Okay But, Pollywogs.

You may have never really thought about it, but there are tadpoles, and then there are frogs. But like, in between those two things, there is the pollywog.

First of all, let's talk about the word pollywog. Say it out loud. Don't you love it? I love it. It makes me wish I had more (any) reasons to bring up pollywogs.

Secondly, look at it. It's legitimately something you would see tearing down a city in Spiderman 2, made at that scary science factory where Emma Stone works.

Thirdly, there is a pollywog in one of my best friend's profile picture. How weird is that? Why? Well it's because there's a pond in her yard and we picked up the pollywogs and played with them. Also weird, but the pic is pretty cute, I'll agree.

Page pollywoggin'.

In summary, you're welcome for reminding you that pollywogs exist. 

You Love Playing With Wax

Sry. 

THINK ABOUT IT. You love it.

There's a candle burning. It's Thanksgiving (maybe Christmas? You do you. The only pre-req is the candle presence). There's a pool of hot red cinnamon wax (maybe pine? Again, you, do, you.) pooling right under your nose. You're tempted to touch it. You don't quite yet. It's early and you don't want to ruin the candle. (YET). C'mon, be polite. Wait until dinner.

Some minutes tick by, and the pool of wax is growing. You dip a finger in. It's great. YOU LOVE IT. You're committed at this point. This candle must be ruined.

*Flashback*

Each year we have a Boxing Day party at mi casa. (Boxing day is the day after Christmas. Yeah, I think my parents made this up, too, but whatever.) Regardless, this holiday exists in the Shannon household so, deal.

So I'm at the party, maybe 4th grade? 5th? Doesn't matter to the story at all, but I'm sure my mom would be correcting me/ruining this story if she were over my shoulder. #jab

ANYWAYS. I'm going HAM on this huge red candle with my girl @Emgal. We are elbow deep in this cinnamon goodness essentially making arm casts of wax. Now, it should be noted that this candle is large, and, in, charge. Think 3 wicks.

Fast forward 30 minutes and this nice Crate and Barrel candle is DESTROYED. My mom was definitely mad at me but YOLO. Tell me you don't have a similar story.

.. Ya okay, Pinocchio.

*Flash forward*

And it's Christmas 2012. Still happening, still an issue.

(It should be noted that because of the incident that occurred Christmas 2012, our lovely Christmas dinner host Mama Hamilton put out chestnuts instead of wax. EQUALLY fun to destroy, and an easier cleanup, I'm told. Touché, Carol. I was pleased.)

My Parents Once Made Us Go To A Really Weird Photoshoot

This photo is just so weird I can't even...

My parents used to have their own ad agency. (SHOUTOUT freshcutonline.com ) They did freelance work for businesses in the Greater Boston area, and being a youngster growing up with parents who work from home, I got to go to some pretty cool sheet.

(I'm talking editing studios, commercial shoots, recording booths ... Think about how stocked these kitchens were. Think about it. So much free candy.)

So this one time, my parents were doing some work for the Children's Hospital in Boston. Naturally, the models were chosen: me, and my sister. (We were cute. Are cute.)

Now, being about 6 at the time, my memory of the event is definitely foggy. So I'm filling in some deets. Sue me.

But there is one thing I do know. I was at a photoshoot. And all of a sudden, there was a jean jacket that was just my size. Def from Osh-Kosh-B'Gosh (sp?) ... talk about #tbt.

Fast forward 10 years and I'm still looking at pictures of me with every visit to grandparents homes and on fridges. (Fun Fact: I was in an ad for children's hospital and it's pretty damned cute. Suck it Abby. #weirdbrag)

So yeah, this was weird.

Altitude "Problems"

FANS AND FOLLOWERS! HELLO!

I had an experience today* that I thought was worthy of a post. So here we are.

I'm currently visiting a friend in Boulder, Colorado (yay, friends!). Having never been to Colorado, I was due for a speech on the risks of the mile-high city and how to be weary of the "thinness of the air."

Lucky for me, my Aunt, a seasoned CO traveller was willing to inform me how to deal.

"You'll definitely notice it. It's like, you'll just feel kind of slow. I remember one time, walking up a flight of stairs, and having to take a minute to myself just to catch my breath!"

All I can imagine is that episode of Spongebob in which Mr. Squarepants thinks that he can visit Sandy in her underwater air bubble sans water-helmet. AKA I'M GOING TO DIE. Now, something you should know about me is that I'm a pretty anxious human. My chest is already tightening at the thought of landing.

This is what I felt like in 23C.

I'm on the plane. We're in descent. Turbulence. Okay, I can handle this. Might die, but whatever. We land. We're taxiing. I am counting down the minutes until the cabin door opens. These are my last breaths. I'm breathing heavily in my middle seat (the worst). Like, heavily. I feel like I'm in one of those situations where there's like a fire alarm or something but I'm the only one who can hear it so I'm just playing it cool but like, THERE'S A GODDAMNED FIRE.

I'm literally watching the rows in front of me as if I will see some sort of cue that row 5 - now 8 - now 15 - is losing air. All I see is calm people unloading their belongings from the overhead bins. Wtf is this.

NOTHING HAPPENED. LITERALLY NOTHING. I COULD BREATHE. So that's it.

IN SUMMARY - stfu about the "thinness of the air" because GUESS WHAT it's a non-issue.

Go to Colorado ppl. It's safe.

*Today is now a few weeks ago. GTF over it.

Group Projects in College Make Zero Sense

Every teacher loves to end the year with a group project. Such a great practice for working with people in the real world!

This group harmony is fictional.

... Except that it's 100% not.

First of all, in the real world, in real jobs, in real LIFE, your coworkers and you work in the same building. That means for almost 8 hours every single day, you are mere yards away from each other. And during that time, you all have similar priorities. You're all on the same page. You're not all living in different residence halls with different exam schedules and different club meetings and different ideas of what's important in life.

So there's that.

Secondly, the thing you're doing is usually pretty dumb. It's a survey where you realistically do not have the necessary tools or budget to perform with any confidence or stab at accuracy, and yet, you're required to talk about said survey for upwards of 20 mins.

And finally, well no. You all agree. Group projects are literally the worst.

The Hand Sanitizer At the Gym Is Bankers

I would like to apologize to all my fans and followers (all 4 of you) who don't go to Lehigh and probably will not understand the pain that I am about to describe.

In an effort to keep you entertained, I will provide some background.

(It should be noted that I'm being super dramatic and pretending the background is going to be as complicated as some J.R.R. Tolkien shit, and it's just not.)

Literally coming out of the sanitizer machines.

Background:
- There are 2 hand sanitizer sprayers at the gym. (Not the foamy Purell ones. These spray in a fashion similar to the spray that comes out of a cleaning product nozzle. Think mist ... Yes, mist works.)
- The cheapest, and therefore most popularly purchased alcohol at Lehigh, is "rubbing alcohol" flavored vodka, also known fondly by all as Bankers.

Are you all with me? Great. Moving right along.

I'll be blunt here. A lot of people at college gyms are hungover. Shocker.

So, you're at the gym. After you wipe down the sweaty elliptical, grab a drink of water, your natural next move is to get your sanitization on. No one likes germs.

You put your hands under the nozzle, and in the blink of the little blue light, you are sprayed down with Bankers. All of a sudden, you've literally just taken a handle of Bankers to the face. You're suffocating in Bankers and trying not to gag (puke) after your workout. Bankers is on your hands. It's in your nostrils. It's everywhere.

* SCENE *

Prom is Just Not A Fun Thing

Me, sophomore prom, tragic.
The woman who did my hair told
me that she'd "never curled hair" before
which pretty much explains this I'd say.

Ahhhh, prom! Such great memories with friends! Pictures, dancing, great food, limos, the whole nine yards!

HOOOOLD UP.

... Did you have ANY fun at prom? Any? No. Nope. Nada. You didn't. Definitely not.

Reasons why prom is not fun at all:

1) You're in high school. In high school, you're in limbo. You're not as pitiful as you were middle school, but you also definitely do not have the street cred of the college kids which makes it okay for you to crack a beer with Dad. So you're stuck stealing water bottles of gin mixed with liquer because you think hey, it's better than cooking wine. Or, if you're like me, you go to a dance completely sober with your teachers. So next ...

2) You're at a dance, with your teachers. Don't get me wrong, I loved my teachers in high school. We were straight homies. That said, definitely didn't care to spend a 3 hour long evening in Boston with them wearing a floor length dress that I paid way too much money to have. Which brings me to ...

3) You paid way too much money for everything. You buy a dress that the freshman 15 instantly scoffs into a hand-me-down before you can wear it again; you pay for limos and not a single person fits or is comfortable or knows what to say to their date unless you're actually dating (rare); you pay for your ticket. (I don't know if this is true in all high schools, but our tickets cost upwards of one hundred dollars. I could write probably one hundred posts about all of the things I could have bought with that one hundred dollars.*)

And finally ..

4) YOU'RE AT PROM. And prom is just never fun. Before prom, fun. After prom, wicked fun! Prom? ...

In conclusion. Prom is the bad deli meat in the middle of killer bread. Like challah or crusty sourdough.

*And by that I mean what my lovely dates could have bought with that one hundred dollars. Thx guyz.

Excuse Me? I Have to Swipe In At the School Gym?

"I'm a survivor." - My Swipe/Destiny's Child

I walk in. I'm wearing headphones, absolutely les miz about the fact that I'm about to move at a faster pace than usual for upwards of 30 minutes. (... But can I just not?)

I'm sporting a red zip up that makes me feel just sporty-chic enough to pretend I "work out" (definition please?) and I'm sipping on the water bottle I just bought to motivate me to attend my annual gym sesh.

Then, greeted by two old men* (ok, who are you people?) I'm asked to swipe into MY gym. Do I even go here? ... Do you mean do YOU even go here?

I'm sorry. I'm pretty sure my tuition alone could have purchased every single one of those "treadmills" that have a solid inch between the band and the bottom (you know what I mean, like it's scraping with each step and you kind of feel like you're running on a trampoline which lest we forget are NOT made for running on) AND all of the ellipticals that have "out of service" signs more often than not.

Not to mention the fact that I'm 4 years strong with my swipe (which is cracked and works maybe fourteen percent of the time) so I have to stand at the desk proving my identity by oscillating back and forth until a green light finally permits me into the mutha fuggin gym.

I'm annoyed. I go here.

*No disrespect to my elders. You're wise.

Why Can't I Wear Sunglasses All the Time?

Sometimes, it's just too bright.

I'm sitting in class. I'm a little tired (...it's 7:55 what do you expect), and HONESTLY, Prof, the lights are a little much.

Can we get some dimmers up in here? No? Nada?

THEN WHY CAN'T I HAVE MY SUNGLASSES ON?

Seriously. You SUMMON me from my bed with my light-blocking curtain (amazing) and subject me to nothing less than light torture. Safe to say that these fluorescents are cramping my style.

(And you know what, let's imagine I go for it. I just put my sunglasses on like IDGAF. I look like a literal D-bag. Emma, what are you doing? Take off your sunglasses.)

A girl can dream.

Do Perfume Flaps in Magazines Think They Smell Unique?

Because they literally do not.

Have you ever, once in your life, peeled open one of those ridiculous smelly magazine flaps and thought, "wow, what a distinct scent! This smells nothing like any of the other flaps in this magazine! I'm going to buy this unique eau de parfum!"

NEVER. YOU'VE NEVER SAID THAT.

They all smell exactly the same.* In fact, most magazines in general smell like a combination of glossy paper and generic perfume all wrapped into one.

Tell me you disagree. In the comments. That's fine. My sense of smell may be off.

*I'll admit that one or two have smelled unique ... but c'mon. Outliers.

What If You Could See All of the Tweets About You

Twitter is basically there so that you can talk about the weird things going on around you when you're alone right? (See photos ... real Tweets.)

But what if you could see the Tweets that were about you? I mean, have I ever been the man who took his shoes off? Has there ever been a bus ride where I'm the perp with the headphones up too loud?

We can never be sure ...