Rachel Slurs

It all started on the playground at Tupelo Public Christian School in third grade when Carter Smallwood called me a jackass. I didn’t quite understand why I was called this, or what it even meant, but I did know it was a profane name my mother often called my father behind his back so it had to be slanderous. Like I said, it was third grade, and I had yet to develop enough wit to think of a stellar comeback, so naturally I cried and tattled on him. It was at this moment that I realized we live in a cruel, cruel world. I was too much of an independent woman to let bastards like Carter Smallwood call me a jackass by the swing set. From then on, I dedicated my life to being a conniving bitch with above-your-head comebacks that you had to take a step back and say, “Wow, did she really just fucking say that to me?“ 

I spent a large amount of my life working towards becoming a huge bitch because it’s a dog eat dog world out there, and people are going to find a reason to hate you anyways. Might as well make them feel as small as an ant and wallow in self-pity like the little pieces of shit that they are while you’re at it.  It was a developmental process, and a long one to say the least. For years I was still lacking confidence due to an unfortunate occurrence of childhood obesity, but something miraculous happened in ninth grade and I realized that I had too much potential to be holding back. I began being rude to anyone who crossed me and at that prime age of fourteen years old I wasn’t taking anyone’s shit. I shot out comebacks and jabs like it was my job, you could see the pain oozing from their bodies like blood in a Tarantino film. I couldn’t help it that I had a knack for puns and was extremely quick on my toes. I thoroughly enjoyed hearing people try to save themselves from the pure embarrassment I had drenched them in. I don’t mean to sound like an egotistical prick, but your comments didn’t compare. Was I supposed to be offended that you made fun of me for reading for leisure as a comeback? Because I’m confused as to when white high school football players in Mississippi who dip tobacco in my marketing class while simultaneously asking to copy my trig homework became extremely successful in life either?  Peers, parents, interim principals, you named it and I pissed them the fuck off. 

I really have tried to work on being nicer to people, because when I left high school and realized how many people truly hated me and were repulsed at the sight of my face, for I had rubbed them the wrong way one or two or thirteen too many times, I figured that something’s got to give. But dammit, it’s not easy. I approached it in the way a child approaches the ocean for the first time. You get to the beach and you see the ocean for the first time, you’re enchanted by the movement of the waves and its beauty. You’re so interested in this new lifestyle that you run to the water. Then that water touches your feet and you’re howling like a wolf. Crying. Screaming. Snot running down your face from uncontrollable misery. WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST GET YOURSELF INTO THAT WATER IS UNBEARABLY COLD AND THERE ARE CRUSTACEANS BENEATH YOUR TOES. That’s exactly how I felt when I stuck my toes into the water of niceness. Dammit. It bites hard. You know why I don’t remain continuously nice to people? Because they don’t fucking appreciate it. You text someone to tell them you are coming into town and they send back that they don’t want to see you now or ever again. And its all because you may or may not have hooked up with someone in their laundry in tenth grade, and when they asked you to apologize you replied, “Go fuck yourself, I’ve never hooked up with a baseball player before, probably never will again, I have no regrets.” And you even apologized later on in your high school career but apparently that means nothing to anyone these days. Or maybe it’s someone you hadn’t seen in a while but were quite intimate with them, listing in detail that you’ve been thinking about them and you hope everything is going well. That’s it, you just say you hope they are doing well and they literally send back “I don’t want to be in contact with you.” WHAT? If you don’t want to be in contact with somebody then why would you even respond? I hate this world I live in. For the sake of my reputation I’m going to say that these are all hypothetical situations, but you can probably read straight through my lies and hear the bitterness of those words as they process through your brain and realize that THIS SHIT ACTUALLY HAPPENS TO ME. I can’t please people either way. When I’m mean everyone calls me a bitch, they say I’m rude and have no filter, they call me filth and indirectly tweet about me. But see then when I’m nice, they are still pieces of shit who can’t appreciate anything. It takes a lot for me to swallow my pride and be nice to another human being, if I send a kind gesture your way do not take it with a grain of salt. Know in your mind that this may, in fact, never happen again between the two of us, and you should appreciate this interaction and cherish it for the rest of your life. 

Sarcasm is one of the most beautiful techniques I ever learned. It makes my daily conversations so much more lively and humorous.  What becomes frustrating, though, is when people are too ignorant to understand the proper use of sarcasm. For instance, sometimes I’ll say something that yeah, okay it may sound a little harsh off the tip of the tongue but I have a raw sense of humor and I might be joking so don’t cry just yet. What’s more annoying, however, is when I am being rude and you think I’m joking around. I can’t tell you how many times people hug me and I don’t hug back, they ask why I won’t hug them in return. I tell them hugging is the most awkward social interaction and it should be saved for people in close relationships and not thrown around barbarically. They laugh and laugh and continue to hug me while I’m loudly proclaiming “GET THE HELL OFF OF ME I DO NOT LIKE YOU OR ENJOY YOUR COMPANY OR APPRECIATE YOU TOUCHING ME.” They just laugh away like I’m a monkey in a zoo trying to open a banana or something. They reply, “Oh Rach, you’re so funny!”  or “Wow Rachel you always make me laugh even at serious moments.” I’m not trying to be funny. I’m not trying to make you laugh. All I am trying to do is to get you off of me in the middle of this bar thinking you are my best friend when I literally hate you and mass texted everyone in my phone five minutes ago when your fake ID got taken up by the bouncer because I found so much joy in your misery. Wow what a rant, right? Any who, I guess I’m either not skilled enough in sarcasm or find myself mingling with a bunch of intellectually deprived animals who don’t understand when I am or am not joking. 

In the end, I’m probably not going to be nice to you because I hate almost everyone. If by the rare occurrence the stars align just right that day and I throw out a compliment or am too tired to make a bitchy remark about your poor life choices or intellectual deficiencies, don’t question it just appreciate it. Know in the bottom of your ruthless, black soul that it took everything in me to act in such a kind manner.  If you’re utterly offended by anything that I say, just tell yourself that I’m being sarcastic it seems to work for many of my foes. 

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.

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.

(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. 

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. 

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.)

Many problems seem to arise once the Jameson and other beverages have sunken in though. No worries. Jamie Fox and Tpain explained that all you have to do is Blame it On The Alcohol. I’m sorry that I kissed your friend(s) over there, the Goose had me feeling loose? Yeah I slept half-naked in the middle of a fraternity house last night, but the Patron had me in the zone. What am I to do? I don’t have to explain myself that’s for sure. All I have to do is blame it on the alcohol and be on my merry way.

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.

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. 

“MADE IN CHINA” 

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.

Liz Taylor 

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.