even though Boyfriend would love to pay for stuff, he knows he can't, and I think he is finally comfortable with how much I spend on us.

Too comfortable.

—Boyfriend and I listening to Meghan Trainor's new song. The lines I never pay for my drinks. My entourage behind me. come through his car's radio—

Boyfriend: I never pay for my drinks either. —holds up a bottle of soda I just bought him to keep him hydrated on the way back from Summerfest, where I paid for our hotel stay—

I spoil him, and I don't know why.

Maybe because of his resemblance to Shaggy from Scooby Doo, representing simpler times where I would also blow my allowance on many things.

Thoughts From A Girl With OCD

I have had OCD (obsessive violent and/or sexual thoughts) my whole life. Probably even before I hit puberty. Like most OCD-sufferers, I just thought I was evil reincarnated.

Now that I know what it is, finally at the age of 23, I accept that I'm not evil reincarnated (how narcissistic of little kid me to think that I was the most evil, villainous thing there was!)

However, that does not mean the struggle has completely gone away. . . .

Common OCD Thoughts When Meeting A New Male Client:

Boss: Jordyn, I would like you to meet Mr. Client. Mr. Client needs a new website.

—Mr. Client holds out his hand in greeting—

Mr. Client: Pleased to meet you!

Me: Pleased to meet you too.

—Sudden image of my kneeling down and sucking his dick enters my mind while we shake hands—

Boss: —unaware— Please sit so we can get started.

Mr. Client: Great, well, as you know, I am a family man, and I really want my clients to get a sense of that on my website.

Me: Okay. —takes notes—

My thoughts: Images spread of me pulling down my pants, sitting on his lap, and riding him.

I look to Boss, convinced he can read my mind. Finally, he looks back and smiles.

Oh no, he CAN read my mind!

I look at Mr. Client, who is talking to Boss, and giving me a smile in the corner of his mouth.

Oh no, he can read my mind too! I better stop thinking!

Mr. Client: Website, blah blah blah, family, blah blah blah, products and such.

My thoughts: Trying to force the image of his old, wrinkly dick in my mouth out of my head. Image only grows stronger. Image Me seems to be enjoying it, and Image Client is not.

Boss: I think we got a lot of good information today. Jordyn, what do you think?

Me: —looks down at jumbled, nonsense notes— Yes, I agree!

I reach over to shake Mr. Client's hand, the picture of his cock finally out of my mind. I am thinking clearly again.

Me: It was great meeting you. I will send you the first design once it is finished.

Mr. Client: Great! It was nice to meet you too.

Mr. Client gives me a friendly smile again and I think—He DID read my mind!

The End.

Short Post On How My Life is Going

I know it has been a while since I have posted anything, so here are some insights on how my life has been going:

·      I ran into an old high school teacher outside my therapist's office the other day. He knew why I was there, I knew why I was there, and then we just parted ways.

·      I saw my boyfriend's unfriendly cat scarf down a mouse found in his room after my boyfriend and I had been fooling around in said room.

·      The cat actually let me pet her.

·      The cat hissed at me once my boyfriend left the room.

·      The cat dropped the mouse and, still alive, it now lives behind my boyfriend's TV.

My life is a cat trying to eat a mouse, letting it go accidentally, and then spending the rest of the day trying to get it back in its clutches.

It is also a lot of therapy.

Tales From The Laziest Person

— The setting for this act starts at nighttime, stars in the sky, when the young woman is alone in her room. Ceiling over the young woman's head, covering her from the cold night. It begins with her huddled in bed. She yawns, because she is lazy. Suddenly, the young woman realizes that she can't take this any more. It's just not for her - but what should she do? —

Act I

Scene I

Young Woman: I don't like working a regular job. I think I will apply to a fancy grad school to study English!

— The young woman pulls out her laptop and researches universities. —

Young Woman: Ugh, they all require a second language! — Thinks — What language can I learn quickly?

— The young woman types in What Is the Easiest Language to Learn? and searches Google. —

Young Woman: — Reading — Many scholars consider Dutch to be the easiest language for English speakers to learn. Many of our words come from the Dutch, and our sentence structures are similar. Hm. I will learn that one!

— The young woman closes her laptop in triumph. She considers beginning this great study now, but then realizes that she is tired and goes to bed. Dutch can wait until next week. —

Scene II

— A week later, the girl is at Barnes & Noble. She finds one book on Dutch, for beginners. —

Young Woman: Ugh! Does this mean I can't learn everything about the language from this one book?

— She looks at the price. —

Young Woman: Ugh, $40! I'm cheap and lazy, so no thank you!

— The young woman leaves without the textbook, but with another smut novel. —

Scene III

Young Woman: I have realized my mistake in the last few days, so I have returned to buy this book and begin my journey in this new language!

— Buys book. —

— Begins to read book. —

Young Woman: Hm, a lot of the words are similar! In is still in! The formal you is just the letter u! I text that to people everyday! I am formal in Dutch everyday! But still. . . .

— Gets an idea. —

Young Woman: I bet I can learn easier, and faster, if I learn Dutch words and then write poems around those words!

— The young woman reads the book for words to fit into a poem. —

Young Woman: I have found most of the words I want for a poem, but this is hard. I'm too new.

— Gets an idea. —

Young Woman: I will write the poem in English first!

— The young woman writes a poem and then tries to find all the phrases in the Dutch book. —

Young Woman: Hm, these words and phrases are sooo scattered across this book. This is hard.

— Gets an idea. —

Young Woman: Ah ha! I will use Google to find the phrases!

— The young woman types her poem into Google to translate. She finishes writing the English poem in Dutch. —

Young Woman: Ah ha, I'm a translator now! And I just started learning Dutch! I bet if I keep going, I will get so far ahead—

— The young woman realizes that she is bored and closes the book. She starts something new. —

A Poem: "My Sister Is Coming To Visit"

My sister is coming to visit
so I hire a therapist. My sister
is coming to stay, and I turn
to the bottle, my hands grip,
hold fast, keep steady
past the wave. My therapist
scolds, my mother
seems torn, and my sister
is coming to stay. My money
is drifting to liquor and sessions,
my sanity is drifting
away.

My sister is coming to visit. My blood
is turning to wine.

Dialogue About Consideration For Others

- One week before my boyfriend's birthday. Me and Mom in her car. -

Mom: What are you and [Boyfriend] doing for his birthday?

Me: I'm going to buy him all of his favorite food.

Mom: Aw, that's sweet.

Me: That way, his face will be stuffed so he can't say anything stupid, and it will be less likely that I will yell at him on his birthday.

Mom: I'm surprised you allow him to talk at all.

Me: I know, but I'm trying to train him.

Mom: How so?

Me: For one, I told him he can't ever be gross like Dad.

Mom: How are you going to enforce that?

Me: Whenever Dad says something gross, I look at [Boyfriend] and say NO.

Mom: Hm, that's smart, but it won't last.

Me: It will. He can't say anything gross, until we have children, when they are little and think fart jokes are funny.

Mom: Until!

Me: What?

Mom: Until! You said until!

Me: What?

Mom: I knew it! Dad told me you were only lying about not wanting kids to mess with me!

Me: I meant if I accidentally get pregnant and decide to keep it.

Mom: Until!

Me: If I accidentally get pregnant and decide to keep it.

Mom: You think that annoys me, but it doesn't! I'm pro-choice.

Me: - Then why aren't you pro-my choice? -

Why I Can't Ever Live Alone

Most graduates can't wait to live alone. I just realized that I never can.

Reasons Why I Am Too Immature to Live Alone

1. Tornado Warnings Don't Scare Me

I live in Peoria, and so far (until recently) a tornado had never come close to my house. We get warnings all the time in spring, but after years of my parents pulling me downstairs to take shelter in my footy pajamas, I realized that none of the tornadoes ever hit us. Just because they hadn't hit us yet. Because I am smart.

So, a few weeks ago when a tornado came very close, I tried switching the channels to get away from the pesky weatherman pulling an all-nighter to save my neighborhood. When my father demanded I finally come downstairs, I grabbed my laptop. And the novel I was reading. And some water. And toilet paper, for after I drank the water. And then I finally decided I had enough necessities to be safe and sound.

My brother had immediately ran downstairs and was shaking. His hand looked like it was going to fly off his arm any moment.

"Stop it," I had said while I tried to find a station that worked, but my parents yanked the remote away to watch the dedicated weatherman.

2. I Would Never Be Able to Shower

After the tornado, unfazed even though this one almost came to our street, I was the only one that stayed up past midnight. Then I realized that I didn't want to shower in the morning.

I made the adult, reasonable decision to shower now so I wouldn't have to shower in the morning. So I got a towel my mom will wash, pajamas my mother had washed, and my retainer for after the shower.

I took off my clothes, turned on the hot water, and closed the shower behind me. And realized that this was how every horror movie trailer starts.

NOTE, I said trailer. Because I'm too scared to watch the entire horror film. And instead just watch the trailers. While covering my ears. And shutting my eyes. And praying (yet not religious) until the trailer is over so I could finish my Parks and Rec.

Again, I made another reasonable decision to not close the shower behind me, and instead soak the floor so I could observe if any spirit or murderer crept in. Because seeing the intrusion could totally help my naked 90-pound body stop a spirit or murderer from killing me.

Not only am I not smart enough to realize that I could never, ever stop my own death, but I would drown my bathroom. And I can't swim.

Think about it.

3. Too Awkward to Exist

I work at a marketing company where I sometimes walk through websites with my clients. One client has a YouTube video on their home page, and they were wondering about the random video suggestions at the end of the video.

And I forgot that I was logged into my work email, so the YouTube channel I was connected to would be the one automatically created for my work email. And I forgot about all the VH1 100 Best Songs of the 90s videos I had been watching.

So the clients and I were skipping through the video on their home page and we came across four suggestions. Two of them were related to their business. One was some video game YouTube video because my boyfriend uses my laptop to watch his nerd things.

And the last one, in the upper right corner, was "I Touch Myself" by the Divinyls.

The two choices were clear: Confess that these were my personal recommendations, or think that a video with a thumbnail of a girl lying on a bed was a random suggestion that would come up for all their users. Even for children and the elderly.

And I spent the next few minutes telling them that "I Touch Myself" was actually a song, and that I just listened to a lot of 90s songs. I'm still not sure they believed me, but the website is launched so I don't have to see them again, so whatever.

When they left, I immediately deleted all of my recommendations on my work email YouTube channel. Especially the Britney Spears ones. I think if that suggestion had been a Britney Spears video, I would have been more embarrassed.

Because I am so un-adult that I think a well-known pop song would be more embarrassing then a possible porn video.

Short Blog on How Territorial I Am

When Roommate 1 (mentioned in previous blogs) had two kittens in our apartment, they spent the first two weeks peeing on everything. Her bed, her floor, our kitchen floor, the stuffed animals I had on the couch, the couch itself, Roommate 1 while she slept on the couch as the kittens peed on the couch, and our shoes. Somehow, they always had enough pee to also leave large, damp spots in their litter boxes, and I wondered at how big their bladders could be, in such tiny bodies.

I can proudly say that now I get it.

Possibility #1) The kittens were mad at Roommate 1 for naming them after lovers from her favorite movie, Stardust. Even though they were found as strays, clearly the cats were brother and sister. If my mom had done that to me and my little brother, I would have peed on more than just my bed a couple times and the floor in my kindergarten classroom. I would have peed on her. And my brother. Because my brother was a brat. I was a brat too, but I was an older brat, so it was okay.

Possibility #2) This was a territorial thing (which is the correct answer because this is what the vet told us, and kittens don't watch Stardust.) The cats were new, but being cats, they wanted to own the apartment we humans paid rent for, so they peed on it. They peed all over it, and I saw regular yellow streams of our deposit seeping into the carpeting.

I now know this was a territorial thing because I had a similar experience myself. Last weekend, my boyfriend's roommate was finally (finally!!) away for the week with his girlfriend, and my boyfriend and I got some much needed alone time. Eventually, I had to use the bathroom, and when I was peeing I noticed the roommate's bathroom things were still there.

Probably because he has the same supplies at his girlfriend's place, I reasoned as I washed my hands, not giving it another thought. That is, until I dried off my hands and realized I suddenly needed to go to the bathroom again.

How could that be!? I thought, but then I glanced at the roommate's toothbrush and cologne bottle again. And I thought about how much fun it would be to pee on both of those right then.

Now, I'm not going to tell you whether or not I peed on my boyfriend's roommate's things—that is not what this blog post is about. This post was just meant to show you how territorial cats, and humans, can be.

The rest I will leave to your imagination.

5 Tips for Your Overnight Bag

On TV and in books I noticed that sometimes, women just fall asleep at mens' apartments/houses without any essentials! I was watching Trainwreck the other day with my boyfriend, and I couldn't believe that Amy didn't have some sort of overnight bag! Does this actually happen? How lazy are we, ladies, that we have forgotten the overnight bag?

Now, some girls might not want to carry overnight bags because they are bulky and too-obvious when walking home the next morning, which is why I decided to write down some must-haves for when spending the night at a guy's (or girl's) place!

1. Toilet Paper

If you are a lesbian, this might not be applicable, but guys never have enough toilet paper. And if your guy has a roommate, there's an even greater chance that the toilet paper is actually being used as paper towels, pillows, or holiday decoration. Or maybe they are competing to see who can go the longest without caving and buying toilet paper. I don't know why guys do these things, but you should be prepared.

2. Hand Towels

No matter how many times I ask, my boyfriend (of over 3 years) does not keep a hand towel in his bathroom. It's a miracle he has soap, honestly, so ladies, bring your own hand towel. Or do what I do and just wipe your hands on your boyfriend's roommate's things in their shared bathroom. Or wave your hands around the room until everything is covered in dabs of water. That's fun too.

3. A Tiny Trash Can

This is where you can store all your overnight items! And afterwards, when carrying it home with you, everyone will just assume you're a trash man! Or homeless, whatever, but the real reason the trash can is important is if you have any items (tampons, pads, skin care items) that you might need to throw away the next morning. Because some guys may not have a trash can in their bathroom (which I have seen), or, if they do, it is completely full with pizza boxes. You will need to dispose of your necessities yourself.

4. Your Retainer

Don't forget that retainer you have had since middle school, ladies! Do you want your man (or lady) to see that you no longer care for your teeth? No, so along with a toothbrush and toothpaste (again, in case the guy doesn't have any toothpaste), after being intimate with your date, make sure to have your old, crusty retainer, and make sure he sees you put it in your mouth! Not only does this tell him that you will make sure your teeth are straight forever, but it also hints that you are done and it's time to go to sleep!

5. Sleeping Pill

The younger the guy, the worse his bed is. My boyfriend still lives at home, so the options are his lumpy futon or his old bunk beds (which are too small for just one grown adult, and he tries sharing the bottom bunk with me.) You will need to find something other than a comfortable bed to put you to sleep.

Almost Losing It to My Best Friend

*Note: I change names to protect the innocently stupid.            

            Now, it wasn't my original plan to lose my virginity to my best/worst friend. In seventh grade sex ed, I was one of the few, proud students (I think there were 3 of us) who raised their hands when the guest speaker asked that day if any of us planned on waiting 'til marriage.

            Personally, even though at the time I, who hadn't appealed to any guy since grade school anyway, wanted to wait, I didn't like this guest speaker. She spent the first half of the class calling up six students and giving them cups of water. One boy had flaky, orange Cheeto remains in his cup. She then had the students pour water into each other's cups, "proving" that if you shared fluids (had sex) with six people, you would get a STD for sure (Cheeto flakes were the STD.) She then spent the other half of the class telling us how jealous her daughter's roommates are of her virgin, college daughter, who was waiting until marriage to "sleep with" (mom language for bang-bang) her wonderful, virgin boyfriend.

            I sometimes wonder if that actually worked out for our guest speaker's daughter, or if she eventually had sex with six different partners and got a case of Cheeto-flaked herpes.

            Maybe her virgin boyfriend cheated on her, causing the perfect daughter to have sex with a rebound, leather-wearing, Cheeto-eating new boyfriend.

            This was my take-away from sex ed. That, and a day when a random short, slightly pudgy man with a small bald spot on the top of his head came in and expressed his disgust for women who put out. Really, I don't know what this little, 30-something man's qualifications were for talking to impressionable kids with budding hormones about intercourse, but there he was.

            This speaker told us about how he had a girlfriend who actually agreed to have sex with him! Sounds like he was just trying to brag, right? No, instead of being grateful, he slept with her until he married someone else, a good, virginal girl!

            "Never marry the girl you sleep with," was this random, one-day educator's advice, and I wondered why he would say that to a room that was 3/5ths female.

            Don't worry, I was always very liberal and didn't take his nonsense seriously. I only wanted to wait and wear a purity ring because the Jonas Brothers wore purity rings, and Nick Jonas was hot. It was my goal to meet Nick at a concert, fall in love, wait until marriage in our early twenties, and then sit on his face.

            But then, my $6.95 faux-diamond purity ring designed by Bitten by Sarah Jessica Parker turned my finger green a few weeks later, and a few of the stones fell off. I took that as a sign. I'm big on signs. More recently, while I was reading Jen Kirkman's I Can Barely Take Care of Myself, half the flowers my current boyfriend bought for died, only one day in my care. Super sign. (P.S., I'm thinking Super Sign will be the title of my first book, or The Rectum is an Exit, Not an Entrance, and Other Negotiable Things.)

            What does this have to do with my story? Did I see a sign that I should sleep with my best/worst friend, Dallas? No, I was just kinda horny. And my mother was always accusing me of sleeping (see, mom term) with Dallas. The nerve of her! I couldn't have one guy friend, freshman year of college!? She was just an old school, out-of-touch prude! Why couldn't a guy and a girl JUST be friends!? I was so f*ing outraged about this, that I immediately went to Dallas' house and made the f* out with him!

            I also learned that every square inch of your community college is really a kissing-zone. Dallas and I made out in the common TV area, the cafeteria, outside the cafeteria, did upstairs-outsidies in the courtyard, and grinded in the stairwell.

            The stairs were actually built for this. They were ideal! Between floors, there were two sets of stairs separated by a short platform, with very obnoxiously loud doors at the top and bottom of the stairwell. Not only could we stand in the middle platform, leaving enough time to walk up or down the stairs if we heard footsteps either way, but the doors made a loud, Chewbacca-like roar whenever we were about to be interrupted.

            In conclusion, community college stairwell make-out sessions are awesome, and you should all try them sometime (unless you're a Harvard or Yale snob. Bleh.)

            Not in conclusion actually, because I have to tell you about deciding whether or not to lose it to my best friend.

            The Pros:

            1. He had experience. A lot of experience.

            2. If I didn't like the actual act, at least I knew I would like the stuff that led up to it (cause we already did the stuff that led up to it.)

            3. My mom was accusing me of having sex with him anyway (like she accused me of having sex with everyone), so why not? If I'm a slut, I might as well actually get the joy out of being a slut!

            But, then, there were The Cons:

            1. Dallas was an idiot.

            2. Dallas was an idiot who slept through all his classes and couldn't keep a part-time job.

            3. Dallas was my best friend, and what if I lost my best friend?

            4. Dallas was an idiot who had been hit by 11 cars.

            5. 11 CARS. ON HIS BIKE. AND HE KEPT RIDING HIS BIKE. WITHOUT LOOKING BOTH WAYS. I PULLED HIM OUT OF THE WAY OF A CAR ONCE. HE WAS SUPERIOR TO AND STUPIDER THAN A REALLY STUPID CAT.

            And so I didn't lose my virginity to my best friend, the 11-car-miracle-wonder boy. How did this boy never get in the local papers?

            In case you are wondering, I also never met Nick Jonas, fell in love, waited until marriage in our early twenties, and sat on his face. I did go to a Jonas Brothers concert for my fifteenth birthday, though. That is another story.

When I Had 2 Roommates, II

When I had two roommates, I realized that I wasn't good at being a girl. I set my alarm at 6am, and I told myself that I was doing this so all three of us would have time to get ready in the morning privately. First me, I was the early bird. Then Roommate 2, who usually had to go to work. Last but not least-amount-of-time-taken (not by a long shot), Roommate 1, who usually woke up late to purposely skip her first class, every day.

In my head, this made sense-for me to get ready at the crack of dawn (exaggeration) and let the two other girls take over the bathroom, but really, I was avoiding them. I was avoiding fighting over the bathroom, true, but I was also avoiding eating breakfast with them. At 6am, I brushed my teeth, brushed my hair, applied a thick double-layer of chapstick, shaved my unibrow (to make myself feel fancy), and grabbed my cereal from the shared kitchen to take to my own single bedroom. I also tried avoiding the cats, who would hopefully be sleeping on the floor instead of grabbing at the bottom of my pant leg (since I am short and normal pants are not.) One of the two cats was a girl, so I still consider this me avoiding girls.

I liked Tristan, the boy-cat, better. I thought he had more character. My boyfriend liked Tristan's sister best. My boyfriend is a moron. His judgment doesn't matter.

Back to the story: I was avoiding the girls I chose to live with for a whole year. Sometimes, out of curiosity about that elusive female-species, I would watch Roommate 1 finally get ready before the class she chose to attend, after I came back from my first class. She did up her hair, and put on eyeshadow. Then she put on eyeliner. Then she might clip her nails or paint them. She painted her lips and brow as well. She applied something to her cheeks to make them a glowing red (I don't know what this something is, because I am bad at being a girl.) And I would just stare at her, taking 3 hours to get ready for the day, while she talked about yesterday. I wondered how she even had time to enjoy yesterday. When did she even finish applying yesterday's make-up!? Who the fuck has time for this!? I am not famous, I don't have a stylist who can do this for me while I do my homework or anything.

One day, Roommate 1 was driving me in her car. I was in the passenger seat, and my boyfriend was minding his own business in the backseat. Maybe he was sleeping. Maybe he was playing his Nintendo. Maybe he wasn't there and I didn't notice the difference because I am bad at being a girl-friend as well. Whatever, a different story.

Roommate 1 was telling me about her day, while retouching her make-up in the car mirror. She could multi-task (which I learned in college isn't actually a thing. Perhaps she would've learned this too if she attended her classes.)

Roommate 1 was complaining about her mom favoriting her younger sister again (which her mom did often), and about how another guy just stopped texting her out of the blue (which happened a lot. I never understood why this actually happened so much. Not only was Roommate 1 better at being a girl, but she was better at being a girl-friend. She would sew and knit her boyfriends custom gifts. For her last serious boyfriend, she bought a polo and sewed Darth Vader in the corner, and she was in the process of embroidering a shirt with an image of his favorite Dr. Who for his birthday when they broke up. I just don't have the time for that shit.)

Then, she told me, on top of that, her Aunt Flo was in for a visit. Roommate 1 rolled her eyes.

Me: "Oh, do you not like your aunt?"

Roomate 1 shot me a glance. "What?"

Me: "Your aunt."

Another glance. I wished she would watch the road.

Me: "Do you not like your aunt?"

Roommate 1: "My Aunt Flo!?"

Me: "Yeah. Is she a bitch?"

Roommate 1: "My period?"

Me: "Oh. Oh. . . . I thought you had an aunt named Flo. Like the Progressive lady. Like she was your aunt."

Apparently, I am so bad at being a girl, I don't know how to name my periods. Thanks a lot, stupid Progressive commercials, for making the name Flo a thing!

Why I Am Not Disgusted By (and Actually Support!) Miley Cyrus's Nipples

Can I just say that it's weird so many people care about one woman's nipples? Are her nipples made of gold? Do they squirt the fountain of youth? No? Then shut-up with your obsessing, while I write this blog post about my obsessing over Miley Cyrus's nipples.

Dear Miley Cyrus,

You started out as a "good girl" (quotations used to mark the fact that I don't like this term, not that I don't believe you were and are a good person) on Disney channel, making millions spreading joy through your songs, cute outfits, and humor.

What happened to these cute outfits that used to cover your entire body like an Amish young lady? Why is it that people who loved your songs and humor when you were fully dressed can't enjoy it now that you aren't? Was this stripped off you as well?

Or is it the Female Nipple Factor?

The Female Nipple Factor (FNF, a term I think I made up, but I am probably wrong, and someone way smarter than me actually came up with it decades ago) is when a woman's breast is either almost-completely exposed or completely exposed to the general public. String bikinis, breast feeding, bras, clothing malfunctions—all of these can lead to the Female Nipple Factor. The Female Nipple Factor causes conservatives to immediately spread abstinence programs and cover their daughters in sweaters for the summer. The Female Nipple Factor leads to articles, news stories, blog posts (like this one), and random comments from people far away from the exposed nipple taking a stand about it.

Which is funny, because I don't hear many criticisms over Channing Tatum's or Zac Efron's exposed nipples.

Personally, I love that Miley Cyrus is wearing, and not wearing, what she wants, because men do this all the time. Men walk around streets, beaches, and sometimes malls completely topless, especially in the middle of summer.

Which is ridiculous for these reasons below:

1. Our nipples are more valuable than boy nipples.

If Miley and I, and every other woman, choose to have a baby and choose to breastfeed, our nipples serve an actual purpose. We could bring nourishment and life to babies through our nipples. Men, what can you do? Even Bill Nye said that male nipples are just residual when he was on The Nightly Show. Topless boys on the sand, your exposed nipples can never do any good to society. Your nipples will never amount to anything. Sorry. Miley's and my nipples are more important than yours. Our nipples are just flat-out BETTER than yours! Women have super nipples!

So, shouldn't we be able to keep our nipples comfortable in the summer heat, instead of covering them in a layer of bra and a layer of top? You shouldn't force our cherished nipples to get sweaty and overheated! Think about the future babies, feeding off practically-burning skin.

2. The male body is JUST as sexualized as the female body,

so DON'T give me crap about not wanting to distract males with our flesh. Have you not seen Magic Mike? Have you not seen the many, MANY movies were the camera slowly pans down a man's oiled torso to that year's sexiest pop song? Not only is this shown often, but it is accepted. It is so accepted that panning the muscular male torso can be done in PG-13 movies, so children are exposed to the sexualization of the male body, while simultaneously getting the message that the female body is too unclean for the same movie.

The media is not shy to show how male chests are sexy. I should know, I had a giant poster of Jesse McCartney's on the wall closest to my bed around the time I got my first period. To this day, I blame the overexposure to Jesse's pale, hairless body and beautiful voice. (I don't really. I know this is a natural part of my life as a female. I do not blame Jesse McCartney or the pre-teen magazine that created an enormous poster of his naked chest by combining six pages of their magazine.)

3. Nobody knows if breastfeeding in public is acceptable or not,

which is ridiculous! Let women feed their damn babies if they choose to breastfeed! You gonna make a baby starve? Besides, if you are SO terrified of that nipple, the baby's mouth covers it! If I decide to have a kid one day, and if I decide to breastfeed, I'm gonna breastfeed wherever and whenever my baby wants to be fed.

I'm probably not going to breastfeed, though. My nipples are very sensitive, and I blame you, society. If you would just let my nipples be exposed to the treacherous, blistering summer, maybe my nipples would be more prepared for having a human suck them dry. Yeah, if I can't breastfeed my hypothetical future offspring, I'm pinning it on you.

4. Equality

Everyday, young girls have to decide what kind of girl they want to be—clean or unclean—because their bodies are not respected by the media or laws. Being a woman is now the same as being dirty, if you are not a virgin. If you are a virgin, then you are considered momentarily clean, until you lose your virginity and become like all the other dirty, dirty girls.

Girls debate their clean vs. unclean identity before school each day while guys can rest their minds knowing that the only big debate they will have this morning is whether or not they can get away without taking a shower. (This statement is not an opinion that all boys smell. Just all boys of a certain age if they do not properly wash.)

An Atheist and His Pagan Daughter Walk into a Bar,

with a priest, a rabbi, and a duck. They all get drunk on PBR, and then the atheist decides to order a REDD's Apple Ale. He points it to the priest as he drinks.

The atheist says, "Do you remember this apple?"

The priest says, "Go to hell."

The atheist laughs and says, "You keep playing with that 'hell' toy until it breaks and no one believes you."

The priest puts down his bottle and raises his arms to the heavens.

He says, "How can you not believe in Jesus!?"

The rabbi mutters, "Jesus was just a bad Jew."

The priest says, "You take that back!"

The rabbi turns to the priest and yells, "He threw us under the bus!"

The priest yells back, "You threw him on a cross!"

The duck, while slurring, interrupts, "Quack. I much prefer the god Poseidon, quack."

The pagan cheers, "Yeah!" and high-fives/high-wings the duck.

The priest, in disgust, pleads, "Why can't you see you're wrong?"

The atheist turns it around, "Why can't you see you're wrong?"

The duck says, "Quack. I need to get back to the pond, quack."

The pagan has an idea. "I'm going to pray to the God of War that you all stop fighting!"

The atheist, the duck, the rabbi, and the priest look at each other.

"Then who will we persecute?" they all wonder.

"You can go back to the Muslims," the duck offers.

Everyone high-fives. "Yes!" they cheer. "Them!"

The atheist says, "But I'm still going to hate all of you."

The priest and the rabbi nod.

The atheist and his pagan daughter leave the priest, the rabbi, and the duck at the bar.

The priest turns to the rabbi, "Jesus was right, you know."

The rabbi looks at his bill. "$7 for a beer!"

The duck says, "Quack."

Short Blog on How Selfless My Boyfriend Is, & How Selfish I Am Part 2

Setting: This late evening in my bedroom. We just finished watching 50 First Dates, my boyfriend for the first time and me for the 50th time, and I was getting ready for my pre-SNL nap.

My boyfriend: I have a question for you, Jordy.

Me: (Silence, because I am trying to train my boyfriend to continue with his stories instead of taking unnecessary pauses)

My boyfriend: (After a pause) If we had a situation like you and I just watched—

Me: I'd dump you.

My boyfriend: You didn't even let me finish!

Me: I'm guessing.

My boyfriend: Anyway, if we had a situation like in the movie we just watched, where one of us lost our short term memory—

Me: I'd dump you. Look, I guessed right! Yay, me!

My boyfriend: What!? So, I would wake up in the morning, and not remember the days before, and think we were still together. . . .

Me: And I would get married to someone else and have kids, but I would continue to text you. If you wanted to hang out, I would just say I was too busy with work that day, and suggest the next day.

My boyfriend: What!? I would take care of you! I would support you and love you, and you would leave me?

Me: (Shrugs) You wouldn't know.

My Childhood Hamster Had Balls!

    When I was ten, I wanted nothing more than a cute little hamster that would follow me to school and around the house in a hamster ball. On my eleventh birthday, I thought this wish finally became a reality when my father took me to the pet store to pick one out!
    “I want that one!” I said, pointing to the smallest, most delicate looking hamster I could find. This hamster was like the pet-equivalent of me, but better—this hamster was a redhead! I had selected a tiny orange, black, and white one just so the hamster would match my favorite new name, Ginger.
    I don’t think I wanted a hamster so much as I wanted a Ginger. Really, the whole point of getting a hamster, for me, was to name it Ginger, because I love names. As Told by Ginger was the best cartoon at the time, in my humble opinion, and naming inanimate stuffed animals, dolls, and even select corners of my house was not good enough. I got a child-sized guitar, named her Maddie, and never played her. Then I got a normal-sized guitar, same thing happened, named her Sally. Sally is covered in dust in the basement, and Ginger is dead.
    But back to the story:  I needed to give a living thing a name. I needed that type of power, to mark a living thing forever. “You!” I’m sure I yelled like a dictator in that pet store, “are now Ginger forever! To everyone! And you can’t argue about it!”
    (On a side note, this is why I don’t want children. I only think I want a house full of children so I can name a house full of children and force their first hobbies on them. I just want to force a girl to forever be called Carolina and spend her early years playing soccer, and a boy to forever be called Troy and spend his early years learning the art of dance. And then resent me for all these decisions. And they wouldn’t be able to do anything to take these early decisions back!
    I’m a tiny, tiny, fragile little girl. This is my Napoleon complex.)
    At the pet store, the part-time employee in an oversized blue polo stupidly gave a tiny eleven year old (who looked seven) the box of live hamster to hold, while my dad helped me pick out a cage and accessories. In the end, I got a large, clear tub to stare at my hamster at as long and as often as I cared to.
    I couldn’t wait to make the hamster love me, as all pets do! We took Ginger home, set the hamster up in the tank, and I ignored the new edition to my family for the next several hours as my dad took me to a birthday hockey game.
    I think this neglect so early in our relationship is why Ginger got fat. That, and I stopped taking Ginger out to roll around in the hamster ball. It was fun at first, making Ginger roll around and around as long as I wanted in a tiny room, until I noticed that little brown pellets rolling around the ball, which could fall out the ball’s cracks for breathing (why do hamsters need air? Why?)
    Shortly after this, Ginger started plotting a hamster-sized escape. We put the large tank on my tall dresser, which Ginger learned to crawl up and down out of, and into my closet. There, Ginger nibbled on the feet of my oversized stuffed animals. Because it’s not like Ginger was fed enough (over-fed, ungrateful hamster.)
    When Ginger got very obese-ly fat, I saw my first pair of balls. Being eleven and prematurely narcissistic, I assumed my hamster was whatever gender I wanted the hamster to be. Nope, oops. Ginger was a George, and I learned about male anatomy (which was good, because my parents never got around to giving me the talk after my first period. I needed this lesson in biology.)
    I also learned about death. One day, when I got home from school, I did the normal routine:  cross the hall to my room, put the backpack on my bed, turn to head back out for a snack, but as I turned my head this day, I noticed Ginger/George’s tank was missing.
    “Ginger?” I asked the air above my dresser. I still always called George Ginger.
    “Dad?” was my next thought.
    “Yeah?” he asked, nonchalantly ducking his head in my room.
    I pointed my little finger to the naked dresser.
    “Oh, yeah, I had to take that out,” my dad stated. “The hamster died.” Then he left my room to go to second shift at work, having already had a productive day of letting his daughter know that death ultimately meant nothing. Life moved on.