Monthly Archives: February 2014

5 Things Making Women Less LadyLike-The Counter Argument

5 Unfair Oppressions That Label Women As “Less Ladylike”

1. They call themselves a “bad bitch.” Call yourself whatever you want- If you are empowered by being a “bad bitch”, good for you! If we own negative labels, we may be able to take them back and make them our own again. #badbitchesforlife

2. They have truck driver mouth. Swear as much as your fucking want to- Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you need to limit your colorful and expressive vocabulary. Your foul mouth will NOT take away from your femininity, you are still a lady if you want to be.

3. They talk about fighting other girls (and do it). Defend yourself and fight them “basic bitches”- I’m actually not encouraging violence AT ALL, but if you have to throw a punch once in a blue moon to prove a point or to defend yourself, THAT’S OK (sort of, depends…). Being physically aggressive, just like our men counterparts, does NOT make you less of a woman.

4. All they want to do is get “TURNT UP!” Party whenever the fuck you want to- No one has the right to judge you and your choices of going out or consumption of alcohol. Judgements like that will only deflect and turn off men who are boring as fuck… If ANY potential boyfriend told me I went out too much to be in a steady relationship, I would agree because he obviously isn’t steady, secure, or mature enough to handle my level of confidence and fabulousness.

5. They pay more attention to their appearance than their attitude. Present yourself the way you want to, those who judge you can fuck off- There’s no “ladylike” way to carry yourself or present yourself. There are no “ladylike” ways to speak and no “ladylike” mannerisms. Any man who judges you for not being “ladylike” can borrow my Time Machine, blast back to the 1950s and marry their fucking mothers.

Get real, love yourself, don’t limit your expressions, language, or actions out of fear that you won’t appear “ladylike” enough to be loved.

James Michael Sama

I’ve been challenged. Each article I write about how men should act, I am challenged by those who call it “wildly sexist” and tell me that I would be obliterated by society if I were to write something similar about women.

Challenge accepted.

As a man, I write from the male perspective. This is why I typically write how I feel that men should act, because they are standards that I have chosen to hold myself to. But of course, I am equally aware that the modern-day female is much different than those in the past and some men question if they are “worthy” of the respect and chivalrous acts which I encourage.

I feel that every person should be respected as a human being, but certain popular trends make me curious about how our future generations will be raised.


They call themselves a “bad bitch.”

I can’t stand this…

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Cue the Tears.

Thrilled that my mother and I are in the same time zone, I called the house phone. Finally, I can actually tell my own mom about my day and hear about hers and just have a conversation that isn’t typed out on a little screen. This would be the best feeling! I had 30 minutes of free time (rare) and didn’t have to mentally do any math to figure out if I could connect with her.

It rang, and rang. It went to voicemail. I tried again the next day, same story.

Weird. So I call my grandmother’s cell. She was recently with my mom here in the states. “Where are y’all?” I asked cheerfully. “I’ve been calling the house phone but y’all must be out having fun or something”. “Oh honey…” I could hear the sorrow in her thick, southern drawl. “She didn’t tell you? She changed her flight, she went back to Europe on Monday”. “But,” I thought aloud, my voice stammering, “she wasn’t flying out until Thursday”.

She left the country and didn’t even tell me.

“You sound like you have the sniffles,” my grandmother muttered over the phone. “Are you coming down with a cold?”. I lied, saying it was just allergies and made my excuses, ended the conversation and drove home in tears. First they came just thick and salty, welling up in my eyes but not daring to streak down my cheeks. By the time I got home, however, they were impossible to ignore.

Ow. This actually hurts. Like a physical pain, my feelings are actually aching. What is this bullshit sorcery? Make. It. Stop.

It’s the weirdest fucking thing and I am actually upset. She hasn’t even iMessaged me… I think I will just wait until she does. I better hold on… it might be a fucking week.


The Running Joke That is My Life.

Confession: I am one of my university’s mascots. 

Confession #2: So is my super awesome friend, Savannah. 

I sat in the office, awkwardly looking around at the plaques and banners I had never seen. Surrounded by what seemed like incredibly important people, I felt naked and nervous. They are all staring… Just staring! Everything about this encounter was awkward. We all sat crowded around a round table that was pushed up agains a wall and I mean, I just didn’t fit. The office had no windows and felt like a closet. The bleeping of a walkie-talkie was distracting and nerve rattling.

Around the table sat a university police officer, the university’s athletic director, and the director of campus recreation. They were all here to listen to my assault claim I was reporting to the university police.

Confession #3: I’ve been bullied by the “real athletes” while mascoting my little heart out. 

And it’s hilarious. Here’s the back story….

This past week as been Homecoming at the University of Hipsterville. Homecoming is the best and the worst week of the entire year. Homecoming is fun and homecoming is stressful. Homecoming is long and homecoming flies by. As a senior, this was my last Homecoming week as a student.

It was insane as hell and it was glorious. 

Homecoming is like the Super Bowl of mascoting and it is fucking exhausting but also incredibly fulfilling and rewarding. Our university’s mascot is a bear. The physical mascot suit is a  big, ugly, smelly, wooly bear with matted, dirty with numerous rips and tears. Savannah and I get so freakin’ hot in that suit that we constantly lay on the cool tile of the mascot locker room and joke that we are acting just like big dogs in the summer. It just now occurred to me how incredibly gross that floor probably is… Whatever, we lived.

For our Homecoming basketball game, we played a double header against our rival school, the University of Preppyville. Fuck the University of Preppyville.

I say this, not because I care a ton about sports. I couldn’t see our of the bear’s teeth worth shit to watch the game if I wanted to. I say this because I was bullied by the men’s basketball team while bear-ing it up. Now, Savannah and I constantly joke that we have been felt up by the entire school and it’s fucking true. No one know’s that we are women under the massive wooly suit and, as ironic as it is at a school that is nearly 70% female, everyone just assumes we are dudes. People chest bump us and give us approving pats/slaps right on the titties like, every game. So it’s fair to assume that the Preppyville men’s team had zero idea I am a chick and they have like, 1 foot and 100 pounds on me.

4 HUGE. Black. Dudes. pushed me into the men’s locker room while mockingly shouting “Beat ’em up” “kidnap ’em”. First of all, ew. No thanks, don’t wanna go in y’alls locker room and see your willy or smell your sticky feet. They smacked my massive bear head around and kept me cornered against the wall. I wasn’t scared, I wasn’t threatened. It was all silly but it was also annoying.

“Could you identify them? Did you see any jersey numbers, tattoos?” one officer asked me. Uhhhh have you ever put that head on?! I’m lucky that I don’t run into poles and shit. NO I couldn’t identify anyone if my life depended on it. “Did they touch you sexually in any form?” the officer spoke flatly, staring straight into my eyes making me extremely uncomfortable. I squirmed awkwardly and practically snorted “they definitely had no idea I’m a girl, so no…”.


While in the locker room I finally got frustrated and threw a pathetic punch and smacked a 6 foot something dude in the neck and walked mentally cursing. Recounting the story later to Savannah I realized that throughout the entire encounter (that probably only lasted 30-45 seconds) I never broke character. It’s like it didn’t even occur to me that I could shout, scream, yell at them that I’m a chick they are pushing around because HELLO! Mascot rule #1 is DO NOT TALK.

Dedication, bitches. Dedication. 

I find out today that the Athletic Director told the Dean of Students about the “incident”. The SAME Dean of Students who knows farrrrrr too much about my life and I already can’t look in the eye. Cooool, this Dean probs thinks I’m CRAY CRAY.

I’m not, but my life is. And that my friends, is the hilarity that is being assaulted in a giant, dirty, bear suit and the hilarity of the shit that happens in my weird, weird, life. It could be a sitcom… And I love it.

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Still Haven’t Cried.

It’s 4:00 a.m. in Hipsterville and I still haven’t cried. 

It hasn’t even occurred to me why. The stress of my daily life the past few weeks has felt insurmountable. I’ve been having a really fun semester and bam, what do ya know? I’m failing 3 of my 4 classes. The other class, I have a C in. It makes me feel like I can’t have it all. Like I can’t have fun AND still be successful and high achieving. Honestly, the stress of not living up to my own expectations has been more intense than the stress of my previous, less fun, meticulous life.

Not to mention, the stress and outright fear I have been experiencing for the past week every time my phone rings. Every. Fucking. Time.

And it’s always something awesome. The bakery I ordered my birthday cake calling about the pick up time. A cookie delivery company calling to confirm surprise delivery from my parents. But still, every time it fucking rings I think my stomach is going to fall out my butt.

That’s right. Straight out my ass. 

Because I’ve been expecting to NOT get a phone call, I have been insanely wigged out over getting any phone call.. The irony. I’ve literally had graphic day dreams while in traffic of screaming and throwing my iPhone with all of my might in the direct path of an 18 wheeler and satisfyingly watching as it is crushed and smashed into oblivion. And then with an irritated honk of the car behind me, I come-to and stop stalling at the now-green streetlight.

“We only call if there’s a problem,” she explained. “If you don’t hear from us within a week, go ahead and give us a call if you would like to confirm anything.” Tomorrow, or well, today considering it is 4 a.m. will mark one week. I’ll be calling at 8 a.m. so I can finally put this all behind me, calm the fuck down, and finally relax the tension I’ve been carrying for all of this time.

My  birthday was Tuesday. For a week I’ve been building my mother up to the idea of me getting a tattoo (the one I already have and haven’t told her about). So I decided it would be perfectly fitting to “get my tattoo” on my birthday. I pondered it all day and then two Woodchucks in I said “ehhh what the hell” and I went for it. It was 4 a.m. her time, a safe option I thought. I sent her a picture I took immediately after receiving my tattoo, you can see it in my post INK, along with the message “I decided to get my tattoo, YAY”.

2 minutes later she iMessaged back “ouch” and I haven’t heard from her since. I don’t know whether I should be concerned or if I should consider this a win. It would bug me if she was mad at me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t even flinch or care either. Besides, it’s not all that unusual to not hear from her for days.

But still, with all the crazy that has been surrounding this crap shoot that is my life, I haven’t felt sad. Haven’t cried. Haven’t felt lonely. I’ve felt busy as shit, distracted, and I’ve felt pissed the fuck off. 


78 days. 18 hours. 33 minutes. That’s how long I have to wait until I  graduate and can get the fuck out of Hipsterville. 

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A Glitterbomb of Glory.


There is something to be said about the phrase “fake it ’til you make it”.

I like to think of myself as a genuine person. But sometimes everyone has to put on their happy pants, even if they are fitting a little tight that day. But, just like magic, once you suck it up and put on those damn happy pants, they start to feel just right.

It’s physically impossible to not be happy while you’re smiling. But really though, there is evidence.

On days where I’m just not quite “feeling it”, I tend to dress myself in sequins, sparkles, shimmer, anything that will catch a little light. When you drape yourself in something as glorious as the aforementioned choices of attire, it’s fucking impossible to have a bad time. Because you look fabulous and you ARE fabulous.

Sometimes life freaking sucks, yes. That is a simple fact. But there’s nothing more satisfying than converting yourself from something dark into a disco ball of joy and happiness and putting on a show. It’s catching! Susan always, always says that “glitter is the herpes of crafts” and she has a freakin’ point!

Even on my worst days, I hope that my joy, just like glitter, goes fucking everywhere, gets stuck to people and things, and never, ever comes off. I hope that traces of my joy can be found underneath the couch one year after the party. I hope that my joy sticks to the people that I surround myself, because after all, I thrive off of the joy of those around me. I know, these statements are incredibly strange. But from this perplexing analogy is where I channel my inspiration to tell myself every day that…

Today, I will be a Glitter Bomb of Glory. 

And therefore, “Be a Glitter Bomb of Glory” is now officially written into affect as my life’s 6th commandment.

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Everything’s Slipping.

Confession: I am a control freak.

My life is highly controlled at all moments. I am a planner, a note taker, and a color coder. I have…

  • a planner for school
  • an electronic calendar planned to the minute
  • a notebook I call my “extended to do list” where I continuously add something I need to do (in life) on the next line–I’ve had the same notebook for this for 2 years and when I do fill it, it will be my second, cover to cover, extended to do list
  • a notebook for work with  weekly to do list and then broken down into daily to-dos
  • a notebook for service position I hold at school

I make up my bed daily, I keep an “inventory” of what I have “in stock” like Chapstick, make up remover, eye drops, my favorite pens, highlighters etc. Hell, I even have “shave legs” in my notebook of getting shit done. If I didn’t know me, I would think I was a total freak. Maybe I am. I won’t lie though, having a teeny touch of OCD (ok maybe more than a teeny) has gotten me pretty far and I’ve gotten there extremely effectively.

But recently, things are falling out of their highly organized and meticulously structured place. And I need to get it back.

  • Today, I took a test and got a C. I do not do C’s often…
  • Today, I took a quiz and left three of the five questions BLANK. I do not fuck up THAT bad often…
  • Tuesday, I took a test and got a D.
  • Today, I skipped a class.
  • Today, I didn’t make my bed.
  • Today, it took me four hours to complete a project at work that should have taken one.
  • Today, I did not pick out what I will wear tomorrow.
  • Today, I did not finish my daily to-do list and I scribbled it out to make myself feel better.

 Holy fucking shit. 

Tomorrow, though. Tomorrow, I will make my bed, calmly move through my day, and focus on myself and my daily goals. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, I will say “today I will be my own superhero”. 218a95f7d1da268abad2a3ce057aa644

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12 Signs Being Ladylike Isn’t Your Forte-Buzzfeed.

My Life Encompassed in a Buzzfeed Video.

But really though. Accurate, accurate, accurate. Not to mention the last few seconds are all about #womenempowerment. 

I’ve never been more proud in the fact that I am not ladylike. Thank you, Buzzfeed!

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The Time Machine.

Two years ago, I drunkenly stumbled into Savannah’s garage. Alone, sad, and cold, I had wandered off from the small party going on inside. Once inside the garage I fumbled my way to find the light switch and finally succeeded. The light hummed softly, irritating my soon-to-be headache. The garage sat still and empty as I peered around the small space. And that’s when I saw it. A wooden box. It stood about 7 feet tall and barely 4 feet wide. The light colored wood panels glowed in the fluorescent light. A small door sat in the middle of the box, centered with a glass panel. I peered through the glass, the inside was empty except for a wooden bench against the backside of the space.

I grazed the front panel and found a small handle. Prying it open, the warm smell of fresh wood wafted out of the door and I stepped inside. Quietly, I closed the door behind me and sat on the bench.


After soaking up my moments of pure joy of laughter and squealing, I finally emerged and returned to the party boasting victoriously about my find and my travel through time. Granted, my Time Machine is actually a free standing sauna, but to me it didn’t matter. It was an escape and I had found it and it was forever mine.

Last night, Savannah and Nadia threw a party with their other roommates. Last night, I made out with a guy in the Time Machine. Last night, we went back to see the dinosaurs and Jesus (yes, Jesus). Last night, I got to escape again and it was great.

The Time Machine and recent life experiences have allowed me to feel reflective of life and to be surprisingly wise. I say this, because recently I have observed once-relatable issues in my friends that I have now put far, far behind me. Here are their stories.


Esme, my sassy friend has a Dexter in her life. His name is Daniel and he dated Esme briefly a few years ago. Daniel and Esme have a “deeper connection” and are caught in a tragic, torturous debacle of love, dishonesty, and friendship. Daniel has a girlfriend that is not Esme, but he loves Esme and she loves him. They kissed two nights ago and he’s butt hurt because she is talking to another guy. The whole situation makes me want to roll my eyes and shake her. If he would do that to his girlfriend, he would do that to you too. He clearly isn’t honest, is confused, and wants to have his cake and eat it too. GET OUT NOW. But she won’t. She will never be able to rid herself of Daniel. I use to understand that feeling. You feel like you JUST. CAN’T. imagine life without the other one in it. Here’s what I know now, no matter what happens, the sun will still come up in the morning. Your favorite radio host will still be there on your morning commute. The seasons will still change. The world will not stop and life will still go on. 


Cameron is the guy who I made out with in the Time Machine. He got out of a 3 year relationship 3 days ago. He’s confused, lonely, and is wallowing in the grief that comes with the end of a relationship. “Thanks for showing me your Time Machine,” he cooed as we flirtatious cuddled up to chat inside our wooden box from heaven. “This is really good for me, it’s going to help a lot. But oh God it will be so bad when she hears about this, she thinks you’re so pretty so that won’t help”. Wait, what? “Um, there’s no reason to tell her about this unless you two are getting back together,” I spoke probably too boldly. “Do you want to see her hurt?” he assured me he didn’t and that he wasn’t just on “a break”. Here’s what I know now, when you’re done, be done. Walk away, move forward, move on if need be. This is not The Notebook and you are neither Ryan Gosling nor Rachel McAdams. A tragic romance is not cute or romantic. At all. 


My good friend who goes to a different university, Shannon was dumped 2 months ago. “He said there were 3 reasons,” she explained over Facebook chat.

  1. He wants someone to like me as much as a like him
  2. He doesn’t see himself marrying me
  3. He doesn’t think he’ll ever fall in love with me

Ok, so he just validated that he’s an asshole who’s way too serious about not being serious. Shannon didn’t want to marry him, or if she did she definitely wasn’t expressing that because we are TOO FUCKING YOUNG for that shit. But whatever, he made a call, let’s move on right? Wrong. “Don’t talk to him anymore,” I advised her. “Just come to Hipsterville and let’s go out and have fun being single!”. “Oh he definitely still talks to me. It’s just so impossible to cut him out,” she complained. Here’s what I know now, anyone who you have to cut out of your life handed you the fucking scissors. Cut that shit, toss the scissors back to them for the next girl that comes along, and either let go, or be dragged. 

And I know all of these crucially important, world altering life lessons because of a shitty few months and because of The Time Machine.

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Zoo Life.

Going to a school as small as the University of Hipsterville can often have its challenges.

  • People talk
  • You probably have made out with the same guy as 2-3 people in your class each semester
  • Everyone knows everyone’s business
  • friends (myself included) sign texts with XOXO Gossip Girl on the reg.

But recently I have felt very much like a new born baby giraffe at the zoo. Everyone comes to see the show. 

Sometimes I think I’m completely paranoid. Sometimes I am being utterly and completely paranoid. And sometimes, well sometimes my distress is just fucking valid. Like I swear the other day I was casually eating my breakfast in the dining hall and I’m quite certain Dexter minion (the name I give to anyone idiotic enough to befriend him) took a picture of me… Not 100% certain, but quite certain. I mean hello, TURN OFF YOUR FLASH.

No matter who you are, everyone has an opinion and everyone seems to be watching what you do. And there’s no winning.

  • You go party at the bars downtown, the rumor will spread that you’re partying too hard
  • You aren’t seen out one weekend, you’re basically on suicide watch
  • You start talking to a guy-you’re an automatic desperate slut
  • You don’t talk to any guys-maybe you’re questioning your sexuality after such a bitter breakup.

The reason I currently feel like a baby giraffe is because of the DISASTER that has been my life this semester. Finding out my ex cheated with like, six mistresses, punching him in the side of the head a few times, taking off to Disney World alone. Mind you, these are on the examples from THE FIRST WEEKEND of the semester.

People I have never even spoke to once seem to be way too invested in my life and decisions. Yesterday, my hilarious and most rebellious friend Esme drunkenly told me about how a girl (a perfect stranger to me) had a whole conversation with her about why I should forgive Dexter and how I was so wrong for not and for shutting him out. First of all, ew. The stories aren’t interesting to me, why would anyone else find them interesting? People are getting involved and asking questions and making opinions like they are buying fucking stock in Apple. Second of all, how the fuck can someone judge me for cutting out the ass who cheated like a million times? I would’ve thought I’d be judged harder if I didn’t.

But I suppose this experience just comes with the territory of dating at a small university with a gender distribution of close to 70% female 30% male. Give it a weak and the vultures that are college kids will move on to their new scandal.

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Hysteria Teachers Foundation.

 America Hysteria Teachers Foundation. 

Confession: I am a American Teachers Foundation 2014 Org Member

Confession #2: I just failed my teaching certification subject test.

I honestly think I must be the worst ATF org member they have ever seen. I’m constantly missing deadlines, ignoring phone calls,  I registered for my certification tests wrong, and now, to put the cherry on top of the fucking hysteria that has becoming my role in the ATF org, I failed my subject test.

By a lot. 

I was accepting into the 2014 Org. in November 2013. Being a senior at university and juggling the sudden influx of ATF assignments, fees, and obligations has been insanely stressful. Sometimes I find myself frantically screaming inside my head “No one fucking told me this started right now!” while I smile and mm-hmm to the org. representative lecturing me over the phone about how to organize myself and that I should “write down a to do list”. How fucking condescending.

I am impeccably organized in every single meticulous aspect of my everyday life. But for some reason, when it comes to ATF, I am a SHIT. SHOW. 

Not only are they asking a lot of their org members right this instant, I am also getting scared. Scared shitless. The idea of committing two years of my young adult life to a remote, rural, southern region is beginning to make me uneasy. They assure me on the website that most of the org members in this region have “everyday necessities” like Walmart within a 30 minute drive.

30 fucking minutes. What the fuck? 

But, no fear. My roommates just walked in with alcohol and cheese sticks. A temporary fix to the stress that is my life. I’ll take it.

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