Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Please just say what you fucking mean

Although the logic of indirect speech is still "largely unexplained" according to psychologist Steven Pinker, people often "insinuate their intent indirectly rather than stating it as a bald proposition" (Pinker, Nowak, and Lee, 2007) in order to avoid conflict and conform to social conventions, such as "Netflix and chill?" (a disguised booty call).

My proposition is this: why don't we just say what we fucking mean?
I'm tired of all the emojis and the explanation points to look enthusiastic. Why can't we just use texting the way it was intended, to get our points across? To make plans with friends? We use it as a buffer when getting to know someone, when talking to a potential boyfriend, when making plans for fear of rejection. Why don't we just say what we mean, to someone's face? Or over the phone?

I'm tired of guessing when my friend's mad at me. Why don't you just tell me? I'm tired of using a third person as a buffer in relationships - "do you think Julia would say yes if I asked her out?"

I think life would be a lot less complicated if we just said what we fucking meant. There would be no more misinterpretations, no more reading too much into things. Men are doing it right, in this respect. Women tend to disguise their true intentions, and hope to get their point across. For instance, pettiness and passive aggressiveness. Fuck coming on too strong.

Works Cited

Pinker, S., Nowak, M. A., & Lee, J. J. (2007, December 11). The logic of indirect speech. Retrieved January 23, 2018, from Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America website: http://www.pnas.org/content/105/3/833.full

Sunday, January 28, 2018

Meaningful friendships

I've been friends with my best friend since the seventh grade. She has been there for me since day one and I wanted to share how that feels, for people who haven't experienced it.
We can talk for hours nonstop, with no awkward silences, about real shit. We psychoanalyze people together, talk about our problems together, and talk shit together. We grew up together, developed our self-awareness together. Other friends came and went, but we always stayed together. She has been the only consistent thing in my life since seventh grade. Every time I had a fight with my mother, or my ex boyfriend, or had a really bad day, she was there. She would listen, agree, and offer advice. She would tell me what I needed to feel better, but she was blunt with me.

When I was having fights with my mom every other day, she told me to take a step back. When my relationship went to shit, she told me to dump his ass. When I developed and struggled with social anxiety disorder, and I couldn't talk to waiters, cashiers, or on the phone, she would sit there next to me and encourage me to do it. When my family didn't support me, and refused to get me a therapist, she helped me write an email to the school psychologist. She had never experienced mental illness, but she was a great listener and tried her best to understand. She helped me stop caring what other people thought. When I got my ears pierced, she sat on the table next to me and held my hand. When I broke up with my boyfriend, she listened to me complain about him for hours, even when I got repetitive. Instead of complaining, she agreed with me and encouraged me to move on. She has seen me at my worst--she held my hair back when I drank too much, and I ugly cried on her shoulder on a mattress at Sears. We hate all the same people for the same reasons, we finish each other's sentences, and we know what each other's thinking, without even a glance. She's been through everything with me. I tell her everything, so she has basically lived through everything I have. She was there for my family problems, my mental health problems, my first kiss, first job, first tattoo, first drink, first relationship, first breakup, saving up for and buying my first car, and everything in between. And she never got bored.

Knowing she will always be there for me is a feeling that can never be beat. Even if she doesn't understand my experiences fully because she hasn't been through the same thing, she always tries her best and listens to me go on and on about the same thing for hours, because she knows that's what makes me feel better.

If you're reading this I fucking love you dude💕

Getting my second piercings

I've had my ears pierced for three and a half years. The first time around, I got them pierced with a gun at some jewelry store in town center. They got infected. I went to the doctor, they put me on antibiotics, it didn't work, and my ear grew over the backing. My doctor had to cut my earring out of my ear. I finally decided to take them out and let them close. I was 11 at the time. Fast forward to freshman year, I got them pierced again, this time at the reputable Piercing Pagoda. They got infected, I went on antibiotics. I was about to let them close up, when I had the idea to get help from an actual piercer. I went to Owen, at Chameleon Tattoo and Body Piercing in Harvard Square, Cambridge. He gave me emu oil, and told me to soak with a saline solution. In a week, my piercings were healthy.

As for the experience...
That's why I went back to Owen to get my second piercings done. I took my friend, we drove into Harvard Square, spent half an hour trying to parallel park, and arrived 20 minutes early. They copied my driver's license, I chose a pair of flat titanium studs, I sat on the table, held my friend's hand, he walked me through it, and got my ears pierced! They use a hollow needle, so now a string of my flesh is sitting in a landfill somewhere. Owen and I had a conversation about our hatred for the gun piercing industry. According to him, many gun piercings turn out angled, or in the wrong location, because there's much less control. And the "piercers" are hardly trained. And the aftercare solution they give you? Exactly why I had pus dripping out of my ears for months.

So why did I do it? It doesn't add much to my "look." I might as well have thrown away $90.
I originally wanted to do it for my 18th birthday earlier this month. Not to defy my parents, but to celebrate being of legal age. I asked my parents for their blessing, and they said something along the lines of "we would prefer you didn't, but it's ultimately your choice and we don't want to start a fight."
Of course, I had to make the appointment a week in advance and paid over the phone. As I'm walking out the door, an hour before my appointment, she goes, "I really don't want you to do this." She claims I coerced her into giving her blessing.
To me, it's beautiful. It's art. It's a reminder that my body is mine, and I can manipulate it the way I want to. It's a new way to adorn my body, like makeup or clothes.

It hurts like a bitch, by the way. Every time I brush it by accident or lay on my side.

Saturday, January 27, 2018

My first relationship: A reflection

There was the good, the bad, and the breakup. I was bored and lonely and wanted my first relationship before college, so I could go into college with some experience under my belt. My first "boyfriend" I hooked up with at a party and he said he loved me. Next day we go on a date and he says he meant it. So I don't consider that much of a relationship. Although he told everyone we were dating. Yes, this was the summer before my senior year of high school.

I meet this guy through a friend, and he has a lot of crazy exes. My first thought is, "are they really all crazy or do they become 'crazy' when he dumps them?" Guy's an inch or two shorter than me. Fine, I say, I'm not superficial like that. We snap for a while, I ask for his number. We text, he says good morning and goodnight to me every day. He asks me on a date (took way too long). It was awkward but that's expected. We talk for two months. At this point, we're basically dating. I initiate the "what are we?" talk, it goes:
"Can we talk?"
"Uh oh."
"Do you want to be official? Like can I call you my boyfriend and stuff?"
"Can I call you my girlfriend?" (Way to turn it around on me so you don't make the first move.)
"Duh, that's why I asked."
That was on Halloween of 2017. We spent all night playing cat-and-mouse, neither of us wanting to start the conversation. But I'm a confident lady who knows what she wants. When the time is right, I do what I gotta do.
So we're dating. We eventually incorporate the small touches, back rubbing, hugs, snuggling, putting his arm around me. After another month, we kiss. It was the longest one we ever had. It happened in my car as we were saying goodbye. He kissed me, probably one of the only things he ever initiated. We never incorporated the spontaneous kisses. Think 2000's middle school relationship.
From the beginning, everything was difficult. Initiating physically, and for him, opening up to me emotionally, and being there for me. But I liked going to his house every Friday night, watching Netflix, and cuddling with his cat. We never talked, never went on dates. He never told me I was beautiful. I'd hear it from a friend. We watched Vine compilations, which I don't even like, but I liked having the closeness with someone else. We slept over at each other's houses a few times, during which times we seldom kissed. Physical initiation was still hard, for both of us. We had a few 3 am conversations, which I thought meant something. He'd say, "I'm scared of losing you," and then wouldn't care to hear about my personal problems. I'd try to help him with his, because I've had similar experiences, and he didn't want to hear my advice.
He struggled with anxiety and depression, and so did I a few years prior. I knew how to help, but he didn't want my help. I didn't expect him to take my advice, they never do, but I expected him to listen and want to change. He didn't. He struggled with drug abuse, and someone very close to me did too. All he had to do was want to stop, but he didn't. We had a series of "can we talk?"s centered around these issues, and he would say, "I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll change. It's my fault." And it was, and he didn't. Didn't even understand the problem, didn't try to. He was emotionally unavailable, and I let it go in favor of a "casual relationship," because I valued the physical intimacy: the hugs, the snuggling, the back rubbing. It afforded me a kind of tangible validation I had never experienced before. I felt cared for, even if he didn't put it into words. He held my hair back when I got drunk and threw up everywhere.
He got too comfortable pushing my boundaries. He brought me to pick up weed from a friend's house, and as a result my car smelled like it for hours. What if I had to drive my parents somewhere? What if I got pulled over, and they found it? It would be considered my possession because it's in my car. He brought me to party, surrounded by drug dealers. What if my parents found out I was hanging out with a bunch of drug dealers? But either he didn't know, or didn't care. I cared. The stakes were higher for me. I had a very specific reason for not wanting to associate with drugs, and he didn't understand. Didn't even respect it. You can respect without understanding. He didn't.
I invited two of my friends over that Saturday night, and we came to the realization that this relationship was hurting me more than it was helping. My anxiety was back, I was overthinking every little detail. I couldn't feel comfortable around him. He dragged me into things I didn't want to be dragged into. And he was emotionally unavailable. That was the point where I said goodbye.

Much like our first day as a couple, our last one was spent playing a little game of chase. I said we needed to talk in the morning, we talked late at night. He wanted me to do it over text, but I refused. I would never make myself that bitch, no matter how hard he tried. I also wanted to give him a reason, I felt I owed him that, and I wanted him to know what he did so he could do better in the future.
I went to his house, said my piece, and drove away. I was okay. I knew it needed to end, probably from the beginning. But I was scared, to be alone again and to be bored again, forced to face the reality of what my life was.
Then I found out. He cheated on me. For the entire duration of our relationship. I heard it from a friend, who told me in the fourth floor girls' bathroom, during third-block math. I'm so mad, the receptionist comes out to tell us to quiet down, get classy, and go back to math. I might've been "swearing like a sailor," in her words.
Next block I have an appointment with the school psychologist, conveniently set up ahead of time. I set it up the weekend prior, to alleviate the anxiety that was coming back. I cried a bit, spent the block explaining what happened, why I dumped him, and what he did to me. She told me not to tell anyone that he cheated on me. But I was so mad, I told the whole school. Everyone knows. Sophomores, juniors, and seniors. I told the sophomores I TA, all of my friends, who told their friends, acquaintances, coworkers, teammates. Everyone knows the asshole he really is. He lost friends. All of our friends took my side. I never liked his friends anyway.
I felt really low for a day or two. I called my friends, they came over, I spent the next week with someone constantly by my side, so I wouldn't have to be alone. Wouldn't have to think about it.
I think the reason why it feels so shitty to be cheated on, is you realize they were never the person you thought they were. Yes, you feel betrayed, disrespected, and used. But you also feel stupid, for ever believing they were a good person. A cheater is inherently not a good person. I fell for his "nice guy" act for four months. (Turns out he's a sociopath with no feelings whatsoever.) And the thing is, I always do. Every time I'm wrong. But I'm not going to stop trying, because one day I'll be right.

I don't need a therapist. I don't need a rebound. I need time, a new hobby, and a genuinely nice guy in my life. If I can cure my own social anxiety disorder, I can get over a breakup with a guy I barely liked. I learned that it's not worth it, to just have a boyfriend. I don't regret being in that relationship, because I learned a lot about who I am, what I want, how to advocate for myself, and how to stay strong when my wishes are chronically not being respected. But I regret being in it with him.
I don't care enough to hate him anymore, or wonder how he's doing. Karma took care of that for me. I need to focus on myself, and fill my insecurities and boredom with something a lot more productive.

I hope that you can take my advice and advocate for yourself in relationships, romantically and otherwise. Know what you want, and don't settle for less.

Saturday, July 1, 2017

My Reflections on Summer 2017 Thus Far

This is your suggested soundtrack for viewing this blog post.

A quick summary...

  1. A lot of shopping. For bikinis, that I'm totally going to wear. During all that swimming at the beach I'm doing.
  2. A lot of driving, and a lot of compiling playlists. Me and my squad have been whipping in my Honda Civic every day. Sweet ride, right?
    Seems like every day we find another place half an hour away and end up in the car for 45 minutes each way. Because I keep making wrong turns.
    And lots of KFC, of course. It's our new alternative to Chick fil a, because not only are they closed on Sundays, but they hate gay people.
  3. A lot of eating. It's my favorite activity.

    Now we know where my bank balance went.
  4. I got hit on by a 28 year old man at Subway during my break at work. He started by commenting on the fact that he was at the bakery I work at (next door), and proceeded to ask me about my life, my age, and my first AND last name. Even after I told him I was 17, and he told me he's 28. So basically, I can never go to Subway again.
  5. We went to an abandoned insane asylum and got booted out real quick. "Get out or I'll call the cops!" Thanks, buddy. Sweet '98 RAV4 by the way.
  6. Found this cool hiking trail though.
  7. I went again just to discover X-Men is being filmed there and I can't go inside. Even though it was supposedly closing on July 1st and it was June 30th.
  8. Summer work, and actual work. Hearing about people's crazy exes at work.
  9. I hit someone's car. She wasn't mad, but she was talking shit about me in advisory.
  10. A lot of fucking around at random stores. Jordan's furniture, for example. I stole a tiny pencil.
  11. A lot of trying to go on adventures and failing miserably. Case and point: the insane asylum. We also tried to fuck around at a lake but parking was $8 so we left.
  12. Finding this cool bridge.
  13. Prom. It was the week before finals, and it was awesome. Even better because I went with the graduating senior class, so I didn't have to feel bad about my awkward dancing!

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Having a Car in High School

Okay, so there's this stereotype that all the teen drivers out there are sponsored by their parents for everything except gas -- and they struggle to scrape together the money for it, always asking friends for gas money and asking for $5 of gas. And that friends are always leaving trash and dirty bras in their cars.
I'm here to prove that stereotype true (mostly).

While I'm not scrambling for gas money, I do think it's appropriate to ask friends for gas money. I've been legally allowed to drive friends around for a full week (there's this stupid rule in my state that you can't drive anyone else until you've had your license for 6 months), and it's summer, so I've been doing a lot of that. My friends and I have gone several locations to pass the time (and by that I mean fuck around and consequently annoy all the employees), including but not limited to: Jordan's Furniture, a lake several miles away from my house, the mall, Old Navy, and KFC.
Now, since being able to drive friends allows for a much greater range of places we can go, and a much larger radius of places we can go, we've been utilizing that. It's a newfound freedom. And given that we're driving farther, I'm using up more gas. It hurts when I'm filling up every week rather than every other. I drive a Honda Civic. That means I get 30 miles to the gallon, and I shouldn't have to fill up often. But driving 25 miles every day takes a toll on my gas usage. Especially when my passengers are disputing my music taste. You hate when I play the same 5 (amazing) songs on repeat? Tell that to my weekly gas bill.
I did the math, and I burn about $1 of gas for every 10 miles I drive. That adds up. Just check out this fencepost.

Gotta be the only time I've ever used those outside of school.
So, let's say we drive 15 miles on average every day for 5 days. That's $6. Okay, I was expecting that to be more. Where does all my gas go then?! (Exactly!) But my point is, people don't offer gas money because they don't even notice. In the back of their minds, they know my parents don't pay for my gas, but they don't care because they assume it's not that much and they don't see it that way. But the way it really is, is I'm funding all of our activities. Every time we go to the movies, the mall, or fuck around at some store, it's funded by yours truly. I didn't ask for that financial responsibility. It's basically like those fuckers that ask to borrow money and don't even mention giving it back, almost as if they never borrowed it in the first place. But I remember. Even though I knew they'd never give it back, I still hold a grudge for that $1 you borrowed from me two years ago. You know who you are.

And on top of that, people leave trash in my car and move my shit around.
So now not only are you borrowing money from me and never giving it back, I'm stuck behind the wheel on every adventure, AND I have to throw away your trash AND put my shit back in its original location.
See, I have this pillow that sits in my backseat. I thought it was a cute touch to a boring car. Though I will admit, that shade of muted pink brings out the dirt tones in my cushions. But anyway, people keep moving it around. If you're gonna lean on it, or sit where she's supposed to sit, you better fucking put it back. It's not there for you, it's there to look cute. Because who the fuck do you think puts it back every time you move it? When I just finished a very tiring trip to the mall, walking around for miles inside a heavily air conditioned steel box, and I just wanna get in my bed and recover, instead I have to get out of the car, go into the backseat, and move the fucking pillow. Thanks a lot.
And see, I don't keep trash in my car because I'm not a disgusting piece of shit. I have friends that have messy cars, with clothes and dog shit all over the floors, and that's fine, but that's a choice. I choose to keep a clean, sanitary vehicle. And you leaving a sticky old lollipop in the gap between the seat and the center console is destroying it!!! If there's one crevice that lollipop should go in...
My point is, that's disrespectful. Like that time my friend, who was at my house for Halloween, took my pillowcase that I sewed myself, and proceeded to use it for trick-or-treating. To put chocolate in. Right. I wouldn't be mad.

Shade? You decide.

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

8th Gen Honda Civic Review by a Spoiled Teenager!!

This is my car, the day I came home with it.

The original reason I fell in love with this car was the modern look, starting with the sleek exterior starting from 2006 (much more modern than its Toyota counterpart, the Corolla) and including the two-tier instrument cluster. I love the digital speedometer, the convenient brightness adjustment, and the headlight warning light (to let you know when your headlights are on. I've been guilty of forgetting to turn them off).

This car has little storage for bigger items, which is to be expected of a compact sedan like this one. I have just enough space for an umbrella, a baseball hat, and a few makeup bags. Other than that, my purse sits in the passenger seat and so does everything else. It's good in a way, because it keeps me from cluttering it up. The storage for smaller items, however, is ample. Plenty of room for those half-melted Chapstick tubes and runaway pennies. I mainly use them for parking meter quarters, my phone charger, aux cord, my phone, stuff like that. The center armrest (which is adjustable for short people!) has a good amount of space (as you can see, I have my Speak Now album along with Melophobia in there right now), but it has this weird felt stuff at the bottom? Not sure if the previous owner put that there, or if it's an original piece. I wish it was a two-tier storage system, but I understand that's not possible with the adjustable armrest. The glovebox is small beyond compensation.

Next we have the original stereo system. It features an aux port and CD player even in the base model along with a cigarette lighter port. The knobs are easy to find while keeping your eyes on the road and simple to use. The buttons feel high quality. This is an A to B car, so there are no fancy bells and whistles, but it does exactly what you need in a straightforward way.
The stereo system is geared to use a Sirius XM radio, which requires a monthly subscription which you pay for over the phone, which nobody would do and I'm not sure why they included it, but whatever. That's what the "disp" button is for apparently.
 This is the backseat. I stash a cute little throw pillow back there and a blanket in the trunk in case of an impromptu nap.

Some things that bother me about this car are the lack of cupholders and charging ports. There are one cigarette lighter and two cupholders for the entire car. Five people. There is no rear center armrest with cupholders on the LX model. Also, there is no trunk button on the key fob on the LX model, making it necessary to open the driver's side door and pop the trunk that way. Another thing, and this is just an issue with my particular car, is the rear seats are reluctant to fold down. Instead of pulling the release and simply walking around to the rear door and pulling the seats back, I have to get inside the trunk and push on the seats while simultaneously pulling the release. It's probably very funny from a third person perspective. Anyway, it doesn't seem stable enough to take a nap in there with the rear seats down unfortunately. I tried it and all I could hear was the constant noise of the fabric rubbing against itself.