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My Response to “Michael Roseberry” And His Facebook Invite to Play “Diamond Dash”

11 May

michael roseberry


Alright, Michael. Before this goes any further, I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.

1. Who the “Dash” are you, and why are you inviting me to play anything?

Michael, I am pretty 100% positively sure that we have never actually met in real life. I’m also pretty sure we’ve never actually even met online. So, I guess my first question is… Who are you? How do I “know” you? No, seriously… And, more importantly, why are you inviting me to play a game with you? Do you think that I would personally enjoy “Diamond Dash?” Upon playing your first round of “Diamond Dash,” were you suddenly stricken with the thought, “OH! You know who would just LOVE this game? That one girl I’ve never actually met, ever.” Did you think that after a few weeks of playful banter, I would be able to bring out the most competitive streaks within you, possibly resulting in the most intense round of “Diamond Dash” that this side of the Mississippi has ever seen? Because I have news for you, Mr. Roseberry. I have no intention of playing “Diamond Dash,” or any other soul-consuming, time-digesting, motivation-mangling Facebook game. Ever. I apologize for any inconvenience this may bring you.

2. Are we even friends?

Michael, just hear me out on this one, okay? I don’t EVER remember accepting your friend request, Michael. I really don’t. I’m sorry if I don’t, and I’m sorry if you were counting on me to accept your invitation to play “Diamond Dash.” I’m sorry if my declined invitation meant that you didn’t get a high score for new recruits or something. That must really suck. Especially if “Diamond Dash” gives a portion of some vague money source to a charitable cause for every new recruit that they get within a certain amount of time. I’d hate it if my declined invite meant that somewhere, a puppy didn’t have a blanket or some shit like that. That would really suck.

3. What the hell is “Diamond Dash?”

There are really only three options in my mind:

Option Number One: You are one of the Seven Dwarfs, determined to DASH into the DIAMOND mine and get out more diamonds than the other six dwarfs. Whilst doing this, you are armed with a pic axe that you can use to DASH the other dwarfs’ little brains out. To this, I would ask: Why would you think I would enjoy a virtual game that requires so much virtual labor?

Option Number Two: You are a poorly animated DIAMOND who is training for a 5K. The DIAMONDS then DASH to the finish line, and the first DIAMOND to get across the finish line then becomes the shiniest of all DIAMONDS and basks in eternal luminescent glory. To which I would respond: Why am I an animated diamond running a marathon, and why are you, Michael Roseberry, inviting me to become an animated diamond who trains to run marathons?

Option Number Three: You tell 50 recently engaged women that the ring of their dreams is available to them… But there is only one ring. One ring… to rule them all. Now, ALL OF THE FIANCES MUST DASH TO GET THE DIAMOND!!! To which I would respond by saying… Michael? I’m not engaged. I do not have my husband. (If this concept confuses you, I urge you to read my previous post, “Another Husband-less Trip To Barnes & Noble.” It may help clear some things up.)

In conclusion, Michael Roseberry, I feel like you’re just taking things way too fast. Call me old fashioned, but maybe we should just slow this down a bit. You know? I don’t think we’re at a point to where you can just send me invitations to play games with you, and have them pop up in intimate little notifications on my phone’s home screen out of no where. Talk about feeling used. You could at least buy me dinner first. Or, you know, like… Friend request me.


7 Reasons Why I’ll Never Trust A Man Who Doesn’t Like Star Wars

25 Mar

1. If you don’t like Star Wars, I just don’t think your opinions matter anymore.

I’m just going to start with the most obvious question when dealing with a man who doesn’t like Star Wars: HOW CAN YOU NOT LIKE STAR WARS? I can understand not liking the earlier Episodes. I can understand making fun of Attack of The Clones for the atrocious writing and ridiculous acting. But what I literally cannot fathom is your complete aversion to the entire concept of Star Wars. If there is anything worse than someone who has never seen the movies and says, “I don’t know… I just don’t like Star Wars…” it’s someone who HAS seen the movies, and says, “I don’t know… I just don’t like Star Wars.” Like… What is there not to like? Do you understand that it is one of the most epic stories ever told?!? People actually have mental powers that make things fly. Around. They use these mental powers to defeat their enemies. Yoda, a tiny green… creature man thing, makes boulders FLY through the air, LIFTS giant pillars of GRANITE or SOME OTHER UNKNOWN HEAVY-LOOKING SUBSTANCE with his MIND, in order to save his comrades. HOW CAN YOU NOT WANT TO WATCH THIS?!?!?

So, forgive me if I just don’t think your opinions on the current economic state of affairs in the United States matter anymore. I really don’t care how many degrees you have, in however many different areas of study. If you don’t like Star Wars, your opinions are null and void. End of discussion. You will never unclasp my bra. Sarry.

2. Light Sabers > Basically Everything.

Let’s be honest. If someone lined up a bunch of ridiculous weapons/items on a table and told you to “Choose wisely,” which would you pick?

1. A pirate sword.
2. A sniper rifle.
3. A wand from Harry Potter.
4. Gandalf’s staff.
5. A dire wolf.

If your answer is anything other than number six, I don’t think I can look at you in a romantic light. I’m sorry. But I can’t.

I mean it may be hard for some of you to choose between a wand and a light saber. And I get that. I mean I really, truly do. But there is something just… so satisfying about literally slicing someone in HALF with a concentrated beam of light and watching their two severed halves plummet down into a dark, dank abyss like two discarded twirling hot dog ends being tossed unceremoniously into a bon fire, that a good old Avada Kedevra curse can’t do. I mean AM I RIGHT?

You’re just lucky I didn’t put “dragon” on that list… Because then we’d be here all night in a heated debate that even I don’t know which side I’d want to win. And we’d all feel very confused. And ultimately heartbroken, because dragons AND light sabers technically don’t exist. So you’re welcome.

3. But like… What was your childhood?

I have one question for the (arguably) straight man who doesn’t like Star Wars: If you weren’t watching Star Wars as a child… what were you watching? Do I even want to know? What could POSSIBLY be cooler to a 5 year old boy than Star Wars? The Ninja Turtles?! Okay, the turtles were sort of cool. I’ll give em that. But when you just take a minute to really look at it and compare the two sides…

Ninja Turtles:
A few teenage boys get exposed to some kind of toxic whatever that makes them turn into turtles who fight crime by being ninjas…

Star Wars:
Intergalactic WAR being raged, space ships, THE FORCE, light sabers, awesome creatures, intense languages, exposure to different planets, Natalie Portman, guns that shoot lasers, ridiculous fight sequences, Darth Vader, and bounty hunters. And don’t make me play the “Slave Leia” card, either.

I mean I’ve never been a 5 year old boy, but I can imagine that when asked “What’s cooler, some turtles that fight crime, or a bunch of Jedi Knights kicking ass and taking names all in the name of The Force?” I’d probably pick the latter. And I’d expect my Mr. Right to pick the latter, as well.

Also- tangent- but… If you didn’t watch Star Wars as a child, I’m immediately judging your upbringing, which makes me wonder how that has affected you now as an adult, aaaannnddd how you’re going to, in turn, raise your own children. I’m all for embracing our own personal emotional baggage, and letting our significant others “in” so that they can help us overcome our pasts that ultimately led us to become the people we are today… But dude. There’s a difference between “emotional baggage” and “I was abused as a child because my parents wouldn’t let me watch Star Wars.” And ain’t nobody got time for that.

4. If you don’t think Star Wars is cool, I don’t see how you can call yourself “straight.”

Look, I don’t want to spend a lot of time on this one. Okay? If you’re a straight guy and you don’t like Star Wars (pfff… yeah RIGHT…) then good for you. I’m a straight woman and I don’t really like…I don’t know… pedicures? They kind of freak me out, I don’t know. BUT the point is, I know there are exceptions to every rule. I’m just saying that my Mr. Right will know the difference between The Death Star and the Millennium Falcon. That’s ALL I’m saying.

5. There’s even a How I Met Your Mother Episode Dedicated to Star Wars. So… HOW CAN YOU NOT LIKE STAR WARS?

Look, Star Wars is Ted Mosby’s favorite movie of all time. It’s incredibly important for him to find a woman who likes Star Wars as well. And I understand that! I understand Ted’s undeniable NEED to find a girl who can appreciate the adorable “threat” of an angry little mob of Ewoks. I, too, search for that in a partner.

And, I’m just going to say this now, and I’m only going to say this once: If you don’t know who Ted Mosby is… please stop what you’re doing right now. Stop reading this blog, stop everything. Get up, go into your kitchen. Grab the nearest frying pan, and just, beat yourself over the head with it. Repetitively. Then do me the honor of never reading this blog again.

6.) If you can’t do a horrible impression of Chewbacca when you’re drunk, I probably won’t trust you with our finances. 


Look guys. Chewbacca is annoying. I’ll be the first to openly admit it. He’s a giant Sasquatch looking thing that can’t really talk at all. He’s just kind of there. But you know what?  He’s loyal. He fuzzy. He’s kind of cute in his own huge hairy man sort of way. And he makes one of the most recognizable sounds in the history of all of cinema. If you’ve never even attempted to recreate his battle cry seven beers in, I just can’t see myself looking at you seriously. If I can’t count on you to do horrible impressions of Chewy, I just don’t think I can trust you with more important stuff. Like our finances. The father of my children will be able to make Chewy’s battle cry. And if he can’t? He will certainly be able to after seven beers.

I just, really don’t think that’s too much to ask.

7.) Star Wars To A Man Should Be Like Catnip to Cats: Crack.

If I walk in the door from a long day of work and I say, “Hey honey, you know how much I was really looking forward to watching that special on modern feminism that I T-Vo’ed last week? Well… do you mind if we watch some Star Wars instead?” I expect him to get down on one knee and propose to me, if he hasn’t already done so. And if he has, I expect him to propose again. If I have dinner ready for my man when he walks in the door, and hold up “A New Hope,” he better jump all over that like a dog on a meat wagon. And if he doesn’t? #byebye


I told you not to make me do it...

I told you not to make me do it…

TurboTax: Created by Baboons, for Baboons.

16 Feb

The longer I am out of college, the more time I’m having to realize that I’m kind of an adult. Like seriously becoming someone who supports themselves financially and makes all of their own decisions. And with this title comes new responsibility.

Now don’t get me wrong. When you’re a kid, you have responsibilities, too. You have to do your chores. You have to feed the cat. You have to get an A+ on your 6th grade spelling test because if you don’t, your mom won’t get you a Furby for Easter. You hear your parents say things like, “Have you SEEN gas prices!?” and “Welp, gotta file my taxes! I wonder if my W2 is in the mail yet…” But you don’t really process any of these statements.

Perhaps, as a child, I thought a W2 was the name of R2D2’s dearest droid friend or something. Now that I am… AN ADULT! (Dun dun DUN!!! cue: lightening and thunder) I’ve realized that I have new responsibilities, and a W2 isn’t the adorable droid friend of R2D2. A W2 is basically the scariest piece of paper in the world.

I mean has anyone ever SEEN any more boxes, numbers, letters, or combinations of the three on one sheet of paper before?!? Not only is it intimidating, but like… this is MY MONEY. The stuff I work hard for all year. If I mess up, accidentally type some wrong number into my TurboTax thing, that could mess up my entire tax return! I WANT MY MONEY, Y’ALL!

So I log on to TurboTax feeling slightly intimidated. I mean other than voting for our president, or paying tolls, I don’t usually have any direct contact with the government, you know? Talk about super duper adult stuff.

So. I have all of my W2’s laying on the table, in neat little organized sections, and I log in.

Me: Okay TurboTax… let’s see what you got!
TurboTax: Welcome to TurboTax! Don’t worry… we make this really easy!
Me: (Thinking) Okay, cool.
TurboTax: First, we have to ask you some personal information!
Me: Okay. Obviously, I understand that.
TurboTax: What is your FIRST name? (Shows a box where you type in your first name with a caption that reads: Type your FIRST name here.)
(I type my first name, and click NEXT.)
TurboTax: GREAT!
Me: (Beaming to myself.) Maybe this won’t be as scary as I think it will be!
TurboTax: OKAY! Next question. What is your LAST name!? (Shows a box where you type in your last name with a caption that reads: Type your LAST name here.)
(I type in my last name, and click NEXT.)
TurboTax: NICE JOB!

TurboTax sure was doing a good job of making me feel awesome. While I did appreciate the constant flow of reassurance, the further along I went with the whole process, the more I started to feel like the programers of TurboTax had programed it for baboons. And not just any baboons. Baboons who had been the test subjects of a mind-altering drug whose side effects make you lose all common sense or reason.

TurboTax: Okay. Are you ready for this next question? Where… do you live? (Shows a box to fill in with your current state.)
Me: (Selects “FLORIDA”)
TurboTax: YES!!! MAN YOU ARE GOOD!!!
TurboTax: Next, we need your social security number. It is taxes, after all!
Me: (Types in my social security number, clicks NEXT.)
TurboTax: Okay! Do you have your W2? Let’s start filling that out!
Me: (picks up the first w2 that I want to file.)
TurboTax: What is the IDENTIFICATION NUMBER of your EMPLOYER? (This is the number that identifies who employed you!)
Me: Yeah… I get that. (I locate the number on the form, and type it into the little box. I press NEXT.)
TurboTax: Okay next question. Fill out the corresponding boxes below. If nothing, leave blank.

(I look down and see empty spaces for boxes 1-20.)

BOX 1: Hey girl! I’m the box for your WAGES. Type your WAGES in me! Do you UNDERSTAND!? WAGES GIRL! WAGES!!!!!
Me: (I locate Box 1 on my W2, and type in my wages.)
BOX 2: Wassup!!?!?! I’m the box for FEDERAL INCOME TAX WITHHELD! This is like, all of your money the government has already taken out of your paycheck, chick. YA FEEL ME!?
Me: (I type in the Federal Income Tax Withheld.)
BOX 2: Are you a descendant from Einstein? No, but seriously…. Either that… or BABE RUTH. Because you are honestly just KNOCKING THIS OUT OF THE BALL PARK!!!! WOOO!!!! WAY TO GO CAR-O-LYN!!!!

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit. It just felt like I was sooo apprehensive and intimidated about my taxes, and then I finally just went onto TurboTax… and it was a program actually designed for baby crackheads. Which, you know what? Works for me and my life style. That’s okay. As long as I get my money back from The Man, that is just peachy.

A Conversation With My Sister.

16 Feb

Caitlyn: Why don’t you audition for Star Wars Weekends with me? You could stand next to me so they could see our similarities.
Me: Yeah… I mean why not? It’s not like I’d have anything to lose.
Caitlyn: Exactly.
Me: But I couldn’t be Slave Leia.
Caitlyn: Probs not. They’d be like “Well… here’s the bikini from last year. Why don’t you try this on.”
Me: And I’d be all, “And here’s my cellulite from THIS year!” (Big cheesy smile and thumbs-up sign while sticking butt out)
Caitlyn: (Laughter)
Me: No seriously, who else could I possibly play, besides Jabba?
Caitlyn: Um.. Maybe you could be Zam Wesell.
Me: Who in the world is “Zam Wesell?”
Caitlyn: The bounty hunter! She’s the one who wears the sexy purple body suit, remember? She’d also wears that cloth thing that basically covers her entire face…
Me: Can you imagine!?
Caitlyn: Hey! At least it would cover your nose!
Me: (Imitating the audition) “Mm, yes, Caitlyn looking good as always… and… Oh? We see you brought your… sister. Carolyn, is it? Okay, Carolyn if you could… just… Yeah, take your hand… that’s right. Take your hand and just… (Puts hand over bottom half of face.) Right, yes… and now, with the other one…? (Takes the other hand and covers forehead so now all that is showing are my eyes.) Yes… hm… Steph, could we work with that?”
Caitlyn: Oh stop! She’s really sexy, she wears purple!
Me: And her entire face is covered! It’ll cover the Crow Nose!
Caitlyn: HAHAHAHA!!!
Me: Caitlyn if I didn’t get considered for something that covers my entire face I think… I think I’d probably just jump off  our balcony.

Annnnnnd for those of you who don’t know Star Wars, here is a picture of Zam Wesell. The girl I’d want (?) to play:


And, here is a picture of the character I would most likely play:



105_2294Maybe I’ll just use this picture as my headshot for the audition.

I Have a Bulbous Nose… and I Don’t Care Who Nose It.

25 Jan

Middle school girls are evil and wretched. I feel like for every one normal, nice girl in middle school, there are three crazy psycho scum slinks lurking alongside lockers somewhere, ready to act overly excited to see you one minute, and then spread vicious rumors that you stuff your bra with folded socks the next. During my middle school years, I was attacked by such creatures.

“She’s like, so weird.”
“She makes animal noises sometimes during choir, and it freaks me out.”
“Why is she always READING?”
“She draws dragons in the margins of her notebook… did you see!? Like… dragons.”
“Her hair looks like a rat’s nest.” *
“She has really awkward bow legs.”
“I heard she once made out with a hotdog.” **

But perhaps the worst thing ever said about me in middle school was the following:

“She kind of has a big nose.”

Guys, before I continue writing, I want to let you all know that I like my face. Okay? I do! I actually really do. I have two eyes that kind of work with the help of some crazy contacts. I have teeth that are relatively straight from two years of middle school social-status-hindering braces, and I have a nose that… smells things effectively. And when my complexion decides to keep her obnoxious explosive opinions to herself, I sometimes have nice skin, too. I am in no way writing this post to be all like “Oh em gee, Becky, I hate my FAACCEEE.”

That being said…

I feel like I have a bulbous nose. I do. I feel like when I smile, it is crooked. It is crooked when I smile. When I go to give people the traditional “Profile kiss on the cheek” pose, my nose is so big, it smushes against the other person’s face, resulting in what I like to call “The Crow.”

"The Crow."

“The Crow.”

It usually takes about two to three beverages for me to lose all inhibition about my nose. Once that happens, The Crow comes out to play. I personally like the double rainbow lines we get with my cheek and side-smooshed-nostril curves going on there. Seriously, I can’t take a picture of me kissing someone on the cheek without The Crow deciding to make an appearance.

Next, I’d like to introduce you all to “The Bulb.”

The Most Bulbous.

The Most Bulbous.

But like… can we all just take a second to observe? Notice the bulbous tip of my nose… It’s actually lighting up, like Rudolph. Only it’s not red, it’s a blinding white color from the camera flash, and I’m not an adorable reindeer who can turn his “disability” into a necessary precaution against deadly winter storms and in turn, save Christmas… I’m just some girl whose nose lights up when people use their camera flash. This is actually a really good picture, because to my left we see my father, and to the right we see my mother. Now, ignore our ridiculous expressions, and just take in the noses…

In conclusion: Dad + Mom = Bulbous.

Then, we also have what I like to call The Casual Hook. It goes a little something like this:


This can't even be real.

This can’t even be real.

Granted, I’m kind of choosing disgusting pictures of myself to showcase the many different “faces” my nose has to offer. However, just… I mean come on just look at this. Like…really? REALLY??  Those middle school girls may have been horrible, but at least they were honest. “Hey. Carolyn kind of has a big nose.” Now, I’d shove this picture in their faces and be like “KIND OF?! Listen you militia of youngling skanks. At least give credit where credit is due. I DEFINITELY have a big nose.”

Even in my headshots, I can’t escape it.

Crooked Carolyn and the Never-Ending Nose.

Crooked Carolyn and the Never-Ending Nose.

"I'm as long as I am wide... Yeah... You like that, don't you?"

“I’m as long as I am wide… Yeah… You like that, don’t you?”


Dear Future Love Interests:


Carolyn-9154…You’re welcome.





*My hair actually did resemble a rat’s nest for all of 6th grade, and most of 7th. It was kind of a shame.
** I never made out with a hot dog. This is an actual quote from Mean Girls.

These Are The Days of Our Lives

18 Dec

First off and most importantly, let me start this blog post by saying “I’m sorry for not writing more often” to the four people who I know read this blog on a daily basis… Hi Mom.

I could try to bore you with the traditional excuses of “Oh life has been so busy I’m so important to everyone I’m in such high demand I can’t possibly find the time to write because I’m so important doing important things hum hum mc hummerson” speech… but I won’t. Life has been busy, sure, but I’m not super important. I’m just poor and trying to work enough hours to pay my bills so my sister can stop feeling like a single mom. I’d also like to be able to afford a loaf of bread, orange juice, and shampoo all in one trip.

Secondly, I’d like to take this moment to let everyone know, going into this post, that I have literally no idea where it is going to go. The “title” section is completely blank. I don’t know what I’m writing. I’m kind of just making myself write something so that I can dig my way out of this dry spell ditch. I miss writing.

I guess I’ll try to fill you in with what’s been going on in my life. I guess. I don’t know. I hate writing without a purpose. I feel so lost. Like, I have no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. It makes me feel like a naked, drunk, recently divorced woman who just lost her job to a much younger, more attractive and financially and emotionally successful woman, stumbling down the street while taking shots of tequila and chasing them with Samoas while wearing a shirt that says “Hip Hop Master” with a picture of Thumper the rabbit or something. I don’t know what any of that meant.

Anyway. So I made this new friend, and she’s a witch. It’s pretty cool because she’s a real witch. She wears the robes, takes care of the owls, sells the wands, the works. She tells me stories about the muggles who she deals with, and it’s pretty funny. Take today, for example. She told me that all she wanted to do was have a nice, quiet lunch to herself and then return to work. Sadly, that did not happen. Upon her arrival back into Hogsmeade, she was attacked by muggles.


Foreign Muggle: Lady!
Witch: …Yes?
Foreign Muggle: ‘Arry Potter?!?
Foreign Muggle: ‘Arry POTTER!?!?!
Witch: Um… Harry Potter?
Foreign Muggle: (Nods enthusiastically)
Witch: Well, you are currently in the Wizarding World of Harry Potter.
Foreign Muggle: (Nods even more enthusiastically at the words “Harry Potter.”)
Witch: The only place you can see Harry himself is inside the castle.
Foreign Muggle: (Confused) Cast-le?
Witch: Hogwarts. …Yes. Just, go up this path, you literally. Cannot miss it.
Foreign Muggle: ‘Arry Potter!


Father Muggle: Yes! Ma’am! YOU THERE!
Witch: Hello!
Witch: You… are?
Witch: Well, the only food available in the wizarding world is at the Three Broomsticks. I’m not sure of their exact menu, but you can find it outside of the restaurant or ask that wizard right there.
Indian Muggles:
Witch: … Oooor, you could… make your way to Jurassic Park? There is a pizza and hamburger place that way? Just, go up the path towards the castle, and-


Witch: Um, okay…
(Witch attempts to return to work, when suddenly-)


African American Muggle Man: WASH ROOMS! WHERE ARE THE WASH ROOMS!!?!?!
Witch: (Slightly stunned at his use of the term “wash rooms.”) Right behind me.
African American Muggle Man: OH!! Oh, THANK YOU! THANK you so MUCH!!!!!


(The Witch tries, at this point, to walk faster, but then-)


Jaded Mother Muggle: EXCUSE ME!
Witch: Hello there!
Jaded Mother Muggle: Yeah whatever. Where is the exit?
Witch: (Looking ten feet away.) The exit is right over there, between those two giant stone pillars and the archway.
Jaded Mother Muggle: Come ON, guys!


(Witch proceeds to try to get back to work by hiding her face with her hand, almost as if covering her face will deter some of the endless questions. Where is her invisibility cloak when she needs it!? She finally gets about two feet away from the door to her destination, when suddenly-)

Disintegrating Old Man: YOU THERE!!! EXCUSE ME!!!
Witch: (Painfully turning around with a smile.) Yes?
Disintegrating Old Man: WELL now, who are YOU supposed to be!? (Animatedly waving over his reluctant muggle family of much younger muggles) GUYS! Guys come over here! Look at this!!! There’s a girl here, and she’s… well, she’s… WHO are you supposed to be?
Witch: Well… I’m a witch.
Disintegrating Old Man: ARE you?
Witch: Yes.
Disintegrating Old Man: REEEally? You don’t seem like a witch. You’re too SWEET! PAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHAAH!!!!
Witch: …Do you want a picture with me?


Disintegrating Old Man: (Grabbing the witch around her waist.) C’mere, sweetie! (JACOB THE EMBARRASSED 8 YEAR OLD MUGGLE can audibly be heard groaning in mortification.)

The witch told me it was like a movie, these crazy people just attacking her while she attempted to cross a 7 foot path. Literally, one right after the other EXCUSE ME, YOU THERE, MA’AM! before she even knew what hit her. But she says it’s all worth it, because she loves her job in Hogsmeade. She loves helping kids find the perfect wand. She loves helping little girls adopt their new owls.  Even if it only pays her 8 muggle dollars an hour. She can deal with that.

So, other than making friends with an actual witch, my life has been pretty boring. I went out with some friends the other night to some swanky wine bar in downtown Orlando. That was really fun, until a tipsy 46 year old motorcycle driver told attempted to buy me a drink after insulting me for 5 minutes about my drink choice. It went a little like this:

Motorcycle Creep: What are you girls drinking tonight?!?!?!
Me: Well, I’m trying to decide.
Motorcycle Creep: On what?
Me: Wine, or my drink of choice.
Motorcycle Creep: (Accusatory) Which is?
Me: … Um. Whiskey. Whiskey and sprite.
Motorcycle Creep: Whiskey… and SPRITE?
Me: Yeah. I really like it.
Motorcycle Creep: (Lets out an exhale that basically says, “Wow, what a dumb young b*tch”)
Me: What?
Motorcycle Creep: We gotta get you a nice big shot of some really GOOD whiskey.
Me: I don’t want a shot.
Motorcycle Creep: Sure you do.
Me: No. Actually, I don’t. I want to enjoy a drink.
Motorcycle Creep: (Exhales again.) Sure. Okay. HEY! Bartender! Get this girl a shot!
Me: No! No, don’t, I don’t want one. Thank you. Just a whiskey and sprite.
Motorcycle Creep: (Exhales) Whiskey and sprite…
(Bartender delivers the whiskey and sprite and holds out his hand to take my card. I hand it to him before Motorcycle Creep can protest. There is another exhale of frustration when Motorcycle Creep realizes he will not be paying for my drink, nor will he be escorting me home.)
Motorcycle Creep: (Under his breath) Whatever.
Me: Excuse me?
Motorcycle Creep: (acting like he’s yelling over the music) What did you say?
Me: Did you just say something?
Motorcycle Creep: Sorry, you’ll have to speak up. I lost my hearing in this ear after a motorcycle accident.
Me: Oh. Wow. I’m… I’m so sorry about that.
Motorcycle Creep: No you’re not.
Me: … What?
Motorcycle Creep: You’re not really sorry.
Me: Yeeeeah I’m gonna go. Nice meeting you.
Motorcycle Creep: Was it?
Me: What?
Motorcycle Creep: Was it REALLY nice to meet me?
Me: Well… do you want me to be honest?
Motorcycle Creep: What?
Motorcycle Creep: Sure.
Me: You’re really abrasive. It’s like, I don’t know… you’re trying to get to know me while insulting me and challenging everything I say. You’re a very closed off person and it’s unnerving. You can’t expect people to let their guard down with you if your guard is constantly up.
Motorcycle Creep: (Scowl fades. Eyes soften.)
Me: Well… I, uh… I hope you find what you’re looking for after much self-growth and understanding.

And that was that.

So, back to what I should call this blog post… Here are a few options:
1. I am still poor, I met a real witch, and I once got hit on at a bar.
2. These are the days of our lives.

…Yeah I’m not even going to go on. That’s the title.

I Tend to Try to Avoid P.P.’s. Or: How I Deal With Failure

31 Oct

I did not manage to blog 90 posts in 90 days.

Oh buddy. There it was. In writing.

Writing is… hard. Anyone who tells you differently has obviously never tried to write before. Not only is writing hard, but it’s hard to bust out engaging, entertaining, hilarious, or moving pieces every day. This isn’t an excuse, and I’ve probably sat down and tried to start writing this post for the past 2 days now, fearing that it would turn into just that- one big winy wishy-washy sob story of an excuse as to why I didn’t write anything in the past week, when I said I would write something every day.

Oh buddy, there it was again. In writing.

During my attempted 90 in 90, I wanted to write things that actually mattered. I wanted to write good, solid pieces that were either so funny they made people cry, or so moving and thought provoking that people re-posted them immediately with messages like, “CAROLYN IS THE MOST MOVING AND THOUGHT PROVOKING WRITER ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET!!!! READ HER BLOG IMMEDIATELY!!!!”  I didn’t want to be like, “Today I got up and answered some emails and applied for a few jobs but then realized that I still don’t have a job, and no one called me to offer me a job, so then I took a shower and watched Pretty Little Liars. And then my sister came home, and that made me happy because that meant I got to speak to another human being.” I wanted to avoid pointless posts. (I have affectionately named them “P.P.’s” in my brain ) P.P.’s aren’t fun. No one wants to look at a P.P.  Well… at least no one that I want to be friends with.

And so, a day goes by. You don’t write anything. You’re all depressed and feeling like a failure, but at the same time you want to avoid the P.P.’s. So you don’t write. At first, you feel pretty weird. You’ve been doing it for a whole month… NOT writing anything makes you feel guilty. And then- after about day three… you start to feel a tiny twitch of rebellion. You start to feel like you’re really onto something. “A HAH!” you proclaim to yourself, “I DON’T NEED TO WRITE EVERYDAY! I CAN REFUSE TO DO THIS!!!” And for a few fleeting hours, or maybe even a whole day, you’re feeling free. You feel good. You realize it’s not the end of the world, and sometimes, you just need to live your LIFE in order to be able to write about it! Right? Right!?!?!

Then, around day 5, you start to get pretty depressed because no one has asked about your blog. No one. Not one single person has contacted you being like,”Hey, what gives? I look forward to reading your posts and you haven’t been posting?” So then you kind of spiral down into this “Why-do-I-even-blog-at-all-no-one-cares-or-reads-this-stupid-thing-why-is-this-so-important-to-me-but-not-to-others” hole. So then, around day six, you decide that you don’t CARE if it’s not important to anyone else, it’s important to YOU, and you’re going to KEEP writing, even though you failed at writing 90 blog posts in 90 days!!!! OKAY!?!?!

(Aaannnnddd there it is again. In writing.)

So you sit down and attempt to write something. But after all of this NOT writing, how are you supposed to even START writing again? What can you say without making excuses for yourself? Do you just… ignore the fact that you failed your 90 in 90? Do you just… not write anything at the top of your post, and act like the attempted 90 in 90 never happened? Or do you spend an entire blog post trying to justify to yourself (and I really mean YOURSELF here, because obviously, as these past six days have proven, you have 0.00 readers…) why you didn’t complete the challenge? In a moment of frustration and mental road blocks, you close your computer, furious with yourself for ever stopping the 90 in 90 in the first place. How are you supposed to DO THIS ANYMORRREEE!?!?!?!?

And then- like clockwork- three people contact you within a 4 hour period. And somehow, they all manage to say the exact things you need to hear in order to start crying. Oh yeah. Just start blubbering like a the baby parrot fish that falls off of the sponge beds in the beginning of Finding Nemo-

Human # 1: Hey Carolyn, I don’t want to sound like a stalker or anything, but… what happened to your blog? I looked forward to reading those posts every day. I wanna make sure you’re okay!
Human #2: Hey, what gives? I demand more blog posts. Ya dig?!?!
(Cue: Carolyn’s blubbering breakdown.)
And so, we’re back. And after this journey, I’ve discovered some good ways to deal with failure. They go a little like this:

1. Denial. Just deny that you’ve failed for a few days. Deep in the depths of your mind and heart you will know that you have failed, and you will know that you are consciously denying that failure, but that’s okay. Just keep denying that you’ve disappointed yourself and others anyway. During this time, you’re able to accomplish other things… Like showering every two days.
2. Eat mac n cheese. Always.
3. Limit the amount of daylight you expose yourself to. I suggest keeping the blinds closed at all times. If you can’t see the light of day, then it’s almost like the day isn’t there… and you can almost forget that you’re wasting it. Not completely… but almost.
4. Plan your award acceptance speech. You don’t even know what award you’re accepting, but you know that with your brains and talent and drive, you’re bound to win something, someday, probably, maybe. And when you do, you’ll be ready: “I’d like to thank my family, for always believing in me, except for that time when I didn’t have a job and I was unemployed and still relying on you guys for financial stability. Secondly, I’d like to thank the fabulous organization that is giving me this generic award. Thank you, yes, it means a lot to me to know that you think I deserve an award. And last but certainly not least, I’d like to thank Wendy’s. Thank you for your crispy spicy chicken sandwich. That steaming, delicious work of art with no tomatoes, add cheese and mayonnaise. You have never let me down. I love you.”
5. Make a list of the things you like about yourself, and then say them to yourself when things don’t go your way. For example: Someone cuts you off on the highway? “HEY! BUDDY! I HAVE RELATIVELY GOOD LIVING HABITS AND I CLEAN UP AFTER MYSELF, PROVIDING THAT I HAVE TIME TO DO SO!” Your car decides to have something terribly wrong with it that will cost hundreds of dollars to fix? “You know what? That’s just fine. I’ll be paying my parents back until I’m 57, but hey! You know what? I have nice hair. I like that it can be curly… OR straight!” Your ex starts dating someone else and you feel that horrible pit in your stomach like you need to throw up? Just lean over the toilet, hold your hair back high and your head down low and proudly proclaim, “I WORKED OUT FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES FIVE DAYS AGO!”

These are only  a few of the tactics that I recommend using for dealing with failure. Please feel free to add some of your own below. I am always looking for ways to help me cope with my own personal shortcomings.