Fall Is Not For Lattes


A photo of my gorgeous college campus last fall.

Every girl in college is excited about fall because “yay pumpkin spice lattes, cozy sweaters, and boots!” This isn’t to say I’m not excited about those things too, because I love me a chunky sweater and some tall boots (pumpkin spice lattes are another matter entirely — my taste buds are very friendly but do not wish to tango with pumpkin spice ever again), but it is to say that there are a lot more wonderful things about fall than sweaters.

This is my favorite season. How could you not want to spend every waking moment outside (or at least looking outside) in fall? Every breath you take is filled with the smell of earth, of leaves, of cold, and everywhere you look there’s a new color you’ve never seen before. The world has changed for us to simply look at. We’re always so preoccupied with doing, making but in fall, all you have to do is watch. These silent changes happen over night, and as you wake up, throwing open the curtains, the earth reveals a startlingly red tree that was yellow the night before, or a bare tree that was fully covered yesterday. Am I the only one who wishes I could be constantly awake in fall so I could see the changes happen slowly before my eyes?

The eye was never tired of gazing, night or day, in calm or storm, it suffered but one grief, and that was that it could not look always, but must close sometimes in sleep.Mark Twain, Roughing It.

I wonder if this is how it feels to be in love: to want to stare into your partner’s eyes and simply look, observe, because just their heartbeat, the fact that they’re alive, is enough. That’s what fall is. It’s the long moments of serenity you feel when you just watch something unfold and grow before you, attaining new levels of life right before your eyes.

Spring is a time of rebirth and growth, and fall is when everything shifts to sustain that life through hardship. It’s like a mother, who gets you ready for bed and kisses you goodnight before winter comes and covers you with its cold blanket. Fall is our protector, our guardian.

So breathe, because it’s fall, and fall smells like life.




The view from Haylie’s apartment. Spectacular.

I’m leaving Seattle and I want to cry. This has never happened.

The Ice is Getting Thinner by Death Cab for Cutie came on my iPod, which doesn’t help since it’s full of tragedy and sadness and practically pulls the tears out of your eyeballs anyway.

I’ve never had a great experience in Seattle. I typically get shouted at by at least 3 people, or a cab driver tries to kidnap my suitcase, or the weather is depressing. This weekend, though, was my island. I visited my beautiful friend Haylie who is my spirit animal, and…the weekend was a dream.

We went to a cat show, y’all. There were so many Maine Coons I practically peed, and I watched a cat judging thing (weird–they’re all number one in my heart) and got stamped with a cat stamp. Every time a cat got loose they’d yell “CAT OUT, CLOSE THE DOORS, DO NOT TRY TO CATCH THE CAT” and it was weird and wonderful, just like the entire show.

Ate the best curry I’ve ever had. Bamboo shoots? Yes.

Pike Place Market: homemade latte flavored Greek yogurt? YES.

Got slightly accosted by a man who pretended to take a bite out of the pastry I was holding. He got way too close to my head and I screamed and jumped, and he laughed and said “I didn’t mean to scare you!” Really? Then he had the audacity to try to hit on me, so that’s apparently a thing that happens.

Saw Tegan and Sara live, which was actually incredible. I don’t know why I was kinda surprised, but I wasn’t really sure that I still liked them. My dad had randomly bought their album So Jealous at a record shop in Seattle and I might’ve fallen in love with them freshman year of high school, but it’s been at least 4 years since I actually listened to them much. They’re really good live, though, and even though Haylie and I sat basically behind the stage, it was still pretty brilliant.

Ra Ra Riot, however, sucks. A lot. They were technically a good band, and the singer has a nice voice, but he’s much too “oh-whoa-ho!”-y for my taste. I don’t particularly enjoy bands with no energy, and even though the violinist and cellist were both sassy and awesome, there wasn’t much that could save the lead singer from being incredibly lackluster. Also, I’m pretty sure the drummer was a wizard and possessed the crowd at one point. Nobody was really into it, and then suddenly everyone was screaming and twirling around in the stands and on the floor, and Haylie and I could only wonder what is this black magic? (I’m pretty sure that’s actually a thing, though, that everyone in the crowd knew about; when the singer sang a certain line, everyone knew to twirl. I definitely prefer to think that it’s black magic.)

And of course Death Cab was brilliant, but I wouldn’t have expected anything less. I saw them 5 years ago in my hometown, then saw The Postal Service over the summer (amazingamazingamazing) and now all I have to do is see Ben Gibbard solo before I can die happy (I mean, I’d love to see The Strokes, but that might never happen so I just have to dream).

I miss Haylie. I miss Seattle. I miss feeling free. Coming home was weird — I was in a coma for the entire flight, and came home and wanted to cry. I think this weekend sparked a bit of an existential crisis, so look forward to some moody “who am I, what am I doing, blah” posts in the future.


Baby flower children frolic in fields and rainbows. Meow.

Is Everyone Gay?

I’ve been a wee bit absent lately because…well, there are lots of reasons:

1. Sorority recruitment is intense. We prepared for 6 days, then recruited for 5. My sorority had about 65 members two weeks ago…now we have 115. NEW MEMBERS GALORE!

2. I now have a job. Ish. I work for the alcohol and drug counseling center doing outreaches for incoming students. I teach them about alcohol and sex, y’all, and it’s awesome. I calculated it, and between training and outreaches, I spent at least 30 hours in the last 2 weeks doing that. So recruitment and psychology job all at once = feeling like you’re gonna pass out at any moment.

3. School just started. People call the first week of school “syllabus week” but whoever made that up is a huge liar. I had a paper due today and about 50 pages of reading for today and tomorrow and all I want to do is sleep. I might be a bit terrified that all my classes are boring, though time will tell, and I’m 99% sure that one of my professors is a huge asshole.

And now, it may just be sleep deprivation talking, but every guy I see in class is gay. Scratch that…I assume every guy I see in class is gay. There’s a guy who looks like Ryan Gosling in one of my classes but I didn’t even look twice because “he’s probably gay, Cappy.” Another guy in another class…totally attractive, also apparently gay in my mind.

What is this nonsense, brain? Am I preemptively protecting myself from romantic destruction? My gaydar has always been terrible, so I don’t know why now, of all times, I’ve decided to trust it.

I think someone needs to send a mental health specialist down here ASAP and start up some electroshock therapy so I start making sense again. Anyone willing to help me out with that?

So Here’s Something…

I was packing today (I leave in 3 days, y’all…going back to college!) and came across an old diary from two years ago. I hadn’t seen it in years, and I read through the whole thing.

It detailed everything from getting asked to prom to being “dumped” by my prom date a few weeks after the actual dance to getting my first kiss (yeah, that seems a little out of order, but that’s how I live my life) to having my first boyfriend to going to college to…and then it stopped. And as I write this, I realize it was  that time, October 2011, when everything slid downhill. It’s funny when you’re so ecstatically happy and in love with someone and in love with your life, and then suddenly you want it to end. I’ve contemplated this so many times on this blog, each time gradually a little deeper, a little darker maybe, but I’ve never written about this because I’ve actually never thought about this. This post was supposed to go in an entirely different direction, but I may have just had a revelation.

I’ve thought about how terrible I felt at the time. How I couldn’t get out of bed, and how my relationships with everyone but about 3 people suffered dramatically, and how I ate stale, dry cereal in bed one night for dinner because I didn’t want to leave my room. And I’ve thought about how terribly tragic that all was, but I’ve always thought about it like it happened to someone else. In a way, it did, because I wasn’t myself. But depression is scary in one specific way: there is no outside force acting against you. Sure, maybe you’re Vitamin D deficient, maybe you had a traumatizing life event, and those are outside forces, but it isn’t a bacteria, it wasn’t a car crash, it isn’t something you had happen to you.

It is you. Or it feels that way, anyway.

I remember thinking I was eating away at myself. Having spurts of thoughts like I am doing this to myself. Having other moments where I liked feeling so miserable because at least I felt something. Not wanting the panic attacks to go away because I didn’t know how to define myself without them. Not caring that I was being destroyed because I had nothing to be whole for anymore. 

I’ve never really talked to my father about this. I had a really amazing conversation with another blogger about it, and they said they’d never talked to certain members of their family about their suicide attempt even though it must’ve been at least 25 years since. It’s weird…we can’t tell the people we love but we can tell strangers. It’s no fault of mine, and it’s no fault of my father’s, but I’ve just never really told him. And it’s been almost two years, and sometimes it feels too late to bring it up because it’s over. But I think I’m still a little traumatized by the realization that at one point I didn’t want to live anymore.

I think it somehow makes it hard to explain to someone that you had suicidal thoughts because doesn’t everyone? Doesn’t everyone have that moment when they’re looking over a bridge and they have the urge to fling themselves down into the abyss below? Well, sure, those thoughts happen all the time. But they arise from changing levels of adrenaline or something, and you would never just chuck yourself off a bridge on a whim.

You might swallow a whole bottle of pills, though, and fall asleep forever. You might think about that in the middle of the night after a panic attack. You might take a few extra of those pills, pills you were supposed to take for sleeping, and see how deep you could go, knowing you’d wake up because 3 isn’t an overdose but 30 is. 

I always thought it’d be more dramatic, like you see in movies. The heroine, tears dripping down her face, picks up a bottle of pills, closes her eyes, raises the bottle, and…slams them onto a table. No. I won’t do it. But real life is seldom so concrete or exciting. I thought about it, long and hard, wondering what my family would do without me, deciding that they’d be fine. I thought about it, but…I couldn’t get out of bed to do it. I couldn’t fight the depression long enough to end it. And that part is the only part that seems dramatic to me. It might fit into a movie. “I couldn’t fight the terrible weight pushing down on me, George,” Selma said in her light Southern drawl. “I couldn’t move to numb the pain.”

And I make fun of it, like that, because that’s the only way I can handle it without breaking into a million pieces and crying myself to sleep. But that moment, marred by a haze of one or two too many sedatives, is strangely sharp in my mind. I’d blocked it out until a few months ago, but…it’s not that I decided against doing it. I was just too tired. The pills probably didn’t help the grogginess, but it seems like maybe that grogginess saved my life.

When I was seeing a psychologist, I was saddened by the fact that I couldn’t remember a lot of my time in the fall of 2011. It was like I knew I must’ve been doing something…I was breathing and alive after all…but that time is just blotchy black spots in my mind. My psychologist said that my mind probably wasn’t ready to let me remember everything. Like maybe I needed to ease myself into the reality of that period in my life. So I read diaries and remember. I open notebooks and see “Am I crazy” scrawled across pages in red pen, written during a panic attack. I hear a song and cry. I wake up from dreams and flash back. 

It’s like PTSD, only mildly satisfying, because remembering makes it real. Remembering gives me a reason to feel bad for myself. I can’t remember for too long, because then I’d get nothing done. I don’t want to live in the past, and I don’t want to wallow. But I do want to allow myself to simply remember. Remember that something terrible happened within my mind, and I — very slowly and against more than a few odds — fixed it. 

There will always be books like The Bell Jar that take me back to those few months. I’ll go back to the town I used to live in someday, and I’ll probably remember horrible moments and cry and cleanse myself, stand up straight and walk away. I’ll find old notebooks, old poetry, old watercolors. Therapy tools. I’ll find them and remember, and I’ll bow my head. But I’ll move on. Someday, I’ll move on. For now, I’m in limbo, living an amazing life that would never have happened if those thoughts had turned to actions. 

I write frankly about these experiences because writing allows me to process. Your feedback is, as always, greatly appreciated. However, this blog is meant to be a safe place for both me and my readers, so I will ask that any negative comments be taken elsewhere and appropriately shoved up your arse. 


keep-calm-and-cycle-on-201I have a feeling that a lot of this post is going to be written in capitals, so if you’re not down with that then its best to just shut your computer off and step away now.

I went on an easy ride this morning (I’m training for a 45 miler on Saturday) at like 11, which is a terrible time to ride because it’s just beginning to get hot, and it was hazy and kinda muggy today too. So I’m riding along, enjoying my time outside, sweating more than I would like to admit, when a car drives by me kind of slowly. I was about to wave at them for being kind to me and slowing down when some DIMWIT sticks his head out the window and SPITS AT ME. Y’ALL. HE. SPAT. AT. ME.

I didn’t get hit, but that’s not the point. Who does that? Who decides, “I am having such a great time with my friends right now. You know what would make it better? Spitting on a girl while she rides her bike. I am an amazing human being.”

I’m so sick of getting crap when I ride. Riding is therapeutic for me. Riding has helped me lose 20 lbs this summer. Riding makes me so incredibly happy I feel like I’ll burst. It makes me feel free. It destroys negativity and…riding is my everything. 

So why are people so intent on being twats? Side note: a twat is a pretty stupid, yet strangely fun to say, slang term for a vulva. Basically, today, a man was driving a car like he was a vulva…with no cognizance of what he was doing, no morals, no anything. He was a vulva. And so was The Spitter and everyone else in that vehicle who enjoyed the Spitting Debacle of 2013.

Anyway, why? Why can’t you just drive in your car to get from Point A to Point B? Maybe throw in a little car-singing along the way, a little beverage-sipping perhaps. Chat with a friend. If you’re feeling adventurous, hold hands with someone. But really? You have to be a huge jerk and spit at me while I’m riding along on the side of the road?

I’ve had people throw cans at me before. That’s a double no-no because it also involves littering. I’ve had people honk at me right as they were passing me. I’ve had them scream at me, accelerate suddenly to scare me, blah blah. BUT I KEEP RIDING. So I don’t know what the purpose of assholes SPITTING at me is, really. Is it fun? Is it the most hilarious thing you’ve ever done? If so, you should probably just go home and watch TV forever because your life isn’t very interesting. Is it a thrill? Does it thrill you to scare the hell out of someone who did nothing to you?

A friend of mine has a brother in law who got SHOT with a BB gun while he was riding out here once. What kind of toothless redneck moron would shoot someone while they were riding their bike?

I feel like there’s not much else for me to say without using the word twat a lot more, and as much as I’d love that, I don’t think my mom would approve. So just know this: some humans are jerks, so the rest of us should all strive to be less-jerky, otherwise the planet will be overrun by absolute fools in 20 years.


Ok, I’m done.

I Am A Child, Neil Young

I’ve finally learned what it is to be a child.

Being a child is crying because you want something you can’t have, even when you don’t even want it anymore. It’s lip quivers for no reason. It’s doing things you know are wrong because you want to.

Being a child is awfully like being an adult.

Being a child is total confusion. Figuring someone else knows all the answers, and that maybe one day you’ll know them too. But then you’re an adult and you still don’t know any of the answers so what have you been working for this whole time? That’s when the lip quivers start again, only you’re an adult so why can’t you pull yourself together and fake it?

Being a child, though, was also fun. And that’s what we miss when we decide we’re adults. Who was the poor bastard that pulled 18 out of a hat and told us grow up? Now you’re an adult and therefore expected to understand the world and yourself, and you’re going to stop having a good time. You’re supposed to work and hate your job because everyone else does. But we all like fun, so why so serious? Why do we mandate that once you’re an adult, once you can stress-smoke until you puke, you have to hate everything and be cynical and just generally frown at everything?

I am a child, I’ll last a while.
You can’t conceive of the pleasure in my smile.

I refuse. I refuse to pretend that I know things. I refuse to drink things that taste gross (I’m lookin at you, Americanos) because I’m an adult and supposed to tolerate — no, accept — the bitterness of life.

So hey, I am a child. I cry when I feel sad. I cry when everything is beautiful, so beautiful that I’m overwhelmed and I think is this all in my mind? Is any of this even real? I cry because maybe I’m nothing, maybe all of this is nothing, maybe there’s no reason for me to bother smiling when everyone else swallows, grits their teeth, and looks the other way.

I’m Peter Pan in a world full of Captain Hooks, but I will feed you all to that crocodile and whistle on my merry way. And you’re not going to tell me no. I’m an adult, after all.

I Did Not Come Here For Staring

Ah yes, another post about the gym. I hate the gym (still) even though I’m steadily losing weight and feeling less blimp-ish when I wear my gym shorts and trot along on a treadmill. I really, really, really hate the gym.

It is too inside. There are too many walls. Of course, walls are necessary in order to support the roof of the gym, so I guess I’m pretty glad they’re there, and gyms are kind of inherently indoor facilities, but…I work inside for 8 hours a day. I need to breathe real air when I’m done.
I just have a problem with how muggy gyms are, and how the oxygen gets depleted and then there’s a weird fan blowing sad air on me while I sadly do my ab workout on a nasty mat that nobody has cleaned in 6 years and has pieces of foam missing from it, like a baby was set loose in the gym and ate part of it. Stop. I don’t enjoy this.

And anyway, gyms these days are more like libraries than real libraries…Everyone silently works out by themselves, with their headphones in or staring at the muted TV (by the way, watching Jeopardy on mute with subtitles is surprisingly disturbing. The contestants look really uncomfortable, like they’re being held there against their will). My sister and I get really giggly at the gym, and then we feel like jerks, like we’re supposed to be quiet and just miserably get on with our workouts. We will not have fun here. Being in shape is not fun. Being in shape is serious business, and if you’re not an expert on getting in shape, then just get out of here. I have been silently getting in shape for 10 years and look how happy I am now. Look at my arm muscles! They’re bigger than my head. I’m so attractive.

Then you get some weirdo staring at you, and you can’t tell if it’s because they’re attracted to you (probably not, because I look like a wreck when I go to the gym, which is a fact that I am very proud of, actually) or if they hate you…because the gym is for hatred. I did not come here for staring, sir, I came here for exercise. And I would appreciate if you wouldn’t creep me out while I contort my body into weird forms and lift my butt in the air for some very questionable glute exercises.
Speaking of, the gym is the only place in the world where you can lay on your back with your legs spread and not seem like a complete twit. Normally it’s not acceptable to practically flash your lady bits to the whole world, but apparently in this muggy, sad gym it’s not only accepted, it’s expected. I still feel weird doing it…

Basically, I’ve taken to riding my bike a couple times a week and going to the gym less frequently. I will breathe fresh air if it kills me. Which it won’t. Because it’s fresh air, and that’s good for you.



Is she not the loveliest woman you've ever seen? The picture came out blue for some reason...but the beauty's still there.

Is she not the loveliest woman you’ve ever seen? The picture came out blue for some reason…but the beauty’s still there.

My grandmother turned 93 years old on Friday. 93 years old. Can you imagine? The wonderful and terrible things she’s seen…

She was born in 1920 in Delaware. Her mother died giving birth to her, and she was raised by her aunt and uncle (who she thought were her real parents until apparently she overheard that they weren’t but kept it a secret for a long time, poor darling). I’m named after her uncle, Charles Brown, who she called Cappy because “he was the captain of their ship” meaning their house, as he was not a sea captain but in fact a fruit farmer. She’s told me stories about the Depression, when times were especially tough since he didn’t have a set salary. Once, he brought a cart of apples into town to sell, and she watched as he brought the whole cart, still full, back that evening. No sale.

We can’t imagine what people went through back then. They saw the worst of times, and they bucked up and worked harder. My grandma got a job at Woolworths on Saturdays for 20 cents an hour in Dover. “Wasn’t that generous?” she laughed to me today, in her beautiful, high movie star voice. That’s one thing I’ve always loved about her — she was raised in Delaware in a time when everyone spoke like it was Hollywood. At least, that’s what I think. She has that beautiful, eloquent East Coast way of speaking, but it’s something I’ve never heard in anyone else; her accent is unique, even apart from my grandfather’s. He was from New York, son of Germans, and I’ve never heard anyone talk like he did either.

Pops and Brownie, we call them. Pops passed about 4 years ago, into his 90s, and Brownie carries on in her blue Keds, jeans and light long sleeve shirts, her lovely slender fingers worn with age but still as soft as they were when I was a toddler. Edna Brown, you darling woman. My sister has her nose, her fingers. I have her height, I suppose — she was 5’9″ at her peak, though I don’t know how much age has affected that. She played basketball in high school when very few girls ever did, went to nursing school and had a career when that was probably pretty rare, and voted for the first female Episcopal priest. My grandmother paved the way for so many women, in her small way.

She met my grandfather — I forget where or how — when she was in nursing school (I think…the stories run together sometimes, and I heard them when I was so little) and they went to a movie together. Apparently, Pops had fallen and bumped his knee quite badly a while before, and in the dark movie theatre, he told her to feel it. Her hand on his knee, inspecting his wound, she realized her friends were walking by and thinking she was being rather bold in the movie theatre, touching the knee of this handsome young man on their first date. She’d laugh whenever she told that story, and it might be my favorite one ever. How my grandparents got together…seconded only by how my parents met (in an elevator, where my father, gregarious and friendly as ever, thought my mom was cute and asked her which floor she worked on. He returned later to ask her on a date. They went sailing and then to a movie with a group of friends, and in typical idiot-boy fashion, my dad sat on the other end of the group, all the way across the row from my mom).

She taught me to play Rummy. She and I sewed a yellow fleece poncho together — I still have it, though it makes me look a bit like a duckling, especially when I put the hood on. She taught me to knit, and we’d eat Cheetos and drink ice water on the back porch in the summertime. Chee-toes, she calls them. We went to the flower nursery together; she’d look at potted plants, and I’d stare into the pond at the koi fish and name the pretty ones (original names like Goldie and Chocolate). We’d watch Paula Deen together and cringe over the pounds of butter she’d add to her food. Giada De Laurentiis (granddaughter of Dino De Laurentiis, movie producer and my father’s old boss) and her huge, scary smile usually made us click to the next channel almost immediately. We made red velvet cake together in 7th grade, and I’ve never been able to make one that good since.

All my favorite presents are from her. They’re little, random ones: a recipe keeping book that I cried in happiness over; a book of Emily Dickinson poems that I devoured in a few days. I nannied this past week and the little boy asked me what the best present I ever got was…I could barely explain. He wouldn’t understand. No one would understand. My grandmother understood. Cooking and reading…Brownie definitely understood.

I forget how deeply I love my grandma sometimes, because I don’t see her often anymore. But then I remember all these amazing times we had. I have my name because of her adoptive father. I have my height because of her (and my father and grandfather). I definitely got my fingers from someone else, cuz these babies are not slender. My nose is my mother’s. I am a combination of everyone who came before me, but I am ambitious and I am strong, just like Brownie was. I wish I had twenty more years with her, but I wouldn’t trade these last twenty for fifty more.

Happy Birthday, Brownie. You’re sweet and lovely and you make me smile, and I’ll always be your “precious child” even if I am a bit of a ding dong sometimes.

This will be mailed out to her, as computer literacy did not grace my grandmother as it did me — ha just kidding, I can’t do anything but type on this thing anyway. I might accidentally be as old a soul as she. I did get my love of Emily Dickinson from her, after all.

Wave Your Tampon in the Air If You’re With Me

Look. I just read this post over at Firework in Stilettos and it got me thinking. Thinking about obnoxious people protesting outside Planned Parenthood when they could be devoting their time to volunteering at Big Brothers Big Sisters or something, if they really want to save the youth of tomorrow. Thinking about how annoying it is that everyone assumes your legs are always open if you take birth control. How people think that having your legs open all the time is really that bad…if you want to have sex and you’re being safe and responsible, by all means, open your legs up and go for it.

But mostly, strangely enough, it got me because of one line that Kat wrote:

The nurse hands me my pills and as per Planned Parenthood protocol, she places them into a small brown paper bag.  They’re already in a protective plastic blister back, a blue plastic envelope and a foil wrapper, but they (like tampons, maxi pads and most things associated with the female reproductive system) have to be hidden.

And that, right there, caused an epiphany the likes of which I have never before experienced. I’m awkward about my period.

Sure, I’ve blogged about cramps before, and sure, I’ve mentioned it to guys (my ex-boyfriend used to visibly cringe whenever I said anything about my period, as if he would “catch” my heavy flow by simply hearing the word “cramp” or “period” or…time of the month, honestly). But why are we so private about something literally every woman experiences? It isn’t like an STI, where you maybe did something risky or irresponsible and got infected. My period happened when I was in 7th grade, and it happened to millions of women before and millions since.

Since you asked, the day I got my period sucked. It was Easter morning, and all of a sudden whazam! (that’s the new *I got my period* word) there it was.

You’ve probably heard this before — or maybe not, since apparently we just don’t talk about these things in polite society, Cappy — but girls wait and wait and wait to get their periods. We rush to the bathroom in the middle of math because we think it happened, but it didn’t, and we’re secretly dismayed. And then it’s real. It actually happens, right before you have to put your Easter dress on and sit through two hours of church, and you suddenly hate your period with the passion only a hormonal pre-teen can possess.

I had that.

I had to wear a pad, y’all. And it was not small…they call them maxi-pads for a reason. I basically wore a diaper to church. I was 12 years old and wearing a big ole diaper in the house of God, singing songs about how He Is Risen but the whole time I wanted Him To Smite Me so I could be Done-zo With Periods.

And now, my period is something that just happens. For a while, it was debilitating, and I couldn’t get out of bed half the time, so I’m on birth control. For my period, not that it’s any of your business. But in case you think it is, I’ll indulge you. It’s for my period. And I wear tampons now because let’s be real, I do not need diapers and I definitely don’t need a pillow in my undies.

Y’all can deal with my lady parts, and you will like it! Or at the very least, you can keep your complaints to yourselves. Wave your tampons in the air if you’re with me!

Go Forth, Cappy. You’re A Man Now

Today was a day rivaled only by the day my dad taught me how to spit properly (the key is in the tongue placement…I think).

I drove a total of 150 miles to interview for a position at school with the office of alcohol and drug counseling, assessment and prevention service. The position was one for undergrads who would assist graduate psychology students with their outreach, etc, in the school.

I was so scared, and probably for no reason. I didn’t know what to expect (other than those top 10 interview questions, which I’d fully prepared for) and didn’t know how the interviewer would like me, but once I got there it was like I’d been meant to have the position my whole life. I realized I was born to talk to people, and if I just say what I really feel, what I’m passionate about, people tend to connect. So I got the job, guys. I did it. I really freaking did it.

I came home and went on a ride as soon as I could, because the amount of nervous energy pumping through my brain was getting a bit overwhelming…I say nervous only because I was so excited I couldn’t handle myself. Get it? Handle? Bike handle?

Yeah, terrible pun.

Anyway, I don’t consider anyone a great cyclist in my area unless they can bike up The Hill of Death, as I like to call it. It’s incredibly steep, pretty long, and really curvy. Plus, it’s actually got quite a bit of traffic, and the speed limit is 55 mph there. And there are those rumble strips in the middle of it, so if cars are nice and give you room, you practically fall off your bike with shock from the noise. I’ve never ridden up or down The Hill of Death. I have been perpetually scared of it and refused to go anywhere near it, for fear I’d make it down but not be able to get back up and be stranded forever in the middle of nowhere.

But for some reason, I decided to take it on. And after a mini heart attack when someone honked at me (please don’t do that), I made it. Y’all, I made it up the hill! Funny thing was, it wasn’t even that hard. The hill that had scared the living daylights out of me for 5 years was a piece of cake compared to some hills I’ve taken on. And I felt so silly, because I’d been worried about the unknown for so long, but at the same time I felt fabulous…I learned something about myself and that hill. I can do just about anything, no matter how daunting. And y’all, I do it with style, fingerless riding gloves and all.

I think some really cheesy things while I ride, usually about the meaning of life and other broad, vague concepts. This afternoon, I realized there was a connection between that hill and my interview this morning…and life’s challenges in general. There’s always something that’s unknown, scary, daunting. But once you tackle it head on, straining up the hill until your legs are on fire, it’s not so bad. Usually, you make it to the top just in time to see the wheat dancing in the wind.

Today I felt invincible, and so I was.