I Am the Best Friend in All the Movies

Sometimes, I wish I wore midriffs, and hoop earrings, and pulled them off.  Sometimes, I wish I enjoyed Latino club music, and looked good dancing to it.  Sometimes, I wish there was a point to this blog.

But, as usual, life evades my sometimes-desires.

I’ve spent years trying to make my awkwardness look cool.  My sophomore year of high school was spent wasting all of my first-job earnings on sequined tops that resembled everything in Hannah Montana’s closet. I was described as ‘quirky’ by all of my classmates, and I spent the rest of high school hoping that Zac Efron or one of the Jonas Brothers would show up in class and ask me to prom.  (A fact that proves my inability to determine what was actually cool from what was inherently just an extension of my awkwardness).

In college, I started to embrace my lack of coolness a bit more, but that may have been a subconscious effort to fit in with the hipsters.  Besides, my awkwardness has only increased ten-fold with each year.  It’s to the point where I fall up the stairs 99% of the time.

Still, I’ve learned to love my un-coolness. I may not be the skinny, pretty blonde lead, but I’m okay with my best-friend status in life.  You see, if there’s something I’ve learned from every single Disney movie ever, it’s that the lead characters are never the most interesting or entertaining.  In fact, Snow White and her many princess companions are really kind of dull beyond their looks.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Disney princesses (maybe a little too much).  But they aren’t particularly entertaining.  Pretty face, pretty voice, but they don’t make me laugh. They don’t have brains. (Well, that point is arguable, but I won’t get into that here.) No, if you want to make life interesting you have to be a Dwarf. Or a mouse. Or Robin Williams.

That’s why I’m okay with being the sidekick. That’s why I’m okay with being the average looking woman with a great personality (maybe I’m a bit bias since I have to live with me for the rest of my life).  Someone’s got to carry the film and make sure it sells.  I’m okay with that. I don’t like sappy romance movies, anyways.  They’re a little too obnoxious for my tastes.

I do kind of wish I didn’t fall into so many awkward moments, though. That would make my life 100% more comfortable.

In other news, my infant nephew has been dubbed “Poolander” (Get it?).  A chip off the ol’ awkward block, eh?  Looking forward to the many years I have ahead of me, teaching the little guy that it’s okay to be Luke and not get the girl, or Han Solo and not be a Jedi. We’ll see where his priorities lay.

So, to sum up: My life is basically Hermione minus her intuitive awesomeness and ability to woo sports celebrities, and I’m totally happy with that.  Maybe someday I’ll spill my coffee running into some poor chap and we’ll bond over my awkwardness. Maybe we’ll live happily ever after. Or maybe I’ll get a really lovable, fluffy dog, and that’ll be great too. It’s all up in the air at this point.

Life: A fine, smelly, metaphorically awkward cheese. How delicious.

Until we meet again,


Yours truly,


Sometimes, being a kid at heart also means being a kid in the brain.

I am a seven-year-old in a twenty-one year-old body, and sometimes that’s not a good thing.

I typically pride myself in being too immature to understand that openly admitting that I am secretly one-third my biological age is probably not a good thing, but some days, trying hard not to grow up comes back to bite me in the butt.

Sure didn’t see that one coming, did I?

Normally, my life involves being mesmerized by the analytic break-down of children’s literature and its meaning, getting lost in the nostalgia of Disney and its social implications, and serenading strangers.  Kid stuff, am I right?

But sometimes, finding my inner-Peter Pan means saying and doing a lot of stupid stuff. (No, serenading strangers is not stupid. I have the voice of an angel, so you’re welcome.)

I’ve wondered for a while now: is there an invisible line of life that you cross at some point, and people stop questioning if you are right or wrong based on your age and presumed knowledge/experience in the world?  Or do we all bull shit our way through the rest of our lives until we die and can no longer be proven wrong, or become Gandhi?

I guess I’m basically doomed to live my life out blubbering and bumbling my way through social interactions.  Yay.

The worst part, though, is when I fail at writing. For me, that’s like Peter Pan letting Captain Hook defeat him with a sword, or President Snow pwning Katniss with a bow and arrow.  Maybe I shouldn’t metaphorically compare my writing to a weapon, but seriously, if someone tried to mug me on the street, I would cut them. With my words. On pen and paper. (thanks for the phrase, Jay.)

So I guess I’m only as strong as the world is literate, but my biggest enemy actually isn’t any physical being outside of myself at all. My own worst enemy (forgive the cliche and song reference) is myself when it comes to writing. Sometimes, I make drunk decisions about my writing completely sober, which leads me back to the idea that my brain is sometimes only as developed as a seven-year-old’s.  (My apologies to any seven-year-old reading this; you deserve better than a comparison to me. Go read some Shakespeare and talk about the use of jibberish in Lewis Carroll.  It will heal your soul.)

You see, as an English major I’ve gotten very good at running my mouth via my hands.  So well, in fact, that I’ve apparently convinced you I’m good enough at it for you to have read this far into this post.

But running my mouth can also make me a complete ass, in the most passive way possible.  And I hate it.

Then why do it?

Well, most of the time I don’t know I’m even doing it until suddenly I realize the ground is no longer under my feet, and the rocky abyss beneath the cliff that is my manners is coming up fast towards me.  Also, I grow really ugly, hairy ears and start barking like a donkey.

Okay, maybe that last bit was a poorly exaggerated joke.

But this is where my seven year-old ways really start to kick in, because not only do they inhibit my ability to act like a grown adult, my obsession with Disney princesses has made it physically impossible for me to be anything but nice, and when I’m not nice, I just feel horrible.  Frankly, when I’m not nice, I kind of wish the metaphorical cliff of manners that I’m falling off of was real.

That’s a bit extreme.

Yeah, well, I’m seven years-old on the inside and still very much a drama queen.

Just another reason why my life is like: People–can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em.

Life is rough. Talking is rough. Writing is most permanently rough.  But I still love it. And you, dear one-anonymous-person-who-reads-my-blog.  If I ever say anything mean about you, just know that somewhere I am sitting, staring at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out which pair of shoes best matches my horribly ugly ass-ears.

I hope your life and writing are swell. Maybe the next time we meet, I’ll be well away from that metaphorical cliff.

Yours truly,



I am obsessed with drag queens

I just thought you all should know.

Like, right now, I’m watching Rocky Horror Picture Show as I type–this is becoming a thing, isn’t it? Me watching movies while I blog.

Speaking of movies, I have another extroverted introvert thing to complain about: spending my weekends having fun: Ridiculous, right?  Complaining about having fun.  But it’s not. Not if you’re an obnoxious extroverted introvert who likes the idea of the weekend, not for relaxing and enjoying yourself, but for seeing how productive you can be.  Yes, Life, you are only as valuable to me as I can measure you through productivity.

Life Fail on my part.

But honestly, you would think it’d be the other way around–that I’d spend all my time doing homework and wishing I could go out and have fun and not be stuck inside all the time.  Well, my life used to be like that, for  a while.  But it’s my senior year, and there’s just so many things to do and experience before I’m done with college, and all of sudden I’m doing twenty things on Saturday that don’t resemble homework in the least.

…Life Fail on my part?

I think that’s the real problem with the world–well, at least college; there are all these things to do, people to meet, places to be, and the homework just piles up as well, and finding a balance wouldn’t be so excruciating, except you know you are on a time limit.  You’ll only be twenty-something for as long as ‘something’ lasts.  Don’t get me wrong–I strongly suspect that the real world and real life are all a balancing act as well.  But I am jealous of those who can leave work behind at work and enjoy enjoyment when it’s present, right there in front of them.

Me?  Well I agree to do things with friends and then remind them constantly throughout the time that I am with them how much homework I should be doing at that exact moment.

How do I have friends again?

But college is an interesting time that involves a special tango-contest of “how much can I hold on to before falling off the crazy-train?”

Or maybe it should be “falling on to the crazy-train”.  Not sure.

Anyways, look at me. I’ve been at this for hours because I keep getting distracted by non-homework-y things. (And this blog isn’t even homework.)

Congratulations, Tasha, and yet another successfully productivity-evading weekend. You go, Glen Coco.

Yours truly,