Parents Honestly Shouldn't be Able To Dress People

Like, I was cute (obv) but the plaid skirt,
matching headband, MATCHING PIN.
HELP.

I mean. If the photo I'm about to share with you isn't enough...

Let's talk about this.

First off, parents are usually past their prime. (No offense parents, you rule. Good job teaching me English, how to be nice to people, and like, walking. Definitely helpful.)

But c'mon. Their biggest concern is definitely no longer what they're wearing. I remember a solid phase in mama Francine's life of stirrup pants due to convenience. (Sorry, mom.) AND if that wasn't bad enough, I also remember the transference OF the horror OF the stirrup pants to me. NOT OKAY, MOM, NOT OKAY.*

Secondly, their next biggest concern is definitely not what their mini-me is wearing either. They're cleaning up after this tiny tyrant and definitely aren't too worried that said tyrant looks nice while drawing flowers on the wall in crayons.

THAT SAID, when said youngster starts being sent to school, let's talk fashion for a second. For your viewing pleasure I have attached my first day of kindergarten outfit. I LOOK LIKE THE YELLOW WIGGLE. WAS THERE A COLOR WAR GOING ON? WAS THERE?

I sure hope so. Cause if so, nice one, mom.

IN CONCLUSION, WE SHOULD TOTALLY JUST STAB CAESER. (No, but someone else should dress children.)

*I will admit stirrup pants are pretty damned awesome. Your leggings stay IN your boots. Prediction: comeback. Also, great name, stirrup pants, great name. More to come on stirrup pants.

A Guest Rant by Ryan Butler (BFFAE/BF)

Me and Ryan #nofilter
(but honestly how ugly is this photo)

What's this I see? A snap chat notification on my lock screen ... F YEAH! 

I'm thrilled to see what heinous selfie my friend just snapped so that I naturally can screen shot it and use it as blackmail later.

But wait. What's this? Purple.... No. Honestly fuck off. IT CAN'T BE. It's a snapchat video. WHY.

Let's break this spit down for a hot second.

This could quite possibly be the most annoying thing ... EVER. 

First off, in order to watch this less-than-ten-second-video (need I say inherently dumb), I'm required to be in some remote viewing location because it's undoubtedly extremely vulgar/loud/annoying/I hate it and don't care about what you're doing at all. 

Secondly, I cannot screen shot an entire video so what's the point? How can I embarrass you with this? What's my ROI? NOTHING. And more importantly, I still do not care about this video that you sent the 30 of your closest snap chat "friends."

So before you send a snap chat video, ask yourself, is it really worth it? 

... (And if you find that it is worth it still don't send it because DILLIGAF.)

Why Mean Dorks Are the Worst

6 likes and 7 comments, people.

You know exactly whom I'm talking about. C'mon.

That kid in all your classes who seems legitimately mad that you exist and couldn't possibly know all the struggles of "hard work" and self discipline. Go home, mean dork. You're mean.

By all means, be a dork! I'm a dork. We're all super weird if we're being honest. And that's okay! That's good! I love weird! I dressed up as Voldemort for every single Harry Potter premier. How normal am I?

But the second that you shoot me an eye roll or huff that I'm wearing pants that fit me, you're done. You're rude. Go home, mean dork.

Invention: Time Altering Contacts

No, not time altering as in it's 2013 and it looks like the Roaring 20s. This isn't going to be THAT crazy. So, another fun fact. I'm chronically 5 minutes late. It's truly a weakness of mine.

"Devouring Time..." -Billy Shakespeare

The clock in my car is 15 minutes fast, the clock on my wall, 10. Anything I can do to trick myself into timeliness.

I'm sure you're already thinking ... well, Emma, if you know it's 15 minutes fast, how could that work? BINGO. IT DOESN'T AT ALL. I'M ALWAYS STILL LATE.

*cue invention*

AHEM. Brace yourself.

Contacts that alter every clock I see to be 10 minutes fast. BOOM. On time.

Thoughts? Questions? Concerns? Please share with the class.

I'm so happy I'm not a brick building builder

Okay bear with me here people. 

Look at a brick building. In your brain take like, a fraction of that building (a wall, a courtyard, an arc, totally up to you.)

Now imagine having to build that. 

First off, bricks aren't light, or soft. So many scratches on your hands. So many. 

Then, masonry. How do you make sure you're lining up the bricks. I mean, think of how hard it is to even write in a straight line. We used lined paper cause we can't even do THAT. 

You couldn't be a mason. I could not be a mason. Are you a mason? If you're a mason, you go mason, you rule. Thanks for the buildings. I truly could not have done that without you. 

The "Where the F*#K is my ____" Theory

Where the F*#K are
my keys?!

Okay so I've recently stumbled upon a new theory.

Every time I'm frantically looking for something, the second my anger overwhelms me and I succumb to the urge to yell "WHERE THE F*#K IS MY (insert lost object)," it turns up. Immediately. Like, some Harry Potter magic.

Now, let me be clear. I'm not encouraging you to run around cursing about your lost objects. There is a particular restriction to the theory that completely undermines its effectiveness if not used properly.

Listen up.

You cannot be aware that you are using the theory for it to work. You cannot remember the theory at the beginning of a search for your keys, snap your fingers, say the magic words, and like a good neighbor, no.

The theory only works when it is brought up from within you from your sincerest frustrations with the black hole of your purse/room/closet/drawer/etc.

Do you have any bizarro life theories? Let a sistah know in the comments.

The Laundry Dilemma

Monster.

Just terrible.

I'm going through my drawers, and while they are filled with clothes, it's like someone has hidden everything I'd ever actually wear. (Shirt with a huge peace sign, why do I own you? You don't really fit and you're a peace sign shirt.) 

And then I take a look at this bitch. Hiding all my favorite clothes. And it's like, when something is dirty, I get all Alzheimer'sy and think I couldn't possibly have any other clothes than the weird Delia's sh*t in my drawers. 

No, Emma. Look at your hamper. Are you serious? You have other clothes. Obviously. Do your laundry. 

I mean, I definitely have a few things left to throw on, 'cause do I really care what I look like in Principles of Macroeconomics?

No, definitely don't. 

What's your least favorite chore?

Running is Just so Much Faster

Definitely not okay.

But it's just so not okay to do.

I mean think about it. I need to get to rehearsal faster, but since I'm wearing normal clothes and carrying a bag, I'll have to be okay with the tremendously inconvenient pace that is brisk walking. 

Why must I be wearing spandex and sneaks carrying only my iPod in order to run? It's wicked annoying. 

Let's change the status quo people! Or not cause it actually is pretty weird to see people dressed normally running. 

Cracked Screens Are Overanalyzed By Old People

This is truly the worst. I hate it.
I don't feel cool at all.

So I've recently stumbled upon a few articles written by the lovely Baby Boomers likening the ownership of a cracked phone screen to a status symbol, often being referred to as an tool to increase "street cred."

A few things about that theory from "the kids these days."

No. What? Why in hell would we ever WANT a screen that threatens the skin of our thumbs with each use, the reality of a glass splinter with every text? Not to mention it looks like shit and causes the "oh, yikes, what happened there..." conversation from every friend, acquaintance and passerby.*

Another thought for the omniscient narrators of our generation: priorities! We're poor AF. Very poor. We're frequently deciding between a burrito and a new phone, and for that reason, dropping upwards of $100 on a new screen just to break it again in a week? No bueno.

In short, dear overly analytic elder folk:

"HEY, [GEN Y], LEAVE THOSE KIDS ALONE." - Pink Floyd

*(I was running to the bus and it was freezing and it fell out of my pocket, OKAY? I'm traumatized let's talk about something else.)

Those Little Spots on the Board

Tragic.

Professor.

Please. Please erase that little purple word fragment.

Why are you so careless? Do you not see it? Or are you attempting to ignite my pseudo OCD to distract me from whatever you're talking about?

I understand, well at least try to understand, the rush you feel as you're switching from one diagram to the next, but why must you cloud the latter with remnants of the first?

Let it be known that this post originated during a class as a Professor missed the "gr" of the word "diagram" which upset me enough to fuel this diatribe.

I have tried to use appropriate language, 'cause I know we're all just doing our best.

BUT COME ON.

What if Jesus had Copyright Lawyers?

Hey guys, give me some credit.

I mean, imagine.

Think about how many times this guy is used and abused every single day. How many people on your Facebook have a quote from him? How many?

I honestly have no idea which events are true and which quotes were actually said, but he should be living rich. (Don't shake your head and tell me you KNOW. Were you there? YOU WEREN'T. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT'S TRUE.)

Regardless. Think about it.

*This post was not meant to offend. So relax.

Dear People Walking In the Middle of the Street,

WHAT ARE YOU DOING.

Are you confused? Do you need me to explain to you the subtle differences between the street and the sidewalk? Cause I gladly will. Right now.

One is for cars. The other is for you.

Oh! It's a shorter walk for you! Aw! No totally, take your time moseying on the double yellow line. And next time I feel like it, I'll drive on the fucking bike path for a shortcut.

Makes complete sense. Seriously, pedestrians, you do you.

It's your world, I'm just living in it.

Sincerely,
I don't have time for this sh*t.

Filling Out Forms Rocks

Nice pen.

I'm currently in the midst of switching Doctors. Actually a lot easier than I thought. (Picked up the phone, hey doc, I need you, okay cool I can do that, see you then. Boom.)

So, yesterday, after hearing the terrifyingly loud bang of the mailbox lid (why are you so loud mailbox?), I walked to my porch and fished out a pretty large packet with my name handwritten on the front. I realized at this moment just what this was - forms from the doctor. I legitimately got a little excited.

I mean, it rocks. You get this packet of questions that you absolutely know the answers to. You're going to get a straight A on this. Like, you have to try to mess this shit up.

What's my name? Sure, I'll tell you that. I'll even spell it 100% right.

Address? Done. I'm there right now.

Phone? Sure, here it is. Gimme a call.

I'm so confident to hand these in. I know everything's right.

(Confession - I had to Google one of the abbreviations and accidentally googled "google" to get there. Tragic.)

** UPDATE. PLEASE NOTE THIS DOES NOT APPLY TO W-9 FORMS. W-9 FORMS DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT ROCK.