HA! MADE YOU LOOK.
As though I actually have any idea what's going on with Miss Cyrus, or am going to waste my time forming an opinion.
Now, get off the internet, pick up a book, hang out with your friends, and drink something yummy.
Or have a popsicle. That's always a good choice.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Public Service Announcement
Look. I don't like to be touched. I never have. Just ask my Aunt Lisa. She was always so disappointed that I wasn't a cute and cuddly child. Cute, yes, just not cuddly.
Before you ask, my parents did not abuse me, nor did anyone else. This was something I was asked fairly frequently throughout high school, because I didn't want anyone in my bubble. I have wonderful parents who hugged me, and nothing sinister in my past, just a very defined sense of personal space. And I'm pretty good about warning new people about my tendency to freak out if they invade said space...
SO DON'T. I do let people I feel comfortable with give me hugs or touch my hair, and if I don't, it doesn't mean that I hate you. I have very close family and friends who giving a hug is a very awkward and claustrophobic event for me. And if I give someone else a hug in front of you, that does not give everyone within that square mile permission to come up and embrace me as well. When did it become a social insult to deny someone physical contact? Sure, I'm on the more extreme end, but IT IS MY RIGHT TO DENY ANYONE A HUG. Overreacting you say? Probably, but if you want to hug me that badly, I would hope that you are my friend and would therefore respect my wishes.
And I'll admit, it's pretty arbitrary. I don't have a formula for who I will and will not hug/let hug me. But pressing me about it does not move you up on my list. Give me a high five. I love high fives. Get to know me. Ask permission before SWOOPING DOWN ON ME OR LAYING HANDS ON ME IN ANY WAY. I don't care how innocent or how pure your intentions are. Asking permission first at least gives me some warning. Because I have a tendency to flail and/or hit. Which is very amusing for any bystanders, but not very amusing for YOU. It also shows that you acknowledge my weirdness and are trying to work with it.
You know what else? I'm not just talking about straight boys, here. EVERYONE. Surprised? Maybe you thought that this was some sort of vendetta against those awkward boys who can't take social cues. Well, it's not. Guess what? Over the years, most of my closest friends who I hug the most have been awkward straight boys. Gasp! Shock! Awe! Yeah, stick that in your overly judgmental pipe and smoke it.
How does this work in theatre? It's kind of dodgy. I've definitely gotten better, and I'm usually fortunate enough to work with people for whom I have respect and who seem to respect me, and we work it out. But sometimes I'm all, "I don't know you! Why are you hugging me? Because we're theatre people? I'm sorry, I didn't know that my BFA was an open invitation to have strangers attack." Yes, most theatre people are very touchy-feely, and I'm kind of the odd one out, but that doesn't mean that I don't get to dictate what makes me uncomfortable.
And there are points where I cross the threshold. One day I may not hug you, the next day, hugs galore (within reason). It's just how I operate.
That is all.
Before you ask, my parents did not abuse me, nor did anyone else. This was something I was asked fairly frequently throughout high school, because I didn't want anyone in my bubble. I have wonderful parents who hugged me, and nothing sinister in my past, just a very defined sense of personal space. And I'm pretty good about warning new people about my tendency to freak out if they invade said space...
SO DON'T. I do let people I feel comfortable with give me hugs or touch my hair, and if I don't, it doesn't mean that I hate you. I have very close family and friends who giving a hug is a very awkward and claustrophobic event for me. And if I give someone else a hug in front of you, that does not give everyone within that square mile permission to come up and embrace me as well. When did it become a social insult to deny someone physical contact? Sure, I'm on the more extreme end, but IT IS MY RIGHT TO DENY ANYONE A HUG. Overreacting you say? Probably, but if you want to hug me that badly, I would hope that you are my friend and would therefore respect my wishes.
And I'll admit, it's pretty arbitrary. I don't have a formula for who I will and will not hug/let hug me. But pressing me about it does not move you up on my list. Give me a high five. I love high fives. Get to know me. Ask permission before SWOOPING DOWN ON ME OR LAYING HANDS ON ME IN ANY WAY. I don't care how innocent or how pure your intentions are. Asking permission first at least gives me some warning. Because I have a tendency to flail and/or hit. Which is very amusing for any bystanders, but not very amusing for YOU. It also shows that you acknowledge my weirdness and are trying to work with it.
You know what else? I'm not just talking about straight boys, here. EVERYONE. Surprised? Maybe you thought that this was some sort of vendetta against those awkward boys who can't take social cues. Well, it's not. Guess what? Over the years, most of my closest friends who I hug the most have been awkward straight boys. Gasp! Shock! Awe! Yeah, stick that in your overly judgmental pipe and smoke it.
How does this work in theatre? It's kind of dodgy. I've definitely gotten better, and I'm usually fortunate enough to work with people for whom I have respect and who seem to respect me, and we work it out. But sometimes I'm all, "I don't know you! Why are you hugging me? Because we're theatre people? I'm sorry, I didn't know that my BFA was an open invitation to have strangers attack." Yes, most theatre people are very touchy-feely, and I'm kind of the odd one out, but that doesn't mean that I don't get to dictate what makes me uncomfortable.
And there are points where I cross the threshold. One day I may not hug you, the next day, hugs galore (within reason). It's just how I operate.
That is all.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
August is Like Ohio
On July 31st I was overcome with great joy because it was Harry Potter's birthday.
That joy was quickly smothered by panic. Panic that the following day was August 1st. I hate August. I seem to hate a lot of things. But that's because people seem to like to hear about the things I hate, so I continue to write about them. It's all YOUR fault I have so much hatred.
Anyway. August. August is that month of weird limbo. July is great because it is the midst of summer; it always seems like you have all the time in the world to swim, bask in the sun, and barbecue. If you are the kind of person to swim and bask and barbecue. For me, summer was almost always that precious break from school, where I was allowed to read whatever I wanted. Augusts hits and then BAM! only one month left to do all of those summer things! Sure, it's still an entire month, but behind every August outing is a sense of urgency. All of a sudden, the summer check list seems impossibly long and you know you're never going to get it all done before September.
Of course, this feeling stems from the idea that one is going back to school in September, which I am not. But I always forget that. It's just so engrained in my psyche. September = School. Which is amazing. I wish I were still going back to school, but I'm also so happy that I don't have to do homework (because I did do my homework every so often).
Honestly? I'm not actually a huge fan of summer. June? Lovely. July? Fine. August? I'm over it. August is what stands in between my waning tolerance of heat and sun and that most perfect of seasons: autumn. By the time August hits, all I want is to wear tights and jackets and scarves, pick apples, and gorge myself on a profane amount of absurdly pumpkin flavored goodies. August is like Ohio at the end of your family road trip back from Florida. Yes, the vacation and sun are over, but you're not quite home free. You have to schlep through a state that does not look that intimidating on the map, but feels like an eternity while driving through it. And it offers NOTHING.
That's a lie. There are some good things in Ohio. You know, Cedar Point and Tony Paco's. But at this point, you're not looking to enjoy your time in Ohio, you're looking to get back to Michigan. That's how I feel about August. Yes, it has some merits, it can still be enjoyed, but really, I just want to get to September. I don't want to wear sunblock anymore. I don't want to continue to drive past flat fields and colleges. I want fall. I want Michigan.
So close.
That joy was quickly smothered by panic. Panic that the following day was August 1st. I hate August. I seem to hate a lot of things. But that's because people seem to like to hear about the things I hate, so I continue to write about them. It's all YOUR fault I have so much hatred.
Anyway. August. August is that month of weird limbo. July is great because it is the midst of summer; it always seems like you have all the time in the world to swim, bask in the sun, and barbecue. If you are the kind of person to swim and bask and barbecue. For me, summer was almost always that precious break from school, where I was allowed to read whatever I wanted. Augusts hits and then BAM! only one month left to do all of those summer things! Sure, it's still an entire month, but behind every August outing is a sense of urgency. All of a sudden, the summer check list seems impossibly long and you know you're never going to get it all done before September.
Of course, this feeling stems from the idea that one is going back to school in September, which I am not. But I always forget that. It's just so engrained in my psyche. September = School. Which is amazing. I wish I were still going back to school, but I'm also so happy that I don't have to do homework (because I did do my homework every so often).
Honestly? I'm not actually a huge fan of summer. June? Lovely. July? Fine. August? I'm over it. August is what stands in between my waning tolerance of heat and sun and that most perfect of seasons: autumn. By the time August hits, all I want is to wear tights and jackets and scarves, pick apples, and gorge myself on a profane amount of absurdly pumpkin flavored goodies. August is like Ohio at the end of your family road trip back from Florida. Yes, the vacation and sun are over, but you're not quite home free. You have to schlep through a state that does not look that intimidating on the map, but feels like an eternity while driving through it. And it offers NOTHING.
That's a lie. There are some good things in Ohio. You know, Cedar Point and Tony Paco's. But at this point, you're not looking to enjoy your time in Ohio, you're looking to get back to Michigan. That's how I feel about August. Yes, it has some merits, it can still be enjoyed, but really, I just want to get to September. I don't want to wear sunblock anymore. I don't want to continue to drive past flat fields and colleges. I want fall. I want Michigan.
So close.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
RAGE
SO MUCH RAGE.
THE FRUIT FLIES.
Why are there fruit flies? Really, what purpose do they server for the greater good? I mean, you could ask the same thing about me, but I feel like I bring some sort of joy to people's lives. Fruit flies bring joy to no one. Only rage.
I would say that the fruit flies have inspired me to keep up on my dishes. Yes, this is a good thing. Now I always clean, or at least rinse, my dishes immediately after I have enjoyed my delicious fare. The purpose of fruit flies is to make sure dishes are clean? I would definitely hop on board with that... EXCEPT THERE ARE STILL FRUIT FLIES. EVERYWHERE. I don't get it. Where do they come from?!? And so quickly. I think that's the part I don't get. One day, no fruit flies. The next day, ZILLIONS OF FRUIT FLIES. You can tell I'm full of rage because I'm using so many capital letters. You know what I don't say nearly enough? "That's capital!" You know, as an exclamation. "What a capital idea!" I think I'm going to integrate that into my daily vocabulary. You know what isn't capital? The fruit flies infestation of my apartment.
The thing is, fruit flies have great taste. I say it's great because they have the same taste as me. They love fruit (duh) like me, and coffee, and peanut butter, and all sorts of natural tasty things. They're not going after highly processed food, and neither am I. Why am I being punished for enjoying bananas and cherries? I'm eating fresh, natural foods, why am I being sent a plague?! And it's not like I'm leaving banana peel out and about, I put them in a sealed beg! Ugh.
And you know what else? My apartment used to smell like Lush and pancakes and sunshine. It smelled like paradise every time I walked in the door. But now it smells like apple cider vinegar and hate and dying fruit flies. Because that is supposed to be one of the most effective ways to kill the little buggers. Apple cider vinegar in a little dish. Not the worst smell in the world, but still nothing compared to sunshine. Also, there is a tiny fruit fly grave yard on top of my toaster over. Ich.
I have to admit, though, I do feel pretty badass whenever I kill one. Not by drowning, but because of mad ninja skills. There are very few things as satisfying as clapping your hands in midair and actually squashing one of those little brutes. Sometimes I still yell out, "I am Obama!" whenever I manage to get one. Everyone remembers when that happened, right? Obama killed a fly with his bare hands on television. It was pretty epic. And that's how I feel when I get a fruit fly. Epic. I even have one completely flattened on an index card. It is a warning to the others.
The worst thing about the fruit flies? When they land on me at night. Once it happens, all I can feel are the fruit flies crawling all over me.
THE FRUIT FLIES.
Why are there fruit flies? Really, what purpose do they server for the greater good? I mean, you could ask the same thing about me, but I feel like I bring some sort of joy to people's lives. Fruit flies bring joy to no one. Only rage.
I would say that the fruit flies have inspired me to keep up on my dishes. Yes, this is a good thing. Now I always clean, or at least rinse, my dishes immediately after I have enjoyed my delicious fare. The purpose of fruit flies is to make sure dishes are clean? I would definitely hop on board with that... EXCEPT THERE ARE STILL FRUIT FLIES. EVERYWHERE. I don't get it. Where do they come from?!? And so quickly. I think that's the part I don't get. One day, no fruit flies. The next day, ZILLIONS OF FRUIT FLIES. You can tell I'm full of rage because I'm using so many capital letters. You know what I don't say nearly enough? "That's capital!" You know, as an exclamation. "What a capital idea!" I think I'm going to integrate that into my daily vocabulary. You know what isn't capital? The fruit flies infestation of my apartment.
The thing is, fruit flies have great taste. I say it's great because they have the same taste as me. They love fruit (duh) like me, and coffee, and peanut butter, and all sorts of natural tasty things. They're not going after highly processed food, and neither am I. Why am I being punished for enjoying bananas and cherries? I'm eating fresh, natural foods, why am I being sent a plague?! And it's not like I'm leaving banana peel out and about, I put them in a sealed beg! Ugh.
And you know what else? My apartment used to smell like Lush and pancakes and sunshine. It smelled like paradise every time I walked in the door. But now it smells like apple cider vinegar and hate and dying fruit flies. Because that is supposed to be one of the most effective ways to kill the little buggers. Apple cider vinegar in a little dish. Not the worst smell in the world, but still nothing compared to sunshine. Also, there is a tiny fruit fly grave yard on top of my toaster over. Ich.
I have to admit, though, I do feel pretty badass whenever I kill one. Not by drowning, but because of mad ninja skills. There are very few things as satisfying as clapping your hands in midair and actually squashing one of those little brutes. Sometimes I still yell out, "I am Obama!" whenever I manage to get one. Everyone remembers when that happened, right? Obama killed a fly with his bare hands on television. It was pretty epic. And that's how I feel when I get a fruit fly. Epic. I even have one completely flattened on an index card. It is a warning to the others.
The worst thing about the fruit flies? When they land on me at night. Once it happens, all I can feel are the fruit flies crawling all over me.
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