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.

Mix-Matched Socks and 10-Year-Old Bras

I’m just not together enough for matching socks. Matching socks are for people who haven’t completely given up. Matching socks are for people who actually pour their cereal into a bowl, instead of eating it with their fingers out of the box. Matching socks are for people who, when they realize they forgot to brush their hair that day, don’t just look in a mirror and say Hey, good enough! Most mornings, I just try to find the same type of socks (ankle socks, knee-highs, etc.) so my feet don’t feel weird.

I hope my feet are color-blind (I know they look color-blind.) That way they won’t lose self-esteem every time I put on one pink sock, and one green.

Sometimes, I’m pretty sure I have a couple matching pairs in the piles of boxes blocking my closet. I never unpacked from college. Before you say that’s understandable, I graduated last May, not this past December. I would rather sit around listening to music before work than dig through my dorm stuff for two purple socks. I can often find two blue socks, but they are always different shades. Close enough, right?

I get even worse. Today I was wearing one of those bras a shirt just can’t cover enough. With most bras, shirts still can’t hide the outline, but this bra outline really stuck out. I looked at myself in the mirror, and knowing that I had at least 35 minutes until heading to work, I tried to convince myself that I didn’t need to swap bras.

I think this problem was because this bra was so old and the wire was bent. This was the nearly 10-year-old bra I said I threw out in previous posts (I didn’t because I’m a hoarder. Who knows when I am going to need it? Aren’t women supposed to pass training bras down to their children? No?)

I eventually swapped bras because I realized Did I really want to be this lazy? Even though the answer was an obvious Yes!, I didn’t want others to know I was that lazy. Also, because I was actually wearing matching socks today. Sure, I only had matching socks because I found a pair last week and haven’t taken them off since, for fear of never finding a matching pair again, but nevertheless, I had matching socks. I was together enough to swap out the 10-year-old bra too. Just not together enough to throw it away yet. . . .

LinkedIn Updates

Why does everyone think they are good at social networking just because they have a smartphone? I receive one email a day about my LinkedIn connections adding new skills, and one of the skills is almost always social networking.

Why No One on LinkedIn is Actually Good @SocialNetworking:

1. You have 80 connections and half of them are from strangers trying to get more connections or scam you into taking a temporary, part-time job doing “social media marketing” for their “start-up” company, i.e. spending your afternoons and evenings trying to scam others into trusting your new company.

2. You, like me, just graduated from college. Networking in general in the real world is not like networking in college. It’s not the same as your school constantly throwing networking events to help you “connect” with other professionals, i.e. harass the few alumni the school could bribe into attending this event (suspicious about how many times the name of a particular section in your campus library changes?)

3. If you were good at social networking, or any networking, you would have a better job, at least if you were good at social networking on LinkedIn. If you were good at social networking on Match or Tinder, you would have a better boyfriend. And if you were good at social networking on Instagram or Twitter, you would be Kendall Jenner. Are you Kendall Jenner? (Oh, wait, yes? Wow, Ms. Jenner, I’m so flattered that you read my blog! I love your hair, BTW.)

I say this as someone who probably has social networking listed as one of their skills on LinkedIn, but is too lazy to check. 

Fun with Childhood Bunk Beds

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