Rachel Slurs

Sometimes when I compare myself to other men, it seems as if I were more favored by the gods than they.

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The Time I Was Almost Abducted—A Memoir

There I was running away from the corner of South Douglas and Tenth Avenue South, the faint taste of cheap whiskey still on my tongue, running not only from the beaten up pickup truck, but also from all remnants of my innocence that remained. 

Let me take you to the beginning. 

It was just like any other Wednesday afternoon in Tennessee. Hot as fuck and so humid that when you breathe in you barely get any oxygen, you just get a thick gust of moisture. I had been trying to shed some of the tragic freshman fifteen I had gained so I decided to go on my daily walk around the neighborhood. My friend Rick was in town, so I felt safer and less alone during the walk. 

Little did I know, I was a little too comfortable. 

After about two miles, Rick couldn’t take the stress of the heat and exercise so he decided to light up a cig, something he did oh so often, we thought nothing of it. Although I myself am not a smoker, I never mind being surrounded by it because I feel like it doesn’t affect me. I had never been more wrong. We take a right off of Tenth Avenue onto a small street consisting mostly of homes, South Douglas Street. Casually walking and smoking, minding our own business, not knowing that our lives were about to change for good. I hear a CLANK CLANK CLANK BANG RUGUHRUGHUHRAGRUHRUHU in the distance. The noise grows louder and louder, it was at this moment I look to my left and see a red Chevy pick up truck that had to be from the 70’s or 80’s. The car slowly came to a stop about a foot away from me. 

"Hey boy can I buy one of those cigarettes off you?" An approximately 76 year old black man leaned out the window and asked Rick. 

Rick responds that he is welcome to a drag, free of charge. I swear in this moment I thought I saw the man’s eye tear up, but the absolute truth of this statement can’t be validified. 

"Y’all got any other kind of smokes? You know what a mean? Been a long day. You know what I mean? Girl?"


Nobody speaks for a few moments. 

"Here take a swig of this here whiskey!" The driver kindly commands. 


"Take a swig of this here whiskey! Least I could do for y’all good people giving me a cigarette." 


"Come on now, take a swig! I can’t leave you unpaid for this cigarette." 

Rick and I exchange glances. Telepathy must exist because we somehow convinced each other that we should do what this man tells us to do without speaking to each other aloud. 

Rick steps forward first and takes a swig of the whiskey the man provides. He says thank you and walks away. I thought maybe I could get off easy considering I didn’t loan the initial cigarette that caused this strange trade, but the driver stared at me with his glossy eyes. I didn’t know what to do. My heart was saying no, but my mind was saying yes. It was like an out of body experience. One minute I’m planning on running in the opposite direction, and the next thing you know, I’m standing inches from the driver, taking a gulp of this god awful whiskey that was given to me. 

"Y’all are good people. Bless you! God bless you!" The man said before he drove away. The fifteen seconds it took him to drive off of South Douglas Street was probably the longest fifteen second period of my life. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. For a minute I convinced myself there was anthrax in the whiskey and I was dying and I would never see my cat, Fluffy, ever again. I didn’t even get to tell her bye. 

Moments later I snap back into consciousness and hear Rick screaming for me to come on, that we have to get home because we possibly could have been drugged with some sort of medication that would immobilize us, and the man would be back any second to abduct us. I’m not much of a runner, my flat feet have never permitted, but I tell you what, I think I could have qualified for the olympics with the sprint I took from South Douglas back to my home. Through the haze I managed to have 911 and my mothers number pulled up in case I were to fall. Some could say this was my own fault. That I should have run away. But I am a victim. I will not be ridiculed or judged because of this. It’s a miracle that I am alive today. I, Rachel Wilson, am a walking miracle. 

The moral of the story is to never walk down South Douglas street with anyone who smokes cigs.

Taking whiskey from a stranger is completely normal and fine and you should not let anyone tell you otherwise.

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A Date from Hell

This may come as a surprise to all of you, but finding a date to functions has always been an ordeal for me. There are so many yet so few options. Do I want a hot asshole, a sober gentlemen, a shit show life of the party, or a desperate guy that I know will hook up with me because what are his other options? I won’t tell you which one of these categories I picked for the main character of the following story, but just know it was a disaster.

Like I said, finding a date for a function is just a complicated process. I put off the decision for weeks before settling on what I thought would be good enough for this date party. I just needed someone there to take a picture with me to post on Instagram, dance with for a song or two but not too long at the same time, and leave me the hell alone when I’m trying to go home. Well. I did not get my dream date. I did not get him at all.

First, he never told me when he arrived at my humble abode of my dorm room. He just sat in the lobby for 15 minutes waiting for me to come down. Because of this, we were fifteen minutes late to the pre game. I was fifteen minutes behind in the alcohol consumption than everyone else. Strike 1, man.

Everything was fine for a few minutes, I sat down, ordered my pitcher of margaritas, and talked to my friends. Then the strangest thing happened. He wanted to sit next to me and…. talk. And I don’t mean fun talking where you converse about people you hate or tell funny stories. Oh no. He rambled on political jargon and spoke of his hatred for President Obama.

“I’m just trying to get drunk,” I respond after his ranting and raving had ceased for a few seconds. I hate everyone, so I understood where his passion was coming from, but this was neither the time nor the place for that shit.

He goes to use the bathroom or hide from the embarrassment, I”m not really sure but I made sure to tell the waiter that everything would be on his ticket while he was away.

He walks back from around the corner with two drinks. “Please don’t be for me please don’t be for me please don’t be for me,’” I pray as he makes eye contact with me. Shit. He sits down and speaks about his career goals in risk management and his interests in golf. He says he’s failing business calculus one, yet has the audacity to laugh at me when I voice my aspirations and says, AND I QUOTE: “Don’t you think you should just be a stay at home mom or something?’”

Listen here fucker, I won’t stay at home and clean up after someone like you, a piece of shit, selling fucking insurance for a living and golfing in your free time. You can’t pass business calculus, I am in calculus two. You literally just said you failed your last paper for plagiarism, I made an A in honors writing. You are garbage. You are filth. When I asked you why you hated the president, your response was, “He isn’t an American citizen.” At this point the liquor has gotten the best of me and I’m just madder than Kanye West during Taylor Swift’s acceptance speech. Do you realize how much the government looks into every single person who boards a fucking airplane? I’m pretty sure they will look into who is living in the damn White House. It’s cool to disagree with politicians, we all do it. But he justified the ludicrous statement by saying, “Donald Trump offered him one million dollars if he would just provide his birth certificate, he wouldn’t provide it, that must mean he doesn’t have it.”

….. Is this a joke? Who is this ignorant piece of shit buying me drinks? I ask myself. After I realize that I’m not hearing things, that this is real life, and I’m on a date with the biggest douche bag, I reply, “He has his own fucking air plane, there is an actual bowling alley in his home, he wears Armani suits just because it is Tuesday, he is the President of the United Fucking States, why the hell would he need Donald Trump’s one million dollars?”

I angrily grab the beer from his hand that he had brought me, and desert him until we go to the actual party. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, It does. The pre game was only the beginning of my night of misery. We arrive to the venue and at this point, I’m just trying to escape his clutches. But he finds me. He always finds me. I go to the bathroom, he waits outside. I dance with my friends, HE STANDS BEHINDS ME AND WATCHES. There is no escaping this man. I’m doomed. He grabs me and tries to “grind” to RESPECT by Aretha Franklin. I turn around and just stare. I literally just looked him in the eyeballs with the most shameful look, staring past his eyes and right into his soul. One does not rub their genitals on a woman while an Aretha Franklin song is on. I think he got that I was angry and asked if I’d like another drink. I wanted nothing from him (and I already couldn’t see very well and felt nauseated and on the verge of death and having out of body experiences) so I said no. He said, “Why are you being so whack?” THE FUCKING NINETIES CALLED AND THEY WANT THE WORD “WHACK” BACK. I cannot, I really cannot. I was so done with this boy.

I dance the rest of the night away with my dear friend Katie, and had the time of my life. I may or may not have grabbed the mic, performed an a cappella rap to Push It by Salt N Peppa with a girl one year my senior, and hidden from embarrassment and the fear of being sent to sorority court for improper behavior at a social function. It was time for me to go. I thought there was a chance I could sneak away and leave without him noticing, and for a minute I thought I would actually succeed with this plan. But no. There he was. Waiting for me by the bus, in a deep conversation with another guy about abortion. TALKING ABOUT ABORTION AT A COLLEGE SOCIAL EVENT WHEN THEY ARE BOTH GUYS AND WILL NEVER PHYSICALLY BE CAPABLE OF GETTING AN ABORTION ANYWAYS WHAT IS THIS LIFE I AM LIVING. DAMMIT LET ME WAKE UP FROM THIS NIGHTMARE. It was rock bottom for that evening. But that’s the thing about rock bottom, you can only go up. I don’t know who was watching over me that evening, but something magical happened. The bus we were riding broke down, and we were all forced to load on another bus with more people from the function. Fate brought me to a girl named Marley who had a vacant seat. Seconds later the bus driver exclaims that if you are not seated you have to get off the bus and someone will come seat you. Well guess who was not seated, my date! My real live terrible date was standing in the isle no where to go but off the bus! I heard him call my name so I literally hid under the seat so he would not see me. I felt the bus begin to move. Success. I had escaped his clutches.

No more than forty-two seconds later I feel my phone urgently vibrating non-stop. It’s him. No. Not tonight, sir.I turned off my phone, and if I were ever to be questioned on what exactly happened I’d simply reply that my phone died. I was on cloud nine. Then we pulled up where everyone gets let off. And you’ll never believe it. There. He. Fucking. Was. Waiting. For. Me. I was not getting off that bus. I begged the bus driver to let me stay on until that boy got the hell off the premises and to tell him the bus was empty. To my great surprise, he did it! He let me stay on, and when the boy wouldn’t move, he proceeded to drive me and the others hiding from their dates around campus. HIs name was Big Kountry with a K and he is now my most loyal cab driver and dear companion. He drove around and dropped us off at the dorms. To this day I will forever be grateful for Big Kountry, and I’m convinced he is my fairy godmother.

It took me months to decide if I should post this for fear that it would hurt the poor boy’s feelings. And then I remembered he told me I should be a stay at home mom and he talked about abortion at an event I invited him to that was supposed to be about dancing and booze. Not to mention the fact that I never really want to cross paths with him again considering I receive shirtless snap chats of him on a weekly basis that I never respond to. Needless to say I no longer care what the repercussions of this blog post are. Life is hard. But with perseverance and Big Kountry, you can pull through.

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Why I Cannot: A Take on Self-Hatred

I’m not typically one for seriousness, but I am a huge fan of voicing my opinion, for I feel the world deserves to know what I have to say. A large majority of the world disturbs me and upsets me, but something happened in my writing class today that I haven’t been able to shake. I was asked to write down everything I hate about myself and how I could change. To some, this may seem to be a simple, menial task. To me, it was a stab to the heart. Instead, this is what I wrote:

A year ago, I could have filled pages upon pages of a spiral notebook with everything I hate about myself. I could have endlessly written on traits I wish I could change, what I could alter about myself. I could have bled self-hate all over a blank page. Today… today is different. I can’t do the assignment. I won’t.

I spent a large majority of my life hating the person I was, cursing God for making me so different, and questioning the purpose of why I was even here if I had to deal with so many hardships. We’re taught from such a young age to idolize people in the media and covet the lives of others. I obsessed over trying to alter my bodily appearances, hide my personality that seemed so different from others, and being dissatisfied with my life overall.

6 months ago I looked into the abyss and to my surprise the abyss looked back. I woke up one Tuesday morning and decided I could not do it anymore. I physically couldn’t handle hating myself so much; it was ruining every aspect of my wonderful life that I had been unable to appreciate. I couldn’t continue to unhealthily achieve my ideal body weight. 10 extra pounds wasn’t worth my hair thinning out, my teeth and nails yellowing, and a strange greenish tint to my skin that forced me to always wear make-up, a daily task I had always hated, to cover the peculiar discoloration. It wasn’t worth not having enough energy to even get out of bed some days to make it to school or go out with my friends. Coming to terms with the fact I had such an unhealthy obsession with my weight that it was a disease was one of the hardest things I could ever do.  I spent days alone searching for answers about what to do, and then it hit me like a pound of bricks. No one cares if I’m a size 4 or a size 6 besides me. Nobody would love me just because I was a few pounds smaller, and I had already disastrously realized that nothing about my body would secure the person I love in my life. I put my happiness into tangible things like a boy, a great one but still just a boy, and a number on a scale, a number that doesn’t define who I am yet I defined myself by it for 4 years. When I lost the perfection of both of those, I thought my world was crashing down. It took completely losing myself to find myself. To discover who I am. I’m not one to throw scripture in your face, but one verse has gotten me through all of this. Romans 12:2 says, “Do not conform any longer to the patterns of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing, and PERFECT will.” I was so in awe of God and his plan for my life the moment I first read that, and I have read it every day since. I submitted to the ways of the world today, obsessing over an ideal body weight and wanting to be the girl in all the movies that guys whoo over. I was so focused on what I wanted that I failed to see the plan God has already laid out for me. A perfect plan.

6 months ago I felt more alone and insecure than I ever had in my entire life. I was in a new school, away from my old friends and my old life, and I was scared.  I didn’t want to be scared to be myself anymore. I didn’t want to continue my life pleasing everyone but myself.  Making everyone happy, but making myself miserable.  I wanted to love myself and be loved for who I truly am, not the person I had pretended to be for so long. That’s why I blog, I love to write. Your endless comments about what I write won’t stop me. I don’t write them for you. What’s the point of language if you don’t say what you feel? My sense of humor is strange, I like to read more than I like television, and I can’t turn down a bagel or a bowl of ice cream to save my life. I really don’t own a hairbrush because who has time to brush their hair, I wear the clothes I wear because I like them, and I talk or laugh or cry whenever I feel the need to do so. Anything you say negatively about me, I’ve said it to myself before. But I won’t say it again. I can’t continuously hate the person God made me to be, because he crafted my life so wonderfully and full of so much to look forward to. I will not complete my writing assignment. I will not submit to self-hatred any longer.

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Why You Didn’t Have a Valentine

(Alternative name for this blog was Why Everyone is Beginning to Hate You. Both are applicable.) 

It’s that time of year again. Valentine’s Day. A holiday fabricated by the bastards of Hallmark to make money and spread love and cheer throughout world. While you’re spending your time reflecting on how you failed in finding a Valentine yet again and self-loathing, others are enjoying a romantic evening with their lovers. If you are one of the many people alone, here is why: 

You’re trying far too hard to find a significant other. Perhaps one of the most unattractive traits in a person is the inability to be alone. If you have dedicated a great deal of your time to finding someone to make you happy and love you, you’re a miserable person to be around and nobody is ever going to love you until you can be happy alone in your pitiful life. Harsh? Maybe. Untrue? Not at all. 

You have too much baggage. Nobody likes a person with issues, especially ex issues. If you continue to bitch and complain about the failed loves of your past, you’re going to annoy the shit out of everyone and run them all away. Hence why no one seems to be around right now. We realize that your boyfriend left you for some blonde bitch who looks better than you but kinda sux and that you’re upset. We understood after the first four social media posts and will continue to understand until you STFU. Something about a guy with baggage just really sends me over the edge. Every time I hear a guy whining about his ex girlfriend hooking up with somebody else I just want to kill myself while simultaneously castrating him because he doesn’t deserve properly working genitalia if he says that shit aloud. When it comes to sulking over the past, it is imperative to remember what the late, great Tupac Shakur once said, “You can spend minutes, hours, days, weeks, or even months over-analyzing a situation; trying to put the pieces together, justifying what could’ve, what would’ve happened. OR you can just move the fuck on.” Beautiful. 

You have unrealistic views of love. Stop reading Nicholas Sparks and comparing your life to One Tree Hill. Don’t set your standards so high because the chance of you finding somebody hot as well as really nice and smart and cunning, and perfect are really slim to none these days. Why do you think The Notebook is so sweet? They die. They fucking die. One of them has fucking memory loss and doesn’t remember the other one. Do you really want that? Is that perfect? Do you really want a love like Chuck and Blair? Because Chuck cheated on Blair with the scum of the earth, Jenny Humphrey. Is that what you want? Stop comparing your life to television and the media and pay attention to the genuinely nice people you encounter on an everyday basis that yeah maybe they don’t look like Ed Westwick or Ryan Gosling but they will give me, um you I mean, the love and compassion you oh so desire and deserve. 

You’re as incompetent as a wooden table.  Ignorance is definitely the most unattractive trait one can possess. Crossed eyes are a close second. This may cut ya like a dagger, but nobody wants to spend such an important day like Valentine’s Day with somebody who can’t carry on a conversation any better than a brick wall can. Not being aware of what’s going on in the world today and struggling to pass geometry as a senior in high school is a one way ticket for being alone for the rest of your life. Read a book, enlighten yourself, learn something interesting so that you can one day carry on an actual meaningful conversation with the significant other you may obtain. 

You’re Unattractive See “What To Do if You’re Unattractive” here

You’re trying too hard to convince everyone you’re happy alone. Nothing looks more pitiful than someone exclaiming, “I’m so happy being alone this year! Happy Valentine’s Day to myself I don’t need anyone to make me happy!” You’re not fooling anyone. We all know you’re miserable and sulking all day because no one got you a fucking human sized teddy bear from Walgreens. And now I’m miserable because you’re annoying me and pissing me off and ruining my Valentine’s day along with yours for the next decade because no one believes you and sees right through your distraught cries of self loathing. 

Many of you may be thinking, “Wow this is really cruel. Who is she with on Valentine’s day anyways?” My love life or lack there of is none of you guys’ business, and I may or may not be guilty of a few things listed above. If you must know, on this particular day I am in a bind. For about a year now I’ve been trapped in a constant love triangle. My love for myself and wine has always been conflicting, I can never choose one or the other. On one hand I feel like I’m really the only person who understands myself. On the other, a nice glass or four of wine has always been there for me in my time of need and distress. Tonight I will have both. A ménage à troisin a sense. Cheers. 

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Pike Swap 2012: a Memoir

It started with a Rihanna song and a double bottle of Barefoot Moscato, like all good nights. I braided my hair, carefully applied my war paint, and threw on a ripped up tank top with tribal print fabric tied around me to be the hottest Native American you’ve ever seen. Here begins the story of Pike Swap 2012. 

Recently coming into a srat that I will not associate myself with on the internet, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had heard stories, but wasn’t expecting what was about to occur at my first swap. In high school I had been to dances and formals, but nothing like this. It all began with the “pregamming”, a name that leads to much confusion considering there was no game. I’m not exactly sure of the origin of this word, but I’m not fan. Any who. The pregamming commenced at approximately 6:15 pm on a Monday evening. Sipping turned into chugging. Walking turned into falling down a flight of stairs. And talking turned into hysterically ugly crying over the failures of my past. At about 8:23 I attempted to pull myself together and walk to frat row with my clique. 

I walk into the Pike house to discover that everyone there is much more of a shit show than I. Thank God. I lay low, hang out on the wall, and go for the “mysterious” look to cover up the fact that I can’t feel my toes or Achilles’ tendons. There was a 93% chance I would fall completely on my face if I moved from this spot. In a ten minute span I was approached by a senior dressed as an Indian chief that asked me four times where I was from and if I’d seen his girlfriend who was dressed as Sacagawea. Next, a nice black man dressed as a cowboy fell on top of me, knocking me down, only to catch myself on an innocent girl intensely hooking up with a man dressed as a horse, causing them to fall. They stayed on that floor for quite sometime. I turn to my right, and that’s when I saw it. Pike Punch. 

I had been warned of this substance before I ever even enrolled in the university. “It has *insert hardcore drugs here* in it” they claimed. “People have died on Pike Punch,” they told me. I glance around the room and see many attendees sipping this drank. I think to myself, “How bad can it be?” and pour it into a styrofoam cup. It wasn’t bad at all. It was damn good. My inhibitions, however, were not. I began to tell everyone about the gold that I had struck in this huge bowl of punch. “IT DOESN’T EVEN TASTE LIKE IT HAS DRUGS IN IT,” I accidentally screamed to passerby’s who asked about the punch, right in front of those nice boys that made the concoction who, I’m sure, would give me quite nasty looks if they ever saw me again. In the distance I hear someone exclaim, “Let’s take a picture!” Picture? I thought. I look too good to not be in this. I run over there and find a spot and strike a seductive Native American pose. It was at this time my best friend decided she, too, wanted to be a part of the picture. By golly she would be. She had also become a fan of the punch, ran across the lovely living area of the Pike house, only to slide on a spilt beverage all across the entire room into the area of the picture taking. HOWEVER, she made the picture which was the ultimate goal and the dramatic entrance got her a great deal of positive attention. 

At what I believe to be 9:43 pm we wandered to the bar where the actual swap would take place. A lovely bar it was. I walk in and see a nice young man dressed as a chicken. He was perfect in every way. The yellow feathers brought out his hazel eyes so well. I knew this would be the man I married. And then…. it hit me. No, not the man dressed as a chicken. The punch. I was fooled by the sweet taste, but when it hit me, well, it hit like a pound of bricks. I look around and cannot find the chicken boy anywhere. This was my first encounter in losing someone you love. I sat down on a stool by an obese man named Lucas, a selfish bastard who had no concern for the state I was in and continuously talked about his pursuit to dental school. I just wanted a water and a family size bucket full of the chicken boy I saw just moments ago. Minutes turn into hours with Lucas. Thankfully a friend of mine was dying and I was able to get out of there sooner than I expected. Without a ride home we took it upon ourselves to walk. 

I’m not sure what happened on that walk home, I just remember waking up in my twin sized bed in the dorm room covered in grass and mud; a leaf stuck into my braid and dirt in my mouth. I felt like I had just escaped death from the bombings of Hiroshima. Was I even alive? Or was this hell? I wasn’t sure. After laying there crying for 20 minutes because there were, in fact, no bagels nor oatmeal cream pies in my bedside table to cure me of this illness, I wipe away my tears and glance at the clock. 12:51 in the afternoon. My honors English class starts at 1. Shit.

I quickly put on the first clothes that I see, which happened to be the same thing I had worn the day before. This wasn’t a time to worry about outfit repeating. Or hygiene. I decided to chew gum consistently throughout the day instead of taking the time to brush my teeth and convinced myself that my hair looked fabulous in braided pigtails that had been through a night of hell so why on earth would I take time to redo my hair before class? Made it out of the room in two minutes and began a brisk power walk. It was at this time my face began to itch. I touch my face to scratch it. NO GOD NO. NOT TODAY. The red paint that had so wonderfully pulled together my whole Native American persona was still intact and on my face. Yes, I had walked half way across campus with this on my face and no one was generous enough to tell me. And to think we are supposed to have southern hospitality in Mississippi. I run into the student union in hopes to wash it off before I see anyone else. That’s when it happened. I walked so quickly with my head down that I didn’t happen to notice there was a person standing straight in front of me. I run directly into this man and knock his bag of Subway onto the floor. 

We both bend over to pick it up, and that is when we made eye contact. My eyes…. directly staring into… the hazel eyes I had admired so dearly the night before. Located right under my eyes, the red war paint. “Oh my gosh I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed.  “…..Yeah,” he responds. And walks right out of my life. I never made it to my English class that day for I was unable to pull myself together after the tragedy I had just suffered.  

Although I was unable to recall the walk home I was fortunate enough to have great friends document it. As you can see, I was just extremely exhausted from the walk and decided to take a moment and collect all of my thoughts and slip into a deep meditation, becoming one with myself and the earth like any Native American would. image

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Life Lessons from Rap Music

I’m a white, American female so naturally my favorite genre of music is rap. Rap music has its critics but I’m very open minded and see the beauty of this form of art. I see life from a wider view and dig deeper into the meanings of these songs. I discover the fine facts of life hidden in the genre and come out on top. Instead of focusing on the negative, I choose to look at the wonderful life lessons, moral values, and other valuable enrichments there are to be learned from rap music.

Soon to be dad Wiz Khalifa is always full of inspirational lyrics and teaches great moral values to children everywhere. In his most recent song with The Weeknd titled Remember You there is a great line that explains to the people of the world how you should do what you love, and love whatever it is that you do. These men exclaim “Girl, take pride in what you want to do. Even if that means a new man every night inside of you.” This really hit home to me. Too often we have people screaming at us about what is “socially acceptable” and leading us in the direction of how we are to supposedly live our lives. I am thankful for Wiz Khalifa and Taylor Gang for showing women that you have a right to pursue and take pride in whatever you dream of!

2 Chainz, who I have been fortunate enough to see two times live in concert, taught me the beauty of simplicity. Why sit around for hours thinking of nicknames for your friends? He states, “She got a big booty….. so I call her big booty.” Genius. Why would you give a nickname that is so complex and doesn’t even describe that person’s physical attributes. 2 Chainz recognizes that its very hard to keep track of the names of everyone you meet so a great way to maintain healthy relationships and keep it simple is just assign a nice nickname that not only highlights a key personality or physical trait but also shows the newfound camaraderie.

Ace Hood was a huge rapper in a time that was crucial for my mental development—6th grade. Social skills are developing at full speed and I was still trying to master my new language of vulgarity. Ace Hood told me “I may have gave a damn, but I never gave a fuck.” Primarily I’m concerned with the bitch who told me it was “may have given a damn” when Ace CLEARLY states “have gave.” Secondly, and most importantly, I was throwing around the words damn and fuck interchangeably for a good four months at this point. I never knew the severity of the difference between the two. Too often did I say “I don’t give a damn.” But you know what? I did… I did give a damn. But I NEVER gave a fuck. And I can thank Ace Hood for clearly explicating the importance of never giving one of those.

Chris Brown taught me “All that bullshits for the birds.” THANK GOD! All my life I’ve been dealing with bullshit left and right. There are days I can never get away from it and it imprisons me. It wasn’t until his hit song “Deuces” landed on the charts that I learned that bullshit isn’t for me to deal with at all…It’s for the birds. Do you guys know how liberating that is? To know that no longer am I bound to the bullshit that has locked me up in chains for so long. It is for the birds. Farewell, my bullshit. Fly free with the birds.

Nicki Minaj is known for her eccentric looks and multiple personalities, but what people don’t realize is that she knows a lot about politics and the biggest problems in our country today. The US economy is doing just terrible and there is no doubt about that. American citizens are blaming President Obama, past presidents, future presidents, the list goes on an on because no one really knows where the root of this downfall is. No one except for ole Nicki Minaj. In a recent song released on Lil Wayne’s mixtape, Dedication 4, she tells the world, “I’m a Republican votin’ for Mitt Romney. Lazy bitches is f***in up the economy.” There it is. Stop pointing fingers at President Obama, George W. Bush, Bill Clinton, and Herbert Hoover. It’s the lazy bitches that have sent this country into the ground. Look no further than a Nicki Minaj song to explain everything you need to know about the problems with the US economy. If we do away with the lazy bitches our economy will rise again.

I’ve struggled with self confidence for a long time. I find it hard to be proud of who I am and the way I was made. Lil Wayne, however, has no problem with this at all. He proudly exclaims “I’m me. I’m me. Bitch I’m me. Baby I’m me. So who you? F*** you. You’re not me.” I love this. He is so confident and proud that he is himself. He doesn’t care that you’re you. Because he is he. And he couldn’t have it any other way. Lil Wayne gives me hope for a brighter future for myself. I hope that one day I can say in front of a large crowd that I don’t give a shit who they are because I’m me and I couldn’t be more proud of that fact.

Math is my strong suit and I’m currently pursuing a degree focused solely on math. However, in many math classes we aren’t allowed to even use a calculator and I get frustrated because I don’t know the square roots of odd numbers. Drake solved this problem for me on his feature in What’s My Name. This intelligent young man proudly announces “The square root of 69 is 8 somethin’.” It sure is Drake! It’s 8.306623866. Which rounded to the nearest tenth is just 8 somethin which is much easier to write on a timed test. It’s times like these when I get very angry that people call rappers dumb and mock their intelligence. Drake knows the square root of 69 right of the top of his head. Rain Man’s prodigy.

I’m extremely pessimistic. I let the bastards get me down on a regular basis. But you know what Rihanna says? “DON’T let the bastards get you down. Turn it around with another round.” So naturally every time they get me down now I just let the Jameson sink in. Who even knew what Jameson was? Thank heavens that Rihanna put the name of this heavenly nectar in her song or I’d continue to be filled with woes and sorrows while writing in a journal rather than turning my bottoms up and saying Cheers to the freakin’ weekend. (Or in this case, a lonely Sunday night. Cheers anyways.)

After reading my blog previously many of you may think I have a drinking problem, a sweet hispanic woman even commented on one of my first posts because she was so concerned about me. To that woman: Who you? Fuck you. You’re not me.

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A Terrifying Flashback

It was Fourth of July 2004. 

I awaken thinking it’ll be another great Independence Day. I do my usual routine. Wake up, make myself look like the American flag threw up on me, and sit in front of the TV shoving hot dogs down my throat, training myself to be the next Nathan’s champion. 

As the sun sets so does the scene for the most terrifying night of my whole life. 

My father is shooting bottle rockets and Fountain of Youth fireworks while I throw smoke bombs at my obese Pug, Cookie. As smoke fills the air and the works of fire fill the sky I grab a small, plastic American flag I see located next to my pull out chair and raise it into the air dramatically. I sing our unofficial nation anthem “God Bless the USA” to myself. Life is good. I feel raised letters in the plastic stick that holds the flag up in my hand. What possibly could be engraved into the American flag? 

I peel back my chubby fingers and see the most terrifying phrase a ten year old child could ever see on the Fourth of July. 


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Show Choir: An American Abomination

So many things point toward the end of the world, to the collapse of civilization. Something pure evil is at the root of the downfall of society, and I know exactly what it is. Show choir.

Long before Glee, I experienced show choir in a not-so-glamourous light. In my small hometown, show choir is supreme. It’s a vicious, cruel, and inhumane extra-curricular activity. I’m sure that people involved in show choir groups (better known to the modern world as “glee clubs”) will be offended by this post. For one, thank God. Secondly, it’s because they have been brainwashed by the devil and forced to be involved in something so evil.

For starters, I don’t understand why there is a huge group of people standing on a stage with choreographed dance moves that are not the least bit attractive whatsoever. It’s like mechanical robots scooting across the stage. Show me some “So You Think You Can Dance” shit. Get America’s Best Dance Crew up there. Once an audience member can move past the dancing, one will hear the strange sound of popular pop and R&B songs being sang in young men’s falsettos and soulless teenage girls high ass voices. I’m sorry, but Single Ladies by the great Beyonce Knowles should not be harmonized by a group of mediocre voices and performed in front of an audience. If you wrote your own music, that’d be fine I guess. I’m sure it’d be something that lead us all into the hands of Lucifer, but at least the world wouldn’t have to hear butchered versions of Don’t Stop Believin’. Because you know what? I WILL stop believin’ in all hope there once was for society if this inhumanity is not put to a stop.

By far the worst part of show choir where I grew up is the politics. I’ve never seen such conniving little twats than I have in the show choir industry. And I’m not talking about the students and members of the group. I’m talking about the moms. If you think Dance Moms is intense, you have no idea what you’re missing out on. This shit kray. These women who, by the way, probably never had talent as a youngling, take the directors out to eat and make the costumes and donate money to the choir and, I don’t know, sleep with the choreographers just so little Susie can make the glorified Wave Connection instead of being stuck in the slums of show choir at my high school, Sound Wave. God forbid Susie be in Sound Wave. She’s a fucking superstar.

Imagine me, 11th grade, US History. Minding my own business like the great, white student that I am. Like most history teachers, Coach Carter was planning practice for his football players instead of teaching so we had free time. I was trying to enrich my life and learn something meaningful so I stuck my nose in one of the greatest books of all time “Are You There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea.” Only to be disturbed by some show choir bitches practicing their new moves in the middle of class and singing Jai Ho. Very badly might I add. Were they raised in a barn? Have they no manners? That is completely inappropriate in more ways than one. 1. We are in a classroom. Not a rehearsal hall where the acoustics make your voice a little more bearable. 2. You just kick-ball-changed all in my personal space. Who does that shit? Day ruined, that easy.

Show choir in the south is filled with bump-its, bimbos, and bright ass clothing. I’ll admit there is some great talent hidden in the group of 50 average singers. Honestly, their solos and fillers possibly make attending the show worthwhile. If they knew what’s best for them they would just try out for dance companies and lead roles of musicals. Is it too much to ask to go to a school that has really good musicals where people sing and dance on stage along to songs that have a meaning and go along with an actual plot? That’s all I want. To understand the plot of a show choir show? I don’t understand why you just did a mash up to Proud Mary and Rolling in the Deep…. yeah they both say the word “rollin” but I don’t see any relevance. Please just show me the meaning and maybe I could have a kinder heart and better understanding of this brainwashing catastrophic “fine art.”

I often find myself wondering what the fiery pits of hell will be like considering I’m doomed to spend all of eternity there. I’ve had this reoccurring nightmare that it’s just a coed show choir completely murdering Circus by Britney Spears on repeat. The girls wearing mid-calf length yellow sequined dresses and lipstick as red as the blood that is spewing from my eardrums. The boys, pleather bomber jackets.

I now leave this blog to go repent for all of my sins in hope that I can find salvation.

Filed under personal show choir aboninations american horror story humor writing

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Wise Words Not To Live By

I hate when people try to give me advice. Mostly because I’m all knowing and don’t need it. But more importantly, most of the advice given in this world is ridiculous. The “wise sayings” I have heard throughout life have done nothing but confuse me and have been proven wrong. I refuse to sit around and act like nothing is wrong. The children of America—nay, the world—deserve much more inspiration and wisdom than what we have previously been given. 

The following is me ripping common sayings and pieces of advice to shreds:

You can’t have your cake and eat it too. This is the most ridiculous bunch of bullshit that I have ever heard in my time here on planet Earth. It doesn’t even make sense. Since the dawn of time we have gone to birthday parties, gotten a piece of cake, sat our happy asses down, and ate that cake. It’s not even my birthday, but you wanna lick the icing off? That’s perfectly fine because cake is sold daily at a variety of locations just waiting for you to eat it. You can have and eat all the freaking cake you want and no one can stop you. 

Home is where the heart is.   Tell that to a victim of domestic violence. 

Everything happens for a reason. Young children get cancer for a reason? People die in tragic car accidents for a reason? I was cursed with size 10 feet for a reason? Give me a break. 

The best way to cheer yourself up, is to cheer someone else up in the process.  Wrong. The best way to cheer yourself up is to criticize someone else and put them in their place. Nothing can bring you more satisfaction.

Money can’t buy happiness.  Hugh Hefner looks pretty happy to me. 

If you can dream it, you can achieve it.   For years, I dreamed of being able to tumble. I was an average child who wanted to do back flips and shit when I got happy or bored. I didn’t think it was too much to ask. After countless nights in roundoff back handspring heaven which was my dreams, I decided to walk outside and just try. I broke my arm and face planted in to the grass, lucky to have not died or worse—knock out my new permanent tooth that had just grown in. It was at this time I learned that you cannot merely dream of something to achieve it, you have to actually work hard and possibly have some bit of natural talent and ability. It is just awful that parents tell their children they can do anything they dream of. I can dream all day of being a Victoria Secret model, but in all honesty, that’s never going to happen thanks to genetics and my love of carbs. And that is why I don’t go to sleep… reality hurts too much when you awaken *sigh*. Lol. 

All publicity is good publicity. I disagree. At one point in my life I made the mistake of answering a question in my high school newspaper’s opinion column about why I think traditional sports are a joke. 7/9ths of my school hated me for 3 days. I’m still not sure if I have recovered from those 3 long days filled with disturbing stares and comments from baseball and football players who never talked to me before in my life. Also, just type in Lindsay Lohan on your favorite search engine. Nothing that pops up is good publicity for her at all.  Dear God, just bring back that sweet ginger from The Parent Trap. 

If you’re not part of the cure, you’re part of the problem.  What if I’m the victim? How am I the problem? You’re supposed to be curing me.

When a wise man and a foolish man argue, you can’t tell the difference. I understand that a lot of times arguing is pointless. But you can always clearly tell who is the most intelligent and who has the upper hand in the argument when they do occur. For example, see any debate or argument Sarah Palin has ever been involved with. Foolish. Completely foolish.  

It’s a love story, baby, just say yes. This sounds awfully similar to what a pedophile would say, Taylor Swift. Not to mention you just based this whole song off of people that met each other, fell in love, and killed themselves over each other all in a mere 48 hours. The only thing they said yes to was a dual suicide. So no T Swift, I won’t say yes. And I advise anyone else who is reading this to refrain from agreeing to whatever she is asking either because quite frankly it makes no sense. Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy, don’t say yes to tragedy.

The only person you need to be better than is who you were yesterday. You listen here and you listen good. In all ways aspire to be a better person than every single person you ever encounter. Working to improve yourself in the mean time, but keeping your eye on the prize of being the alpha human. Don’t let little Timmy beat you in the spelling bee. Don’t let Sarah snag the guy you’ve had your eyes on since sixth grade. And never, by any means, let that bastard Jim get the promotion you’ve been working on. Be better than everyone else and find happiness. 

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…. shame on me.   Absolutely not. Still shame on you. How completely rude of you to try to fool me. And then, more importantly, succeed at it. Two times. Who do you think you are? By no means is it my fault or should I be put to shame. This all has to do with you being a self righteous c*nt who likes to go around fooling people.

In all honesty, there is one quote that has been the most wise and inspirational piece of gold that I have ever heard in my life. It applies to all problems, troubles, and run ins with authoritative figures that one may ever experience. It is as follows: “If it’s illegal to rock and roll, throw my ass in jail.”  God bless Kurt Cobain and God bless America.

Filed under personal wise words sarcasm omg writing

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Where My Parents Went Wrong

My parents are hard working, honest Americans. My mother, a doctor. My father, a nuclear chemist. My mother is borderline insane and enjoys a good drink every hour or two, while my father enjoys investing his free time and money into the stock market. My mom prefers the musical stylings of Whitney Houston, Maroon 5, and even good ole Marshall Mathers while my dad really only listens to the classic rock band Rush that absolutely nobody knew of until the movie “I Love You, Man” was made. These two human beings should have never been married to begin with. It was a recipe for disaster.

The only idea my parents ever had that was worse than actually getting married was their decision to bring children into this world. Things were alright after their first child, my older sister, was born. So they decided to screw with the balance of the universe even more and try again. Bringing my 9 pound 6 oz fat ass to life on a scalding August morning eighteen years ago. Everyone loves a chubby baby so I was definitely the trophy child for the first few months of my life. I couldn’t talk yet, so people simply pinched my cheeks and smiled while I sat back thinking of how I’d slowly, but surely, pay all those bastards back for touching my stubby legs like I was an animal. I still don’t understand how my parents allowed for their precious baby to be treated so cruelly.  

Renee and Scott thought they had it all together. A cute little family in a small southern town. Two adorable, curly headed children laughing, eating, and playing like there were no consequences in the world. Oh but there were. There were plenty of consequences. I learned at an early age that food cures all pains that I could ever have. So by the time I was two, my parents began to hand my food every time I would pitch a fit because it was simply the only thing that allowed me to shut the hell up until my next outbreak. This was their first mistake. 

By the age of 8 I was becoming gargantuan; just another victim of childhood obesity. My parents then thought that it would be best to put me in every single activity that was humanly possible for a child to play. Basketball, softball, swimming, ballet, and classical piano. I was 8 years old for Christ’s sake. I never had time to develop emotions because my parents were rushing me from one activity to another in hopes that I wouldn’t find any free time to shove Zebra Cakes and Twix down my throat. Thus embarking on their second huge mistake. My life was a piece of shit. For one, I was fat because they NEGLECTED ME AS A YOUNGLING AND FED ME TO SHUT ME UP. (Sorry for the all caps.) Secondly, I never had time to watch Full House after school anymore because I had stupid Piano lessons, dance classes, and softball practices everyday. Girls just want to have fun. 

God forbid I have a normal childhood. 

My mom really enjoyed living life and having a damn good time while my father enjoyed watching the Game Show Network and seeing how much more money he could win than the people actually playing the show. Needless to say, they had to part ways.  3rd mistake. 

I milked the shit out of the divorce. When I didn’t get my way with my mom, I went to my dad. If I was going out of town for the weekend, I would ask my mom for money and complain about how dad doesn’t do shit. Then call my dad “crying” and screaming, shouting that my mom “refused to pay for anything” because she was out to ruin my life. No need to mention 2 Christmases, Easters, and every obese child’s favorite holiday: Thanksgiving.  Throughout this divorce I learned that I can always get what I want and literally won’t have to work a day in my life if I keep saving the money I have stolen straight from their hands. 

Like most women, my mom went through a mid life crisis that ended up in countless hours of abandoning her children. With mom away, I had plenty of free time to sneak around and do whatever I wanted. But my parents, being the nerds at heart that they are, always assumed that my perfect grades correlated with perfect extracurricular behavior. They gave me so much freedom that I didn’t even know how to handle it. I was forced to learn from my own bad decisions than ever have a guiding figure like a “Mother” tell me what to do. Luckily I had my idols, Chelsea Handler and Lil Wayne to look to whenever I was in need of any guidance. But that’s what makes me so wise and able to relay all this information back to you guys.

By high school, my dad moved 3 hours away and took most of the sanity in our family with him. With mom never around due to working hard and playing harder I found time to rebel even more. The best part about truly negligent parents is that no matter how hard you rebel, they will honestly never notice because they are far too self absorbed to ever notice the slow downfall of your morals. Luckily for them I had a little bit of integrity. Granted, it was academic integrity and nothing to do with my ethics, but you win some you lose some. They mostly lost. 

My parents tried the best they could. They really did. They should have tried a little harder though. But honestly there was just no hope for me. Their lives were forever changed for the worst when I was conceived. 

Things they should have done differently: 

1. Married different people

2. Used birth control. 

3. Given me a curfew 

4. Wonder why I was always “sick” on Saturdays after long Friday nights with no curfew…. 

5. Learned my friends names

6. Not fed small children high amounts of sugar and saturated fat 

7. Made dinner more than once a week instead of going to China Capital and CiCi’s Pizza

8. Realized that I don’t like professional sporting events, or sports in general 

9. Not given me books for Christmas instead of Polly Pockets like everyone else got.

10. Understood that watching The Real World at the age of 11 couldn’t fuck up my life more than they already had. 

Me wearing the pist expression that I always did and rocking it. Pig tails and all.