5 Things You Should Be Crying About Instead of Graduation

Girls all around campus have looked horrible today.

Hair a mess, clothes wrinkled, mascara everywhere. I honestly have to keep double-taking because I keep thinking I see hundreds Lindsey Lohans stumbling around the South Oval.

It’s not because they are coming home from a big kegger at Beta last night (because honestly who in their right minds would go to Beta?)

It’s not because their Chi straighteners broke (although I would probably look like a mess too; those are expensive!)

It’s not because their LuLu Lemon yoga pants are too tight (although you should be crying out of embarrassment, because yes, girls, I can see your you-know-what.)

It’s not because they just broke up with their Sticky Boobs (because due to a recent blog post I’ve heard girls everywhere are doing that).

It’s because college graduation makes girls a freaking wreck.

I’ve seen girls crying hugging their friends. Their boyfriends. Their professors. Their house moms. Hell, I saw a girl crying and hugging the statue of the Gossiping Ladies outside of the Union and sob “I’m really going to miss you guys.”

Stop! Just stop!

There are so many better, more valid reasons to be shedding tears.

Top 5 Things You Should Be Crying About Instead of Graduation

1. Amanda Bynes 

Honestly, what happened to our favorite "All That" cast member? She used to be funny. She used to be cute. Now she’s tweeting crazy things and has piercings where her dimples used to be. Instead of yelling the famous line “Bring in the Dancing Lobsters” she’s yelling “Bring me herione and some Koolaid.” I can’t tell if she makes me cry because I’m sad for her, or she really, really scares me. 

2. The fact that you don’t have a monkey as a best friend

Because all I want in life in a monkey best friend wearing Wranglers and a matching striped tee to hold me while sitting on a Persian rug. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK? This guy doesn’t even know how lucky he is. And he really should wipe off the dirt from his knee.

3. Lays Chips, in general.

Lays Chips make me cry in two ways. First off, they are so, so good. The crunch. The oil. The perfect amount of saltiness to chip ratio that can only be topped in life by having a monkey as a best friend (see previous.)

But then they also make me cry when their gone- which is way. too. soon. Mr. Lay, whomever he is, really needs to rethink his business plan. I am not paying 90 cents for a bag full of air and 3 chips.

4. Toe Shoes

You know you’ve hit Dating Rock Bottom when you're talking to an attractive man at a bar only to look down and find him wearing these alien duck feet. Unless he tells you he’s a Republican. Then you GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE IMMEDIATELY.

5. The fact that a Little Rascals: All Grown Up sequel will never, ever happen.

I can see it now...our favorite little guys are all enrolled in college. Instead of the “He-Man Womun’ Haters Club,” they all join a fraternity. They still hate women, but instead of putting kitty litter in their sandwiches, instead they just get them too drunk at parties. Spanky’s the president of the fraternity. Alfafa secretly dates a girl in a the sorority down the street. But then Alfafa has to break up with Darla and she finds a preppy guy to sing with her in a Scandals show. The plot is so amazing it brings a tear to my eye just thinking about it. But unfortunately it will never get made cause I heard the guy that plays Porky is homeless now and eats in the dumpster behind Walmart. Poor guy.

I know, everyone, I know. After my list you all are all in shambles. Your heart aches, not just for Amanda Bynes, but for yourself.

But hey, don’t you feel better about graduation?!

Suddenly, the idea of graduating and going into the adult world doesn’t seem so bad. No longer does the idea of leaving the place that you’ve grown to love, that has become your home, that you’ve taken for granted, and heading into the scary adult world, jobless sound so..scary... No, not scary at all.

Now, the idea of leaving your friends, your roommates, your boyfriends, your professors..hell, even that damn Gossiping Ladies statue doesn’t sting quite so much...

The fact that this is my last blogpost as a college student doesn’t affect me at all. Heck, I have so much other material besides college life to blog about!

Like..um...well there was this one time..no, that was in college. Get back to me.

Yes. There’re so many bigger things to cry about than graduation. And I swear, this water on my face right now isn’t tears. Nope. I’m pretty sure it’s just raining...only on my face.

Dammit, I should have worn waterproof mascara.

A Letter to my Sticky Boobs

***Disclaimer: For all you males out there that read my blog (yes, I see you, I thought I told you to stop for the sake of your masculinity). Please click on THIS LINK for a brief synopsis of sticky boobs. Then thank your Y chromosome that you don’t have to wear them. 

The saddest part of all of this is not that I am writing a blogpost about my bra, it’s that if you replaced the words “Sticky Boobs” with “boyfriend” the outcome would basically be the same.

Moral of the story is, ladies, be single and go braless.

Why Graduation (Still) Freaking Sucks

I was never the same after seeing “The Ring.”

I’m not sure why my dad even thought it was a good idea to take my 6th grade self to see that terrifying movie. I wasn’t mature enough for the images of a creepy, pale, long haired girl torturing teens with phone calls for a week and then sucking the life out of them once their time was up. I still thought Leprechauns were real. I still wore a training bra. My mind, body and soul just weren’t ready. I just wasn’t ready.

I slept with my light on for weeks. Everywhere I turned I saw that long-haired, pale ghost girl coming to kill me. (Although I could have just been catching my reflection in mirrors.) If my TV turned to static while I was watching Arthur after school, I would run out of the room screaming thinking that a terrifying image of a well was about to appear followed by a white hand climbing out and whispering the warning: “seven days.”

Seven days.

Seven days until you die.

I used to imagine what it would feel like if I found that tape and was doomed to die in seven days. If I was just trying to pop in my favorite VHS and enjoy a little “Spice World” before bedtime only to be met with a cursed tape filled with maggots, flies and an elementary girl wanting to kill you in a week. The absolute terror and fear that would consume you, knowing you only had seven days left.

That’s how I feel about graduation.

Seven days.

Seven days until we die.

They tell you to live it up your last week of undergrad. Go out every night! they say. You’ll have no finals! they say. Live life in the moment! they say.

Well bitches, I can’t.

Everything I do, regardless if it’s fun or not, has this haunting feeling surrounding it. There I am, on a party bus living the epitome of the college life. Nelly is playing. I can’t walk in my heels. I really should be studying. I’m drinking cheap beer. Never have I ever felt more like a college student. And then it happens.

“Seven days...” she whispers. That damn pale ghost girl Graduation reminding me what is to come. Suddenly no longer am I a college student. I am that 6th grade girl again, terrified of what will happen in the next seven days. I still believe in Leprechauns. I still wear a training bra. My mind, body and soul are just not ready. I’m not ready.

It’s going to be hard leaving this college life. When else is it acceptable to drink on a Tuesday? Adults don’t burn their brown rice and set off the smoke alarms (sorry roommates). Adults don’t drop their Doritos Locos Taco on the ground, brush off the dirt and say “eh it’ll be fine.” Adults don’t not remember the last time they washed their favorite pair of jeans. I can’t be an adult.

Hell, I don’t even know how to use the post office properly. When I get in line to send a package, I feel like a caveman who has time traveled to the modern day world.

-“This.” (points at untaped, unaddressed, unstamped package) “Send.”
- (confused by Tarzan-esque speech) “Um, okay, miss. Would you like to Express Mail, Flat Rate Mail, Overnight Mail? Are there any breakables, plants, puppies, animals, drugs, small children, narcotics, guns, small guns, fake guns, big guns, guns of any sort that we need to be a aware of?”
- “THIS.” (points at package) “SEND.”

Then I climb up on the counter and beat my chest to show my dominance.

This beer-soaked bubble called Undergrad that we live inside is about to burst. Now it’s just our jobs to figure out how we are going to handle it.

I could burn my diploma in protest like they did to draft cards in the 60s. But I’m afraid of fire and using your thumb to work a lighter requires a lot of forearm strength and I haven’t been to the gym in months.

I could revert back to my child-self and move back in with my parents, have my mom make my bed every morning and my dad fix me a separate meal from my siblings because I only eat food with at least 10 grams of saturated fat. But then again I don’t think I could revert back to seeing my dad walk around in his whitey tighties and watch COPS every night.

I could just go for a Victory Lap and take a 5th year only taking classes that include the word “introduction” in them. But then I go out to the bars and I realize that I’m so old that these bitches probably don’t even know who Cory and Topanga are.

Or I could just punch that pale, ghost girl Graduation in the face, take my diploma in pride and thank this college for the best four years of my life. (And the 10 pounds I gained).

Because let’s be honest, adults don’t know what the hell is going on any more than we do.

Why Graduation Freaking Sucks

I feel like a pig.

No, it’s not the entire bag of White Cheddar Puffy Cheetos I just ate in one sitting...that barely phased me. 

But it’s this thing called college that makes me feel like swine. 

In my messed up brain, college is very similar to pig farming. We all come to the farm as little piglet freshman, new to the world and excited by everything. Our professors and mentors are our farmers, herding us into the pens and farmhouses of success, motivating us with various words of affirmation that somehow keep our little piggy tails wagging.

Nothing rewards 13 hours of studying like some words of affirmation. 

The Caf is our troth--a smorgasbord of delectability used solely as a way to fatten us up. There’s four years of blissful farm life: hot summer days spent rolling around in mud (date parties), watching the cows get herded around like a bunch of animals (Greek rush). Honestly, to my little piggy mind, it couldn’t get any better than this.

This farm is my home. These farmers are my friends. I will never leave this place. 

Then they do it.

They fucking slaughter you. They make you graduate.

Breakfast with a side of quarter-life crisis

In two short months I will be donning my form fitting graduation gown, attempting to squeeze my too small, dinner-plate-like graduation cap onto my oversized head, and blow that strange lamp fringe tassel out of my eyes. I will walk onto stage a terrified 5th grader inside a 22 year old body and walk off that stage...well... a terrified 5th grader inside a 22 year old body with a diploma.

I haven’t had an identity crisis quite like this one since when I was 6 and my brother told me that girls couldn’t be sidekicks to Walker Texas Ranger. (But don’t worry, I just reevaluated my existence and decided I wanted to grow up to be a tiger instead).

Don’t get me wrong, I have learned a lot in college. I have learned to never walk down the South Oval at 10:30, 1:30 or 3:30 or else you’ll make awkward eye contact with every person you have ever met in your life. I have learned that Wong Key in the Union should only be eaten when the Chick-Fil-A line is  at least 30 people long...wait, no 40 people. Hell, Wong Key should never be eaten.

I have learned to always put on your best face on for employers and never post anything on social media that you wouldn’t want them to see. That is why I have this blog that demonstrates my best qualities, shows my potential and makes them want to hire me. (Oh...wait...).

I have also learned that there are various reasons why I am not ready for the adult world.

Reasons Why Growing Up Just Ain’t My Thang:

(besides the fact that I just said “Ain’t" and “Thang”)

1. Car washes still scare the hell out of me.

No, not like those cheerleader in bikinis, lets-raise-money-by-showing-off-our-bods car washes. (Although that does sound like my worst nightmare). But those gas station car washes where you just drive into that little cave of water and soapy magic.

First off, it’s terrifying/confusing to even get in there. What if my tires miss those little tracks that move my car forward? Will my car just explode? I know it says STOP on that big light up sign, but it reallllly looks like the end of my car is still sticking out...Maybe I shouldn’t trust that sign and move forward a little.

And then, once you’re in there, it’s like a scene from Saw. The noises, the claustrophobia of the soap covering the windows. Around the second spraying of water, I honestly think my windows won’t be able to take it and the water will shatter them, thus leading me to my watery grave inside my car without ever finding true love or a Forever 21 shirt that actually fits right. That’s the worst way to die. Car washes are a valid fear.

But then again, I could be making all of this phobia up as an excuse to never wash my car.

2. I can never finish a game of Monopoly.

I have never hated my family more than the moment I landed on Park Place with two hotels. Honestly, Monopoly is a clear indication of how you will manage your finances in the future. And if that’s the case, I’m going to buy my homes solely based off the color of their paint job (Sure I’ll take Baltic Ave! Purple is my fav color!) and then when my home gets foreclosed on, I’m going to flip some furniture over in anger, take my thimble and get the hell out of there.

3. My skill set is very limited.

If there was a way to find a major where my skills could be handy I would do it. Sadly, the most impressive thing I’m good at currently is being able to blindly navigate my iPhone passcode in the sunlight when my brightness is turned all the way down. (Do you think I could put that on my resume?)

But you know what, readers?! Despite what we all are taught in life, you’re not supposed to graduate college and know what you want to do for the rest of your existence. In college, you’re supposed to learn how to learn, how to lead, how to network and how to be self-motivated. College is all about the ups and downs. College is supposed to make you terrified for the future, because thanks to college, our futures are all pretty bright.

Okay enough sappy stuff, college is also supposed to make you realize why Burnett’s is only 5 dollars.

The Year of the Quirky Girl

2013 might just be my year.

That meteor that almost hit Russia must have triggered a shift in the gravitational pull of the earth, upsetting the laws of attraction. (I read a Tweet article book about it once, so it must be true).

Suddenly the male species of the population is acting very strangely.

Usually when I picture a male’s vision of a woman, Tina Fey hit the nail on the head.

"Every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.”

       But you know what, Mrs. Fey? I beg to differ. I think men have finally figured it out! They finally understand that it’s the inside that counts. I mean, they’ve had a millennial to do it, so it’s about time isn’t it? 

        There’s a new trend of leading ladies on the block: J-Law, Zooey, Lena, Emma. These girls are the real thing. No more need to ever feel socially, physically or mentally inadequate ever again.

       Girls, it’s finally time for us to stop trying so hard. This is our year. Throw out that pair of high heels and replace them with some Keds. Start wearing your bottle cap lens glasses more often that just when you’re out of contacts. Hell, why not wear your retainer all of the time?

      

The Year of the Quirky Girl: 

Why we can all stop hiding our true selves

1. Looking like a grandma is hot. 

All the signs point to this conclusion. 

• My grandma wears matching sets of pajamas with various animals printed on them. 
• Zooey Deschanel wears matching sets of pajamas with various animals printed on them. 
• Men think Zooey Deschanel is hot. 

So, obviously, as the transitive property states.. Wait hold on let me do the math ( if a = b and b = c and if trains a and b are moving in opposite directions 40 mph, then, carry the two... a = c). 

Then, yes. Grandmas = hot. 

Looking hot has never been so comfortable. It’s just so refreshing to know that, thanks to The Year of the Quirky Girl, not only are guys turned off by the thought of showing skin, but they appreciate the style and charm of a woman three times his age. 

In my attempt to be extra hot, I decided to take the Grandma Chic Trend a little further. 

I’m looking so hot, I’ll need a stick to beat the boys away. (Or a cane. Ba dum ch.)

2. Falling is cool. 

Thanks, Jennifer Lawrence. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Now, whenever I bust my ass, no longer will people say “Oh Maggie, you are just so clumsy.” They will look at me, with adoration in their eyes and say: “Oh Maggie, you are just so Jennifer.” And then I will proudly pick myself up off of that street curb I had just tripped on, wipe the blood pouring from both my kneecaps and walk away fist pumping like that gross guy from The Breakfast Club.

Suddenly, this girl is super cool:

3. Animals turn guys on. 

At least, that’s what I have deduced from the various hot, quirky girls and their animals. If you are holding/touching/talkingabout/thinkingabout/cryingabout an animal, it’s cute. It shows you’re sensitive. Guys like sensitive. 

I recently tried out this courting technique during a first date.  I made sure to hit all the Quirky Girl points for effect. 

Wearing grandmother’s (2 sizes too small) vintage shoes (pain is beauty). Check.

Fell to the ground in an art museum (minimal blood). Check.

Needless to say the date was going awesome! I’m pretty sure I almost had him reeled him. Just had to complete the trifecta and add an animal reference in there and he would be hooked. I kept trying to slip some sort of puppy joke or hoping he brought up some past pets or something during dinner. 

The dinner was almost over. We had talked about how much we had in common, our similar music tastes and how we both loved to volunteer. Obviously, the date was turning to shit. We were heading out of the restaurant, and I knew I had to salvage it with at least one mention of an animal. I had to show I was sensitive and dateable! I couldn’t find a relevant conversation, so I just said it:

“I had a pet rat once.”

I can’t really remember how the rest of the date turned out, I’m pretty sure I blacked out due to excitement about completing the Quirky Girl Trifecta. But, because its the Year of the Quirky Girl, I’m sure he loved it. My phone’s been acting a little weird lately though, so I’m sure he’ll Facebook message me back to tell me if he did. 

 So thanks, Hollywood Quirky girls. 

Thank you for being for being a good example of the average girl...

Thank you for not being intimidatingly hot and uh..making me...uh...not feel bad about myself...

And thank you, Quirky Girls, for giving men the expectation that average girl is hilarious, awkward AND smoking hot.

The Year of the Quirky Girl: 

Why we’re all screwed.

I’ve Been Corrupted

I’m not proud of the person that I have become.

I used to think of myself as a simple girl. I enjoyed the simple things in life: walks in the park, the wagging tail of a puppy, a warm cherry pie.

Not anymore. I have been corrupted. And I’m not going back.

I had an aversion to Apple products. I’ve always told myself you can never trust something that’s named after a fruit. ( Fruit of the Loom underwear? Creepy, who wants a phallic banana logo on their boxers?) Perhaps if Steve Jobs named his company after a more appealing food I would be more on board. I can see it now: Introducing the iPhone 5 from Pudding. It just sounds so much more delicious.

I don’t know when I had my Come-To-Jobs moment. It could of been because when my Blackberry vibrated in my backpack, it sounded like a swarm of hundreds of African killer bees were trapped in my bag. It could have been when my Dell computer broke for the 3rd time in a year when I dropped from A FOOT off the ground onto CARPETED floor with a CASE on it.

Or it could be when Gaylord College gave me an iPad Mini.

If you all remember, the Education College received iPads last semester and it ignited this social media war. Suddenly, for the first time ever, Pre-Med undergrads were jealous of those selfless bleeding hearts that want to dedicate their lives to screaming children and awful pay. The tweets were getting heated. So of course, I had to jump on the bandwagon.

I got some backlash from my Education friends, correcting me because they actually received iPad 4s. But hey, I’m a journalism major and SINCE WHEN do journalists fact check?

So now, here I am..with my Macbook, iPhone and now iPad Mini. And let me tell you, Fun-Sized Snickers are pretty damn tasty. But also like Fun-Sized Snickers--there’s no real point to them.

Jimmy Kimmel sums up how I have been using my iPad so far:

But now being the tech savvy person that I am, there are still some problems I have with my new gadgets and just technology in general.

1. It expects me to remember things about myself.

Thank you, Exchange, for locking me out of my e-mail.

How am I supposed to log into my e-mail if you’re going to just spring questions on me like that? Pretty soon they’re going to be asking me “What are you wearing?” and “What was the name of that kid that smelled like cat litter that sat next to you in AP Bio junior year?” I know you’re trying to protect my identity, Technology, but could you please ask me more relevant questions like “How long was Kim Kardashian married to Kris Humphreys?” That shit’s important.

2. It questions my attention span. 

Stop with the sass, Pandora. It’s not like I’m getting this music for free or anything! (Oh, wait..) Yes, I’m still listening! I have been listening for 8 hours as I try to finish this 10 page paper that I procrastinated until the last minute. So please for the love of Steve Jobs, GET BACK TO PLAYING MY MULAN RADIO STATION.

3. It makes me realize that I’m an idiot.

Google is a blessing. Now with just a click of a button any information in the world can be at our fingertips. Think of the things you can learn?! Obviously my past Google searches show that I really am on a quest for knowledge.

Some say that technology has killed our communications. And you know what I want to say to them?

STFU, k? TTYL! 

Why the Cavemen Had It Right

It used to be easy to find a mate.

 In the prehistoric era, all you needed was a couple of grunts and a weapon. If only men could still club a deer on the head and drag it back to the cave. That shit's impressive. Now a days, the ways of finding a mate have somehow digressed even lower down the evolutionary chain than caveman.

So this one's for you, Men of OU. Someone has to tell you that you're doing it wrong.

First off, bro, why are you reading my blog? Yes, you. Sitting there staring at my very feminine and girly layout. What if someone sees you? Your manly reputation will be ruined. Perhaps you're reading it on a phone so no one knows. I have a word of advice: Don't stop. Don't ever stop. (Just delete your history and pretend like you were looking for pictures of Megan Fox). 

Secondly, your mating techniques suck. It's not necessarily you're fault. You just weren't properly trained.

Instead of flexing your survival prowess like the caveman, you have downgraded to impressing the female gender with Lemon Drop Shots. There's nothing that makes me want a guy more than watching him sip, pinky-out an overly sugary drink and then top it off by seductively sucking on a lemon. Hubba-hubba.

And finally, I really didn't think verbal communication could get much worse than the occasional grunts and a hair pull of our CaveGuys and CaveLady ancestors. But who needs a grunt whenever you can just Poke a girl on Facebook?

I am slightly confused what Mark Zuckerberg was thinking when he thought of this flirting technique. "What am I going to do? I can't think of anything witty, flirty or at all charming to post on my potential mate's Facebook wall, but I still want them to know that I am potentially considering them as a make out partner. Oh. I know! I will virtually stick my pointer finger into the side of their stomach! That gets 'em every time!"

Just a little advice, Men of OU. No one like that but the Pillsberry Dough Boy.

But hey, boys. It's a new year. 2013 has endless possibilities that can be completely free of Lemon Drop Shots and Facebook poking. NEW YEAR, NEW YOU, AM I RIGHT?

Okay, stop reading. It's getting embarrassing.

And here's a picture of Megan Fox just to make your Y chromosome a little more apparent.