Because for-profit corporations get more respect and consideration in lawmaking than human women do. #YesAllWomen

Luckily I have had insurance through my parents for my whole life. I am one lucky-fucking-privileged duck for never having truly worried about being denied professional healthcare services. Until today that is, when I saw every social media I have access to riddled with concern about the Burwell V. Hobby Lobby case.

The Supreme Court of the United States (SCOTUS) decided that Hobby Lobby could deny certain healthcare services to it's employees, if they conflicted with the corporation's religious views. Now I sit here terrified about the day I turn 26, because I will have to find my own insurance. 

Do me a favor and read that last sentence over, this time noting the inherent irony. I am AFRAID of choosing a service to INSURE my well-being.

Here is the thing. I am not so much shocked by a corporation making profit-based decisions. Nor am I shocked that some people think their lifestyle and belief system is the only honorable way to exist. I am shocked that our SCOTUS has opened a door for corporations to claim superior rights to the religious freedoms, which were originally designated to men and women with US citizenship as individuals.

I am rattled by the disregard for an employee's own religious beliefs or lack-thereof. Why is a corporation given more empathy than a human? I am disgusted that there is even a debate on whether or not the health of a woman is seen as essential. Why are women affected by this ruling not seen as humans? You fucking tell me, because I sure as shit am stumped on this one. I thought I was a human, but ya know maybe I've been mistaken. At this point, I'd be relieved to find out I was an alien. 

What really gets me the most about this whole thing is the classic trope of a protagonist being let down by their heroes. You know the story, kid grows up dedicating their whole existence to the good they see in someone. Then one day they see their faults and their heart breaks. In this case, I've seen my glorious government display a repulsive disregard for the common people, especially women.

In sixth grade, my hero became the Good 'Ol USA, when we learned the core democratic values of our nation, in Mrs. Combs history class. We got to pick a value we wanted to focus on and did about 3 weeks of studying, art projects, group presentations, and a paper on that core democratic value. 

My value of choice was The Common Good. I feel in love with the people of history linked to this value—Patrick Henry, Abraham Lincoln, and Thurgood Marshall to name a few that still give me Political Science butterflies to this day.

Never had I seen such poetry in a history class before this project. Beautiful proclamations of humanity's propensity to love one another rang through my mind, as I read books and webpages and watched documentaries on so many wonderful people. 

I was overwhelmed with how many people in our past have dedicated their lives to the idea that everyone deserves to feel valued, heard, and safe. And so I fell in love with the youthful spirit of our country. I couldn't get enough of these feats of victory for the Common Good over the selfishness, arrogance, or greed of individuals and/or oppressive factions. 

Yes, I had a giant, nerdy, lady-boner for the government of the USA. Damn did it look fine in outfitted in rulings based of the Common Good. And yes, my cheeks flushed when the wind blew a flag just right, flashing its progressive attitude of acceptance and accommodation. (I'm sorry, this blog is supposed to be PG. I'll get to the heartbreak and skip the R rated passionate parts.)

In all sincerity though, I feel let down. The SCOTUS is a position dedicated to making choices that benefit the Common Good. I do not believe the Burwell V. Hobby Lobby ruling was made with this value in mind. It is a mystery to me how someone can forget to care for others.

The only productive thing for me to do now is work towards change. Hopefully one day my name will be a footnote in some kid's history book. Or maybe an afterthought of a historian, who just complied their synopsis of a 21st century social movement benefiting the common good. At the very least, I hope I never act in a way that makes another person feel the neglect and disappointment I do now.

 

Cashier: Oh Vaseline, is that really good for chapped lips? Me: Yeah, its good for chapped everything! C: *averts eyes* you wanna receipt?

The example in the title of this post is not the most embarrassing occurrence of me drowning in my own words before I know I’ve even said them. Mostly because I don't ever have to see that cashier again, so that makes it a fun anecdote pull out for the future. Unless of course I tell it to someone who follows me on twitter or has read this, then I'll get an attempt at being polite, but always mood crushing, "Oh yeah I saw that. That is funny." I know I'm guilty of it, but saying something is funny is worse than not laughing at all. It feels like when my suitemate calls me "Honey," while clarifying something, its both demeaning and endearing— it reminds me of when I was twelve and my aunt told me I couldn't play scrabble with the grown ups.

If you don’t get the concept of my words getting away from me, please try and reread the previous paragraph and email me if you still have questions.

Okay, now that everyone is on the same page, metaphorically in understanding and literally on this webpage, let's get down to some humorously self-deprecating stories!

Sidenote: it just occurred to me that if the demand for writing puns and situational humor wasn't limited to newspaper comics and lines for dorky characters on sitcoms, I'd be raking in the cash.

There’s a super cute ROTC guy who lives across the hall from me. Once I was taking out the garbage and recyclables, holding one bin on my left hip with two bags of garbage on top, balanced gracefully against my face, with another recycle bin tucked under my right armpit. I didn't know cute ROTC boy was behind me at first, but he watched me use my foot to close the door and then struggle to lock the door behind me. Being a classy gentleman, he asked if I wanted help. Naturally I declined, because I’m constantly try prove I'm not as helpless as I look.

Thirty seconds of struggle later, I get my door locked.  When I get to the elevator I have to tame a mortified wail, because cute ROTC boy has been holding the elevator for me while I wobbled down the hall for six years. In the elevator, one of my bins slip, but I make an spastically agile recovery. We make eye contact and both know that something must be said, because I am small girl in an elevator smothered under a bunch of trash, and it’s as unignorable as a small girl in an elevator smothered under a bunch of trash. 

Cute ROTC boy says, "That's a lot of trash." I say, “Yeah its not really, I mean it is, but like I’ve taken out way more than this before, not all the time but you know like sometimes when I just forget to take it out or something, but its really no that much…” He laughs and nods, apparently speechless. I look away, staring down intently at my they-dont-smell-so-they-cant-be-that-dirty sweatpants in hopes that if I stare hard enough he will forget I exist.

Another great run-in with cute ROTC boy, was also in the elevator. I was not sporting large amounts of garbage this time. Actually I did my make-up that day, had a cute outfit and I was wearing my favorite Steve Madden boots. With my confidence boosted an inch higher at my heel, I felt brave enough to redeem myself. I initiated some successful small talk without anything going awry. Then after frigid, small talk we started talking about how elevators are always awkward and it broke the ice.

But that didn’t last long, because my success was filling my super cute boots with toxic amounts of confidence. We stepped out of the elevator together and I started telling him a story about getting blocked by three really fat girls, who were walking really slowly in the hall and were just far too fat for me to pass them. Lovely, no?

Realizing how not okay that was, I became hyper aware of the situation, but I was unable to stop myself. The seams of my boots burst at the weight of my cockiness, and I fell through the ice into the paralyzing cold. I was frozen outside my door when I reached the end of my rude, fat girl blockade story.

It would have been normal to talk for a minute or two more outside our doors, but since I was drowning in my story, every word I tried turned to gurgles and I freaked. I whipped around, fumbled for my keys and said in one breath, "Uh okay well see you later!" I didn't even give him time to say anything or look back to see his reaction. I haven't seen him since. I suspect he looks out his peephole to make sure I'm not there before leaving his room.

What’s that? You want one more story? Okay, but then you have to go to bed and I’m not singing you a lullaby after.

I had an interview for an RA position a couple weekends ago. The day consisted of all us applicants being grouped off and given various teambuilding exercises, while hall directors and current RA's watched and took notes on us. Sounds weird and scary, but I’ve been training for group tasks my whole life. The family I was born into is the muggle-equivalent of the Weasley’s. Learning to negotiate, take turns, and work with people even when they are really annoying or have awful ideas are all skills I learned to survive. I left feeling really cocky and sure I nailed it.

The next day was the personal interview. The pressure to fill pauses with whatever pours out of my mouth was as great as the pressure in the Bathypalegic Zone of the ocean. So that those of you who missed the Monster Squid special on Discovery Channel don't have to google it, that’s the uber deep, pitch-black ocean layer where they got awesome footage of a Giant Squid. To add to the immense pressure of a normal interview, we all had to go through three, fifteen-minute interview sessions, each in front of a "panel" of four interviewers. 

The first one went really well. One hall director really liked me, which made me feel awesome, because they are the ones who actually hire people from the final pool of applicants. He asked, “As an RA, you would be subjected to “The Fishbowl Effect,” a term we use to describe RA’s being on constant display for their residents. How would you adjust to this change if you were to be hired?”

 I replied, “Well the first thing I would do is probably wear less sweatpants…” to which the director cracked up and announced, “That’s a great answer! I like this girl!” His praise gave me time to devise the second part of my answer into a professional, yet honest reply about being a role model and all that jazz.

The next session started out great too, now that I think about it, this is going to sound remarkably similar to my cute ROTC boy/fat girl story disaster. One of the RA’s interviewing me was a gorgeous, fashionista-type girl with big, curly hair that only hip, black women can pull off (sorry to any of you tried to achieve this look with a perm last century, but you looked absurd so you may as well laugh at yourself because the rest of the world is doing it).

I’ve been obsessing over this type of hair lately for unknown reasons. In fact I’ve been caught gawking in jealously twice at girls on the bus with this awesome kind of hair. Both times I had to pull the evasive maneuver where you look at like three other things to act like you’re just taking in the scenery.

Anyway, I automatically idolize her and want to impress her because of her hair. Then she complements my boots—that darned Steve Madden again, I think his boots are becoming a motif, or my hubris, either way, this will definitely return and be essential part of a joke I make by the end of this post so take note of it. I thank her and my inner girly-girl starts sashaying around in triumph while filing her nails and talking about Project Runaway. Then she secretly accepted me into the Cool Girl Club by complimenting my whole outfit. I told her I borrowed part of it from my roommate and we bonded over the benefit of having friends with good style.

I get through 14 minutes of interview questions, without following my human instinct to repeat my mistakes in a different guise. That is until they asked me about what my experience with diversity has been at WMU and what it brings to the community. My cupeth, or more appropriately, my booteths were runething over with a fine wine made of Cool Girl Club membership card and the morning’s good vibes.

With all inhibitions lost to my well-marinated boots, I answered by telling the honest to Morgan Freeman truth, “As writer I love eavesdropping and just listening to normal people talk and that in the cafs, when I hear people speaking a different language I will sit by them and just listen to them because I like how it sounds.”

Yup. I told her that diversity means to me I can creep on foreign people, while I eat alone at in the caf. The president of the Cool Girl Club told me I was kicked out and asked me to leave my boots at the door. Of course she didn’t say it out loud, but she tossed me a what-the-crap-are-you?-please-drop-out-of-society-entirely glance. That’s the official procedure of Cool Girls Club. I realized too late, that once again my boots were full of too much confidence. I had obliterated the once gently broken ice and fallen into the water again.

I tried to swim back to the top and stick the arms of my jacket to the surface of the ice like I saw someone do on Discovery Channel. I implemented evasive maneuver Lambda: lying until it hurts. I hurriedly tacked on that I introduce myself to the people I creep on. Added another lie that I’ve meet many people from all over who come to WMU and I find it fascinating. Finished by lying “Diversity brings to WMU the chance to connect with people that seem different and find intrinsic commonalities.”

My last ditch attempt to resurface failed. The four uncomfortably tight smiles sealed the waters with a fresh layer of ice. Accepting my fate, I sunk slowly and fashionably down to the Bathypalegic layer, and waited patiently to be devoured by a Giant Squid. It’s really hard to swim when you’re drunk on confidence and wearing such nice boots.

I just want Mr. Feeny to come and tell me how to fix problems in every aspect of my life in a prophetic way. #isthatsomuchtoask

We had Christmas Eve and Post-Christmas Eve parties at my house. Having the people and food I love under my roof for two days is a spectacular blessing, mostly because I don’t even have pick out shoes to go with my outfit. But also because I’m a lucky member of probably 1% of humans in this world who gets to have so much food they almost barf and so much love they want to scream. With my gratefulness for my privilege stated, I will now commence one of the most cherished human past times, relaying frustrations about a mostly wonderful situation. 

After my holiday parties and other social interactions since I’ve been home for break, I have at least a zillion and half new rules to follow. Every friend, stranger, and family member knows what will surely make my life ten times more awesome than it is now.

A few of my new rules:

Don’t trust anyone you meet at parties.

Make friends at parties.

Make a lot of guy friends—girls are too much work.

Don’t worry about boys, just focus on your grades.

Work hard because college is expensive.

Don’t work too hard because college is the last time to be a kid.

You have force yourself to go to Frat parties.

Just go to house parties.

Find where you belong.

Go out of your comfort zone.

Clearly following all of these rules is impossible, which leaves me wondering what rules I should follow. I’ve decided that many of these rules are pieces of irrelevant advice (brought to you in part by: Alcoholic Beverages ™ Making people talk out of their asses since the beginning of time and Humans ™ Imposing their personal beliefs on others since they could speak). After my past two visits home, I let people’s voices bounce around in my head and convince me I was doing something wrong. I thought since all these people have already had the experience I’m going through, they must really know what they are talking about.

When I returned to school, I began second guessing a lot of my choices, which I wasn’t used to doing at school. The only person there who tells me I’m doing something wrong is my roommate. And it’s usually about indisputable things like when I plug in the heater, TV, and microwave at the same time its bad because it short-circuits half of the room. Also the only person at school who tells me I’m doing something right is myself. For example: when I’m angry, jogging up and down the stairs in my dorm a few times feels better than punching innocent walls. Wrong and right are very clear in these instances because nobody’s opinion is making me question my intuition.

What I’ve realized during this visit home is that other people’s idea of what will be the best thing for me to do, despite their good intentions, has no relevance to what I should do. One of my cousins forced herself to go to a Frat party and met her first college boyfriend there. That’s cool for her, but I’m not really desperate for one of those at this point in my life because they have cooties and I’m not vaccinated for that. My aunt made a lot of great guy friends in her dorm that became some of her closest friends. That’s cool for her, but most of the guys in my dorm are douche bags. Someone I babysit for had the time of their life in theatre at school. That’s cool for her, but the thought of being on stage makes me gassy. One of my sister’s friends made a bunch of new friends at Smoker’s Island, the picnic table located at the 100-foot distance from all dorms required by law. That’s cool for her, but I tried smoking for a hot second and its too expensive and smelly.

My favorite advice has come from my sister Adele. As far as personal interests and talents go, we couldn’t be more opposite. Her last recreational reading book was “Kendra: Sliding into Home,” the riveting tale of an ex-playboy bunny. One of my three current reads are “America in 1492: The World of the Indian Peoples Before the Arrival of Christopher Columbus.” She’s spectacular at math and she was DECA state finalist. Thinking about math and business presentations make me just as gassy as thinking about being on stage. She gets bored being in the house all day, but its one of my favorite activities. Her advice wasn’t even advice at all, which is why it’s the most reliable. During thanksgiving break, she asked me how many parties I’ve been to. I debated counting the time I went to this kids dorm with about 4 other people for a couple hours and mooched some of their definitely not alcoholic liquids before heading back to my room. I decided to be honest, so I didn’t include that one and told her I really have only been to three. She just smiled, shook her head and said, “You’re such a nerd.” I laughed and said, “Yeah, basically.”

You may be thinking, “Well this doesn’t seem very helpful. Like it’s not even that good of a story. Where are the insightful, wise words that bond you two for life?” Well sadly, we don’t live in a sitcom and nobody I know can show up in my moments of doubt and tell me exactly what I need to hear. But the fact that she accepted my choices as an extension of who I am, instead of telling me what I should do to become who I am going to be, is the best indirect advice in the world. These next few sentences are burdened with the weight of hypocrisy, because I’m going to give you (my faithful and possibly non-existent audience) a piece of advice. Take a few minutes to yourself, close your eyes, flush your mind of all the voices and words of everyone you know, turn off all electronics, keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times, and ask yourself how you feel. After your conversation with yourself is over, if you are satisfied with your answer award yourself 7,000 points and continue making great choices. If you are not satisfied with your answer, give yourself a gold star for being honest with yourself and then go try something else until you are. 

If elected I will increase snacks and naps across the nation with a stimulus package of assorted foods, pillows, and blankets. #Stasia2012 #realissues

As a first semester Political Science major avoiding studying for my National Government midterm, I am perfectly unqualified to run for President. Is that a hyperbole? Honestly I have no clue if I’m being serious or not. What I know for sure is that the presidential race is neglecting some serious issues effecting us in our every day lives. The old people in suits that are in charge of the way our country works are roaming around like zombies hungry for approval ratings and donations. Their purposeless pursuit shoves the simple things we care about aside and I’m over their buttheadedness.

Not to say the issues being debated aren’t important because they are. All I’m saying is some of the issues are completely irrelevant to how we feel everyday. I’m positive that at least 90% of us don’t wake up in the morning pondering what shape the economy is in. Is it a circle? A square? Maybe it’s a tridecahedron— and that can’t be a good thing can it? I’m sure most of us are trying to convince ourselves that laying in bed and scrolling through Pintrest and Tumblr for two hours before going to sleep wasn’t that irresponsible. Or more likely, hoping that there is some good cereal left for breakfast and you aren’t left with the crappy box of whole grain, off-brand Cheerios (Mom, now that I’m three hours away and you can’t yell at me for saying this, those are always on sale for a reason, they taste like moldy cardboard).

Another reason I am well under-qualified to run for President is my two years of experience in Student Leadership. I wouldn’t have been elected to the high rank of Student Representative without outstanding morals, electric charisma, and the fact that I had no opponent. I learned something in my time as a public servant that helped me out many times and I think my fellow public officials would benefit from it as well. When my committee couldn’t agree on the design on the bottom of the our prom tickets, I remembered that nobody really cares. This small notion removed the imaginary weight that was making a simple task into a Grand Falloon and pitting our committee members against each other.

When I couldn’t get the font size and style right on the programs for The Variety show, I remembered again that nobody cares and I was instantly able to pick Helvetica and beating up the innocent computer. When I wanted to smite the jerk that tossed the Homecoming decoration I spent four days drawing, cutting, and painting into the corner before it was done drying, I remembered that nobody cares, salvaged what I could from it and moved on to the next poster. Each time I’d fret myself into a tizzy about something I truly cared about and put a lot of work into I had to remind myself that my personal success was not the reason my people passively agreed to allow me to represent them. My people just wanted to have a good time at the event Student Leadership was putting together.

The things that the media, our officials, and that one guy you know who always has a new conspiracy theory to share are fighting a non-existent battles. I respect the government and the conviction to take rules, justice, and freedom seriously. What I don’t respect is the idiocy and bigheadedness that plague many political officials once they are elected into office and swept out of reality.

To provide an extended metaphor I will share a quick story about my ten year old self on a camping trip in Ludington, Michigan. I found a stick on the first day of my stay that year. The stick stood three inches taller than myself and it was stripped of all its bark. I knew it held magical powers because its smooth milky surface was trailed with mystical carvings left by Forest Nymphs. (Please don't tell my ten year old self they were really just tiny canals from ants eating it, I haven't had the heart to break it to her yet.) I used it for hiking, poking under rocks, fighting off evil assailants, and making me look really cool and majestic when I stood on top of a sand dune. One night I left it out near the fire pit. The next morning I awoke to find that my own flesh and blood had betrayed me. My dad had cracked it into pieces and burned it. I cried for at least an hour. Then I promised that no stick could ever be as great so I would mourn for my entire life and seek revenge on the world for its cruel tricks. For my metaphor, the media, public officials, and conspiracy theorists are represented by myself. My stick represents many current issues up for debate. My dad represents the majority of people and him throwing it away represents how many shits we do not give about the issues that have been blown out of proportion. In the end I forgot my petty plans for vengeance and moved on to another stick. The moral of the story is that even though something may seem to be the most important thing in the world, if you can't ignore your ego and budge a bit on an issue for the sake of progress than you are more immature than a ten year old girl.

I can’t out of good sense and conscious overlook that there are things up for debate that will have a huge effect on how we live. It is too easy to bash those in charge for not doing what we want, when we want, and how we want. There are a zillion different opinions they have to filter through, and it’s the life work of political figures to cater to their people, so it makes sense that they take small conflicts of interest and morph them into the huge battles. But when the way they approach issues is absolute insanity. They use terms like “The War on Drugs,” “The War on Women,” “The War on Terrorism,” and “The War on Freedom.” These aren’t wars, these are problems that have solutions and it is the purpose of the government and the responsibility of the people to manage these problems together.

Unfortunately our culture treats the problems we have as one of two extremes: a battles that will either result a in utopian society or bring on eternal doomsday, or they as silly matters that don’t effect us and only serve as reality show style entertainment. The truth lies somewhere in between. It is necessary to tackle these problems with an understanding that their outcome will effect millions of people in very real and immediate ways, but we it is also important to maintain a clear perspective in what is best for the long term.

The people we choose to represent us, the voices we choose to tune into, and the causes we choose to fight for affect us directly. As a makeshift Presidential candidate I’m asking you to think about the power in that notion. Each individual makes choices everyday that shape our world. That means you, me, your teachers, your neighbors, and that smelly kid that sits next to you in class get to decide if we like our economic and social life as a tridecahedron. If you don’t like it, you also have to choice to help change it. I’m running for president because what the people want matters and we have the power to make our representatives listen by minding our every day choices. Also I miss being old enough to vote this year by eight days so it makes me feel more involved. So go forth my brethren and sisteren! Be immense and important and wise and make yourself matter! After you decide what’s for breakfast of course.

I know should be concerned that I have a fever of 99.6, but my brain is actually working in slow motion right now. #justhappyimalive

 On the train home two Fridays ago my decay into lifeless zombie began. I usually just ignore stuffy noses, sore throats, and minor earaches because since I was a kid I have been in and out of doctors’ offices for some kind of dramatic illness almost every year. First tonsillitis, then a double ear infection, then pneumonia, then more ear infections and a resulting surgery, then strep, then bronchitis, strep again, and last year was the worst ever when I had mono. At some point I stopped being alarmed by it and just became annoyed at my immune system's fetish for theatricality. So when I get a little sniffly or get a small cough, I take some Dayquil and be thankful its not as bad as I know it can be. I had been feeling kind of icky all week and I just ignored it. But when I was sitting on the train unable to keep my eyes open —despite the fact that I had gotten 8 hours of sleep, took my Adderall two hours earlier, and was on my second cup of coffee (It was National Coffee Day)— that little voice in my head tried to tell me that my annual dramatic illness has made its debut. Not wanting to participate in the performance, I ignored my intuition in hopes it would go away on its own.  You may have assumed the remainder of this story would be a climatic reveal of the deathly disease I discovered and how I was bedridden and
my life stopped completely. If I was right in my assumption, you were wrong in yours. What actually happened is everything I did became twice as hard and I had to drink a lot more coffee. My sickness made me so tired and I became very unproductive and discombobulated. I got behind in my homework that weekend and it followed me back to school, demonstrating the snowball effect quite perfectly. I could only focus on the barren desert that my throat became and I forgot assignments and due dates and just generally felt miserable all day. And at night wasn't any better I had fevers and chills and never slept more than and hour and a half at a time. Finally, on Friday I gave in and made an appointment at Sindecuse. I went in to get tested for every illness I could think of/diagnosed myself with on WebMD. They sent me to different desks and rooms and labs for an hour and a half only to tell me they had no clue what was wrong. The doctor prescribed me penicillin and ibuprofen because he didn't know what else to do. I took one of each 3 times a day after that and nothing changed until Tuesday when I was able to eat something other than ramen and cough drops for the first time. I'm not exactly convinced the medication had anything to do with it, but I'm now feeling like a human again.

Most coherent thought so far this morning: "wow, ducks are some pretty cool guys." #notenoughcoffeeintheworld

An obnoxious unwanted cacophony pierces my eardrums and disrupts the peaceful vacation into my unconscious thoughts. I try to discern where this awful sound is coming from and who I need to punish for it. I open my eyes to find the culprit and I see my phone screen lighting up to display the unholy truth that another good night of sleep has been lost. This prompts me to quickly go through the phases of grief.

Denial: Nope. This is not real. I don't have to get up. No one would notice if I just stayed in bed forever. I can totally sleep for another 3 hours. Probably this is just a dream and my whole life has been a dream and if I got back to sleep I will wake back up at nap time in kindergarten and I can go play with Playdough and blocks until snack time.
Anger: Shit. Fucking Fuckers. Damn it.

Bargaining: If I hit snooze then I'll so be ready to wake up, five minutes makes a huge difference. Dear God, I know we aren't very tight, but like do me a solid and just turn back time real quick? Coolio, I owe you one bro.
Depression: There is no point to anything and everything is dumb. School is dumb. The sun is dumb. The weather is dumb. Thinking is dumb. Moving is dumb. This bed is dumb. The morning is dumb Coffee is dumb. I'm sorry I take that back coffee, I love you. But everything else, you're still dumb.

Acceptance: Ugh. Shit okay, well if this turns out not to be a dream and I fail out of college I will be so screwed. Also the sooner I get up the sooner I get coffee.

Once my brain decided to actually wake up I could begin the slow process of getting my body to agree with me. I let out a low grunt that gradually elevates in pitch until it becomes a squeal, this habitual noise is my built in alarm system (batteries not included). I point my toes and wiggle my feet, preparing them for the trek they are about to embark on. Then I throw my arms above my head to stretch them out as well, but on the way up they smack the make shift shelf stuck to the wall with a single command strip. Then the thick, plastic container, holding two books, my hair clip, and a book light fell like the Power Tower, leaving a lovely throbbing feeling on my face. To save time, for a description of my reaction to this event please refer to the previously mentioned stages of grief.

With my eyes still stuck together with the glue of dispair, I shift my weight around until I am miraculously able to heave myself upwards and began my descent down my poorly designed loft bed.   Mindful of the uneven bars that line the head of my bed and stay up all night giggling about how good they are gonna get me in the morning by pretending to be a ladder, I clutch the side of my bed as tightly as possible to avoid any further injury.  I lower myself down the side of my bed quickly and swiftly only to be thwarted again in my attempt to start the day smoothly. Sadly, while trying to outwit the jerks that pretend to be my ladder, I had to focus all my energy on not falling and I forgot about the precision it takes to guide myself through the narrow space between my bed and my roommate's. My hips are lodged between the two beds and only one foot knows where it even is, the other is being a brat, dangling in the abyss somewhere. With my feet choosing to be extremely unhelpful, I'm forced to I hoist my self up with my still-sleeping arms enough to twist my body to the proper angle. This actually ended up took so much energy that I assumed someone must have injected liquid McChicken strips into me while I slept  and I morphed into Honey Boo Boo's mom overnight.

Eventually I stumbled through the blackness into the bathroom. As I opened the cabinet and searched for my bundled hog hairs on a stick and magic teeth goop I was having no luck. Then I remembered that when one is hoping to see an object it is imperative to open one's eyes. With that bit of advanced science on my side, I conjured up all the energy I could and peeled open my eyelids, which felt more opening one of those lift and pull cans of tuna than using a supposedly reflexive muscle. Squinting through my sleep frosted vision, I was able to find all my toothbrush and toothpaste (you didn't actually think I kept bundled hog hairs and magic teeth goop did you? I'm a college student! I can't afford magic! Get some perspective brosef).

After making myself socially acceptable in the bathroom I started a pot of coffee. I grabbed a granola bar and a banana and sat down to watch my daily fill of news from SourceFed on youtube while I waited for my coffee to be ready. When I powered on my computer I saw that I had only 15 minutes until I had to leave. Somehow I had lost 20 minutes blundering around in the bathroom. Without thinking—thats kind of my thing if you didn't catch on— I shoot up out of my chair, hitting my small Ikea table and knocking over the cup of tea I didn't clean up last night. Shit. I trudge over to the shelf where we keep the paper towel and wipe up the mess and take the cup into the bathroom.

Now I only have 12 minutes. I decide to sacrifice my usual charade I put on of having any sort of style and just stay in my sweat pants and tie dye t-shirt I wore to bed. I throw my hair into a pony tail and search for a clean pair of socks, but I was a fool for thinking I'd be so lucky to find any. I dig through my dirty laundry hamper and find the least smelly pair. That'll do donkey, that'll do. After my shameful outfit is complete I pack my backpack and while I'm zipping up all the pockets I realize I've lost my favorite pen. Please refer to the above stages of grief. I have 7 minutes until I have to leave. Shit! I never drank my coffee. I scuttle over to the coffee maker excitedly, anticipating the wonderful experience sure to come when my lips touch that miracle liquid. I take a sip and it rips my hopes and dreams away and throws them on the floor next to the overflowing garbage can by being gross and cold. As I am not a weenie, I do not sit idle by and weep while my hopes and dreams hang out with the garbage can. No sir! I take charge and toss my coffee in the microwave for 1 minute. It beeps and I eagerly grab the cup and ignore that the cup is too hot. Then what do you know I burn my upper lip when I sip it and it is very very very hot. I grab a spoon and stir and blow and try not to think about how much I just want to fall into fetal position and go hang out with my hopes in dreams by the garbage.

I throw on my back pack and give my coffee about a minute to cool off, I think he just wanted some space and its understandable, I've been quite clingy and needy lately. When my coffee starts warming up to me again, I lovingly suck it all down only taking breaks for air. We really do belong together. I was supposed to leave one minute ago, time flies when you're going absolutely insane. I grab my keys and I'm out the door. My scrambled thoughts continue to bombard me all the way down the street until I get to the pond. As I stare out at the artificially manicured nature I see a group of ducks. I think about how they don't even have to get up, like they could sleep all day and here they are, up and at 'em, just being ducks. Then all of the jumbled fragments of ideas in my head disappear for a second and I have this moment of clarity where I realize that ducks are some pretty cool guys.

My communication prof said studies show ppl with more eccentric names get hired and promoted less. #thanksparentsloveyoutoo #imgonnabeahobo

     With the risk of someone Google searching me, printing out Mapquest directions to where I live and placing an order on EBay for super strong rope, duct tape, and a nice rusty shovel, I'm going to talk about my full, obnoxious name. Anastasia Marie Gedda-Shaheen. Fun fact: my name is the same length as the alphabet. Now, I know that if by chance any of you reading this don't already know me then you may be pronouncing with a obscure accent and some misplaced emphasis on almost every syllable. It's just Ann-uh-stay-sh-uh  Muh-ree (that ones easy but typing phonetically is too fun!) Jet-uh Shu-he-n.

       I've always felt very weird about my name. As a kid it was because I wanted to just be one of the boys so when someone said my full name all I could hear was "Hey super girly girl! You should be wearing a dress! Don't you wanna go play with Barbies and make-up and stuff?" I especially despised when people assumed they could call me Anna. I'm not even gonna start on the frequency of that occurance because I could write a trilogy about it. Thankfully, my Dad's affinity for unique names got me the nickname Stasia instead. I never introduced myself as Stasia, but my friends would eventually pick up on it from my family and when their tongues started to get exhausted after spitting out so many syllables just to get my attention they adopted it themselves. These uneasy feelings about a name that stuck out— quit literally when seen on a class list— followed me through middle school and high school when all I wanted was to fit in. But by senior year, I was relatively well known in my small class so I didn't have to deal with the awkward name situation unless we had a substitute teacher. It didn't bother me then though because the whole class would laugh at them with me for saying it weird. (Side note: mad respect to anyone that has ever been a substitute teacher, that job sucks on so many levels.) As a freshmen in college everyone I encounter is new which means all my childhood insecurities have been coming back to suck all of the juice out of my adolescent ego that has shriveled up like an emptied Caprisun as a result.

     For my first class as a college student I walked in with the goal of making a cool calm and collected impression on my new peers. To combat my non-existant fashion sense, I went to all of my classes wearing an outfit that had at one point in the past been approved by one of my sisters, right down to how I was wearing my shoes. Provided with one of those chair-desk combos, the desk space smaller than my notebook, I try sit like a normal, dignified, adult-type person in furniture made for a hobbit. Actually I bet a hobbit wouldn't even feel uncomfortable in one of these desks. So I adjust myself to a tolerable position and resist fidgeting around and screaming about the madness of a society that expects people to get an education while trapped in a slave chair.At this point I'm real confident that I'm already acing this cool person impression.

     Then my Professor introduces himself and announces he is going to take role. He goes through the list of mostly very normal names like Mike, Christina, Alexis and such. By this time my cool person act has slipped my mind and I am now slouching in my chair and shaking all my nervous energy out through my frantically bopping right leg. My professors steady progression through the list of students is interrupted when he lets out a soft and quick sigh of defeat then calls out, "Uh... Aun-A-sTa-see-A Ged-duh ShA-neen?" Everyone looks around for a victorian era princess dressed in a hoop-skirt dress, overflowing with ruffles, waiving her silk-gloved hand smoothly through the air, acknowledging the peasants and mocking them with her intricately styled hair topped with a petite triara that emphasizes her level of eccentric extravagance.

      Instead a hand reluctantly pops out from the crowd of curious faces and claims that name as her own. Unfortunately that hand belonged to me. And even more unfortunately that hand was attached to my arm, which was attached to a body that supported a very embarrassed head. I felt a sense of urgency to correct him, making me nervous, which always translates into my speech as unnatural rises and falls of pitch and entire sentences disappearing in tense a slur. I corrected his pronunciation, feeling like a Snooty McTooty. I tried to ensure that no one thought I was a weird person that would berate a person for saying my name wrong by announcing, "Its really not that fancy I swear! Its just like normal. I don't know..." I got a few sympathy laughs. I'm not even sure there is such thing as a sympathy laugh, but I spent the next 20 minutes convincing myself that it was to ease my bruised ego.

     Luckily, being at a new school has given me the chance to practice introducing myself. Since every person I run into here is new, I get a chance to try out telling people my name without acting like I'm scared of it. I give my self a pep talk once a day or so and convince myself that my name will only be as weird to others as I make it. This is a great example of how I like to deal with my problems: I lie to myself until it becomes true. I'm quite a convincing liar. I probably lying to myself right now about being a good liar. Let that one fester in your brain and hatch little baby thoughts of speculation! Eventually, after I've worked through my issues, my name won't be so detrimental to me in social situations, but according to my communication professor its gonna be a huge barrier in my career. So since my parents gave me a freaky name, they shouldn't be surprised when they end up with a freaky, basement dwelling daughter that had to move back in because employers were afraid of her name.

      My roommate just asked me if blogging about my name wasn't a bit narcissistic. To that I responded, "Isn't just blogging by itself already narcissistic?" Also I find it kind of ironic how I just wrote about how uncomfortable I am talking about myself to a big group of people and put it on the internet where potentially millions of people could see it. Realistically though I know that people reading this probably know me anyways so maybe that's why I have no qualms about it.  I can't think of a cohesive, silly, or meaningful way to end this post. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.