The feeling of owing just under 1,000 strangers an explanation of my actives lately is a weird one- like the time I was tipsy off $5 dollar glasses of wine at the Lego store in Chicago. Lots of changes over the summer, which I hate. New apartment, new job, new glasses prescription, no more Lean Cuisines.  I hate change. If I could wear the overall shorts I wore almost every day when I was six, I totally would- and I could, if I were comfortable looking like a socially awkward whore. Some things haven’t changed though: same boyfriend, still not saving any money, still getting told I look like Anne Hathaway- still not sure if that’s a compliment.
 
I must admit though, I have been a little daredevil as of late. Dappling on the experimental side.  For example, I have changed my steak order from well done to medium well. I have also gotten particularly good at spotting police cars during my fifty minute commute. Last year at this time I had three cats and a dog. Now I just have a different dog. That’s not supposed to be funny; it’s just something that happened.
 
Since I haven’t had the desire to do drunken embarrassing things lately it has given me a large chunk of time to reflect and consider what I want to do with my life. I have 17 drafts right now of blog posts that all started comical and such, but turned out like Romeo + Juliet; where it sounds like a really good idea in theory, but ends up getting sad in a super uncomfortable way where the only good part was that one Radiohead song.
 
This is the best way I can explain where those drafts went. Like this one time my babysitter told me should could make my little sister disappear, like really disappear, and never come back. Then she made some angsty, passive aggressive, teenager comment to my eight-year-old self about how everyone has to die someday. If I submitted you to reading those drafts I would be that babysitter and you would be adorable, innocent, self-dressed me dancing to Frank Sinatra in your living room, taking it way too seriously, and then you would hate magic shows for the rest of your life. I don’t want you to hate magic shows so I didn’t post them.
 
Once my life is in a happier place, also known as financial security, I will transition back to my old mindset. I used to complain about breaking a heel off my Target boots, hello they are Target boots what the hell do you expect, and how one word texts are the 21st century devil. Now I complain about gas prices going up five cents during the week, and how difficult it is to stay awake until 9:30 to watch Parks & Rec. I am, without a doubt, turning into my parents. The only thing barring me from a full transition to the fictional realm of adulthood is getting excited when I see deer along the road. The kind that is still alive. 

 Whatever, I still think newborn babies look like aliens so it’s comforting to know some microscopic speck of my mediocre existence hasn’t altered. That will probably change in my late twenties or early thirties, pending marital status. Just kidding I’m a young woman in 2012 in America; I don’t need a man to have a baby! I just need a man to buy me Chinese food, and set up my cable, and twist open really tight nail polish bottles that still don’t work after the rubber band trick- you know, the important stuff in life.

1. When I have gotten out of the shower. Sometimes I wish I was a dude just so I could get that many mintues of my life back that I lose while showering as a female. Brb moving to France. Instead of taking a series of fifteen minute showers throughout the week, I like to take 45 minute ones a few (like once) a week. I have one of those as see on TV Turbie Twist hair towels with the little bit of elastic in the back. I tend to pull a Princess Diaries move and leave my pore strip on my nose to the point it feels like paper mache. Not to mention it seems that no matter how I scrub I will never get my mascara off in it’s entirety. It lingers there like my friends at the bar circa closing time who haven’t gotten laid in a while.
2. When I drive. At least that’s what I call it. It’s more like I am a Simpson’s Road Rage character transported to the real world who still belives she gets points for running things over. I blame my parents for depriving me of a Barbie Power Wheels Jeep as a child. Hell, they should make those for college kids. Can you imagine driving one of those to the bar? Might have to consistently wear underwear though. Anyway I swear a lot too. So there’s that.
3. When I play board games. You play by the rules or I will stuff a pillowcase full of bars of soap and beat the shit out of you (thank you, Step Brothers). None of your “oh, well this is how I play.” Did I ask how you play? Of course not, because I don’t give a flying fuck. Disney Monoply and the American Girl Game are not to be taken lightly. This isn’t beer pong with house rules and poorly designed college dorm room posters for “cool” freshman that advertise their drinking. We all do it. Get over yourself and don’t fuck with Felicity. Ginger American Girl doll is the shit.
4. When I am shopping. Picture the bloodbath Cornucopia scene of Hunger Games, only instead of camping shit in the middle there are poorly made Forever 21 dresses. Trying on jeans = traumatizing experience that takes years of therapy, crash diets, and mild alcohlism to overcome. Dare he even entertain the idea of playing the dangerous mind game of, “does this make me look fat?” To which the only respectable answer is, no your fat makes you look fat. Half the fun of shopping (jkay the only fun of shopping) is toting around a million bags that say, look at all the cool shit I got that will ruin my credit score before I can legally rent a car. Bitch, you can carry my purse. I mean, sweetheart.

One of these things is not like the other. 

…with a BFA and a boyfriend. If only my bra size were a B I could think of some witty boob joke about how they are all related. My dad informed me that BFA actually stands for “big fucking asshole.” So I guess there could be some correlation between the first two items on my B list that I actually have; as for the last I will continue to fit the girls’ size butterfly print bras from Kohls. Just kidding, no on shops at Kohls anymore.

I have been a grad for just a few days now and its pretty much the same as any other day, just more hungover. Graduating college feels like waking up on a Sunday morning, only everyday is Sunday- and you have to work on the weekend. 

Everyone hopped on the band wagon for the last week of undergrad classes, being all sentimental and shit. Yeah, I am sure you will all miss two hour blocks of sitting on Facebook pretending to listen to a middle aged man lecture. Sounds like a weekend at home visiting my family.

The best part of graduation is all the random assholes I shared magical DFMOs (dance floor make outs, you newbs) , who I also believed to be my soulmates at some point, are getting the hell out of Michigan. Not just the school, but the whole damn state. An added perk for attending a University in a state ranked in the 10 least happy in the United States. Chances are that mean’s my main bitch’s man’s exs are leaving too! That right there prevents like, five fights. 

In other news I had stopped binge drinking since I have to work. If I went to the bar every time a friend texted me saying tonight was their last night, and I had to be there to help them use their thong as a hair tie while they puke… I still wouldn’t get any texts. 

Worry not, for I am going to start drinking again because:

• Apparently, much like the transformation to womanhood that comes out of fucking no where in 8th grade at a cheerleading meet, I am supposed to use gchat now- not Facebook, and NO ONE TOLD ME THAT.
• Diet coke tastes like carbonated piss without rum. 
• I will never have another summer again, and the next time I do get a chunk of time off like that will be for maternity leave. 
• I just threw up some crazy in my mouth. 
• The Walk of Shame Shuttle is real people, stop calling me from out of state unless you want an actual ride home in Ann Arbor. Boxes of wine can’t buy themselves. 
• I will continue to do nothing right in a relationship. Now you know where I got the ‘shit’ from.

1. Eight hour shift = a job , Five to twenty minute job = boyfriend, depending on how drunk he is. Point boyfriend.
2. Employees wear name tags to prevent calling your boss the wrong name, call your boyfriend by another dudes name and you’re single. Point job.
3. You can either spend eight hours a day on your feet or eight hours a day on your back. Point boyfriend.
4. There are not days off in a relationship. Point job.
5. Pretending to like your co-workers or pretending to like his friends. Tie. 
6. For a job you can make cash tips, from a boyfriend you get tips like “baby use both hands.” Point job.
7. It’s easier to juggle two jobs than two boyfriends. Point job.
8. Lunch break vs. dinner date. Point boyfriend.
9. Holidays at work means a paid vacation, holidays with a boyfriend means a Christmas present you pretend to love- or breaking up. Point job.
10. You have to reference every time you’ve been fired on job applications, you don’t have to tell a new boyfriend how many times you’ve been dumped. Point boyfriend (and if you do…just lie)
11. Slutty clothes to job interview = unemployment, slutty clothes on a first date = you’re getting laid, but not a boyfriend. Tie. 
12. A job means being able to buy your own drinks, having a boyfriend means choosing not to. Point boyfriend.
13. You can pick the radio station at work, change the radio station in the car and you’ll end up fighting about how you don’t trust his female friends. Point job. 
14. Spending your day answering phone calls, or spending your day staring at your phone waiting for him to text you. Tie. 
15. At work you’re assigned a position, with your boyfriend you get to decide- multiple ones. Point boyfriend.
16. It takes an hour to fill out an application and an hour interview to apply for a job; it takes playing hard to get and consistent texting (without being clingy) to get a guy to talk to you for more than a week. Point job.
17. Drinking at work is frowned upon, drinking on a date is encouraged. Point boyfriend. 
18. You have to wear an ugly gender neutral uniform for work, your boyfriend thinks you look hot in everything (and if he doesn’t then HE. SHOULD. LIE.) Point to good boyfriend. 
19. I wish I could just apply for a boyfriend, then again I rather receive a rejection “we found someone more qualified for this position” e-mail from an employer than a dude. Point job. 
20. If you’re sick for work you get the day off, if you’re sick with your boyfriend you have to watch Sports Center all day. Point job. 

Final Tally:

Boyfriend = 8

Job = 9

Tie = 3

Looks like I will be spending my Friday night applying for jobs instead of at the bar, oh well, at least I don’t have to shower now. 

1. Name:
2. Age, as in maturity age aka shoe size:
3. Zodiac ( I am a leo, so our love has to follow the stars):
4. How do you feel about spending forever with someone who doesn’t have a soul?
5. Part two to number 4, would you be willing to give me your soul?
6. Favorite Disney movie (Pixar doesn’t count, I am talking princesses- and don’t just say Ariel so I know you like redheads. Sleeping beauty is my girl):
7. Red Sox or the Yankees- If you answer Yankees don’t even bother filling the rest of this out:
8. How do you feel about our vows being entirely sexual innuendos:
9. What sexual partner number do you tell your friends / doctor / girl who asks / your ACTUAL number:
10. Rank the following fast food fine dining restaurants: Taco Bell, KFC, Burger King, McDonalds, and Jimmy Johns; and your willingness to pay for my Happy Meals:
11. Are you a morning or night person- I am not really either, or an any time of the day girl for that matter. (Also note that the only acceptable way to wake me up is with a plate of bacon.) :
12. What is your level of willingness to cook / do laundry /be the domestic half of the relationship? :
13. Do you know all the words to Ice, Ice, Baby?
14. The most romantic thing I can imagine is having some big strong man be my big spoon while I eat four soft tacos with meat only. Do you share this fantasy?
15. On a scale of one to filing a restraining order, how creeped out would you be if I made Sim versions of us?
16. Are you a cat person?
17. MOST IMPORTANTLY, will you act out Stepbrothers with me? You have to play the chick parts though. I will cover Brennan and Dale.

You know what, this sounds more like an application to be my bitch. I doubt most of you made it past number six. Basically my point is I have really high standards. Really high. Oh, and dealing with a ginger like me is a 24/7 commitment. That means I am special / a gem / a real catch. Or just high maintenance.