Hair

I am a member of the human race that was given the incredibly luck of having obscene amounts of hair. It works out well for me though since due to my pasty white ancestry the hair in places it's not supposed to be is blond rendering it near impossible to see unless you are looking for it. It works out well for me since shaving your legs is one of the biggest wastes of time humanity has ever come up with (and it's not even a good waste of time like the internet). That being said, the hair on top of my head is completely controlled by evil gnomes that don't believe I should ever look like a normal human being.

On top of my head is one full fledged enchanted forest of never ending hair.  When I grow my hair out it only looks a step or two down from StarFire in the 1980's.

Me: Pre-hair-cut

I have such insane thick hair that half an hour in a humid environment mixed with a lack of hair cut leads to me looking like I have some giant fluffy animal eating my head.

Sort of like that.

That second photo there is pretty close to the hair style I rock whenever I am in between hair cuts. My hair grows like a weed. A magic hair weed that consumes my head and I'm pretty certain if I didn't chop it off every few months it would just start eating people like the plant from Little Shop of Horrors (have to feed those hair gnomes someway I suppose).

My older sister actually tested the theory of what happens when you don't cut hair in our family. She doesn't even have as thick of hair as I do, but she has enough that if she was stranded on a desert island she could use her hair to make rope to lasso sea turtles (like Captain Jack only it actually happening. She cut her hair off once and cried at how short it was. Now she never cuts it and I have seen her hair eat a curling iron. (Not even joking it got stuck and took my mom three hours to excavate without just chopping it out.)

Less screaming than real life.

I had long hair up until the summer before eighth grade when I finally got sick of my head looking like a squirrel had made a nest simply by my having gone to gym class. I also sort of sucked at getting out of bed in the morning with enough time to actually brush my hair. It was a nightmare of hair. Judging by the amount left on the floor I'm pretty sure it joined together to love and pet and call a bunny George.

Pictured: my last hair cut.

I doesn't even matter if I've gone over a year without a hair cut, like the one I got last Christmas. Or if I've only gone four months. There is always so much hair on the ground. The lady that cuts it once suggested that she should just charge me by the pound. Not going to lie if barbers and hair dressers did that they would make a killing off me alone.

While my longer hair goes full fledged monster, my short hair prefers to go action anime. While my longer hair still manages to defy gravity my short hair doesn't even bother believing in it's existence. It's an old wives tale that the ends of my hair have passed down to the roots. While everyone with short hair gets that your hair will spike if you sleep on it wet, all I need to do is sleep on it. I can have showed, shaped it to look nice, let my hair dry entirely, and even attempted sleeping while sitting up, yet when I wake up in the morning it always manages to look like a cow attempted to lick the hair right off my head.

Mythical head licking cow the teleports into my room while I sleep.

On same days I get lucky though and I manage to not have just that one gravity defying spot of hair, but my entire head. On those occasions I happen to look very much like Goku from Dragon Ball. Gravity be damned!

Also, my actual face when woken up

I'm pretty sure that's how they designed his hair. They just took some kid with a god awful amount
of hair, had them take a nap, then drew it. What's sad is I don't even have to have been living in the woods for months without parental supervision for it to happen.

Moving to Florida (Plus A Side Note About Chess)

I am currently in the process of moving and I will tell you right now it is hellacious. There are the normal reasons it sucks like packing, and figuring out what to get rid of then there are the special headaches that are reserved just for me because I happen to be a member of the Robinson family.

PART ONE: MY DECISION
I decided to move to Florida with my younger sister and her boyfriend on what seemed like a whim to most people. I know this because there is no shortage of people that have told me so. My sister first suggested that I move to Florida with her and her boyfriend months ago. Like at the beginning of the semester number of months ago (I don't feel like doing math so figure it out for yourselves people). I thought about it and figured I was just going to stay in Denver. Then I spent months with a deadbeat roommate, spent more time on sets than at home, dealt with a shitty teacher and annoying censorship at my school, had birds make a nest in my air conditioner, went to my uncle's funeral, and collected bugs in my apartment.

I was indecisive about it at first because everyone you ever talk to about moving has like eight million tons of advise and opinions. None of which is really all that helpful. From my mother I got, "What about finishing up your degree?" From my sisters I got, "You'll find better jobs and get to do cool stuff in Florida." From friends you get, "I'm going to miss you." (Which so far is the only valid point mentioned.) And of course the most classic and totally obnoxious two cent penny I've received thus far, "You're going to be a perpetual third wheel if you share an apartment with you sister and her boyfriend." To that I scream bullshit. I am close friends with my sister and I'm close friends with her boyfriend. I can hang out with either if the other is not around and best of all, I can hang out with neither because doing stuff by yourself is actually fun. You should try it sometime.

I just want to go somewhere different for awhile. I will still be working on films. I will still be enjoying myself. I will just be living with roommates I like, without birds or bugs indoors (as much), and without getting snowed in because Mother's Day is apparently still winter. I am so excited to move. Especially the part about moving out of my stank hole apartment. (That morning bird chirping sound is a lot worse when the birds live in a box that is halfway inside your apartment.)

The reason it seems like the decision was such a whim is because I just suck at telling people in a timely manner. As my life tends to go, a lot of other chaos is always involved and I don't always feel like announcing what I'm doing to the world because it involves talking. Lots and lots of talking. Something I don't like to do as often as all you normal overly chatty people. I was the kid who would pretend that I was a mute when playing pirates with my sisters because I wanted to play but didn't want to talk.

PART TWO: TRANSPORTATION
While deciding to move was a challenge in and of its own, the real challenge was figuring out how I was getting there. I do not have the stamina to bicycle across country, so the debate was fly or see if a friend would help me move. Flying sounded terrible, so I got one of my guy friends to come with, but then his car died, so I was screwed. That is when my parents actually jumped in with a solution.

My parents would give me my mother's old Dodge Neon if I could afford the repairs. So my friend still agreed to drive with and just fly back. It however took forever to actually hear anything about whether or not I had a car to drive. My friend had to drop out of the trip because mechanics in Middle of Nowhere, Wyoming don't believe that diagnosing a car's problem can take any less than half a month.

Finally though I had a car. I just had to have my mother bring it down for me and teach me how to drive stick. The thing about driving stick is it sucks. I can do it and I'm not terrible (I'm still not good), but it is a pain in the ass. I have come to the very real conclusion that people who prefer driving stick to an automatic are the same people that like to over complicate everything. My mom does it, my dad does it, and one of my guy friends does it. They all prefer driving stick and make everything a complicated nightmare. (I know I will get a lecture about why sticks are better from my mother and father later for this, but it is mostly just added pain in the assery.)

When I initially learned to drive my mother attempted to teach me and I almost lost my mind in the process, so I had a family friend teach me because my mother, while I love her, drives me up the wall with over helping. Having her teach me to drive stick was just painful. While everyone squeals tires, pop the clutch, and kills it at stop lights when first learning, only I had access to the constant influx of my mother's helpful little tips.

Every time I had an issue she was telling me what I did wrong and every time I did good she told me I did good. While that doesn't sound so bad, let me just say she just kept talking. Repeating herself every time I did anything. I actually had to tell her to shut up because the constant influx of "that was too much gas/not enough." or "Don't release the clutch so quickly." combined with "You just keep getting frazzled calm down." does not actually help me. (That constant feed back is exactly why I quit chess.) I see what I did wrong. Stop telling me and let me think for half a second. I don't do well with constant feedback all it does is annoy me and frustrate me. I have a long history of figuring things out on my own because people over teaching makes me want to scream (and trust me my parents are masters of over teaching.)

My mother had to leave before I became an expert in driving stick, so I'm still working at it, but it is so much easier to figure out how to switch gears when your mother isn't trying to over explain it to you. I love my parents dearly and thank them immensely for the car, but there is a slight hatred for driving stick imbedded in there. It is so over complicated and did I mention that parking is evil.

PART THREE: MOTHER'S VISIT
I love my mother I really really do. She is however really really maddening. In order to teach me how to drive stick and to help me pack my mother stayed with me for about three days. The first night I had plans to hang out with some friends before everyone left for summer vacation. It was a night of cards against humanity and booze. While I  was gone my mom did the mom thing and cleaned some and was asleep when I got back at 1:00am.

The next day was when my perpetual inner scream started. My mother awoke me at 7:00am. Waking up at seven in the morning sucks any ways, but waking up at 7:00am with a slight hangover after going to bed at 1:00am and an expectation that you should be perky is like putting your head in a vice grip and attempting to dance the tango without any knowledge that it's a dance.

We packed, we cleaned, we sorted, and my mother does not believe in breaks. While I wanted to take a nap by 9:00am, she kept going and insisted that we couldn't stop for anything except lunch and bedtime. My mother is the cleaning version of the Energizer Bunny she just keeps going and going and going all the while telling you and telling you and telling you about all the stuff you have to do.

That alone could drive me insane. Then you add in the driving lessons and I was in straight up zone out mode barely listening to anything my mother said because it all involved how much packing I needed to do. By the end of the weekend when my dad picked her up all I wanted to do was sleep for three day and not talk to anyone.

PART FOUR: THE PHONE
Since my mom left she has called me every single day this week at a ratio of more than once a day. There went my plans to not talk to anyone as well as my sleeping plans. Monday through Wednesday it wasn't just my mom calling. It was my entire family on in succession at 9:00am. I would ignore the first call from my mother and go back to sleep. Then my older sister would call. Followed by my aunt and my younger sister. I somehow managed to be born into a family that is entirely comprised of morning people who all need to talk to me at nine in the morning.

All week long I have gotten so many damn phone calls I am going insane. My mother calls me everyday to ask how the packing and driving is going. She is driving me insane. Absolutely insane! That paired with my dislike of talking and the fact that everyone else keeps calling me is making me crazy. I have had conversations about the new apartment with my younger sister, conversations about Netflix issues with her boyfriend, lectures about packing from my mother, and a call from a friend in a "crisis." (She forgot her jacket before getting a giant tattoo so she needed to borrow one to hide it from her mother when she went home.) I love all these people dearly, but leave me alone! Dear god stop talking. I'm about to put them all in time out. (Or at the very least change my phone number.)

CONCLUSION
Now all I have to do is finish packing up all my stuff on my own. I'm not too worried about it and I will find a way to fit everything into the car (despite my mom telling me otherwise). It's chaos and packing sucks, but if people will STOP CALLING ME, I may actually finish before I leave.



PS: WHY I QUIT CHESS
In fourth grade I got really into chess. I learned how to play it and discovered it was really fun, so I joined chess club. I got to play with people and actually got pretty good at it. Then in fifth grade I could no longer participate in chess club. It was my own fault, so I really can't blame anyone other than myself. Still, the reasoning is just dumb.

There was a rule in fifth grade that if you had missing assignments you had to go to after school detention on Wednesday nights. This was supposed to teach us responsibility. (It did no such thing.) All it did was keep me from joining chess club which was scheduled for the same time.

Rather than playing chess I sat in a room where I was supposed to be making up homework. I did make up some assignments, but I always had at least one assignment that was never finished. This assignment was to color pilgrims. Since I could see no educational value in coloring them nor anything interesting about it, I spent every Wednesday for a year in detention. It got to the point where they even made a special section of detention for all us kids that refused to do our homework. (I was the only one that was there because of coloring.)

Anyways, since I couldn't go to chess club I was forced to find people who would play me outside of it. This meant my dad. My siblings played once or twice, but never got into it. My dad did. It was fun at first until he started teaching me. (I will note I taught him how to play to begin with.) Every time I would lose a piece he would tell me what I did wrong. I knew what I did wrong and would make a note to fix it next time before he started talking. It got to the point where I stopped playing chess all together because I didn't want a five minute lecture every time I lost a pawn.

As a result, I having once been good at chess, now haven't played since middle school when my out of practice butt was kicked five times in ten minutes by a friend who had a parent that wasn't annoying to play chess with.

Screw Unicorns! I'm a Rhino!

Okay, the fact is everyone loves the internet. It's a thing a lot of people would give up their right foot to spend time on simply because they can do more things without a foot and with the internet than they can with a foot and without the internet. (Yay! Technology!) Anyways there's a meme going around of a rhino that wants to be a unicorn. It looks a lot like this.

I'd seen it a few times and even thought it was cute at first. Then this morning something about this illustration hit me. It's glorifies negative body image. It doesn't matter how often that little rhino runs on the treadmill, nothing short of an encounter with a genie is going to turn him into a unicorn.

I get that the image is supposed to be cute, but when you think about it more than the passing Facebook news scroll, you realize how messed up it really is. (Either that or just suddenly have excessive amounts of free time like me.) In our society there is constantly a lot of talk about body image and how media helps to either make it better or worse. That rhino pictured above has grown up in a society where unicorns are the most beautiful and majestic mythical creatures out there and everyone should strive to be one. That's not unlike our society where supermodels combine with photoshop to make one mythical Frankenstein's Monster of a Barbie Doll. 

As of late there are a lot of things like this going around.

They use the unicorn to represent individuality, by putting everyone in a perfect unicorn costume and pretending everyone eats butterflies and poops rainbows. (Yes, that was a Horten Hears a Who Reference.) The problem is being yourself doesn't lead you down the path to mythical perfection. It leads you down a path where you scrape your knees, collect a few scars, and by the end of the day have some badass stories to tell or at the very least an indepth knowledge of Grey's Anatomy thanks to Netflix.

Being yourself is about being yourself. It's not about attaining some level of awesome that doesn't exist like a unicorn. It's about just being a level of awesome that's imperfect, scraped up a bit, and actually exists like a rhino. So screw being a unicorn. I'm a rhino! I will rock my pale tubby tummy in a bikini even if it blinds the entire beach because it's far more comfortable than farting glitter and pretending my Edward Cullen paleness sparkles without it. (Yes I did just imply the Edward Cullen farts glitter.)