The Thermostat War

I have convinced myself that my younger sister is a bug person from outer space. Now, now, don't start calling me crazy until after you hear the theory and take into account that I have been watching a lot of sci-fi lately.

Our apartment constantly suffers from being too freaking hot. However, no one agrees with me. I am aware that I am still fresh out of the car from Colorado, but Christ people they invented AC for a reason. On any given day I will find myself hot and sweating while sitting in my bedroom which is arguably the coldest room in the apartment. That's when I go to sneak a look at the thermostat.

Here's the thing about the thermostat. My sister polices it like her life depends on it. On any given day, we'll all be chilling in the living room and my sister will just passingly mention that she is cold. That's when I start cursing because there is a 95% chance that the thermostat is already set to eighty degrees and all hope of my survival has been tossed out the window like a the contents of a chamber pot. It's like an episode of Farscape up in here. I'm the Peace Keeper trying not to die from being over heated, while my sister is the space bug that doesn't understand that heat is not my ideal habitat.

My sister in this story.

Every time I get caught messing with the thermostat, I get chastised. In retaliation, have made it my personal duty to make sure that it never makes it above 80 degrees for an extended period of time. Every time I walk by the thermostat and no one is paying attention to me, I check to make sure that it is set to a temperature humans appreciate. This usually means turning it down from 90 at least once every two days. I know I now live in Florida, but come on people. The reason we don't go outside is because it's too damn hot. Can we at least make sure that's not also the case inside?

Its gets a bit absurd adjusting the thermostat every few hours, but my well being is at stake here. I am a sweaty enough person without adding in extra reasons why. Deodorant can only do so much people. My sister's boyfriend may not complain, but since he's a dude he gets to strip down to his boxers and chill on the couch. I on the other hand get the, "Avert your eyes!" reaction when I decide to hang out in my knickers and bra. I as of right now am challenging the bug people I live with to end this war. You keep the thermostat at a reasonably temp and I will avoid romping around in my underwear for extended periods of time. Sound fair?

Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

I will not survive the zombie apocalypse. That's right I said it. I fully admit to my inability to live through the inevitability of zombies eating us all. No one ever wants to admit that they will die the painful death of zombie food. Even I, proclaimer of my own demise, still have a plan to keep myself out of the zombie snack box. That being said, I will die because of reasons completely unrelated to the ones that will kill those of you who are terrified of spiders and have no idea how guns work.
 
POSSIBLE DEATH ONE (Except this one. This might be how some of you will die.)

The most likely cause of my demise will simply be that I'll have no idea that zombie meal time is going on outside, until one of my roommates comes in and eats my face.

Since, I don't have cable television in my apartment, the only way I keep track of what goes on in the world is over the internet and most of the time anything not having to do with pop culture gets skimmed over for more exciting things like "The Top Ten Guest Roles Of George Takei." (Not sure if that's actually an article, but probably.) So I will scan right over the one titled, "Zombies Have Captured Orlando" assuming it is some stupid publicity stunt and continue on with binge watching Star Trek on Netflix.

Me only moments before my zombie sister eats me.

Now to all you people like, "Won't the power go out at some point?" And to that you are absolutely correct and I still won't notice. I am in fact half mole so I have managed to not notice that the power was out for hours on end. I never turn on lights, and even if I did, I don't have any light source other than the window in my bedroom. (I actually kind of need to remedy that.) With my current living arrangements, I will just be sitting in my room on my computer or reading and will only notice that the power has gone out when I either get up for food and open the fridge or try to plug something in to charge. And in that case I will just assume that it will come back on in a little while and will resume reading by flashlight with my tasty snack. I could go on like this for days without thinking much of it.

There are only few things that will keep me from being the unaware hermit in my cave.

Option 1. I finally decide that I need electricity and get off my ass to go talk to the leasing office in which case I'll be immediately eaten by my super (or whichever one of my neighbors decides I look tasty).  This will take about 1-3 days depending on how much food I have that is actually dependent on the fridge.

Option 2. One of my roommates, the one that is not my sister, will insist we all go the park (because he's basically a puppy with human levels of  hygiene). We'll put on pants and bras (on some occasions he might put on a bra as well) and we'll step outside and then get eaten while we're waiting for him to unlock the car.

Option 3. It will start raining, and my sister will step outside to prevent her bamboo from being rained to death (that is actually a thing when you leave plants on the balcony). Then notice that there are a bunch of dead guys shambling around the neighborhood. This is our most likely chance of survival. But that will only last until the zombies realize there are snacks inside and climb in from out neighbors balcony to eat us.


POSSIBLE DEATH TWO

Assuming my sister's bamboo has saved us from being eaten by our neighbors and we manage to barricade ourselves inside long enough, there will be the problem of food. Once, we eat through the last of our ramen, rice, and canned beans we will have to brave the outside world for food. This will be about a week into the zombie apocalypse (We eat a lot and just don't have food). Our weapons will be a historically accurate tomahawk I own from reenacting, a couple decoration swords my sister's boyfriend owns, a couple wooden practice swords that I own, and possible a hatchet for splitting wood. In other words, we will make it to the car by the sheer luck of a Walking Dead character. Let's just hope the real zombie apocalypse specializes in television suspense.

Luckiest bastard ever!

Assuming we make it to the car and from there make it inside the grocery store. The next challenge is finding the foods that aren't expired, we're not allergic to, and haven't already been looted. In order to avoid being eaten by a zombie while reading ingredients (seriously it takes like two hours to grocery shop), we'll have to just take everything that is left (probably not much) and pack it into our car.

Then when we get it back into our apartment and again by Walking Dead luck make it back inside with all our food, I guarantee my roommates will have twice as much if not more food than I will. They'll have cans of lots of things that have tomatoes in them. Then they'll have lots of things that have potatoes in them. Heck they may even have real potatoes because those things last forever. While they are all eating canned chili, I will be eating the last of the cat food and will starve to death in the corner of our apartment ashamed that I even bothered eating the cat to survive. (I actually probably wouldn't eat the cat. She'd probably eat me though.)

Yeah, probably...

POSSIBLE DEATH THREE

The next possible way I will die is that somehow while we're all surviving the zombies I'll manage to get stung by a bee. Since there are no hospitals and zombies prevent us from getting anywhere I'll just die of a bee sting. Just 'cause other things are trying to kill us the normal things won't stop trying as well.

Muahahahahaha!

POSSIBLE DEATH FOUR

Assuming we've survived long enough to get out of our apartment and find some guns. I'll actually be able to shoot one well. (Yay! Crazy backwoods middle of nowhere families!) At this point I'll be super impressed at my zombie movie survival rate. By now I should definitely have been caught up eating people, but who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth. Then the next thing to kill me will be my clumsiness. We'll be running from the zombie hoard and will even be way ahead of them. That's when we're running up that hill to get away I trip, or slip, or just plain suddenly decide basic motor functions aren't for me and before you know it I'm tumbling down the hill headed to be dinner for my future friends.

Says my body to myself.

So without further ado, I apologize in advance to all you future zombies that I eat. Hopefully my jacked up jaw will give you a better chance of survival and I'll just drool zombie juices without actually breaking the skin.

Can I See Your ID?

Lady's and Gentlemen, I have baby face. I always forget that I have baby face until I try to be an adult then suddenly the world reminds me that I look pretty much like I'm fifteen. When I tell people this I hope at least one people will be like "Nah, Dude, you look at least eighteen." Sadly 'tis never the case. Instead what I get is, "You totally do." Sometimes this is a nod of agreement that someone has obviously noticed before, but never mentioned and other times it is a sudden realization all How I Met Your Mother style with glass shattering.

My sister however is the loud chewer.

Like every other child, I managed to make it through middle school with people generally aware what my age was. (This may also be because I never met anyone new in the time period and thus never had the baby face discussion.) Then I started high school and I was good for a couple years. Then suddenly everybody thought I was twelve for the next two.

THE AGE OF SIXTEEN

The summer after my sophomore year of high school was the year when I was 16 and the year that everyone thought I was 12. That was the year I learned all about the hardships of baby face. (It's a serious condition people.) It started when a friend of mine and her family were staying in a hotel in our hometown because they were in the process of moving to Germany and the crazy relatives invading my house made it uninhabitable. (There is way more to that store, but some other time perhaps.) Anyways my older sister, my friend, a friend of my sister, and me were all hanging out in the hotel lobby. Just talking about, to be honest, really boring things in between the flirting of my friend with my sister's friend. Then at some point however we ended up talking about how he's a writer and he writes these deep things. He of course asked if we wanted to read some of it. He pulled out his phone and passed it around showing his writing to my sister and my friend. Then when it got to me he was like, "Well, my writing's a little mature, I don't know if it's really appropriate for you."

Uhm what? I was sixteen at the time and went to high school with his sister who was literally only a few months older. I didn't even get to answer with a "How old do you think I am?" Because my older sister chimed in with the answer of how I was a mature teenage person not in fact a little kid tag along. Which allowed me to read the thing on his phone (I think it involved a reference to sex or something. I don't remember.), but really just made me seem much more like a little kid tag along trying to hang with the big kids. Also I didn't contribute a whole lot to the conversation before that either because A) I'm not a talker and B) It mostly existed for the sole purpose of my friend and him flirting.

Moral To The Story: Next time stay in the room and watch cartoons with friend's six year old sister.

THE AGE OF SEVENTEEN

When I was seventeen I had mostly forgotten about my baby face's existence because again I never met anyone new often enough for it to come up and I had at least one friend who was shorter and had more of a baby face. It had completely slipped my mind that people outside this bubble thought I was twelve until, I took a road trip down to Texas with my younger sister and mom for my grandmother's funeral. When we were at her wake (which in a way only my family could do was held at a podunk cowboy church) I was standing around nibbling at cheese cubes and a friend of my grandmother came over to say hello. And then she proceeded to inform me of what a beautiful girl I was and how all I needed to do was get my hair out of my eyes, maybe wear some more color and boys would be all over me. Again I was at a wake.

I was smiling politely when my mom came up. My grandmother's friend after introducing herself, continued the topic of the length of my bangs with my mother. (I had been having this same argument, debate, and on one occasion a half step away from being hogtied in the bathroom while my mother cut them for three years.) When my mother mentioned I was in high school somewhere in this conversation. That surprised the lady immensely and she turned to me and asked my age. To which I replied, "seventeen," in the most duh voice a teenager could possibly muster. To which the lady replied, "Oh, I thought you were twelve." From then on the discussion of my bangs ceased for the rest of the wake. 

Moral To The Story: Wearing black and having bangs covering your eyes at age 12 = I can make you into a lady one day. Wearing black and bangs covering your eyes at age 17 = Oh, nevermind. How about these cheese cubes huh?

AGE OF EIGHTEEN

Turning eighteen was really the most maddening part of  having a baby face because I wanted to go do things and be out in the world. Of course all my friends were underage so that never happened, but whatever. The saddest part though was just how udderly ridiculous it is being the oldest one yet the one only one who gets asked for ID.

One time I was with my aunt and younger sister bumming around target and I came across a five dollar copy of V for Vendetta, so I was all 'I'm going to buy this." Then we went to the checkout counter and I was all set to pay with my money and stuff and then she asked for my ID and I just went "huh? Why?" Because that movie is R rated and I look like a bleeding fifteen year old! Both of these are facts I forget because A) I don't think about my looking fifteen until someone brings it up and B) I don't categorize movies I like by maturity rating. (The zombies and guts sits right next to the cartoons and butterflies. So long as it's alphabetical of course.)

That one simple step of show my your ID to prove your not being a delinquent totally messed me up. I was not prepared! It totally frazzled my brain. I am an adult dammit! If I want violence, explosions, and dystopian societies, it should not be this difficult! But yeah, what should have been two minutes down the express lane took ten. I had to fight my ID out of my wallet because it decided this was the moment when it was going to cling onto the sides for dear life. Then I got it back and was like "now what?" That's when you pay stupid. In other words it was a clusterfuck and I now own a wallet with a clear viewer thing for my ID just in case of such a situation. (I also use adult grown up words like clusterfuck to prove my adultness.)

My younger sister, however, has managed to buy violent R rated movies without being ID'd.  I still have yet to master this and gone to buying R rated things online.

Moral Of The Story: Become a dude so I can grow a mustache and look older.

There was also the time when my younger sister and our friend were planning to go see Cabin In The Woods, but couldn't because I didn't look old enough so they asked for IDs and they didn't have theirs because they don't drive and high school IDs don't have your age. Also our friends mom doesn't look like our friend because she's white and our friend is half Saudi Arabian. So we gave up and went roller skating instead. Read about it here. 

AGE TWENTY

I am now twenty years old I still get ID'd for everything. In my entire adult life I have not been ID'd for a thing once. I bought a bottle of NyQuil and the cashier didn't ID me. I was so freaking excited that I practically danced home. (And then I coughed a bunch and passed out because I really needed that cold medicine.

While I no longer look like I'm twelve. (Yay! Boobs!) I still get told I look way young. When I was working on the set of a music video for school, the twelve year old actress was surprised that I was older than my co-art directer because according to her I look like I'm fifteen. So, I'm moving up in the world people. I now look old enough to drive a car with adult supervision.

I turn 21 in in two and a half months and I might as well just tape the blasted ID to my forehead for the festivities. This is why people need bar-codes tattooed on their arms. One little scan and boom you never have to fumble through your wallet to pull out your ID to prove you're an adult and can handle the responsibility of NyQuil again.

Tetherball

Tetherball is an incredibly dramatic sport. Requiring almost ninja reflexes and skill. At least that is what I discovered after I lost my epic Kung-Fu battle with one.

It started simple enough with an afternoon walk to the park. After the basic tomfoolery of jumping off swings and climbing things, we discovered the tether-ball. Standing there majestically calling our names to come and play with it.

The tetherball was up to no good however. It coaxed us in with the promise of a fun children's game, but left us (and by us I mean me) with only pain.  Round one was my younger sister and her boyfriend. It was a one sided battle where my sister spend the entire time cringing and ducking as though the inanimate ball on a string was going to eat her. If I had only headed that as a warning

An actually less terrified expression than what befell my sister's face.

I of course being an older sibling had to mock my younger sister for her terror. It was a ball on a string what possible horrors could it be hiding?

Then it was my turn to battle my sister's boyfriend in this game. The first round was well, sad to say the least. He served and the ball wrapped itself around the top of the pole where me and my shortness could not reach. Leaving me to leap upwards in an attempt that didn't even let me tap it with my finger tips.

After such a  fail that it can only be described as steering the Titanic, it was round two and my turn to serve. So that is exactly what I did. It went well and wrapped around the pole a couple times. There was even some decent volley. Then WAMP! It came careening back at me with vengeance and what I can only assume was it's evil plan all along. Where was I hit you ask?

Was it the face?

 

Was it the nads?

Just kidding. I don't have nads

Or was it just a sudden increase in gravity that caused me to land on top of the ball?

Actual Google image result for getting hit by a ball.

I'll give you as much time as it takes to read this sentence to confer with you team. (Were we actually playing with teams?)

The answer is the Solar Plexus! Ding ding ding! Do we have a winner? (Seriously do we?)

So that is how I lost my Kung Fu fight with a tetherball. Napoleon Dynamite, I salute you for surviving such an ordeal without mass amounts of pain.

I have come to the conclusion that tetherball is the boss battle of the playground and there is a very good reason that no one ever ever played it. Few are prepared for such an ordeal.

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.)