regale.

Life crisis averted.

My future is planned. My career is set. Angels are singing. You are applauding. Ed and June are feasting on the satisfaction that they don't have to be ashamed of my Bonnie-less-ness after all. Everyone is just excited they don't have to listen to me rant anymore, but I, for one, am proud of myself. Laudable? Hell yea. Laughable? Why not. Stephanie has a future. A Pi Beta Phuture, mind you. Get on the celebration train and chug.

Cheers.

As for my employment status (of which you are all so curious), I have finally settled with the intention of becoming a freelancer, post graduation. Who will I find to employ me? What will be my service? Please, everyone. Calm down. Stop worrying yourself with tedious details and skepticism. I've got this shit worked out. Let me lay it out for you.

Why freelance?

Working for yourself is the American Dream; but more importantly, it is your dream.. and I want what you want, bottom line. Everyone knows it. I want what you want and what you have. Case in point, your boyfriend. We're really great together and I've actually already plugged our pictures into one of those see what your baby is going to look like websites and let me just tell you, if given the proxemic opportunity, our child is going to reject whatever vapid, average-looking creature you end up bringing into this world. PTA meetings are going to rock. Next question.

Wait. What were we talking about again? Ah, yes. Freelancing. The cultural capital of a menial office jobs may satisfy the lifestyles of many, but not mine. My consideration of such an atrocity is now completely off the table. Ok, maybe not completely off. Listing Scranton as my one and only criterion for accepting an antiquated desk job, I am going to safely assume my prospect in this will inevitably fail. So, yes. Freelancing is where it at.

People that work for themselves have to find their craft and own it. What is my craft? Besides the ability to bullshit entire conversations, relationships and observation analyses, I have this incredible gift of using my personal experiences to help others. I can tell you the best tailor in town. I can give you the phone number of the closest Outback Steakhouse to you, no matter your location. I can spot a ruptured appendix a mile away. I know when you are sad. I know when you've been crying. Shit, I'm like Santa. A very dangerous, cracked out Santa, but Santa nonetheless. So why not put this goldmine to use? Enter: existential freelance work.

I have been to more doctor appointments than your diabetic grandfather. When you finally hit the second hour of sitting in a waiting room, you begin to observe the life around you. The monotony of scans and tests is finally broken when you allow the emotional weight of those around you to pour over your calm, motionless body like a torrential rain. I'm joking. That's weird. But, really. You see some really twisted shit when you're around sick people.

I like to make people happy. I like to reassure people. I like people that like who they are and what they're doing and why they're doing it. I want that to be my job. I want to combine all the things I like with all the things I've done and make it the most bad ass freelance job ever.

Have you ever seen someone waiting their turn to see the doctor and it looks like they might actually implode at any given moment? What about the people in line to turn in their charts after their appointment, clearly dealing with the information just provided to them? If you go to an appointment alone, you don't really experience the adventure to its full potential. Everyone needs a companion, a driver or an encouraging voice. I want to be that companion. I want to be that driver. I want to be that voice. After a slight miscommunication and wrongful prescription, I quickly learned that I can't make jokes or sarcastic comments during my own appointments.. therefore I want to come to yours.

Has something ever happened to you mid-exam or mid-physical that was so awkwardly hilarious you couldn't wait to tell your friend? Then, you hurriedly get dressed and rush out of the doctor's office to call that friend only for them to not pick up? I mean, you could leave a voicemail, but we all know it just wouldn't be the same. Don't you just wish someone was standing nearby ready and eager to hear all about your awkwardly hilarious experience? Yes, you do. I agree. That's why I want to be that person. I want to make your doctor's visit the ultimate experience.

You don't know what you have until it's gone. My rampant overuse of cliches may get old, but this one is the guiding light in my final career decision. I have always had someone accompany me to my appointments over the years. Whether it was my parents, sister or some undeserving friend who felt compelled to help, I had someone to drive me and keep me entertained throughout the entire process. I took this for granted and never truly appreciated their being there. It took one appointment for that all to change. Living three hours away from home, my parents aren't really feasible doctor appointment companions. In college, Bonnie had become the go-to passenger. Although this instance happened a long time ago, it serves as a turning point in my life. Ok, not really. But it was awkward and me posting it will make seven of you feel uncomfortable, so here we are.

One of my doctors is my best friend. I use the term best friend very lightly, by the way. Especially when my best friend is poking and prodding past my comfort zone. This same doctor is also Morgan's best friend too, but don't tell her I told you. She'd have a fit. A fit, I tell you. Between passing out in this lady's arms, flipping a coin with her to make decisions and taking conversations way past acceptable terms, this doctor has earned her title. Best friend she is; best friend she will always be.. until I leave Raleigh.

Doctor visit stories are my favorite. This one in particular isn't really funny, but its importance to my life has now made my telling it to you obligatory. That sentence was terrible; I'm sorry. Anyway. I have brought it up to Bonnie at least nine times, but she gets annoyed and makes a comment about how I have no boundaries. Her comment proverbially commences or concludes with, "Really, Stephanie?" Sometimes both if you're lucky or there was cursing involved. If you're ever curious as to whether I've overstepped my boundaries of acceptable things to say in front of Bonnie, just wait for the, "Really, Stephanie?" That's when you know.

Continuing on. Mine and Janice's relationship was a very exclusive, intimate one for quite a while. One you should envy. It's just that we weren't ready to tell our friends, you know? Afraid of their reaction, I guess. Luckily, Janice and I were on the same page. Her with her Doctor-Patient Privilege and me with my fear of Bonnie's disdain.

Due to the bill and insurance being on my father's tab, my parents had a little heads up as to my ever-developing relationship with Janice, or Neecy as I just decided I'd like to call her. It was weird not having Bonnie by my side through the talking and dating stages of the relationship, but I managed. Things had moved fast. We were already official. She was my doctor and I was her patient.. and damn it, we were proud. I knew Bonnie needed to know. She was going to find out eventually, and I needed to be the one to tell her. I didn't know the opportune time or the way to approach the subject, so I kept putting it off.

As it tends to do.. the moment presented itself. I sat in the office that morning; cold, barefooted and barely awake. As I waited for Janice to come in, an extreme feeling of discomfort came over me. I knew I was about to pass out and there was nothing I could do about it. Fearful that Janice would come in to a lifeless body, assume me for dead and bury me alive, I scrambled to find my phone. Thinking my plan was genius in my current state, I mustered the text, "Help." I was still trying to decide who the recipient should be, but I was running out of time. It never crossed my mind that I was in a DOCTOR'S OFFICE and that I am idiot, so my thought process continued. Finally, between the spinning room and my guilt of withholding, I decided to text Bonnie. "Help" was followed by an update as to where I was, why I wasn't clothed and when exactly I planned to recover from my vasovagal episode. I knew it wasn't the perfect timing or method of communication, but it needed to be done. You know, kind of like in high school, you calling your parents on your conscious' behalf to admit that there was underage drinking at the party you're at and you had, unfortunately, fallen victim to peer pressure and finished a Raspberry Smirnoff Ice, but hoped they would forgive you since you were honest enough to tell them and since you heard from your best friend, Casey, that Smirnoff Ice isn't "that bad" of an alcohol beverage after all? Yea, it's just like that.. Except your parent is your sister, the party is the gynecologist's office, the underage drinking is your anticipated promiscuity, the Raspberry Smirnoff Ice is your fifth appointment, your best friend is a Certified Nurse Midwife named Janice and the reassurance she is feeding you is the fact that you're not a whore.

See? All in all, the exact same. Glad we can all relate.

I needed Bonnie that day, just as you need me. Take me to your doctor appointments, world. I am ready. If you pass out, I will waft the ammonia until you come to. If you need to laugh, I will make a racial slur. If you cry, I will turn away until you finish. Yep. I am that good.

Hire me.

Disclaimer: Names, details and occurrences may have been changed to protect innocent others and the innocence of myself.

cranberry cream.

It's the holiday season.

For most seniors, this means tis the season for getting big kid clothes for their big kid jobs already promised to them post December or May graduation.

For some seniors, this means tis the season for joint engagement parties in order to receive Christmas china, personalized ornaments and other holiday gifts that will slowly deteriorate over the years, just like their love for one another. Oops?

For few seniors it means tis the season for convincing their parents that graduate school may, in fact, be a good idea after all.

Finally, for the handful of us seniors left, the holiday season means something completely different. Lucky for us, this time of the year means tis the season for explaining to your extended family that with only one semester left, you still have no idea what you want to do with your life or where you see yourself after graduation. This time of the year means tis the season for justifying for the ninety-seventh time why you are still single and why you have no intentions of changing that anytime soon. Yes, we know you thought he was great. But please woman, just move on. It's time. Then, last, but not least, this time of the year means tis the season for forcing yourself to consider graduate school, but ultimately know that the only thing worse than a desk job is a commitment to at least two more years of writing thirty-two page papers about a paper that someone wrote about another paper someone wrote about a study that someone else conducted in 1999. Oh, and just in case you were wondering, NOTHING exciting happened in 1999.

As I muster the strength for my journey home, I must fully prepare for what is to come. Usually I can depend on Bonnie to take the wheel and steer conversations back to topics where Stephanie's participation is not only unnecessary, but most of the time not even preferred. God, I love those topics. Her ability to take any dying conversation and turn into some tearjerking story of a time when she reorganized a student's schedule so they would be able to graduate sooner than they had originally planned has made basically every family gathering a pleasurable one. That, and complex carbohydrates in buffet form.. but it's whatever. Although Bonnie can remedy any situation, some family members still find a way to get me alone. There I am, sisterless, weak and vulnerable to their life questions. My attempts to flee have failed each time. Apparently yelling "Rape!" is only effective in certain situations.

Since I am getting older, I should probably start taking responsibility for myself and own up to my indecisive lifestyle. At least that's what people are telling me. I mean, why not? Hell. Tis the season, right? Rather than looking for ways out of conversations involving my future, I have decided to premeditate possible answers instead. Everyone look how mature I am.

Not.

The next time I do life, I'm going to be more proactive and awesome, I promise. Until then, though, I'm going to deal with what I have and consider job prospects that I am best suited for given my current strengths and abilities.. or agility, rather... I guess. Right?

Career Option #1: Stripper

Cranberry Cream is my name; prudish thrusting is my game. Many people have seen me dance and automatically assume that I spend my weekends wrapped around some pole. I don't know if it's the skipping in place or the pointing that is only suitable for Saturday Night Fever that gave my dirty little secret away, but sometimes people just know. That will be enough, zippers. I don't need anything else that will slow my roll. My conscience will be enough. Buttons? Hooks? Extremely intricate mesh? No, thank you. Anything that will encroach upon my stripping performance is no friend of mine. I have yet to decide if body paint or individually glued on sequins is more my style. White girl problems. Luckily, I have approximately five months to make a final decision. Thank God for options though, right? America.

Career Option #2: Actress

Porn stars are the brightest stars of them all. This is a completely practical job opportunity for me seeing as how the biggest thrills behind my bedroom door thus far in life have been Tetris challenges and rearranging outfits on my mannequin. If that doesn't scream promiscuity, I can honestly say that I don't know what does. I would like to note, though, that there is one small stigma in this stature of acting. Morals? Nah. Impaired vision? Not quite. While eager audiences everywhere would pay big bucks to watch me be me, I have a feeling you can't make tall socks, Tetris and peanut butter more sexual than they already are. Which, unfortunately for you, is not at all. Like, not at all. I mean, we could always try, but one: peanut allergies are way too common these days, two: I don't do laundry and three: you can't just unsee something. In moments like these, you have to think of the kids.

Career Option #3: Pimp

The greater part of my college years have been spent learning to market and promote companies, products, events and so forth. Now that I have all of those down pat, why not try people too? I have a really magical way of persuading people to do just about anything and an even more magical way of making things seem a lot better than they are. You know how you can get something off of Craigslist and then turn around and sell it on eBay for profit? Yea. I want to do that. Except instead of used furniture, antique lamps or vintage Smurf posters in mint condition, I want to sell humans. Yes, humans. I am talking about making monetary profit off of, otherwise free, homeless men. I've begun to assemble captions and descriptions for my loot of men. The ladies will go wild. You just wait. Yes, I said loot. No, I'm not a pirate. Piracy is Career Option #7.

I mean, how could you refuse a man who is described with the following?

• Cyrus hasn't eaten in twelve days, but the emaciated look is all the rage in New York. He's very trendy.
• Get Thomas while he is hot. Here today, gaunt tomorrow.
• Zach is having a garage sale on his legs and everyone is invited.
• Where do bald men keep their secrets? Jerry, here, has only one secret and I guarantee you it is in his box.
• Juan has almost nothing to be ashamed of. Deme tu dinero y tome lo que usted puede conseguir, perra.
• Ramone is like a super hero whose powers are sweaty palms and bad decisions. However, bad decisions will cost extra.

Tell me you wouldn't give me your money. I mean, please. This shit is gold.

Speaking of.. I got my new gold tooth today. Da boyz gonna be all up in my mouth now. What can I say? Cranberry Cream. The best cream of the plant-derived berry creams.

boughs of polly.

The greater part of my childhood has been spent compiling lists. Lists of things I want, things I don't want, people I will be mad at if they give me the things I don't want, and so on. Maybe I should preface this with I was a slightly demanding child. Just slightly though.

As I think back on some of my Christmas lists over the years, I am truly impressed. I have really outdone myself.

Christmas 1996: Polly Pocket Mansion. I don't know if this is the proper name. I don't know if I ever knew the proper name. I just knew Maggie Wright had it and I wanted one, damn it. I mean, I had Polly Pockets. I had several Polly Pockets. The only problem was that all of my Polly Pockets were insignificant. That sounds harsh, but you have to understand. They were merely commoner Polly Pockets. I wanted more. I needed more. Looking back.. I mean, I guess they were ok. Their homes were of average size. Sufficient, I guess. Acceptable Polly Pocket proportions, if you will. I was content with my Polly Pockets for a long time. I never judged them for their lower socioeconomic status or condemned them for being less than par. Yea. Maggie Wright changed that. I went to her house one snowy afternoon, fell in love with her giant plastic contraption and never looked back. Her Polly Pocket of epic proportions was so degrading. Compared to her Polly, my Pockets were nothing. I left her house that day defeated. I didn't know whether to cry, steal her shit and bolt or seek restitution from my parents for equipping me with pure, for lack of a better word, crap. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush? Wrong. I don't care if I had five Polly Pockets. They were not enough. If they were not Polly Pocket Mansions, they were worthless. Quality over quantity. Maggie had a mansion. Me? I had a trailer park.

Christmas 1998: Machete. Yea, I know what you're thinking. What does a nine year old need with a machete? Here's the thing. Nothing. But how cool would it be if I went back to school after Christmas break and after everyone in the class finished bragging about their new scooters, jump ropes and shit, I got to stand up and tell everyone that clearly I was the only one in the room who had parents that loved them since I got a motherfucking machete. Yea, I would have said it. Just like that too. Now, this may come as a surprise to all three of you, but I was a BAMF. No lies. Casey Carpenter taught me all the cuss words in second grade, so by fourth grade, I was pro. My pupils (yea, they're still called pupils in elementary school) envied my adroit ability to offend both their morals and their mothers with one swift comeback. Fat girl spits game. What can I say? Things to be proud of in my life, Chapter Two. On a completely unrelated topic, I wanted a monogrammed pocketknife for my 15th birthday. Being prepared for street fights was a really big part of childhood, apparently. I'm not sure what brought on my need for weapons, but I blame the Power Rangers. Kimberly Hart, in particular. Pterodactyl Power Coins can only do so much.

Ok, I'm done. Some of you guys are more intrigued by my life than I am. The Whiffenpoofs, one of which will father one of my many children, are about to sing. The list would otherwise ensue. Sorry, guys.

In conclusion to the shortest list ever, I think it's safe to say that I am not exactly prime babysitter material. Between stealing children's toys and my love for sharp objects, you're better off having Morgan watch your children. I'll come over and play the piano for them and eat your granola, but that's about all I can contribute.

Word.

semi charmed.

It insults my intelligence, abilities as an executive officer and unsatisfactory attempts at being funny when my emails are not approved. Yes, I know you are reading this. Yes, I am calling you out. What about it?

Granted, my emails rarely serve a purpose other than to ramble, rebuke or talk about my daily life in a reprobate manner, but still. Many people signed up to live alongside me knowing all that it entailed. When I say many people, I mean everyone, actually. I do a pretty good job of making it clear how things are going to go at first interaction. Tell me I'm wrong. DO IT.

Just kidding.

It's ok. A lot of people don't appreciate my sense of humor. Whether it be a moral conscience, a fear of God or the fact that they are actually just a good person, some people just don't find me entertaining. For that, I apologize. The truth is, I hang out with most of you guys just in case hell grades on a curve. I am being honest with you just as I expect you to be honest with me when you tell me that you didn't finish reading this. Much love.

Semi Formal is a memorable event for few, but a notable night for many. Me and 129 of my closest friends partook in an evening that entailed a bus ride never to be tried again unless under heavy sedation, a bar suited for hobbits and a dance party that would make any respectable parent cringe.

For those of you who were too retardedly excited about the night to remember your actions or those of you that were unable to attend this rendezvous, continue on for a completely unbiased recount of the evening.

• I would like to point out that the key lime pie was actually a type of garlic infested cheese. The strips of green which were thought to be strips of lime were actually green onion. Go figure. You're welcome for taking one for the team and finding this out the hard way. Maybe I was the only one to fall victim to this dessert dupery, but we'll pretend for now that many others of you made the same mistake. Three of your dates may have watched me try to save face, taste buds and vomit-free carpet by using nearby food and linens to remedy the situation. I'm pretty sure one of them gagged. It was borderline 2 girls 1 cup material. You're welcome for the visual. Tell them I am sorry and yes, I am single.

• Everyone can thank my date for being the documentarian of the evening. I have some really awesome shots of a number of you in questionable positions with 1. me, 2. your date, 3. food and 4. each other. I hope running for political office isn't a dire necessity in any of your lives. If so, I accept bribes, lemon squares and poems about how pretty I am. In other breaking news, the writer formerly known as "Lacy" may or may not have a promising future in soft pornography.

• A thank you to all of those who made my body their wonderland over the course of night. I know this is a fun habit for many of you at every event and I just want you to know that I truly appreciate your generosity.

• Big shout outs to the following dates:

1. The date who asked if my pockets were kangaroo pockets and if so, whether "hopping in my ass like a kangaroo" would be "inappropriate." Uh, real quick. One, your date thinks he is Afroman. This is a problem. Two, yes it would be inappropriate. Three, be sure to tell him I am still deliberating as to whether the Australian accent helped his argument.
2. The date that I found hiding under the table during my initial quesadilla raid. Taking into consideration the three bottles around him, I assume this was after the announcement of one drink per person and the animal hunt for underage consumers. Next time, though, maybe hold off on all fort-like adventures until you get home.
3. The date that was under the impression that the bathroom area was only there for his viewing pleasure. He stood at the kitchen door and watched every entry, exit and all other miscellaneous restroom activity. I am not saying this was rude behavior or anything, I'm just saying it was incredibly weird as fuck.

• Heads up to whoever brought the boy wearing a light colored shirt and patterned tie of some sort. He may have had dark hair? Specificity is my jam. Anyway, I really hope you don't make a habit of giving anything he says any sort of credibility. Not that I don't trust your judgment, but after his 17th remark that would validate him as God's gift to N.C. State, I felt the slight need to inflict pain upon both myself and an innocent kitten. He may be really awesome in real life, but something still tells me I would be physically incapable of agreeing with anything that comes out of his mouth. He could be reading my grandmother's homemade german chocolate cake recipe aloud and I'd still be like, "Fuck that. NO."

• One of you has slowly, but surely come full circle. Legitimately though. You have definitely been the entertainment of every event I have ever been to and/or planned (whether good, bad, ugly or bruise-inflicting), but you were awesome last night. You lasted the entire event and no one was hurt, violated, railed or derailed. I know we can't take credit for everything, but still. It's hard not to feel a touch of pride when someone we've been supporting for so long finally makes it to the big time.

• One of you thought the catering manager was your date. He tried explaining the occurrence to me last night, but clarified with an email this morning. Apparently he was borderline jumped as he passed by the dance area making his many trips to and from the food table. As he tried to flee the scene and your "surprisingly firm" grasp, you took this as him playing hard to get. All in all, he made it out alive with "only one minor cut." If this was you and you knew that he wasn't actually your date and you forced yourself upon him anyway... don't worry about. No shame. Don't be hurt. It's not you. It's him.. and his wife that he's had since his sophomore year at State. Yea. No comment. Kaysee, Iris and I had statistics with him and tried to Pi Phi up his life many a'confidence interval, but he would never allow it. What a prude. Thanks for cutting him.

nasopharyngitis.

To the person who got me sick: Congratulations. You may be the most contagious person alive. Not only have you accomplished what hundreds of people have been trying to do over the past six years, but you have done it well. You infested me with your pathetic little germs and for that, I hate you. I have not had a cold since before that one time I died momentarily in the tenth grade. I'm not sure if you deserve a medallion, a gold star or a swift punt to your pelvic region... The jury is still out.

I am pretty sure I signed a form in the hospital that agreed to suffering the rest of my life from random spouts of pain, black outs and having musical instruments as insides every time I eat.. and that is fine. A deal is a deal. Bring it. However, I am pretty sure this contract mentioned nothing about any other health atrocity, may that be allergies, pregnancy or the common cold. Thus far all I have been allergic to is bitches and pollen and I have been dealing with those just fine. I wouldn't wish pregnancy upon anyone, so I am hoping karma will back me up on that one. A cold though? Really? A cold? How many street corners do I have to pass out on to avoid this constant dilemma of being able to inhale and exhale without sounding like Brainy from Hey Arnold?

Yes, I hear you. That jibberish you call "an argument" would make sense in some cases, just not mine. Why? Because I am awesome. Duh. So you're saying maybe this sickness is attributed to my ignorance of any and all active germs? Yea, about that. No. Germs aren't real. Will I eat food handed to me by a stranger with no questions asked? Well, yes. If I am hungry. Will I share drinks with someone who has yet to rid themselves of mononucleosis since they were in preschool? Yes, obviously. Why not? By choice, will I become blood brethren with someone who contracted AIDS from a tragic saliva exchange when they were simply trying to pass along a Life Saver via toothpick at a Young Life camp? Again, straight positive. I don't see what the issue is. I am perfect, and in no way susceptible to you people and your commoner illnesses.

This constipation of breath cannot be accredited to these made up "germs" you guys keep yelling at me about. This disease was man-made.. and for that, someone will pay. Too bad the only person paying right now is Ed since I infected the rest of my family with the snotty goodness and now he has to go buy drugs to keep us from being pathetic lumps of human.

On a more cheerful note, this cold is doing wonders for my appearance. Most people have a red nose, puffy eyes and hair as if styled by a blind second grader with only one arm.. but nope. Not me. I am freaking adorable. For real. You guys thought I was cute when I was attached to a wall and fully dependent upon a catheter to get the job done? Psht, please. Gangrene's got nothing on this sore throat. Pimps beg women that look like this to be their prostitutes. I could make someone named Mackdaddy G. Smooth a very rich man.

Legit. I am warning you. Those that fear my thieving ways in normal health.. Seriously. Hide your boyfriends. I am coming back to Raleigh and I am more ready than ever to take what is yours. Slut levels running high, I have my tissues in hand and Dayquil infused sizzurp in my monogrammed tumbler. Shit is about to get real.

nancy drew, mystery solved.

As I have expressed before, there is nothing more respectable than an adult trying to receive a college degree. Wait. I said that, right? Oh, I didn't? Huh.. Weird.

I know what you're thinking and yes.. Technically in some countries, hick towns and prisons I may be considered an adult as well, but let's be real. That is a bunch of noise. When I say I adult, I mean ADULT adult, tried and true. For men, I am talking abnormal bald spots, children, bicep tattoos that look more like ink pen defecation than a bed of tribal thorns, ex-wives named after alcohol, cars, and licorice and a volunteer position with the local Boy Scout troop. For women, I am referring to the post-menopausal lady kind that have suddenly grown tired of overachieving in the kitchen and bedroom and genuinely think that the classroom should be their next feat. Yea, about that. No.

Gentlemen, please. If the professor asks for an example.. more than likely they want one that is entertaining. Entertainment is not found in weathered anecdotes of the many years you spent "providing for your family" in that mill. Although the beautiful, tear-jerking story of your coworker, Juan, having nearly lost his arm reeaally made me think about life and appreciate my ability to applaud, dougie and braid hair... no one else thinks you're cool. I tried to take a class poll during one of your last rants to see if others agreed with me, but everyone was asleep. Fancy that.

To all you husbands out there, I understand you "love" your wife. You want what is best for her and you honestly just really want her to focus on other things besides where you are, what you are doing and what she can cook for you when you are done doing it. When she came to you with the idea of going back to school, you were hesitant about her interest in something other than you and your well being, but you gave in anyway. You gave her the permission she needed since you are clearly the decision maker in the relationship and off she went. Uhm. About that. Fun fact, sir. You did not have to say yes. You did not have to agree that the idea was one of worth. Women are genetically predisposed to be completely inept. Tell us when we are wrong. (Always.) Tell us to forget about our stupid aspiration of knowledge or credibility or whatever we're whining about and point us back to the kitchen. Let us make you a sandwich or something. Ever since you guys started letting women protest, peacefully assemble and speak, it's been nothing but bad news. Now all the old ones all about signing up for COM 486 and perfecting the art form that is intercoder reliability. It's just... wrong.

Just kidding, Nancy. You're awesome.

Who is Nancy, you ask? Oh, you know.. Just my best friend in waiting. Whether she knows this or not isn't the question, ok? Right now, I am working towards ultimate BF4L status. Once that is achieved, we will then discuss what exactly she can do for me. We first met at the beginning of the semester in a crowded room of three. Both abnormally early for class due to a mistake on my watch and an eagerness to learn on hers, we connected over our shared love of some restaurant that I had never been to. You see, she was mid-one-way-conversation before I realized she was talking to me. She was waiting for an answer to a question that I never even heard, so I nodded my head and excitedly said, "Yes!" assuming she had just asked me if I wanted to sex Zac Efron. Yea, wrong. Apparently she was raving about this awesome restaurant in the middle of bumfuck Garner and inquired as to whether I had been there before. Nanthy wath thuper duper exthited we had both eaten at the thame plathe. Like, more than anyone should ever be. A restaurant is a restaurant. Heads up. If they're in business, more than likely you are not the only person that eats there. Shocking, I know. Anyway. She asked me what I ordered. I told her I had gotten something different with every visit, but really loved "some chicken thing" one time. I asked her what she got. She answered with words that may or may not have been Slavic, but oh my gosh. Such a small world. The last time I went there I ordered the EXACT same thing and absolutely LOVED it. Definitely a must, you guys.

Next class came around.. I intentionally got there ten minutes late and blade-to-wrist upset, HAD to sit really really far away from the Nance. So sad, I know. As the semester ensued and people made specific seats their permanent home, Nancy found her way back to me. How sweet. Yea, yea. Small problem. Boy. Not just a boy, though. Like, MAN boy. Like, really GOOD man boy. Good, in this context, will be defined by HOLY CRAP. Yea, that pretty. Unfortunately for my weekend plans and lacking relationship with the make-out fairy, girl has been wrecking the flow since Week Three. Girl being Nancy, if you are having trouble keeping up.

She clearly did not get my hint of moving her things, leaning over her and "forgetting" her usual seat in order to have direct body contact with the hot piece of almost man on the other side of her, but whatever. Married women apparently don't see that some college males actually exude sex, camel tone loafers and the ability to provide David Yurman to their slampieces. How rude. You have a husband, whore. Let me sit next to him. Your children may be older than me, your husband may be a really awesome banker with lots of sport coats and business cards and your hair may be more flammable than Bonnie's carpet, but none of these things give you the upper hand. You may have your will, but I have my youth. It is on. Game. Set. Match.

I didn't care enough about the boy or the class or her, actually, to make it to class on time for the following weeks, so my efforts died off. To make a long story short because I am losing interest in my own rant, I continued to sit next to Nancy. Nancy continued to treat the class as if it was a basic activity and she was Amelia Bedelia. Since she tells everyone her life and her children's lives and her husband's life and her mother-in-law's life rather than letting the class material soak into her aged skin.. I may or may not know she is graduating when I am. Such a good thing to know, right? Yea. I didn't think so either. Anyway, I want to sit next to her at graduation. Why? The same reason I have hairbows, wear tall socks, rewrite rap songs that embrace how white I am and make a wish on any repeated or consecutive number on the clock.. I am weird. What are you going to do? Basically, I want to make her love me so there is no question as to who she is going to share her big day with as she struggles to keep her Depends dry on those really cool fold-out chairs.

These have been my attempts at best friendship over the past couple of weeks:

• Listened to a vent session about her son's girlfriend of three years that she thinks may be a "two-timer."
• Found a cookie recipe suitable for her diabetic husband.
• Introduced her to Quizlet.
• Acted as if her 40,959,458,034,985 questions in class were completely valid.
• Did not cry or stab her when she asked our professor for an extra assignment so she could get more practice on coding data.
  
• Called out vocabulary to her for her Spanish class that she is taking "for fun." You know. Since people do that.
• Told her about my obsession with my parents and made her really jealous that her kids don't like her that much. Ironically, this made her appreciate me more as a "youngster."
  
• Allowed her to say the word "youngster" without any visible judgment from my end.
  
• Complimented her joutfit.
  
• Let Ed buy her a muffin when I saw her studying in the library.
  
• Took her husband's business card and agreed to Google him because she thinks he is great.

I lose a little bit of self-respect with every bullet point, but hey. It's not like I have anything else to do.

That is all. You gained nothing from this. Mission complete.

illiteracy prevention.

What was once enthusiasm for writing has now become a futile desire for sleep. Yes, sleep. Not money. Not fortune. Not fame. Not even a Joey Bag of Donuts with free queso because the guy behind the counter is creepy and thinks the two of you have a special connection because he remembers you want a whole grain tortilla instead of flour..... but sleep. I said it. Sleep. I'm going to say it again... Ready? Ok. Sleep. - Everyone seems to be doing it these days. Well... everyone except for me. I guess it's just one of those trends that isn't for me. You know, kind of like joutfits, straight As and an interest in what others have to say.

Usually my nocturnal behavior is brought on by really important events like disturbingly unsafe runs around Raleigh or incredibly substantial activities such as Friends marathons, baking and staring into space, but recently my nights have been filled with legitimate work. Uhm, excuse me. That is unacceptable. I hold tight to my inability to finish a project and my genuine passion for procrastination. Also, please take note of my impeccable sentence structure. The fact that I've had to use a thesaurus to make a complete thought every single day this week shows that I am unstable. Unstable as a social individual... not unstable as a human being. Momma, I promise. It's cool. I'm good. Everything is ok. I am dramatic. Don't fret. FBC Shebs has enough on their gossip.... err, I mean offering plate to worry about.

People in my office are yelling at each other. One way trip to Awktown, USA. Apparently I scored a free ticket. Lucky dog. Look at me. Such a traveler.

Onward.

I have klepto tendencies. I know, this is not a positive trait and I probably shouldn't broadcast it to the world... but I mean, hear me out. I steal things. Steal? Well, let's just say take for long periods of time. Most of the time it is unintentional (lie) or I return it immediately (big lie).. I should probably stop deepening the massive hole I have dug for myself right about now. Ok, great. Yes, so. Through my youth (since I am so ridiculously old and wise now) I stumbled upon some really great things. By stumble, I mean pocketed. Here's the thing though.. I take things that don't matter. Signs that have duplicates, t-shirts that clearly mean more to me than the people they originally belonged to, Bonnie's clothes, Bonnie's shoes, Bonnie's green beaded necklace that has been in my glove compartment since I was a junior in high school, chewing gum, Diet Coke from random refrigerators in Pi Phi (yea, that was me) and jokes from real life comedians because I know the majority of my friends are too fixated on generalized sitcom humor to know who the comedians are, let alone their stand-up material. That may seem like a lot, but let me tell you.. it's not. Although remorse is a common pang of mine, I would like to think that next to real live thieves that steal babies and cars and Omega Cups, I am perfect. By perfect, I mean not as bad as rapists, criminals and Theta Chis. Oh wait....

Speaking of terrible people, I have no money. Ok, so maybe I have a little money because my dad hides random dollar bills throughout my car in case I get stuck in the middle of oh, you know.. WADESBORO, but besides that - nothing. Oh and yes, he hides it... not from burglars or untrustworthy passengers, but from me. He told me where the stash was once and a couple minutes later I had a brand new pair of Nike shorts and a case of Diet Coke. Woops? You live, you learn, you hide from Stephanie. Facts of life.

Anyway, so as I cruise down Oberlin with a dolla dolla bill hidden here, there and behind a seat cushion or two, I yammer. Yes, yammer. Don't look so surprised. I am such a yammerer. "Why is Stephanie so upset?," you are probably not asking yourself. Well, let me quench that nonexistent curiosity and tell you in the least most drawn out way -- Spike Leigh. (I am really creative, I know. Get off me.) Anywho, long story even shorter, he took my life. By life I mean identity and by identity I mean just my debit card number, but if any of you legitimately know me, you understand that all of those are synonymous in the context of Stephanie's life.

I am going to stop now because I just realized I don't even care enough about what I have to say to finish this story or any other so it would be cruel to think anyone else would. If you do care, you should probably be making excel sheets, name-tags and watered down choreography anyway.

Word to every last one of your mothers.

i like runnin' on E.

My blogspot brings all the boys to the yard and they’re like, I follow your blog. Damn right, they follow my blog.

It’s ok. Calm down. There’s no need to vomit. I am back.

Yea, it has been a while. I know, I know. I would go on about how my life is so incredibly busy that I haven’t had time to sit down and put some really offensive thoughts to canvas, but let’s be real. That is a lie.

I do nothing with my life. Jealous? You should be. Don’t worry, kids. This lack of productivity isn’t exactly forced upon me. That’s right. I’m American. Let freedom ring. I make my own decisions. When I have the opportunity to do something of worth or perhaps chance upon a prospect that entails the betterment of my life or that of others, I run. Run? Ok, you caught me. I lie. You say potato, I say pathological liar. No big deal. That’s right, fellas. Mythomaniac nightmare, right here. Sad… and just when you thought you had found your dream girl.

I kid, I kid.

Disclaimer: Reading this and following me on Twitter may be a bit redundant, but you are just going to have to play the cards you are dealt, my friends. I am not that insightful of a person so repetition is inevitable. Sorry, dawgs.

If you were to ask me what I have been doing over the past couple of weeks, I would reply, "Nothing." You may think this is me being vague to avoid engaging in conversation, however you would be... well, ok. You would be right. Still though, my answer is valid. Between job interviews and catching up on all episodes of NCIS, CSI, Gossip Girl, Power Rangers, Glee, Law & Order, Criminal Minds, The Hills, iCarly, What I Like About You and every other series that has ever been saved to our DVR... my life has been one big piece of white bread.

Yea, I don’t know. Let’s pretend white bread is a euphemism for some really explicit term. I’ve had to dial down my language to accommodate the comfort level of my recent company, so any and all creative punch lines and punny remarks are in deficit. Ok, so back to my fast paced lifestyle. Most of my friends are busy with work/class, residing in other cities, out of the country or currently blacklisted. (You know who you are.) Due to this incredible spike in hang out options, I have put a lot of effort towards befriending the new couch in my living room. Corner cushion. Reclining capabilities. Pull-down cup holder. Personal prop for any object that I choose. Dude, totally best friend material. I love props.

This lack of human interaction should be a great way to get some important work done, but to be honest... I am just not that responsible. I am firmly committed to testing the boundary between procrastination and failure. For the good of all studentkind, of course. You are welcome. No, I don’t have actual homework to do, but seeing as how NC Delta feels that parties do, in fact, come before academics, my priorities are a bit dyslexic right now. You can’t party like a Pi Phi unless you’ve got some accredited pushover failing her classes so she can find a venue and some dimwitted bus driver that shows up on time to make your alcohol filled night magical. Just saying.

Let's see. What else is there to say? Ah, yes. Life updates. Of course. Since you all care so much. Seeing as how I can't think for myself between the hours of 8pm and 12pm, I asked a couple of you that have been requesting this what the post should entail. One of you replied, "Your lyfe." Thanks, Anne. Another one of you responded with a nauseating, "Live. Laugh. Love." Hilarious. You may think it's weird that happy proverbs and optimistic sayings that serve no purpose aggravate me and tickle my gag reflex, but there is no need for your ridicule. Instead of spouting back something about that boy you like and his inability to form complete sentences, I will take your advice. Boom.

Live.

Ocean Isle is a beast of a city.

• For three nights in a row a limousine has been parked outside the local bar and grill. Talk about rock star lifestyle. Soft-shell crab sandwich aside, apparently a night out isn’t a night out until you’ve got Larry and his kick ass stretch limo takin’ you home.

• Sippin' sizzurp in your ride? So not illegal. This is the beach. Keep on with yo purple drank. The police officers are make believe and their handcuffs are made of chocolate.

• Over the course of the summer, I have trekked this entire island by foot. I thought running in Shelby was bad. (Don’t worry. It still is.) However, OIB doesn’t have much more to offer a girl. Every time I tie my shoelaces, I weigh my options. You leave our road and turn left? Houses. Pavement. Sand. You leave our road and turn right? Houses. Pavement. Sand... Water tank. Hell yea, right side. You always win. I would cross the bridge and see what the roads leading to Shallotte have to offer, but I have dignity. You people with your weighted belts and adrenaline hustling across the bridge, I hope you trip. I don’t drive straight. Sorry. Your family’s loss.

• My family eats at the same three places for just about every meal… for the past 20 years. Why? We are lazy. Does this get tiresome? Yes. Do I make it worse by ordering the exact same thing every time we go? Yes. Do I do this to be difficult? Get off me.

• To the waiter at Roberto’s last tonight: Really? My solemn expression that lasted from my drink order to the request for a to-go box wasn’t an attempt to appear deep in thought or anything of the sort. That? Yea, that was bad attitude. I smiled when I thanked you for your services. I saw you walk over to your bartender friend. I watched the two of you look me over and discuss. There is a mirror next to the bar, dumbass. When the chef came over to talk to us, you thought you had struck gold. I’ve never seen a server run to a table so fast in my life. Wrong dude. They are friends. He has known me since I was four. My personality and input were out of respect, not compassion. You stood there with your side glances and winks. Ew. You see that man sitting right there next to you? Yea, that’s my dad. His name is Ed. He doesn’t play. Although I am sure you could whip me up a mean side salad and list off every dressing known to man, I think I’m going to have to pass. While, “So… you come here often?” was a really great ice breaker, it is still a no. One, authenticity is kind of a requirement of mine. Two, oh my god, just.. no.

• If a sign denotes that a street is only meant to hold traffic headed in one direction and one direction only, disregard it. This is the beach. Golf cart rules override any law ever made. Driving two streets down just to come right back to successfully reach your destination is a waste of time. This directional rule should only be followed by outsiders. Who are the outsiders? Well, probably you if you have to ask.

• Your house has a sign in front of it that says NO TRESPASSING. I say that is crap. This is the beach. You have a good location. As long as I have use of my legs, I will walk on your property. Thank you.

• I have worn the exact same outfit every single day for the past six days. I have only showered once. I am unsanitary. Hygiene isn’t exactly a priority of mine. Justification? This is the beach. I don’t really have an excuse when I do this in Raleigh, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to survive.

Laugh.

I'm not funny, but other people are. This is where the Twitter overlap may come into play.

• Everyone should watch Last Comic Standing. It will make you a better person. North Carolina, represent.

• Comedy has gotten better since Obama came into office. Legitimately.

• My father and Tupac share the same birthday. Yea, present tense on both. That’s right. Live strong, my brotha. You too, Ed.

• Tim Peeler is currently our hometown hero. Ok, not really at all. More like the laughing stock of the nation, but what’s the difference? Speaking of Tim Peeler… He called Bonnie. This needs far more explanation and background than I ever want to give, so next.

• Bonnie is a hermaphrodite… oh, wait. I mean, hypochondriac. Her latest concern? Tourette’s. Fortunately for me, this is not a joke.
  
  • I would just like to clarify that Bonnie is, in fact, not a hermaphrodite. Since I am sure the two of you that read this were severely concerned over this issue after reading it, I just wanted to put your minds at ease. Bonnie is a lady... a fine, fine lady. We have no hints of androgyny in our family. I was trying to type the term hypochondriac when I accidentally spelled out hermaphrodite. This is in no way, shape or form a depiction of Bonnie's character or quality of life. This is my mistake. It was not an intentional display of irrational thinking or a statement made to offend her or anyone else. I am just a horrible person that puts humor and my own enjoyment before anything else. I hope you understand.
    

• On a brief trip to The Dollar Store with Bonnie, we encounter a girl. This girl is wearing a bikini. As in, just a bikini. Bikini girl is making her way through the store, picking up her dollar priced necessities when I begin to follow her around in attempt to photograph her great style. Although a visible retardation or age group of 12 and below would have validated her ensemble, the car keys in her hand nullified both of those exceptions. After the photo opportunity was deemed unsuccessful, we rationalized that it was just The Dollar Store… so really, she was more dressed for the occasion than we were. Credit where it’s due. Later on, we make our way to the neighboring department store. Among the rows of rompers and matronly dresses, who do we see? You guessed it. Bikini girl. Dear bikini girl, you are not Tara Reid. I don’t care what your illegal boyfriend told you was ok. Clothes are necessary. Please leave Belk.

• My skin is in really great condition. By really great condition, I mean that my acne can be compared to that of a 15 year old boy who can’t recognize his own voice. I walk into the kitchen of our beach house to greet my grandmother. First thing I hear, “Well Stephy, your face ‘bout looks worse than mine does.” I mean, that’s cool and all. Too bad her face skin is still raw, oozing and miserably healing from cosmetic surgery. Twins? Oh, totally.

• I am standing in line with my grandparents at a local seafood restaurant. Some people call it a restaurant. I call it a tiny cellar of sweat and grease. Fried food doesn’t taste any better when you are eating it with people that you love. I’ve tried that approach. I got nothing from the experience but indigestion. Anyway, this place is tiny. When you wait, you wait in a single file line that wraps around the teeny little brick hut. Personal space is lacking and everyone feels the need to buddy up to the people around them. One, if I really felt the need to socialize with strangers, I would have shown up wearing a name tag. Two, I am listening to your conversations so I know for a fact that you are listening to mine. Right when silence has fallen upon the group of people around us, my grandfather touches a scar on my face and oh so loudly says, “Where’d you get that scratch on ya face? Ya boyfriend give you that?” I respond, “Excuse me, what?” Hoping I had misheard and/or he would have realized his remark and quickly changed the subject. Yea, about that. So not the case. “Yea’d ya boyfriend get too rough on a date ‘n scratch you?” Oh ok, then. He really did say it. That’s cool. I didn’t want pride anyway.

Love.

My Baby by Lil Romeo. Download it. Amy Brown knew what was up when I was 13.

• Some people change history just by being themselves. Zac Efron is one of those people. You think I’m joking.

• James Jeffery and his drumsticks. Yes, please. Context? Not important.

• Crafts, love. Art is such a big part of my world. This isn’t supposed to be profound at all… I’m just saying it has kind of consumed the majority of my life. Up until the past couple of years, my summer months have been loaded with craft projects and glasses filled to the rim with creative juice. However, as I have gotten older, I am pretty sure any and all of my artistic ability has diminished. I mean, the ideas and intentions of making great pieces are still alive, but there seems to be a huge problem of brain-eye-hand-canvas coordination. I would trade a significant portion of my soul to be able to manifest the images and designs I have in my head right now.

• If Cristiano Ronaldo’s haircut didn’t hint at a rattail, I really feel like things could work out between us.

• I like my men like I like my laws of gravity: invisible and hard to break. Don’t think too hard on that one, I don’t know what it means either.

• You want a legitimate answer? I have told you the same thing about fiftyleven times yet you still nag as if I were hiding something. No, I was serious. Yes, that was an honest response. The more you ask me, the more I want to strangle both of you. If you like him so much then you should date him. Totes. Who cares about the age difference or the concept of a friendly overlap? I don’t mind and neither does the state of North Carolina. You could so do this.

• Ohh… him? I mean, yea he was cute… in a sort of developmentally disabled way. Of course he is attractive, as if I would show interest in anything less. I have standards. He met many of them… numerous times. Oh, you too? No worries. I mean, yea. I would probably get tested. Just to be safe. You can never be too sure. Have you seen his friends? Ouch, them too? Dang. Did you use hand sanitizer? Ok, good. No, no. Really. No hard feelings. I'm fine. Don't feel bad. He will inevitably end up living with a woman who raises white mice for experiments. Oh, totally. I mean, he says that now, but they’ll have like nineteen kids. Pregnant is the new fat. It's all the rage.

• I know friends that have died from monogamy. It’s an insidious painful disease. We are children. My friend is still learning her vocabulary about that kind of stuff, yet people our age are procreating like rabid creatures. The world is going to end in 2012, but I don’t really see that serving as a legitimate excuse. If anything, it should be a deterrent. When everything falls apart, I’m going to be looking out for number one. Sucks for those having to look out for number one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight and dog. I’m just saying.

• Ok, about us. I know. We've talked about this like twice now. That was two times too many for me. I mean.. I want to care about you, it's just that my therapist hasn’t exactly taught me how to feel empathy yet. Maybe one day. Until then, if you could just like... not touch me. Yea, that would be great. Thanks.

she's a brick house.

Job security is a fading memory.

No, I am not still bitter about my boundless opportunities for cash flow this summer. Please. I am an adult. I am talking big picture, people. That's right. Post graduation. I mean, my plans of making my college career last more than four years are swirling down the drain so I am now putting on my big girl panties and facing reality. What up, reality? My name is Stephanie and I am about to rock your world.

First Year College came and went. With it came love, liberty and a lot of learning. Haha, right. My adviser, Ziga, was awesome (and may or may not have been deemed BFF material), but she was no miracle worker. You know those pivotal life experiences that you look back on and dedicate the success you are, current day, to that one really incredible point in your life? Yea, FYC isn't that for me. Sorry, Zigs. You tried. Buy yourself a cookie. It's on Ed.

Although starting out in an undecided major gave me a lot of awesome opportunities to take classes that don't exactly count towards any legitimate graduate degree, it also steered me in the direction of some sort of practical destination. My dad refers to this destination as my major. Hiya.

It appears that my specific concentration in Communications is the retarded little sister to what the College of Management has to offer, but hey. I will happily write a paper about my feelings or some man named William before I voluntarily worry myself with numbers, strategies, thinking and really torturous things of the sort. You may call these a skill set for a real job. I, however, call them reasons to cry.

So let's throw out any and all ambitions of summer oh ten. Who needs 'em? Allow me to take the next few months of couch filled days to plan out my future. I figure if I work out all of the logistics now, the only task on my To-Do list come May 2011 will be finding some random spot on my graduation apparel to monogram. Oh, and maybe making a friend or two in CHASS that I can sit with on the big day. I realized last week that the big guy in Grains of Time with the deep voice and intense vocabulary just wasn't going to cut it. Apparently he has his own friends. Who knew? I should probably formulate some type of contract for this. Not that I question a person's word or my friend making abilities, but I mean. You can never be too careful.

A lot of my friends entered the college realm with the expectation of meeting their future husband in the first week and kind of coasting on the waves of his engineering degree from that point on. I mean, that's cool. I would so be up for that, but here's the thing. I am pretty sure I would be the world's worst stay at home mother... like ever. First up, I don't clean. Yea, sorry. Josephine just set a standard that I could never uphold and it isn't fair to her or anyone else in her line of work for me to even try to compete. Second, I have the tendency to do absolutely nothing. You know those cute moms that stay active and motivated as they cook and care for their children? Yea, that's definitely not me. I'll look cute, but it is probably going to take all day for me to reach that level of presentability. How do you expect me to unload the dishwasher and fold laundry if I am busy getting ready for dinner? Yes, dinner. Don't tell me you expected me to cook too? Please. I am an incredible person, but I am not superhuman.

Granted, my kids are going to be the most attractive kids in the neighborhood with their monogrammed wrist-embedded computer chips and perfectly symmetrical faces, but that's where my job ends. What does Stephanie bring to the table, you ask? Heterochromia iridium. That's right, I'll make them unique. My extremities are E.T. prototypes, so I'll just give them my eyes. A kind soul, I am.

Making beautiful people takes a lot out of a person. I'll get Helga or somebody to show my children that love and compassion stuff. Mommy's tired.

So, reality. Apparently I should stay on that whole get a job path. You all thought I was headed towards instant wife duty, but no. Opportunity squandered. Let's drink to that, shall we? (Everyone collect your tabs, please. Derby Days 2011 is in our midst and I'd hate to let my quest for success stunt our chapter's ranking. Anything to help those things in life that are truly important.)

Where was I?

Oh, right. Future. Hi. Good to hear from you again! Well, not really. I mean, you're adorable and all. You've got optimism and boundless opportunities, but to be to frank. You are kind of scary. I love your constant reminders of things I should be doing and simply adore that really awesome feeling you're giving me in the pit of my stomach. You know what feeling I'm talking about. The constant need to hurl? Yea, that's the one. It's incredible, but I've got a proposition for you. Let's make a little compromise. Not that I question your motivation for and/or desire of torturing me because I totally get that. I'm just really afraid of how the consequences of your actions are going to affect everyone else.

Let's think this through. If you don't slow your roll, I am probably going to have a meltdown. No bueno. When Stephanie has meltdowns, she rebels. Typically this entails ordering a salad from Moe's rather than a Joey Jr. or wearing the provocative 3" chinos opposed to the modest 5", but the stakes are rising, my friend. At this rate, you are going to drive me into the arms of some pathetic gang banger. Do you really want to do that to society? I can't make cute kids in the ghetto! A monogram isn't a monogram if it is tattooed on a brother's tricep. Sorry, dawg. It just isn't the same. My husband will be hot, not shot. Also, I would rather my kid be known as "Brace-face" than "the kid with the mace." Just stating the facts.

Actually. You know what, Future? Go away. You heard me! I love my life right now. I want my summer of 2010! Graduation seating arrangements can wait. Stop messing with my mind. You keep invading my plans and expectations... and locations! What up with that? Like I said, you're cute, but I'm not interested. I know you love me and want to spend eternity with me, but I am putting my foot down. My very large foot, so needless to say it means business. That's right. Find someone that lives in your own zip code who will be rocked to the core by your deep conversation and model looks. I claim both Raleigh and Shelby. Oh, and Weimar too. I like it there, don't mess it up.

Back to the grind. Anyone need a babysitter? Clearly from my anticipated mothering abilities, I personify everything you could want in a child caregiver.

As for (some of) you other people. My resume is burning a whole in your email account! It is crucial to my well-being that you hop on that. I am simply trying to make this relationship work. My summer is up to you and me, sweetheart. Calling when you say you are going to call is the very first brick in this house we are building of love and trust. If you can't lay down this one stupid brick, we ain't ever going to have a house! ...and baby, it's cold outside.

Actually it's extremely hot, but I'm wearing Prada and Josephine is terrible at getting out sweat stains. The door is locked and I've been drinking. Helga took the kids to the pool and has the only spare key with her. What a bitch move, Helgs. Remind me to get someone to translate "You're fired," later.

antiquing.

If you are old and are enrolled in college classes, that is fine. I support your determination of bettering the lives of your handicap dog, illiterate son and/or decrepit wife that made your college diploma her dying wish. Really though, props. I commend your continual efforts and willingness to do nothing else but study for this class and up your participation points, but please. Do me a favor. Lay off. I thought sitting in class behind you was bad enough, but never did I consider the ramifications of signing up for an online class with your crumbling bones and deteriorating prostate..

Participation grades are distributed by comparing a student's feedback to that of everyone else in the class. Your novel size submissions are ruining the curve, old man. My family gives canes and sweater vests to our aged loved ones. I don't know who decided a computer was a suitable Christmas gift for you, but whoever they are, I hope a tragic need for a suppository is in their midst.

I don't care if nonverbal communication is your new passion in life. From my observations of you over the course of this semester, clearly this is the case. Ever thought of a hobby? You know, like pedophilia or stamp collecting? There are a lot of cool destinations in Raleigh to take up both of these great things. If you don't like stamps, try hunting for lamps or some other useless trash-to-treasure that serves no purpose but creating a new home for dust bunnies. Why? Because right now the only antique collecting dust is you on your dial-up internet updating your damn Vista posts.

I do not care that you have all of these really great examples of the topic at hand since you have been alive for such a long freaking time. I'm sure a lot of cool shit happened to my grandparents too, but that doesn't mean they send out a press release every time they happen to remember something so they can share how it impacted them. No one cares about the time you used body language to deter a bar squabble. By bar, we know you mean strip club. By squabble, we know you mean a fight that was instigated by you asking for special favors from a dancer that turned out to be one of your granddaughter's best friends. Just because you used the word squabble doesn't change the fact no one cares.

I do not care that you just learned about that cool "new Google feature" and all the information you can find just by typing things into the little white box. One, it's called a search engine. Two, go eat your prunes. Yes, online books exist, but no one cares what the author of the book had to say about kinesics. If we did, we probably would have read it in the first place. Stop quoting the chapter for paragraphs at a freaking time. We all have copy and paste capabilities too, dawg. That doesn't mean we use them. Can someone please tell your bedside nurse to trade in that keyboard and mouse for a bedpan? Thanks.

I am really sorry about whatever war, job opportunity or bastard child that stifled your initial plans of going to college when everyone else your age did, but please. Stop caring about this class so much. For real. Consider this my card of sympathy that sings you a really obnoxious song and has a picture of Troy and Gabriella on the front. Shoo, I'll even throw in some stickers. Look at that, there is even a slot for money! I know, best card ever. You're welcome.

Now turn off your computer and take your medication. The rest of us have a GPA to maintain.

politix.

Dear Professor,

Yes, Russell Wilson is in the class. Yes, he is sitting front row and seems really attentive, but please. Stop using football metaphors. We are not PRT majors, nor do we care. This isn't fun. Implicit? Understatement of the year. Your message of political conspiracies does not correlate no matter how hard you try. No humor remains. Russell is capable of comprehending other analogies and comparisons of the sort. He is not going to get you a free t-shirt. Stop trying to sell his handwritten assignments to your colleagues. If you really want to connect with your students that badly, try paralleling the well-integrated political schizoid to that of Chuck Bass and his momma drama. People will care, I promise.

In reference to my most recent investigation report analysis, yes. I know my textual construction is weak, but so is the Obama Administration. I'm just trying to keep up. What it do, 'merica? The thesis of my paper was stronger than the vod in your mug and you know it. I am tired of SNCC. My social movement is more outdated than your mustache and I honestly just do not care anymore. You think everything that I say is intended for sarcasm, but in actuality I am just trying to disguise how indifferent I am towards everything being discussed.

Let people think what they want to think. If it happened thirty years ago and the movement leader is already dead, what exactly are the twelve of us going to resolve by debating their intentions? They intended for people to die. People died. The end.

Ps, your pun about intimidation versus intimination today was actually clever. Touchdown. Keep it up, bigs.

Please stop calling me Steph,
Stephanie.

black sheep, white socks.

So a lot of people don't like their families. I mean, that's cool. Here's the thing though, I do.

Let's be real. Bonnie may just be the most hypocritical car passenger the highway has ever seen, but I still love her. You don't want me to sleep when you drive, but it is ok when you sleep as I drive. That makes sense, totally. You can mess with the radio, drive with your knee, send emails and eat as you drive, but rue the day that I try to do the same. Hey big sis, I'm just trying to be like you. That's all it is. If you don't like my music, next time bring your own. Your head hurts? Oh, I'm sorry. You are hungry? Oh, I'm sorry. I am going too fast? Oh, I'm sorry. I am going too slow? Oh, I'm sorry. I'm talking too much? Oh, I'm sorry. My music is too loud? Oh, I'm sorry. Please, Bonnie. What can I do to make this trip the best car ride you have ever experienced in your entire life? I'm just trying to drive 80 miles per hour in traffic so we can get home. Don't mind me.

Ok, so I like my family. The Bonnie rant wasn't intended, but as it turns out I am still bitter. I know. Shocked me too. Back to my initial remark. I love my family.

My parents are hysterical. My dad has been telling the same jokes since my soccer practices in the second grade. A bit dated, they are, but occasionally punny nonetheless. My mom doesn't have jokes. That's what I love about her. Teaching high school students day in and day out, this woman is seasoned in all things people watching. I thought people watching was fun at food courts and funerals, but think of the unfortunate teenagers fussing over bathroom breaks and prom dates that she gets to observe every single day. Jack pot. That material is money right there. My point? I get it from the best. I do not judge. I observe and critique.

Ok, so maybe I judge just a little.

Woops.

You may think that I am a judgmental person. If you think that then you probably know me very well. However, you also know that I am a nice person. Unless someone worth judging gets in my way or provokes me, I typically let their heinous display of whatever they are doing slide with a shrewd face and side comment. You can call me compassionate. It's ok. A lot of people do.

Bonnie and I drive home and meet our parents for dinner at the Olive Garden. You know, the Olive Garden. Not the Cheesecake Factory where people occasionally choose to dress up and rendezvous. Not a country club where certain attire is implied. Not an upscale restaurant with a dress code that serves portions intended for infants that haven't worked their way up to solid foods yet, but the Olive Garden. Excuse me for not putting on my deb dress to eat a breadstick.

First off, I did not get the memo that we were in the midst of prom season. Sorry for not caring. I get out of the car and comments from my parents ignite. Yes, I am really wearing this. Hey, at least I color coordinate. Credit when it's due, please. No, I didn't know we were meeting for dinner when I got dressed two days ago. Yes, I slept in this last night... and maybe the night before. No, I don't have a change of clothes. Yes, I probably have an odor. Geez. It is really nice to see you guys too. Hugs and kisses.

Work with me here. My outfit is not that atrocious. I am wearing a navy shirt, light blue shorts, navy sneaks and white socks. Yes, they are high socks, but since when is that a crime? I am wearing pearls, so can't we just call it even? Again, dear family. We are at the Olive Garden. Ugh, yes. Fine. I will brush my hair before we go in. Just for you, Momma. Just for you.

We walk to the door and the side glances begin. From the parental perspective, I get where the conviction is coming from. I'm in public at a restaurant other than Wendy's and I am wearing high socks. I mean, my parents judged me. Why not let every other parent in Gaston County do the same? No big. But you. You? Really. You are going to judge me too? Honey, please. Did you even look in the mirror after the free samples at Merle Norman threw up on you? And yes, Bedazzled may have had a huge liquidation of all dresses that make innocent eyes bleed, but think about it. They were on sale for a reason.

I know you think you look really adorable in your pink and black sequined dress that drags the ground when you attempt to walk in your clear plastic pumps, but please. Don't judge me. You must understand you are in no shape or form to give me the look that I should be throwing right back at you. There are enough sequins sewn onto your dress to cover the shores of Tripoli and please trust me when I say, you and I are now at war. Yes, my hair looks like a small child with downs just finished playing in it, but you? You are wearing a tiara. A tiara. My entire outfit may look like I am a lovechild of Duke and Carolina, but you sweetheart, appear to be the spawn of Ralphie May and Avril Lavigne. That is just inhumane. Who wins the battle of eligibility to eat in this restaurant? You guessed it, babe. Me.

As for your friend? Dang. Between the two of you, sequin factories are making BANK. I like shiny objects, but let's be sensible. From a girl that loves her fair share of sequined apparel, let me help you out. Ladies, we should not be able to stop traffic. Our waiter should not have to wear sunglasses. People at the next table should not have to feel bad about their comments about us. Our dates should not FEAR US if we were to accidentally bump into them. This is not normal. We do not look good.

Now that we've gotten that sorted out. Why am I dressed the way I am while you are pimped out in your going out gear and formal duds? Basically I am a caustic party monster who has exponentially more fun than everyone else. Duh. You need booze and fake bling in your date's ear to start the night off right. I, on the other hand, need high socks and sweet kicks. Ps, I heard you. Yes, I may look ridiculous. However you look exactly like a confused adolescent blemish on the forehead of humanity. Pop that.

Next up, the two gentlemen sitting in front of you. You may call them dates, however I will be referring to them as rude. Avril May, your date is all hot and bothered that he can't order the lunch portion of the spaghetti. Problem number one, he is ordering spaghetti. Problem number two, I am pretty sure homeboy has never ordered the lunch portion of anything in his entire 16 years of existence. That's right. Your main man here is the type of guy I have nightmares (slash sexual fantasies) about. An overweight high school nose guard who steals cookies from the cafeteria, undermines the naive custodial workers who think his athletic career is actually going places (other than Bojangles), honestly believes he is the only one of his friends to fully understand the non-sequential humor of Family Guy and is not afraid to freestyle rap at any time despite the secondhand embarrassment it may cause the people around him. Yep. He just word vommed a "fo shizzle" in casual conversation and no one made fun of him. Where do you kids go to school, again? Remind me to burn it to the ground.

As for the lady two tables over. Yes, I am more attractive than your lesbian friend sitting in front of you, but please stop the staring. Geez. Perhaps you heard my remark to my mother about your aerated face. If that is the case, I am deeply sorry. You must understand though, I am a professional. I read people. It's what I do. Don't believe me? Try this on for size:

Overdone facial piercings are for people who have accepted on more than one level that they are painful to look at. Crimped hair is for white women who wish they were ethnic. Bell bottoms are for people who think their lives would be better if they'd been born in the past. Purple, of course, is the royal color of the sexually frustrated. Basically you are one giant billboard of your own self-loathing. Nice.

Ok, I'm hungry.

As I spin my pasta in my shock induced trance, I reexamine the relatively new physical evidence that bad ideas still exist. Bad ideas meaning people, of course. I snap back to reality. The table topic has turned to networking. Goody.

My parents are fairly apprehensive towards public knowledge of personal information. Due to some of the things that I say being somewhat inappropriate, I realize they have my best interest in mind. Although their warnings and cautionary tales are told to both daughters, we all know that they are targeted at me. Why, you ask? Well it seems as if somehow a good number of my Facebook comments make their way back to the home front. How, you ask? What a good question. Don't you think so, Bonnie? Yea. Me too.

Anyway, so Bonnie goes on about how she has a Twitter account, but not to worry because it is completely legitimate. No, it isn't scary that people can read what you post all day everyday. No, it isn't pretentious that you assume everyone genuinely cares what you have to say all day everyday. It is actually an impeccable networking tool. Not only can you quote scripture and publicly encourage your friends to vote and do community service, but you can also check the weather! Yes, the weather. Another great opportunity within this realm of technology is that of improvement in leadership and advancement in education. (Surprised I was actually listening, eh?) By following certain accounts you can keep up with all things happy and wholesome. You can even follow the local news station so you know what is going on both in the community and in legislation. Oh my! All of the great things!

After the golden child finishes, our parents are so intrigued. Now that they've heard about all of the beautiful life experiences that Twitter has provided her with, I feel eyes on me for continuance. Uhhh... is it my turn? No thanks. I keep my eyes on the prize. Marinara sauce, that is. I can only imagine how that conversation would have gone. Hey Stephanie, what do you do? Oh, I blog about really unattractive people and racial slurs. No big deal.

Favorite Daughter Award goes to... Bodacious Bon.

It was a close one. Good game.

Note to world: Please do not prom it up at your local OG. The free thin mints are not worth it. Promise.