Category Archives: Life Embarrassments

Surprise, I’m Flawed.



Last night, the first person left ATF.

She wrote a note. Packed her bags. Left some donations of her things in the lobby and she went home.

Yesterday evening, I was also pulled aside and told about the discovery of my blog. This blog. The Chronicles of the Chronically Confused. By ATF staff members. Hyperventilating, I blinked back hot tears and choked for air as I apologized for quoting my favorite staff, Kanisha as using the word “dem” instead of “them”. Surprise, I’m flawed. Really fucking flawed.

She explained she wasn’t offended, she wasn’t hurt, but that I should be aware. Thank you, Kanisha for your insight! I removed that whole portion of my stories from my previous post, just to be sure. As a writer, my intention was to paint a picture, not to offend. I’ve quoted my own mother’s accent phonetically in a previous posts. I made her southern drawl audible through how I scripted my language. But I can understand that it could be offensive. That’s why I removed it. 

But you know what, you have to be really digging to discover and focus in on one, three letter word. 

My life is wildly offensive. Do you know how many times I have dropped the f-bomb in here? To be clear, that won’t be changing. 

Lesson learned. Point taken. Understood. Won’t happen again. In the words of Kanisha as she addressed a group today, “you have not arrived”.

But you better believe I am going to keep blogging and doing so honestly right here on my personal blog.

This is not an ATF blog. This is a blog of my crazy, weird, extremely private life. ATF is just part of it. Keep reading if you want, my space will not be violated by prying eyes.

Instruction begins tomorrow and the crazy weirdness is about to begin. 

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I Just Might Fall in Love, Y’all.

Today, I had a conversation with a southern belle.

And she pissed me off.

I know, I know. Don’t judge! Be open! But just listen  to this story…

Today, said southern belle and myself were talking about the dreaded and hated question: Will you stay longer than two years? Yes, I call this question dreaded because there is a lot of pressure and judgement that is imbedded within the question itself. It holds a lot of weight. I don’t even know what day tomorrow is, how the fuck can I tell you what I want to be doing in two years from now?!

I was explaining that I do not want to commit, say out loud, or make any promises about where I will be or what I will be doing in two years from today. I don’t freaking know. I don’t know if I will be good at this. I don’t know if I will be beneficial to my students. I don’t know if I will be happy and fulfilled in this career. How can I answer that truthfully?

But then of course, I played devils advocate with myself. “But who knows, in these two years I might completely fall in love and never want to leave,” I marveled at the potential.

“Oh I know,” she purred in her deep south twang. “There’s a lot of really sweet southern gentlemen here. Especially in Jackson”.

HA! Okay. That just happened. That’s real. Don’t be mean, don’t be mean! I pleaded with myself.

“I meant fall in love with teaching…” 

And then shit got real awkward, real quick.

If I fall in love with a man in the next two years and don’t want to leave, that’s cool and all! There’s nothing wrong with that. But that’s not what I was talking about, that’s not what I meant. That’s not what I wanted to communicate, at all. Our mindsets were on two different planets in that conversations and we both knew it.

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Induction Day 1-Screwing Up and Loving It

It’s only day one, and I’m already fucking up.

During the second half of the hellacious day that was today, we went to our small group time with our affinity group. 

Affinity groups are suppose to be divided by the race that you identify. White people groups, black people groups, LGBTQ groups, API groups, Hispanic/Latino(a) groups. I understood this fact after about 10 minutes in my affinity group. Because, let me tell you how I royally fucked this one up. 

I guess, somewhere in the process of filling out the dozens of surveys for TFA before arriving at Induction, I decided that I was either

  1. over it
  2. tired of being asked or
  3. a smart ass

because I’m fairly certain that for the question What race do you identify as I answered I would rather not say.  As the affinity group began, the staff member introduced it as the Multi-Cultural, Multi-Ethnic group…

Confession: I am white. Like, very white. No rhythm, clumsy, awkward; stereotypical white girl, white.

But here I was, sitting in the multi-cultural, multi-ethnic group and I was the only person that did not identify as bi-racial. When had to go around the circle and introduce ourselves. What’s your name? Where are you from? How did you end up in this group/ how do you identify? 

HAHA, ok! How do I pull this one off? Time to get creative…. Let the brainstorming begin. It actually wasn’t even that hard, I’m quick on my feet. I dove into my story of frequent moves, international schools, diverse friends, and a variety of cultures. “I’m white,” I stated the obvious, obviously… “but I identify as multi-cultural because I am use to differences, I’m accustomed to diversity,” blah blah, I continued on. I have to admit, it sounded pretty damn good.

But still, all the mixed raced individual in the groups stared back at me with their gorgeous, warm hazel eyes. I made up their internal dialogue in my mind. What the hell is this white girl’s story?! This little white girl has got to be lost! 

But everyone was nice enough and it’ll be totally fine. What do white people talk about in their white people affinity groups anyway? Sounds lame. MULTI-CULTURAL/MULTI-ETHNIC FOR THE WIN.

At that my friends, is my awkward, awkward life.

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The Most Unfortunate Coincidence.

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. 

Today, I packed up my car, packed up my life, and started driving. By myself. To Mississippi.

I sucked it up, swallowed hard, and blinked the tears out of my eyes and drove onward to my new reality.

I tired to pump myself up with good music and some silly, positive self talk. I was feeling good, excited even. The journey had officially begun as I blazed a trail down the highway. Jamming hard to a popular song on the radio, I felt on top of the world. How lucky am I? A new adventure, a new city, a new state. The world is mine. Mine for the taking!

Less than an hour in to my road trip, I was in my own world riding fast in the left lane when the most unfortunate coincidence happened. Like a punch in the stomach. I caught a glimpse of a University of Hipsterville sticker on a car as it passed me on the right. I knew that car! That’s Heather Lynn’s car! But in the blink of an eye, like a flash of a camera, it all clicked. That beard. I know that beard. That blue button up shirt. I know the feeling of the very threads that make up its fabric.

Dexter was driving.

Of all of the places to run into Dexter…. I had to run into him on the highway as I began my journey to my new fucking life free of fucking manipulative and disgusting little pricks like himself?! Are you fucking kidding me? Where’re the cameras?! This must be a joke. Am I on some type of reality “Let’s Mind Fuck Sara Wildes” TV show?! 

I could see the previews to the fantasy TV show about my fucking ridiculous life….

“Tune in today and witness Sara Wildes, driving to her new life free from the burden of a small university where everyone but her knew that her nasty boyfriend cheated on her with over a dozen girls she knew, run into on the road the very same, now ex-boyfriend, who put her through hell and back. Watch as he passes her from the right lane, then watch as Sara Wildes and Dexter proceed to pass, get passed, pass, each other for the next 10 miles!” 

It’s comical really.

Dexter and Heather Lynn are doing a little road trip of their own, to New York City where Dexter will be interning for the summer and where Heather Lynn and her family lives.

This unfortunate coincidence really fucked with the rest of my drive. For a solid two hours, I felt sick. Actually ill. Like I could vomit all over the dashboard. But, I eventually got over it. Got my bearings. And drove onwards.

Because nothing can bring down the success story that is about to be made. 

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Flashback: The Field

I’ve gone and done it again. I scolded myself at my own stupidity. You’ve lost your fucking boss’ dog. 

Not just any dog either. Her precious, prized possession; Mason.

Two nights before, Mason was spooked as I attempted to run out his energy at my apartment’s dog park. He was a huge, 75 pound infant and nothing scared him more than the garbage men. I wrapped the thick leather leash around my right wrist an extra time for good measure and grabbed the length of it with my left hand. But with the clink and clank of a single trash bag falling from the truck, Mason was gone. 

Now here I stood in a God-forsaken field on the edge of nowhere looking for him.

“MASOOOON,” I bellowed, my voice reverberating through the thinning October air. My voice echoed within my head, but no one could hear me. I was a very small, pathetic, voice in a field of nothingness. But still, there I stood, shaking a baggie of dog food in my bright pink rain boots. Despite there being absolutely zero chance of rain, I found this choice logical.

I should’ve been in class. I lied and said I was with a “buddy”, but I certainly was not. Alone in this field I felt the most alone. Probably almost alone as Mason was. My eyes were trained to be hyper-alert to anything white, the color of his soft fur. So naturally, any trash bag and piece of styrofoam were a cause for alarm.

Damn it, I cursed the air. Her dog is her everything. And of course, he has to be afraid of EVERYTHING and EVERYONE. 

Just as my hope was dwindling, I saw a significantly Mason-sized white object ahead in the tall grass. Elated, I attempted to move calmly and quietly through the weeds. As I crept closer, I could see the fuzzy texture of this white object. Yes, it definitely looked like a potential Mason laying down for a rest. The grass was tall and thin, reaching up to the middle of my thigh.

When I was about 20 feet away, more details of the scene came into focus. Black, flying, bugs. Swarming around the center of the white object, landing on it, flying into the air above it. Oh. My. God.

Did I just find the corpse of Mason? 

Now, with tears welling up behind my eyelids, I burst into a full sprint towards him. Please don’t be dead, I bargained with the probably-dead dog.

My mind noticed before my body could catch up and suddenly, I was practically standing on top of the dog corpse I was chasing. But it was not the dead body of the 75 pound prized white lab mix. Instead, I stood before an old, rotten, ripped open, white couch. And the flying bugs were not in fact flies circling the rotting body of my dear Mason. They were….


Shrieking and swatting, I sprinted my way back through the grass that I had just previously conquered.

Gasping for air, I ripped off my baseball cap tearing up my hair with my fingers, threw my bag of dog food, all while clumsily running in those fucking pink rain boots. I walked right into the hive of  big ass, healthy bumble bees. GREAT.

Once at a safe distance, I collapsed. Burying myself in the tall grass of the field, I knew I would be invisible, even though there was no one around to see. Heart pounding, hands shaking I just sat there until finally, I forced from my throat a mumble,

“At least he’s not dead”.

This story is an example of one of those moments where I feel as though I wake up, come to, or begin seeing in color. In that instance, I woke up from a bad dream in a field, with a swarm of bees chasing me from their hive in a ripped up couch that I thought was the dead corpse of a massive dog that I lost and was searching for. In that instance, I looked around and thought why the fuck am I here? It was one of those times where I seriously question how I get myself wrapped up in the oddities that is my life.

Oh, and to alleviate any stress that you might have been feeling through the duration of this story, Mason was found two weeks later and I’m pet-sitting him in this exact moment, remembering and reflecting on that time he put a dozen people through hell while he clumsily galloped to God-knows-where for 14 days.

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Those Dreaded Three Words.

In the life of a 22 year-old who looks like a high school student, there are three words that you never want to hear.

  1. You’re 
  2. so 
  3. cute. 

FUUUCK. Once you hear that statement, you know it’s all over. Kid sisters are cute, kid sisters’ friends that come over for sleepovers are cute, teddy bears are cute, babies are cute. Sophisticated, funny, adventurous young adults are not cute. They just ain’t.

Today in a text, Austin called me cute. I have yet to reply, I probably won’t because I don’t respond to cute. Call me fun, call me interesting, call me stunning, but please do not call me cute.

I hate everything. *sigh

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Flashback: Body checked.

Yesterday, Avery and I dropped by my good friend Cooper’s graduation party.

Background: Cooper lives with Dexter.

So I had the expectation that there a slight possibility that this might get awkward. But that slight possibility was not going to stop me from celebrating with Cooper and his cool family. So on I went.

As Avery and I pulled up to the house, I was so fixated on my shit-awful attempt to parallel park that I didn’t even realize the silver car from hell across the street. Dexter’s car.

“What a RELIEF!” I practically sang I Avery and I clambered out of my car “his car ain’t even here”. But then I saw the car before I even closed the door. UGH. Ok, play it cool. You’ve mentally rehearsed for this I told myself. Avery is one of those friends that is full of sass so she was all about this. “Ugh, I cannot wait to see the look of self hatred and wallowing on his face,” she sneered and chuckled at the same time. I didn’t even plan on looking at his face, and I would put money on in that he wouldn’t look at mine either so I blew off her comments.

When climbed the steps to the house and rang the bell. Instantly, Cooper appeared and open the door only wide enough for his face to poke through. Upon seeing that it was I, Sara Wildes on his doorstep, he then opened the door a little further only to step into the doorway itself. Body checking me, Cooper stood half inside, half outside of the door, keeping it slightly closed behind him.

This experience only occurred for maybe 30 seconds tops, but it felt like an eternity.

I could tell that Cooper was trying to find a way to tell me, warn me, hint at me in the best way that he could. Finally I just gave up. “I saw the car already, it’s ok. I’m ok,” I mumbled softly.

He then let us in. Thankfully, I have good friends like Cooper and Avery. I was able to successful mingle and feel comfortable at this party because of their kindness and consideration. I caught a glimpse of Dexter sitting in a chair in the living room. I made a mental note of which chair he was in so that I could be sure not to touch it or sit in it later because, ew. Cooper, Avery, and I went to a separate section of the house and I practically hid behind a wall while we chatted and ate our snickity snacks.

But it wasn’t uncomfortable, it wasn’t annoying. Luckily, Dexter and I only overlapped appearances at the party for a solid 10 minutes before he left, freeing me up to wander the house at my own free will.

It was life and it was fine.

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Flashback: The Fireworks

It was July.

The night air was filled with dust and heat. The warm scent of the mountain breezes filled me with excitement. I was in Uda-shi, Japan. 


Even though my yukata was wrapped around my ribs entirely too tight, I still managed to squeeze myself through a plastic tunnel and climbed to the highest portion of the playground’s wooden platforms. I hoisted myself up and balanced on a creaky wooden beam. There, I had the perfect vantage point of the summer festival and, any minute, the fireworks would begin.

It was so hot that night. My host mother had pulled my hair into a bun hours earlier, but now little whispies that had fallen loose clung to the back of my neck.

I intentionally had snuck away from the festival and the group of students also on this cultural immersion with me to come to this very spot. I mentally staked claim on my wooden throne eight hours before as we climbed and played during our lunch break. We were volunteering with elderly that day when we first heard about the fireworks. Immediately, I was entranced with the idea of summer fireworks in Japan.


And then it began.

Exploding and popping and releasing their colors into the sky, the whole night lit up and the outlines of the mountains glowed. From where I sat, I could see the mass of children, adults, and animals alike each time a firework cracked light onto the dusty field. Drums blaring, it was the most spectacular moment of the summer. It was flawless. I was in Japan and nothing could go wrong. 

Until it did. 

Stupefied by the beauty and glamor of the moment. I ignored a persistent tickle on my arm. It was probably just my obi sash flowing majestically in the wind. But finally, the tickle overpowered my fixed gaze of the fireworks and I glared into the darkness at my arm. Between the bursts of fireworks, the night was pitch black. Uda is a rural village void of abundant neon lights like the neighboring massive city of Osaka.

With the next eruption of a firework, light flashed providing me with a half a second glimpse of the horror which sat upon my arm. The most massive spider than I have EVER seen stared right back at me. Thinking back to it still takes my breath away. I later image searched Japanese spiders and decided this horrendous creature most similarly resembles the creature that crawled upon me that night.


It’s called a Huntsman Spider

What happened next was an out-of-body experience. I could heard myself shriek with fear, but I could not feel the noises escape my throat. I thrashed so violently that I lost balance from my wooden perch and tumbled backwards off of the playground set. The fall must’ve been nearly fifteen feet, because in the distance from the beam to the steep mountain ground, I flipped over backwards a full time in the air.

I landed flat on my ass. Hard. 

Still panicking and disoriented I continue to yelp and stumbled to my feet, only to find that the mountain side was at a near 50 degree angle and impossible to balance on. In the next flash from a firework, I saw the disgusting, crumbled, and crushed body of the spider. I killed it with my own ass.

I stumbled backwards, twisted and proceeded to blow chunks. Everywhere.

After I was done heaving and gagging. I shamefully wandered my way back to the festival with vomit on my sleeve and spider guts caked on my ass. I snuck past adoring Japanese locals with my vomit arm behind my back and the other one waving awkwardly as I scooted sideways around them so they would not catch a glimpse of my butt. I jogged into the gym where they had us foreigners change into the yukatas and quickly removed mine, wrapped it in a plastic Seven Eleven bag and stuffed it at the very, very bottom of a nearby trash can.

I never, ever  told anyone that I ruined that yukata. But I’ll laugh about it forever. 

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My Crop Top Brings all the Boys to the Yard.

Confession- Yesterday I wore a crop top for the first time.

Yesterday was a gorgeous, hot Saturday in the bustling city of Hipsterville. It was a perfect 86 degrees, I gave zero shits about finals week, and I was looking for a good time. There was a festival, a massive influx of tourists, and an amazing opportunity to enjoy my last weekend as a undergrad. Savannah and I decided to hit the town and I decided a crop top would perfectly encompass and communicate my youthful enthusiasm for fun and summer.

Confession #2- One of the only reasons I even bought said crop top is because it is one of the only articles of clothing that has a neckline high enough not only in the front, but also in the back, to cover my the unfortunate situation that is my skin. Devastated by eczema, by chest and back are constantly covered in rashes and welts.


The aforementioned crop top in all its glory.

Over the course of the next 6 hours, I had the most interesting experiences. First of all, Savannah and I hit up the festival. As you can somewhat see in the photo, I devoured a turkey leg like the good little carnivore I am and we walked around, explored, and ventured into the interesting street vendor tents and bars. I have never been obviously gawked at in my life. I honestly thought there was something in my face, stuck to my shoe, I had no idea. Then it dawned on me; it was the crop top. 

Two inches of skin drew all of the attention… and it didn’t stop there.

Later, Nadia joined Savannah and I and we hit up my favorite street of dive bars and outdoor music venues. Now, it had gotten slightly chilly so at this point I added a cardigan to the outfit. So now the two inches of skin was only existent from the front. But that made little difference.

Not only did I experience a variety of stares, gawking, and both welcomed and unwelcome conversations from men, I also experienced all of the hatred, glares, and stink faces from women. Lots of side-eye. Lots of head-to-toe glances. I honestly was no longer comfortable in my clothes, but I was so fascinated by the difference these two inches were making that I didn’t even care.

Towards the end of our night out at the bars, I even got asked on a date. Like, a real one. A nice, older (27-28ish year-old) named Austin who runs a local start up invited me to a picnic lunch and paddle boarding today. I agreed and we exchanged numbers but, caught up in the excitement and nerves, I accidentally double booked myself and later had to change the time on him. That eventually led to changing of the day and he now wants to “take me to a nice dinner” on Wednesday. We’ll see.

Nadia had the quote of the night though! It was gold. Some annoying drunk dude plopped his drunken ass in a chair next to her and started chatting her up. For some reason the conversation moved to a local city about 3 hours away from Hipsterville. “Whats your favorite thing about that city?” he slurred.

“Probably that my boyfriend lives there”. 

YASS! Nadia for the win!

After the bars, I dropped by Molley’s midnight 21st birthday celebration at a local restaurant, famous for their margaritas. I was so excited to have the chance to go. I originally bowed out of attending because Dexter was going. I know, it sounds immature. I honestly could sit at a table with him and other people and be just fine, not kill him, not be ugly or rude, and get through it. But if I can avoid breathing the same air as him, I’m going to. It’s as if he exhales toxins and poisons that creep through the air, seep into my lungs, and fills me with negativity.

I have succeeded in having a good last semester, maintaining friendships, and have led a whole and healthy life. Honestly, Dexter is not even a problem in my life, he is a simply a nuisance with his mopey  body language and “depression”. Nothing like a near family catastrophe to put your “problems” into perspective… 

Anyways, Dexter ended up not going to the dinner so I no longer had to stand up Molley, who I adore.

So I walked up on the large table of people celebrating with her and well, honestly, I felt like I just walked into my grandmother’s church in a crop top… There was so much shade thrown, you would’ve thought I was an tan-fearing Asian woman with an umbrella. One girl literally got up from the table and disappeared, probably to the bathroom, about 45 seconds after my arrival. Granted, I’m sure it was a valid bathroom break, but you could still cut the tension with a knife.

A mistress was there, that’s always a joy. I expect the shade to be thrown from her, except wait not really–you’re the one that fucked a guy with a girlfriend so… I don’t have anything be ashamed of. What, did you expect me to play Ring Around the Rosie with you?

Eventually I felt so uncomfortable that I made my excuses and left. On my way out I hugged someone goodbye and one of the queens of shade-throwing who was sitting next to her turned my way, “Make good choices tonight!” she hissed through her teeth.

Um, ok thanks Mom, I’ll be sure to do that. What are you, two months older than me? My brain screamed. I was sober, I was driving! 

Oh but didn’t you know?! Two inches of stomach automatically equates to being drunk and having an inability to make good “choices”!

Anyways, I don’t think the crop top will be making anymore appearances. Although it provided me with an interesting night and stories, it ultimately left me frustrated and annoyed.

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