BECAUSE I'M NEEDY.

I told someone yesterday that I haven't posted in a while because I haven't been in a funny-writing mood.
I wasn't lying. I just haven't had any good ideas.
I guess we're back in business.

One nice thing about living at home for the summer is all the extra time you get to spend with your family. But before you say, "AWWWW WHAT A GOOD DAUGHTER," ask me what the bad thing about living at home for the summer is.
Exactly.
It's also been dumb because my car decided to go all depressed on me, and it's always whining and it won't tell me how much gas is in it, and I don't know, I feel like that's pretty important? So she's grounded, which puts me at the mercy of my parents' cars' schedules and ends up making me feel like I'm grounded, but I guess there's nothing we can do. So Cam and Coco and Tim have driven me a lot of places. Incidentally, I happen to owe all of them money for pizza.
I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Last night, it had been two days since I saw my mom (TWO WHOLE DAYS) which isn't long (IT'S LONG) compared to how long I was in school last semester (IT'S REALLY...wait, what?), but still, when you live at home, with big little brother and baby little brother and father and lunatic dog and a copious supply of football laundry and NBA 2K13 blaring on your TV speakers until two o'clock in the frigging morning, your mother becomes something of a novelty. And when you want to tell her things, it becomes an ordeal. At least at my house. It's mastering the art of shouting without people hearing you, really. This can become draining, and when I don't feel like spending time with anyone and just lie on your bed for hours, I've decided that's okay, which is why I napped for half of May.

But sometimes you really do want to talk to her, and what sucks about that is that moms, contrary to popular belief, would rather organize filing cabinets than ask you about your weekend. This has been proven by none other than yours truly and the garbage bag of desk-crud that I threw away last night.
Of course, it probably bothers you to hear this, especially if you are a mom and think that I'm a prissy little brat for posting this. Or if you're my mom, and you know I'm a prissy little brat for posting this. So let me clarify: this is not a bad thing. Sometimes, moms just have things that they need to get done, and they forget that they have children. If you had to clean and cook and work all the time, you'd forget your own name. Moms have it hard, and if you're not the kid who needs to be registered for NCAA football scouting, you're going to be the kid that gets forgotten.

So if you've ever had this conversation...

"Oh boy, I was so busy today, but I got a free lunch, and - can you throw this away for me? - your brother is having his birthday party soon, and I'm cleaning the house, and everyone loves me, because I'm great, and you're so cute and I love my pajamas!"

"UGH, MOM, LISTEN TO MY ANGST."

...then I have good news! You don't have to live your life being forgotten! As I've been learning throughout my college years (all two of them), there are two sides to every relationship (unless you're a triplet), and sometimes, your side of the relationship may need to speak up. Or resort to trickery and manipulation. Both have worked. And I am the grand master of convincing my mom that I'm cooler than her super cool manila folders.
The bad news is that the last dosage of caffeine I had was a Chai Tea Latte from Panera, which I finished by 7:45, and it is now almost six hours later, and the computer screen keeps going blurry and my head feels like it's full of tar. So this might not actually be helpful...at all.

Some safe ways to get your mother's attention.
by Lydia

1. Stare at her.
This works on most people, so why not your mom? It'll probably make her feel super uncomfortable, plus, if she does have eyes in the back of her head, which everyone says she does (by the way, if you say that, and you think you sound funny, you actually don't...sorry), she'll notice right away and get super uncomfortable. Since you're her child, she can ask you, "Sweetie, why are you being a creep?" instead of deftly avoiding someone who actually was a creep. Or maybe you are a creep, but your mom loves you anyway. In that case, proceed to step two.

2. Sit close to her, but don't talk.
This seems counter intuitive, because normally, if you want someone's attention, you yell or make yourself slightly more boisterous. But moms are different, especially when they're in the filing zone, so if you're being loud about something that doesn't involve personal injury or death, she'll probably ignore you. Being quiet might not get her to ask questions (and it might still be pretty creepy), but at least she'll know that you're full of intriguing mystery.

3. Follow her.
This works best if she's just wandering around the house through different rooms. If she's driving, it starts to become a little needy.

4. Send her a lot of ambiguous texts.
"Hi Mom."
"Hi sweetie. What's up?" 
"..."

(My mom refers to people as "Sweetie" a lot. Except my guy friends, who for some reason are all "goobers.")

5. Lay on her bed.
In some cases, this can be difficult, despite the fact that laying on beds was recently voted America's favorite pastime. The key to getting this tactic right is remembering that you are not her companion; you are an impediment. My mom and dad have a California king sized bed, which is what wild elephants hide behind during hunts on the Serengeti (lol jk elephants don't hunt), so if I'm going to get in the way, it involves spreading myself out like a flying squirrel just so I can cover the mattress. It doesn't actually work, because your mom will probably just wander around her room in her pajamas talking about her day. "La la la la, look at me, I'm an adorable mom. I filed today."

6. Play hard to get.
Eventually she'll figure it out, and when that happens, you have to remain silent, just to make her feel bad. Feel free to intermittently scowl.

7. Look sad.
Apparently yanking on the compassion strings works too. Actually, the heartstrings. You tug the heartstrings and get compassion. Whatever. Words. Just fake some emotion to draw her in, and she'll become all nervous and worried. You may find yourself hearing those kind, comforting words:
Normal (British) mom: "Beloved child, is something the matter?"
Or, sometimes, these words:
My mom: "What's wrong, sweetie?! Look at your forehead! Why are there frownies?"

8. Write a passive aggressive blog post.
This should be self-explanatory.

Eight is kind of a weird number when it comes to pointage, but...eh. Basically, if your mom ignores you, stalk her.
Many thanks to the readers and to Josh for giving me coffee before I started drooling on the keyboard.

fin.

Ish my baby brother writes.

A yearish ago, I posted a long list of some of the ridiculous things my baby brother said over the course of the summer. I could do that with really anyone, but the reason I decided to immortalize what he said is because even when he makes absolutely zero sense, you can still see how brilliant and special he is. As great as that seems, this is actually a tragedy, because he is in middle school, where talent and ability and a person's value and human decency and even basic mammalian instincts are all flushed down the toilet during snack time, and if the class is still alive by the end of lunch, the teachers are doing a solid job.

A few days ago, Baby Brother went to a nearby elementary school, where he hung out with a first grader (named Isaiah, for reference) for a short while and was assigned the task of writing a story about the small child, which is a pretty sick idea, honestly. For some reason, he had to get up super early this morning to do it, which, for most of us, tends to be a significant impediment to our writing ability, but for him, was apparently not even an issue, even on his day off. I found it lying on the stool this morning and it might be the best thing I've read all summer, and I just finished The Great Gatsby, so...yeah.

So I gave him some generic compliment: "That story was so good! I loved it!"
And he said, "Yeah, it's pretty amazing."

J

For the good of all mankind and for the sake of quality entertainment, he let me blog it, even though he hasn't turned it in yet.
This is, in essence, the equivalent of getting an unpublished manuscript of Harry Potter for Christmas.
What's more, this is all him, not my mom doing it for him, not me rephrasing his sentences, just his beautiful, unadulterated rough draft (after I fixed one itty bitty baby spelling error), straight from his unappreciated yet undoubtedly gifted eighth grade soul.

I should probably stop writing before I start leaking overprotective sisterly bitterness. I've already had to delete three paragraphs.
Thanks for reading, and happy Memorial Day.

--

            In the year 2482, on the planet Earth, there was a boy named Isaiah. This boy had magnificent talents. He had the strength of ten men, he was also extremely smart, and he was very handsome. He was a full package. But recently aliens had come to earth and started taking over the world. Isaiah did not like aliens. He wanted to shoot and punch them in their faces, but these weren’t normal aliens.

These aliens had a disgusting power we call hard-wiring. Hard wiring is when an alien turns a human into an alien. Isaiah had to do something! When Isaiah was younger, his parents were taken from him by Lord Hiss, undisputed ruler of the aliens. Isaiah despised Lord Hiss. He wanted to shoot and punch him in the face.

Isaiah’s best friend was named Jack. Jack was very cool. Isaiah and Jack had been friends for a long time. Isaiah had been trying very hard to find out about Lord Hiss’s location, which is where we pick up our two courageous figures and our repetitive narrator.

Jack finally says something, “How long have we been on this road, Isaiah?”

“A long, stinking time!” said Isaiah.

“Good to know.”

Suddenly Isaiah and Jack came upon a weary traveler. Isaiah asked him his name, “What is your name, most elderly one?”

“Tooth,” he said.

Isaiah and Jack looked at each other. “Tooth?!”

“Yes, Tooth,” the man replied.

“Why are you sitting on the side of the road?” Isaiah inquired of the old man.

“I was waiting for Lord Hiss to come down on his daily route to get coffee, and when he was sucking on a hot cup of java, WHAM! We’ve nabbed our dictator. But, he bought a coffee machine, so now I’m just a lonely man on the street.”

Jack finally asked, “Where does Lord Hiss live?”

The old man answered, “Right up the hill—in that big, scary tower.”

“Thank you,” both of them say, and they went on their merry way, singing, “Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalalala.”

After days of painstaking walking in dirt and gravel, they were finally halfway there. After more days, they were there.

To be continued….

Immediately.

Three days Isaiah and Jack were looking for a way into the heavily guarded tower. Jack finally lost hope, and he fell. As he was falling, he hit the doorbell on the front door, and passage was granted to them.

“That was easy.”

Then, instantaneously, Jack was captured by the evil alien goons!

Jack raised his fist to fight off the aliens, but there were too many. Isaiah’s friend is being hard wired! Noooooooooo!

Isaiah had to avenge Jack. Lord Hiss was about to open up a can of pain. With anger covering all his thoughts and tears covering both his eyes, Isaiah ran down the hall, toppling over aliens—up the hall, left and right, down the stairs. Isaiah ran as fast as he could, and finally came to Lord Hiss’s lair.

A dark, rattley voice said, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Isaiah drew his neutrino blaster and dropped it on the ground.  Lord Hiss drew his various weapons and dropped them on the ground. What would happen?! What terrible accident would come of this?

Isaiah was red with fury, as if fate brought him to this very moment. Isaiah could hear the bells “ding ding.”  Isaiah and Lord Hiss approached each other.

Isaiah was the first one to land a punch, and then a kick. But Lord Hiss came back with a disgusting green tentacle and slapped him across the face.

Isaiah was infuriated, and Lord Hiss never saw that tentacle again, because Isaiah tied it behind his back.

Oooh, that made Lord Hiss mad! He wound up and punched Isaiah up the chin. Nooo! Now Isaiah and Lord Hiss were just trading punches, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left!

But finally, Isaiah dodged one of the lefts, and with a thundering uppercut, he made contact and put to rest the evil fiend. From his disgusting orange pocket, Isaiah pulled out the key to release all the prisoners.

His parents were overjoyed. They came running out to hug their hero, their son. They always knew Isaiah was special.

In the other cell was Madison. Madison dashed out of her captivity and hugged Isaiah. (This may or may not be the Madison in your classroom.)

Suddenly, all the aliens turned to humans! Isaiah realized that since he defeated Lord Hiss, all the hard-wired aliens returned to their original state. Isaiah was ecstatic to see Jack running down the hall, up the stairs, and into the bro hug of Isaiah.

Jack and Isaiah got serious. Isaiah may have freed everybody, saved his best friend’s life, his parents, and his gal-pal, but there still was a war criminal on the ground, retching, because his plan had failed.

Isaiah and Jack picked him up and shook him around a little bit, while Madison called the police. They loaded him into the paddy-wagon. As he was being escorted away in the vehicle, Lord Hiss let out a billowing, “You shall pay for this, Isaiah!”

“Check, please!” said Isaiah.

Everybody laughed, and that is where we end our story.

Tune in next time for my final draft.

fin.

Because dinner isn't ready yet.

(You should know: I wrote the title last of all, and immediately after finishing it, dinner was ready.)

So my dad just told me, “I’m glad you’ve gotten to cleaning your room finally,” or something along those lines, which is really too bad for him, because I’m about to write about it instead of actually doing it. OOPS.

Seriously, though, maybe I should just write a blog about housecleaning, because I always end up amusing myself so thoroughly in the process. Of course, then I would never actually clean my house, and then I would have no credibility.

Then again, what’s new?

Many of you are probably thinking (by now you should know this is just a word device that allows me to Segway* into new topics, so don’t feel bad if you weren’t actually thinking it), “Hey, Lydia, why does your dad care if your room is clean or not? Aren’t you at college?” and to that I must respond and say that I moved back exactly one week ago (a.k.a., THE SEMESTER IS OVER HAPPY TEARS), so now I live on my dad’s property once again, and its upkeep is once again a part of my responsibility.

This brings up an important question: Why do they call it “REAL” estate? Why is the REAL important? Do some people sell fake estate? I’m sure they do. Is it to differentiate from home sales on the black market? If someone could fill me in, that’d be great.

From my extensive experience, moving back from college usually involves finding everything you own that could function as a storage container (grocery bags, tissue boxes, large shoes) and throwing things into those things, and then throwing those things into your car, and then calling your dad because your car is making a funny sound, and then him saying, “It should be fine; just come home anyway and then never drive it again,” and then driving nervously home on a congested freeway full of reckless drunkards. Ha ha! This is a joke. Sort of.

The kicker is when you get home and you have to move all of your stuff from your car to the inside of your house. This can take up to a few months. Eventually, it’s in, and after some parental prompting, it finds its way up the stairs into your room. This can take up to a few years. By some miracle, we managed to do it in a week, which is saying something, because we haven’t finished unpacking from when we moved here. Four years ago. Anyway, my room is full of boxes that I’m not going to unpack until I actually need what’s in them, which I didn't think mattered, because my room has always been something of a storage unit for boxes. From our move. Four years ago. Really, the only difference in my room between pre-Lydia and post-Lydia was that I had unpacked my duffel bag, so there was a whole mess of clothes laying on the floor and the chair, but there have been clothes on the chair for the whole semester and probably since the beginning of history. All in all, I didn’t think it looked that different, but apparently it’s a disgrace. So when I was asked for the fourth time this week to clean it, I finally caved. And by that, I mean I repacked my duffel bag.

After that, my mom came in with some giant blankets and asked me to store them in my closet.

It never fails. 

Fortunately, they have yet to find the dishes next to my bed from…uh…Tuesday? No. Maybe Monday. Yes, definitely Monday. Ew. One second.

(If I had sponsors, they would give a message here.)

All better. I’m pretty sure those were from both Monday and Tuesday, because I did not have ice cream twice in one day. Although comparatively, indulgence in such a habit would probably be less atrocious then the cleaning habits I have just displayed.

But I digress.

Usually, when I clean, I become very distracted by not cleaning. This will make me a bad wife (and apparently an even worse feminist). Today, for example, I watched four tutorials on how to cut T-shirts into tank tops and then attempted to follow suit. The project itself was laden with irony, as the shirt was one I had gotten from running track at Private Christian High School, but after I was through with it, it was no longer within the dress code of Private Christian High School. Then again, neither were the cheer uniforms, but that’s not a discussion I feel like having again. All in all, I didn’t intend the shirt to come out skanky, but it kind of did, and now I might not wear it, but it’s cute in theory.

After that, I read a book.

Then, still infused by the YouTube-induced craft-fever, I began a search for some old pants.

Then my dad came in.

“Mom? Oh…hi dad.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m cleaning!”

“…okay…”

“Why do we have this?”

“That’s, um, a muumuu.”

(I was wearing a muumuu.)

“Why do we have it?”

“I bought it for your mom.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“…um…you’re cleaning?”

“Yep!”

“Okay. I’m glad you’re cleaning, but…you need to go wash off that gunky thing by the door.”

“Okay.”

(...brief pause for me to get downstairs and turn on the hose..)

“Could you clean it over there so that you water the palm tree?” 

(My dad invested in several palm trees for his mid-life crisis. One lives in the garden, one died in the garden, four are growing in pots against the wall for pool privacy, and one grew a foot a week and is almost as tall as our house and will probably eat us someday. This is the one he is speaking of.)

“Okay.”

Then I came upstairs...annnnnnd...blogged about it.

This has been the height of excitement today. We have come full circle, right back to where the story started (that’s what full circle means), and fortunately for you, I have nothing left to waste your time with.

So…have a nice day.

Fin.

*Apparently, that's not how you spell this word in this context. A segue is a transition, and a Segway is "the leader in personal, green transportation." In the interest of consistency and further rebelliousness, I'm going to continue to spell it the mall cop way, not my mom's way. Thank you for understanding.

Keep Facebook classy.

I realize this is probably the most useless thing you’ll read today, maybe this week, maybe even your life. Probably the last one. Thankfully the standards of what is and is not useful have been so distorted by narcissistic society that none of you will notice.

…great start.

As many of you know, I am an avid user of the social networking phenomena known to the world as “Facebook” and to one of my professors as “the sole cause of the ruination of actual friendship in America.” He’s a little extreme. I think that Facebook can be super convenient and nifty, especially if you’re the kind of control freak that likes to know what everyone’s doing every second of every day and every time you can’t because the network is down your eye twitches a little harder.

Actually, maybe I get what he’s getting at.

I feel like, over the period of time it’s survived, Facebook has evolved in usage; maybe this is overly philosophical, but I think that as much as it is a way of keeping up to date on your friends’ lives and chatting with distant buddies, it is now a way of proclaiming ourselves into the world the way we want to be perceived. And through that evolution, along with its changes in news feeds and tickers and picture viewers, it has evolved a set of unspoken laws that govern the dos and don’ts of our lives far more than we would like to admit.

Sadly enough, some truly wonderful, beautiful, inspirational people have yet to understand just what is entailed in having and using it to communicate properly, despite academic achievement or social capability (okay, maybe social capability plays into it a little*). If you are one of them, welcome. Most likely you don't realize that you are. But if you find this helpful...tada. And this post should help you. Almost as much as it will help me.

But even more importantly, I feel the need to address another community of individuals. Unfortunately for many, there are some taking unfair advantage of this site we care so much about. They are easy to perceive by their inundation of statuses or pictures or the way they take their relationship status way too dang seriously. These people - lovingly known to many as “social media whores,” - are being singled out as a frustrating mob of losers who are just getting way too flipping into it.
There is also a group of people who care enough to point them out and label them for the way they are controlling their usage of a universally available, free, existentially useless resource, when their annoyances and rudeness could literally be removed by the push of a button. A virtual button.

Come to terms with it. You are one of them. Your mother is one of them. WE ARE ALL THEM. THEY. This post may be as much as an admittance that I am one of them as it is a plea for people to stop being socially awkward all up on my timeline. This is no longer a condition. It’s a part of humanity. We actually have changed that much. 

And whether you like it or not, this is what you have signed up for. And that is why there are rules. And you ALL need to follow them.

Or I will unfriend you.

RULE #1: (we’ll start off simple) POKING. IS. NOT. FLIRTING.

First, I have to clarify—because our culture is not only narcissistic, it is also perverted—that I am referring to the application on Facebook that allows  you to “poke” other individuals, and that's it. I believe it was intended as a way to remind people that you had posted on their wall, and why the heck haven’t they responded yet, it’s been five whole minutes. Now it’s just a way for people to hold uselessness over each others’ heads (“Hey, I poked you and you didn’t poke back! I’m winning!”), because never ending virtual battles are a great way to spend our youth.

It’s funny to me that I say this, because I have been poking about twelve people consistently for about three years. Actually, not really, because (confession!) I started this post last year, and now I never poke anyone, which may be due to a general decrease of interest in the pastime or my increase in age, but it's most likely that I probably just guilt-tripped myself into stopping. Either way, the deal with that situation is that most of those “poke wars” started three years ago. Obviously they're all friends of mine. Also, this rule was not in effect then. So if you happen to develop feelings for someone you’ve been poking then congratulations and I wish you all the best in your next steps on whether or not you decide to push the “poke back” button. But if you just started liking her, don’t just start poking her! Do you even know what it means to be mysterious and coy? Right! It means “one who does not poke”!

Also, if you have been poking her, and she stops poking you, THAT DOESN’T MEAN POKE HER AGAIN. It doesn’t mean she forgot, it doesn’t mean she’s confused, it means she’s creeped the frick out, and you need to approach her in a more substantially normal manner. Girls, this applies to you, too. He doesn’t like you. Cut it out.

Here’s a tip: Play hard-to-get poke war. It consists of never poking anyone ever.

RULE #2: STALKING GENERALLY IMPLIES SUBTLETY.

Clarification (again with the vagueness...where will it end): Facebook has also changed the definition of stalking. Not really. But in the usual context, it has little to do with illegality. Maybe it should, but we won't deal with that right now.
I have nothing against Facebook stalking. Nothing. You know why? Because people put all that crap up for you to look at. It's a power trip. It's a way for people to be self-obsessed and praised for it in conjunction. So don't let anyone psych you out, because they're being hypocritical. Going through old profile pictures is the best use of Facebook. That's my life philosophy.
So the problem does not lie within the fact that you go on his profile on the hour, every hour. It lies in the fact that you like everything he posts. That's a little much. Unless you want him to know, then by all means, go way back. Like his high school track finals announcement. Comment on his homecoming pictures. "Oh you were so cute LOL" is great if he can stand people who still use "LOL." But if you're trying to be subtle (and I'm all about being subtle, and mysterious, and ignored, and hated), then play it cool.

RULE #3: STOP FRIEND-REQUESTING PEOPLE YOU MIGHT MEET SOMEDAY.

This does not apply to a mutual friend that you have an intention of meeting. This applies specifically to those people who join groups for their new school or new club or new something, which is composed of HUNDREDS of people, and friend ALL of the members. It's flipping ridiculous. How the heck are you going to meet all these people? You aren't. You're going to have a news feed with a blockade of complete strangers' pictures and a guilty twist of confused acquaintanceship that keeps you from deleting them now, but you're still going to delete over half of them the second you graduate. You already hate some of them now, but it's too late, because you've been mystery internet friends for long enough that if you dropped them now, they'd know something was up. Talk. About. Awkward.

RULE #4: YOU DO NOT COMMENT ON A WALL POST FROM SOMEONE THAT YOU DO NOT KNOW.

I used the extra large font (before) and the bolded font (after) because this should be common sense. If you are stalking someone you know/haven't seen in a while, and you see a post on their wall from a complete stranger talking about something completely unrelated to your life, or, heck, even if it is related, what do you do? Read it. Memorize every comment. Click and see all the people who liked it. But remember, if it is not about you, it is not your business, and you are not invited to this party. I don't care if it is a mutual discussion about how they like math, and you have a Ph.D. in mathematical...stuff.......YOU DO NOT TELL THEM ABOUT MATH.

Drop it...

Good boy.

Here's a better way of putting it: what would you do if you were just talking to someone on the street, having a nice conversation, and someone who knew your friend waltzed over (literally waltzed, because the mental image is better) and started talking to both of you about the exact thing you were just talking about. See? Weird.
The ONLY instance in which this would be acceptable would be this:

"Hey, Brad, Lydia's super attractive and funny and has a great personality! What's her blog's URL?"
"Hey, Ryan! You got that right! How are your millions of dollars from modeling treating you? I don't actually know her blog's URL, but you shouldn't have much time to read it anyway, since it sucks you in with its greatness, and you need all the time you can get to finish your novel."
"Yeah, that's true. Oh well. I don't have my millions of dollars; I donated them all to a respectable nonprofit organization."
"You go, Ryan!"

This would constitute an appropriate time for me to comment and say, "Ryan! My blog is mumblingsthataremeaningless.blogspot.com! :D" and then go along my merry way.

RULE #5: THREE STATUSES A DAY IS PUSHING IT.
People...I know Facebook is a place to make your life sound as great as it possibly can because it's the only way that people will respect and appreciate and love you more than they do in real life, but that's no reason to act desperate.
Relax.
People really only care about your Instagram, anyway.

RULE #6: UTILIZE YOUR RESOURCES.
Here is how:
1. You know that crazy person who always posts ridiculous whiny statuses but you feel bad deleting? Go to their Facebook. See where it says friends? Click on it. See where it has a little check mark next to "Show in News Feed"? Click it.
2. You know that creepy person who always comments on your pictures but you feel bad unfriending? Go to your Facebook. Click the status box. Click the gear. Click custom. Where it says, "Don't share this with," type their name. End problem. End creepy.
3. Repeat step 2 for professors whose classes you complain about profusely.
See? Your problems are over! You're so welcome. No, YOU are!

RULE #7: THE EMOTICONS ARE STUPID AND I HATE THEM.
Use them if you want. That just needed to be said.

RULES #8-15: SOME "TECHY" PHRASES YOU SHOULD NEVER USE AND THE REASONS WHY...
"Lol" - it's just not a thing anymore. Also, it's most likely a lie. You usually do not comment "lol" when you have actually lol'ed. Usually, I comment, "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA I'M DYING AND I JUST PEED, IN CLASS! BWAAAAAHHHHH marry me" (this is a gross exaggeration) to get my point across when I lol. And man does it get my point across.
"LOL" - you may think this is the same, but it's not. It's completely different. First of all, it's that yucky phrase, and second of all, CAPS? Get it together.
":-D" - you may only use a smiley face with a nose if you are a parent, or over the age of thirty-five. The only exception to this is ">8-E" which you may use if you are incredibly upset or a serial killer.
"Ptl" - Really? That's how you praise the Lord? With three letters? Come on.

"Omg" - eh. Okay. You can use it if you're in middle school. When I was fourteen, I always typed out "OMGoodness" because...I WAS COOL.
"Idk" - the reason you should stop using this is that it doesn't actually stand for what you think it does, and instead of saying "I don't know," like you want to, you actually just end up saying, "I am lazy," which doesn't make any sense when it comes to English, but it's the truth.
"Techy" - I just think it sounds dumb and therefore no one should say it.

Well...that's a wrap, folks. I have nothing to say, for once. I'm also ridiculously exhausted, and already tired of summer school, even though it's only been...one day. Whatever.

FIN.

*A LOT.

College nomz.

Maybe I should make it a tradition that I post something college-related this time of year. This is fun.

I’m in one of those moods where I’m convinced I’m an expert in a field that would slap me if it knew I was talking about it like this. Today’s field is cooking. I like cooking, because I really like food. And out of respect to cooking, I apologize. But I have a good feeling this will be moderately helpful.

Actually, it’s not just about cooking. It’s about food. Food in college.

If you didn’t already infer that.

For the sake of my dignity and the relevance/applicability of this post, my roommates’ wisdom will be heavily incorporated.

…for the freshmen.

It’s important for you to remember that you are in college, which infers two things: you’re always hungry, and you’re always broke. I know that all the movies and TV shows have told you differently, but you probably aren’t going to be ordering takeout and pizza every weekend. That pizza was funded by the people who made the movie that lied to you, and those people are funded by Hollywood, who is funded by all the money your parents wasted sending you to midnight premieres of the Batman movies. You more or less brought this on yourself. But that’s okay! The important thing is to realize this before it’s too late, and all you can afford is Ramen.

This brings up another good point: Ramen. I know Ramen is a running joke synonymous with young Americans and fiscal lack. This can be taken as a sign that you should avoid Ramen at all costs, or that you should only ever eat Ramen, ever, until you’re sneezing noodles. There really isn’t a balanced view on eating Ramen (not that we need to have a think tank or anything, on this or any form of prepackaged food item), that it’s okay once in a while, or that you should only eat it on this day of the week. There really doesn’t need to be. The rubber doesn’t hit the road when you form an opinion on it, it hits the road when you’re strolling through the grocery store and realize that you can get five of your next meals for a dollar.

Thirdly. This is the most important one, so I’m going to drive it home.

I KNOW the freshman fifteen is all anyone ever talks and teases about. I KNOW that you think you’re supposed to look hot and stylin’ and put together, all the time. And I KNOW that coming home heavier is a little daunting. But do. Not. Let. That. Rule. You. I promise it is just as scary coming home and having your mom and your high school friends and every sweet old lady at church come up to you and ask why you’ve gotten so thin. People (with class) generally won’t come up to you and inquire about your weight. If they comment on it, it means they’re worried.

It’s not worth it. It’s so not worth it.

And just think about it logically, too. What else goes along with freshman year? A lot of times, kids leave the house and start partying like crazy, and they start drinking, maybe not a ton, but more than they used to. College parties are put on by college students who don’t have a lot of money, and would want to buy inexpensive liquor. They aren’t going to dish it out for high end tequila; they’re going to buy cheap beer. And beer has so many calories. Honestly, there’s a reason you call them “beer bellies.”

All I’m trying to say is be careful. Your metabolism will change and your body will change. But so will your mind and your soul and your interests and your friends and your plans, and basically everything. Embrace it.

Lastly, use your meal plan. You’ve already paid a ton for these meals; don’t waste them. I know the food is gross. Get used to it. Also, I’m guessing that you probably packed about twelve bags of Sour Patch Kids, and I respect that. You won’t have any trouble eating those. Have snacks. Have Easy Mac. Have cereal and granola bars. But don’t forget the green stuff. Sesame Street put millions of dollars into campaigning so that you wouldn’t leave out your five servings of fruit a day. Tangerines go a long way, as do carrots and snap peas.

Actually lastly (oops), get a water bottle, and get a backpack with a place to clip it.

...for the apartmenterz.

All I have to say about this is that I know essentially nothing about cooking, but still manage to make a lot of my own meals, so have no fear.
Here is how.

Pasta goes with everything.
Here is how you cook pasta:
1. Boil water (wait for the big bubbles).
2. Dump in pasta.
3. Wait for pasta to cook. (Spaghetti will stick to the ceiling when it's cooked completely.)
4. Dump out water.
5. Consume voraciously.
So SIMPLE. Also, so tasty. Heat up some sauce (you can use the microwave if cooking the pasta has you undone) and you are good to go.

To go off of that, buy a lot of food that only involves boiling water as the other ingredient. Like coffee. Or jell-o. Or eggs. Or rice. Or oatmeal. Or freeze dried food in boxes. Follow this path and invest in a good water heater. I'm pretty sure ours harnesses the power of lightning because it boils in a literal minute, but I don't know where we got it and I don't ask questions.

You will consume a lot of canned soup (or Ramen) regardless of whether or not you want to, so be bold and try something besides chicken and stars.

Invest in tuna.
And Tuna Helper.

Frozen pre-cooked chicken is available for those who are a danger to themselves. Frozen chicken can be cooked in the microwave. I cook it by pushing it around on a frying pan (that's the official terminology, actually) until the edges are burned. Sometimes I cut up apples and put it in with the chicken. See? Barely any effort, but everyone else will be like, 'Dang, check her out,' and not because I'm hot.

Have a go-to salad dressing that you can use in...um, salads.
Eat spinach, because it has iron in it, and anemia is when you don't have iron and become sickly, and you don't want that.
Fruit and vegetables can be eaten raw or cooked in the same way as the chicken was, and eating them will help you not die.
Apples have caffeine in them.

Buy a Brita filter.

Learn how to make a good sandwich. This will take effort.
   A. Buy bread.
   B. Pick a lunch meat (or a protein element). I always always always always have turkey, and that's just part of who I am. If you aren't a turkey person, who cares; be true to your inner lunch meat. My dad identifies with bologna, and he's still a swell individual.
   C. Decide if you want cheese. Again, follow your heart. 
   D. Pick a vegetable (or fruit) (or two) (or twelve) that you appreciate and would like to consume jointly with the other ingredients. If it is not shaped for ideal sandwich creation, chop it up.
   E. Pick a gooey bottom layer (e.g., cream cheese, avocado, mustard, Nutella).
Decide if you want to toast your bread. If you do...then do it. Spread your gooey bottom layer on one slice of bread. Now add the everything else, with maybe salt and pepper. Now put the top slice on. YOU DID IT. LOOK AT YOU.
I know you know all this, but this is an important checklist, and it will help you grocery shop. If you always put hummus as your gooey bottom layer, keep hummus around. Or whatever. It speeds up the process.
Really, I just like to act like I know everything.

DECIDE WHO IS BUYING WHAT AND WHEN AND WHERE AND HOW. AND WORK OUT A DIFFERENTIATION SYSTEM.
Here's what we do. We all buy groceries. We have communal bread, tortillas, turkey, cheese, and tea, and the twins let me use their milk in my coffee. We TAKE TURNS buying replacements. Everything we want for ourselves only has our NAME on it. If we cook together, we try to pool. If we need to borrow an ingredient, we ask nicely with profuse assurance that we will replace it. It sounds rogue, but it worked for us. This may not work for you, because you may not be as close to your roommates as we are. But you still live together.

Learn how to cook eggs. Eggs are protein. You need protein.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1wjhJaAC4Y
This is a video about cooking eggs. I have not watched it, so I hope there is no vulgarity.

Find a cereal staple. Mine is Captain Crunch.
Maybe don't make yours Captain Crunch, because I don't always feel 100%.

Tupperware should be your very best friend and should keep your leftovers in them. But make sure you actually eat your leftovers, so you don't start hanging out with your other best friend, moldy applesauce.

Big bucket of yogurt + big box of granola = breakfast for the rest of your life

Fish sticks + tortillas + salsa = fish tacos

Canned corn + salsa = salsa 2.0

Peanut butter + anything = snack

Pizza dough + nutella + marshmallows = magic

Don't be afraid to hit up Pinterest if you have a little extra dinner-cooking ambition, a couple extra grocery dollars, and roommates who are willing enough to consume the mystery that comes out of the oven.
The moral of the story is that you shouldn't be afraid of cooking. There will always be instructions online and there will always be easy recipes. And cooking your own food is so dang satisfying. The most important thing to remember is that eventually, you will probably have to cook for yourself, and probably other people, if you like your friends, and better to learn sooner than hide behind a facade of Easy Mac for the next six years. Experimentation is your friend, if you just use your common sense and maybe Google.

The final and most important rule of college cooking is to always steal food from your parents whenever you visit.

The end.

Pride and Prejudice...and potatoes.

Hello, kind souls.

I hope you’re all enjoying yourselves. I just finished the fastest spring break in history, and am quite bitter that it has come to a close, so this post might give off an aura of frazzlement (the best word I have yet invented), due to either my intense desire to spend my last moments of freedom as fruitfully as I possibly can, or the fact that the other two documents I have open right now are an unfinished persuasive speech on flossing and a minute fraction of a lab report.

But I digress.

First and foremost, I owe you a post on the Bachelor, which is still yet to be completed, as I still have yet to process everything that went DOWN with Sean (actually, I was morally convicted two episodes into the season and announced to my roommates that I was above it and that it negatively impacted society to a far too drastic extent, and then watched more of it later anyway), but more on that some other time. I’m going to write it after I watch the final proposal and the episode where Tierra fakes hypothermia. Those seem crucial. You can thank Audrey Nissly for keeping me interested, and also, you should probably follow her on Pinterest, because she is the pinner of the century.

Tonight I cooked scalloped potatoes, which was nothing less than a struggle, and if you’re coming to my house tomorrow you had better flipping eat some out of sheer gratitude and appreciation for my fabulous cooking. And if you find part of a butter wrapper in them, my bad. Right now I’m eating toast, because the only thing I ever see when I open the refrigerator now is organic strawberry preserves, and tea, because I’m better than you. Just kidding! Oh look, a transition. Tea: England.

Ahem.

You probably [don’t] know this, but I’ve tried about six times (give or take a couple) to try to read the book Pride and Prejudice, and I have failed miserably, which I do partially attribute to the fact that my attention span for books has left more than several hanging in the darkness. But given the vast number of my attempts, I refuse to take the whole of the blame. As of today, I have gotten through almost half of it (yay), which is farther than ever before, and I’m enjoying it, which is a handy little bonus.

I’m always that person who says things like, “Oh, I never watch the movie unless I’ve read the book,” because I like being an intellectual brat. But more than that, I don’t just say it, I do it. This summer, I read the Hobbit so that I could go to the midnight premiere. I’ve never watched a Lord of the Rings movie all the way through, because I haven’t finished (started) them. I also never watched a Harry Potter movie without having read the book…except that one time I think I watched Chamber of Secrets because my dad was watching it and I didn’t know I was allowed to read them. Again with the digression.

This book is not the same way, and it sucks to say that, but I don’t think I could actually be at chapter 30 if I hadn’t watched the movie (the short one, with Kiera Knightley, not the four-hour BBC one that all you other intellectual brats brag about watching). And even now, I’m plowing slowly, but the dialogue is more meaningful, and at least I know there’s a happy ending, so I am motivated.

I’m usually not the fastest reader, because I can’t skip anything (except Up from Slavery, but I pretty much skipped the whole book, OOPS). I spend a lot of time taking things in and trying to catch all the little baby nuances that are crawling around in the paragraphs. For this reason, I often miss the big picture. I am of the opinion that the reason the movie helped was that it gave me a lattice that I could build all the flowery language on, in order to provide surety that there was actually deeper meaning behind all the British jibber jabber. Truthfully, each sentence is a maze, and I’m not taking in so much of it because I’m so caught off guard by how much better people used to be at talking.

Going off of that, I don’t think I adequately grasped the character development that was necessary the first few times through the book, because I was trying so hard to understand what the heck everyone was saying. My most explicit example is Mrs. Bennet, who, at the most, I only identified as moderately eccentric. Then I watched the movie, and now, as I read, I am more aware of her ridiculousness, and now better understand just how much of a TOTAL PSYCHO she is, and that has made things so much clearer.

Also, Mr. Collins? What the flip? Who is this guy?

Actually, let me start over.

Who is anyone in this book? Because I’m going to be completely honest, it sounds like my high school. To the t. Just replace marriage with winter freaking formal and we’re there. Maybe this is just girls, because some of these chicks are fifteen and sixteen, so it makes some sense. But you would think that people with such a sophisticated vocabulary would have their crap together.

So…uninformed character analyses! Go!

(As of right now, it is my greatest dream that someday my AP English teacher finds this and doesn’t think it a disgrace to literature, but the odds of that are low and currently plummeting even farther.)

Elizabeth is supposed to be the one everyone relates to, right? I’ll be honest, I kind of feel like half her, half Jane, because Liz has a little more chutzpah than I would be comfortable giving myself credit for, and Jane gets pushed around by people because she’s too trusting and unsuspecting, and…yeah, anyway. Me. But Elizabeth has more character development than really anyone, so I’ll assume that she was intended to parallel with most women.

Jane…as I said, is chill. The protagonist can’t be perfect, so they set up a foil for them that is essentially perfect, but still brings out the protagonist’s superiorities. That’s Jane. I think. Eh. I still like her. And Google Spellcheck is trying to tell me that superioriites and Spellcheck are not words. What is this.

Mary's the awkward bass player in this band of sisters. (pun!) I always forget she’s there, and expect her to sneak in and do things that are useful, but she just sings all the time and acts smart, and I kind of hate her until I realize that’s all I ever do. But if Mary’s the bass player, Kitty is the back-up guitar player, and all she does is play back-up guitar, not even back-up vocals or anything, and I don’t even think she’s crucial to the story except she's probably the only logical reason that Lydia hasn't gotten herself kidnapped.

UGH. LYDIA. WHY DID WE HAVE TO HAVE THE SAME NAME.

I’m trying not to use the word “slut” anymore, so I have nothing left to say on Lydia.

Mr. Collins. Geez.

Here’s what I think about Mr. Collins. Did you ever have that guy friend, who meant well but was super awkward, and always picked the randomest girls to go to dances with, and he’d be like, “Yeah, I think I’m going to ask Sarah (generic name) to winter formal,” and you’d say, “Oh…okay…um, mistake?” This would all happen because he talked to her one time at a football game, and you’d try so incredibly hard to persuade him not to, and then try so incredibly hard to format at least a cute, reasonable presentation of the offer, and then try so incredibly hard to console him when she said no, and then two days later he’d be like, “Hey, we should go together!” and you’d be like, “I’m sorry, what even,” and then you wouldn't communicate for a year aside from his hurt looks in the hallway.

That was seriously spot on. Snaps for myself.

The rest of the small characters are moderately generic…Miss Bingley, awful, Hursts, awful, Lady Catherine, eh. Mr. Bennet is in my top three fave literary father figures EVER, so that's great. Miss de Bourgh sounds like a real party pooper, but it might be because she’s deathly ill or something. Truthfully, I should probably cast judgment after I finish the novel. Or just not cast judgment. Ha. Oops.

I like Bingley (who will henceforth be affectionately referred to as “Bing bing”), even though his sister is a ditz. Bing bing is the foil for Darcy, because Darcy, even though he is the pensive, brooding, macho, prime love interest of the book, can’t be perfect, so Bing bing will be stereotypically perfect, which, in turn, will make Darcy look realistically perfect. Darcy’s character development isn’t quite there yet, but I’ve heard he’s swell. This is only slightly hampered by the effects of the film, so as perfect as Darcy becomes, in my mind, he will always have a ginormous nose. And that is okay.

--

As my roommate Nicole said once, so wisely, “That was a lot of words to say basically nothing.” In the course of this posting, I have burned myself on the potato dish, and eaten four pieces of bread with the aforementioned strawberry preserves. I’m sorry there was no stellar life advice included in this Happy Meal. Then again, even when I try, there usually isn’t.

If you’ll excuse me, I have a lab report to write.

Fin.

Caution: opinion(z) included.

I really wanted to start this post off, “Ladies and gentlemen!” but alas, this post is going to be horrifically discriminatory, and the phrase, “Ladies!” is so often connoted with, "...ladies,” which you have to read in a majestically deep man voice to be funny, and I didn’t know how to type that.

So.

…ladies.

I realize I go off on you a lot, which is really too bad, but you seriously need to get a hold of yourselves. Really, I need to get a hold of myself, so we’re all in this together. And once we know who we are, we’re all stars, and we see that. And that will show where we stand, hand in hand, TO MAKE OUR DREAMS COME TRUEEEE OHHHH… EVERYBODY NOW!

That actually summed up my sentiments pretty well, and I didn’t have to be purposefully cheesy. Next point.

You don't have to listen to anything I say. Except this: stop telling yourself you aren't good enough. You are freaking fantastic. You are unique and I know you tell yourself it's a bad thing that people don't understand and obsess over everything about you, but it's so completely a good thing. I promise. Your incongruencies are not inadequacies.

Also, incongruencies is not a word. Yet.

Well, it's too bad that got all mushy, because I'm honestly (no, dishonestly) just going to write out a long list of frustrations and only say one thing that's a little meaningful, maybe. I should probably just go ahead before it gets any worse. This might cut deep. The thought process behind it was this one time my ministry professor talked about how defining our vocabulary was our primary concern, because we so often throw around words we don’t actually mean or understand. This followed that plane of thought.

Happy crying.

Girlcabulary (I know, so creative, right?)

1. Boys: fluctuations in confidence.

So hopefully we’ve established that boys don’t have cooties anymore, but I guess they don’t have feelings either. I don’t understand why it’s fair for them to only matter as long as we’re okay with it. So they like you. So you don’t like them. So freaking what. Stop stringing them along like your plaything where if you push a button nice words come out and you feel good. It's pretty rude.

2. Conversations: periods of extended whining.

Example: this blog post.

3. Awkward: that one time when you didn’t elicit cheering as a response.

I’m going to be real with you: you not being unfathomably sexy every second of the day does not constitute as “awkward.” I was homeschooled. In the boondocks. You don’t even know awkward.

4. Social justice: being nice to people who are ostracized collectively.

I’m all for protecting people who have been served an injustice by culture. Just keep in mind, a lot of those people include all of those friends of yours who are, how do I say this… a lot to handle. As in, hanging out with them isn’t a chill night at the movies, it’s probably playing therapist. Or maybe their interactions have confused some of your friends with a lower “awkward” tolerance, and you don’t want everyone to know how close you actually are to them. Or, probably, they’ve been set up for a great joke right now, maybe at their expense, but hey, they aren’t here, and it’s not like it isn’t true…

I mean, thanks for playing, but just because they don’t have a show on TLC doesn’t mean they don’t deserve your respect either.

5. Ex-boyfriend: not actually proof of anything.

You know what phrase I’ve heard a lot? “Well at least you’ve had a boyfriend.” Do you know what phrase I said a lot in high school? “Well at least you’ve had a boyfriend.” Do you know what phrase literally makes no sense at all?

Hint: it’s a pattern. Figure it out.

Taylor Swift has like eleven thousand ex-boyfriends. She also has like eleven thousand million billion dollars because she wrote songs about them.

These are really the only positive results that have ever come out of a breakup.

6. Let’s get coffee: you’ll never get coffee.
Awk.

7. Eating: something to be embarrassed about.

WOMEN. STOP FREAKING OUT EVERY TIME YOU EAT. MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS IT IS FOOD. IT IS FOR YOUR BODY’S CONSUMPTION.

So you like chocolate. Eat chocolate.

Don’t announce to the planet you ate chocolate and are so embarrassed you did so. Obviously they understand. It’s flipping delicious.

8. Thin: better than being fat.

9. Fat: worse than being thin.

Do you even know what fat is? Or thin? Do you even know what healthy weight is? The only person who is allowed to tell you you’re “fat” (or thin) is your doctor, and he does that to help your heart, not your appeal. Beauty is not a mold you have to fit into, and if you don’t, then rough life. Don’t even freaking go there. First everyone liked curvy women, then Twiggy-like women, then white women, then ethnically diverse women, then oh look, the cultural norm shifted, because that’s never happened before. There is something pretty darn attractive about you someone just hasn’t brought up yet. Wait it out.

10. Feminism: women have the right to be terrible people.

Before any of you pee your pants with indignation, let me explain. I don’t have issues with women’s rights. I think women are just as capable as men, and that it is wrong to be treated differently. What I’m tired of is feminism that involves yelling at men who offer their seats to you in the bus or bashing all of the opposite gender because they are incompetent (unless it comes to having babies, then bash away) or tyrannical or promoting the oversexualizing of women. I’m not saying they all aren’t, because some of them definitely are. But you play along with it. I don’t care if men want you to look like a Victoria’s Secret Model every morning, noon, and evening; you’re the one who’s walking around basically naked.

Feminism is not when the prince shows up and looks bravely up at a lava-surrounded castle’s tower and cries out, “Princess, let me save you from the fire-breathing dragon and your stifling isolation!” shouting over the roar of said fire-breathing dragon—who happens to be gnawing at her window and breathing fire, as usual—brandishing his sword and his newly purchased bridge-building kit, and looking all studly and capable, only to hear her call out, “No thanks, I got it, and I’m insulted that you think I’m not capable enough to manage my own affairs!” and then she is swallowed, and the prince is like, “What?”

Feminism is when the prince shows up and looks bravely up at the castle tower and yells, “Princess, let me…wait, what?” and notices suddenly the body of a once-fire-breathing dragon spanning the moat of lava, and the princess brandishing her fists of steel, saying, “Thanks for the sentiment, but I figured it out,” and the prince is all, “Cool, wanna make out?” and the princess says, “No thanks, I have standards.”

But that’s just my opinion.

11. Flirt: why someone else is a slut, but it doesn’t apply to you.

Why is everyone opposed to flirting? It’s great. Oh, that annoying girl is doing it, and she’s totally coming on to him, and SHUT THE FRONT DOOR SHE TOUCHED HIS ARM, oh my gosh, what a whore.

COOL IT. Yeah, flirting is annoying, but it’s part of life, and I don’t really think you can control it. If you can, and that works for you, then…well, fine. I mean, I can control my flirting, but it involves me staring at the floor and not being responsive to certain individuals.

“Hi, Lydia, how’s it going?”

“…….” *runs away*

That’s how I get men.

Don’t not flirt because other girls will judge you. As we’ve already established, we’re all horrible people. You can totally flirt and be classy, and you honestly probably will end up having to do just that someday. And if a boy doesn’t realize you like him, and you want him to realize you like him and that maybe he should like you, you probably should laugh at his jokes and tell him he has nice hair.

---

Well, sorry that was long. And offensive. And probably all wrong. Just remember: everyone matters. 
Including a lot of other people who happen to not be you.

And you.

fin.