Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Birthday Sex 2: Happy Struggleday
Every year on your birthday, chances are someone is going to ask "Do you feel any different?" This probably comes most often on monumental birthdays like 16, 18, 20, 21 or 36; as well as from strangers or acquaintances who don't know what to say after they say happy birthday and they're stuck standing with you for a few extra seconds. Usually the answer is no. Which makes sense: yesterday I was 19; today I'm 20. One day usually doesn't make a difference unless you shot to YouTube fame overnight or someone came in your house and stole all your stuff at night because you didn't lock the front door since you thought your roommate would be coming home late but really she never came home.
The fact is, though, I do feel different. Maybe not so different compared to yesterday, but different from how I felt last year at this time. When I woke up this morning (afternoon), I knew I wanted to take some time out of my day to write. One year ago, on the day I turned 19, I sat in my bed in my room in my parents' house in Burlington and wrote about my outlook on birthday wishes sent through Facebook. As I began to think about what to write, I realized the relevance of my surroundings. I was sitting in the same bed I sat in last year at this time. It was in a new place and had a new look, but when it comes down to it, it's the same bed...
...This is as far as my deep thought process went this morning. I was working on a brilliant metaphor comparing my bed's changed to my own and was ready to sit outside on my balcony in the sunlight with my pen and paper and a cup of coffee (on the balcony in the shade and 100 degree heat with my laptop and phone and a glass of Pepsi) when my serene afternoon of writing came to a roadblock. I'm not going to go into how exactly this happened, but I spent the next hour or so locked out on the balcony waiting for my roommate to come home and let me in. To top this off, my so-called best friend stopped by with a group of people to laugh in my expense (my sweet best friend and a few other of my favorite people came by to give me cupcakes and sing me a song). After an hour of bouncing back and forth between laughing at myself and feeling sorry for myself, my roommate came home to let me in. And to laugh at me to my face (thank you Kristina <3).
This was only the beginning of my day and it's not even 5:00 yet. I still have the entire afternoon and night to face and, frankly, I'm scared of how the rest of this day is going to go. It can only get better from here, right? Happy birthday to me.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
Bloody fingernail chronicles
On Thursday, March 1, 2012, my life changed forever. It started off as a normal day. I woke up on time for my 9:30 class (which I hated with every fiber of my being), picked out a cute outfit and was ready to leave at 9:15: plenty of time to make the ridiculous walk to the shady building on Franklin Street where my class was held. Had I known that, at 9:16 a.m. that morning, I would become tragically disfigured, I wouldn't have been taking my perfectness for granted for so long. Now that it's gone I really miss it.
So when I was walking out of Teague 324 (I miss you, my sweet, final, temperature-challenged dorm room), I was pulling the solid, sturdy, faithful wooden door closed behind me, as I had every day beforehand. On this particular morning my reaction time was somewhat decreased, so my middle finger lingered a little too long in between the door and the door jam. The door didn't care. It didn't think about my good day. It just bounced right off my finger. Right off my fingernail, which immediately filled up with blood. At first I had no idea what happened. The sensation was one that I can't possibly explain. There was no pain; it was like some part of my body alerted my brain that something strange was happening. Then when I glanced at my liquid-filled fingernail, I felt it. It was pain unlike any I had ever felt. The pain from my fingertip radiated trough my body, stealing my breath, my vision and my stability. Fearing that other people were around or possibly sleeping in my suite, I muffled my screams because I knew that they could never be anything less than blood-curdling. At this point, instinct took over and I stopped worrying about being late for class. I walked back into my room (the door was standing wide open because the bounce of my finger sent it flying) and sat down on the chair beside my bed and did the only thing my body could do at this point: breathe. I closed my eyes for a second and when my blink was over, it was 9:26. I'm still not sure if I passed out, fell asleep, was invaded by demons (again), or if I just blacked out as a result of the (pity)party that had taken place the night before. No matter the reason for the gap in consciousness, I had to get up and go to class. I had skipped the previous day and the previous week's assignment wasn't a good one, so it was important that I be in class. It was a chilly morning and despite my outfit that was revealing my skin to the bitter wind tunnel that is UNC-Chapel Hill's campus (a chambray shirt, only buttoned halfway, of course; taupe striped shorts with a minimal inseam and black Vans), the cold wasn't affecting me. All I could feel was the aforementioned wind. The wind is always a burden on a brisk Chapel Hill morning, but on this day, it was like all the winds that were blowing across the hill were directed at one point: the fingernail on my middle finger on my right hand. At this point, the efforts to ignore the pain were futile. The slightest breeze sent a jolt through my body so rigid that I thought I would lose my confident stride. And of course this happened on the day of the week on which I had to make the longest walk.
I finally got to class ten minutes late. (Luckily for me, this unique class functioned more as a workshop; my presence was only required when I finished the assignment and had to discuss it with my teacher.) As I waited for my turn to conference with my teacher, I continued to try to take my mind off of the throbbing pain that engulfed my entire hand. I attempted to recount my story to my friends on Facebook, but the pain that came from using any of the fingers on my right hand was so great that typing was near impossible. But then it was almost my turn. The teacher was finishing up with the dumb girl whose name was ahead of mine on the list. I only had to make it five more minutes, then I could go somewhere and pass out. But my body didn't quite understand that concept. At one point I was looking at my computer screen and my entire field of vision looked like the white noise that you see on those old TVs in old movies; the temperature in the usually comfortable room seemed to be somewhere between 90 and 212 degrees. I couldn't take it anymore; even as the girl who signed up ahead of me stood up as her meeting finished, I stood up and walked out the door, down the stairs and out onto Franklin Street. This time the bitter cold was my friend: it was like jumping into a pool after a long brutal day of tanning in the hot sun. It was like turning a fan on during the hot summer. It was the best feeling I've ever experienced. I was finally walking into heaven after being trapped in hell. My stability still was not at 100%, though, and there wasn't a bench in sight. So I just sat down on a small brick wall. I'm not sure how long I was out there or how many people walked by and stared at me, but I finally gained the strength to go back into the classroom and speak to my teacher. I couldn't tell you what he said and I probably didn't change a thing in the assignment. I just left and never returned to that class ever again (I dropped the class for unrelated reasons).
I went through the rest of the day in severe pain every time my finger touched anything of even moved, which was a lot, surprisingly. I don't think anyone realizes how much they use their middle finger until moving it rivals a meteor-induced apocalypse. I went through that day and the next few days using my finger as little as possible and I watched the blood ooze from the point of contact and slowly fill my entire fingernail. Internet research told me that draining the blood by burning a small hole in the nail with a heated paperclip would relieve the intense pain, but I couldn't find anyone who would do it for me. I asked my friend, my roommate, my friend's roommate, strangers... the only person who agreed couldn't do it for several more hours. By the time she came around, the thought of burning a hole in my fingernail made me sick, so I never went through with it. Now my fingernail was just the grossest sight I had ever seen.
When I was at home for Spring break the next week, I decided to spare the world and myself of the terrorizing sight and cover my fingernail with a band-aid. Weeks, then months, went by and eventually the pain subsided. I kept the nail covered with fun colored band-aids and fingernail polish. Then when I finally took the nail polish off to look at the progress of the nail in late April, I noticed something wasn't right. Of course I couldn't exactly tell WHAT color it was, but the nail definitely wasn't a natural color or the color of blood. I began to fear the worse: if it's infected that could mean that I'd have to have the nail removed. That would be horrible. Nails never grow back correctly after they've been removed. At this point I began to panic as the idea of being permanently disfigured instead of temporarily disgusting began to set in. But with a trip to campus health, I found that nothing was wrong with my nail (but I was ridiculed for not being able to properly tell what color it was).
I went into summer with a large supply of band-aids and a halfway normal-looking fingernail (fingernails grow approximately one millimeter per month, so I had about 2 millimeters of regrown nail). The only nail drama I've had since I've been home was when I was peeling old nail polish off of it and some of the nail came with it. It didn't hurt, but I decided to stop before I peeled too much; now there's just a giant hole in my fingernail with an ugly-colored new nail underneath. So I'll be spending the next three months or so with a fingernail with a color that I can only describe as muddy blood with a few specks of leftover black fingernail polish. Luckily I have managed to live a relatively normal life despite my disfigurement; the only time I have any trouble or feel self-conscious is when I forget to grab a band-aid before I head out the door. So if any of you are unfortunate enough to have to see that, I apologize, but at least now you know my story. I hope this inspires all of you; you too can fight through hardships and try your best to be beautiful. Just wait. The universe can't punish beautiful people forever. I'll be back.
So when I was walking out of Teague 324 (I miss you, my sweet, final, temperature-challenged dorm room), I was pulling the solid, sturdy, faithful wooden door closed behind me, as I had every day beforehand. On this particular morning my reaction time was somewhat decreased, so my middle finger lingered a little too long in between the door and the door jam. The door didn't care. It didn't think about my good day. It just bounced right off my finger. Right off my fingernail, which immediately filled up with blood. At first I had no idea what happened. The sensation was one that I can't possibly explain. There was no pain; it was like some part of my body alerted my brain that something strange was happening. Then when I glanced at my liquid-filled fingernail, I felt it. It was pain unlike any I had ever felt. The pain from my fingertip radiated trough my body, stealing my breath, my vision and my stability. Fearing that other people were around or possibly sleeping in my suite, I muffled my screams because I knew that they could never be anything less than blood-curdling. At this point, instinct took over and I stopped worrying about being late for class. I walked back into my room (the door was standing wide open because the bounce of my finger sent it flying) and sat down on the chair beside my bed and did the only thing my body could do at this point: breathe. I closed my eyes for a second and when my blink was over, it was 9:26. I'm still not sure if I passed out, fell asleep, was invaded by demons (again), or if I just blacked out as a result of the (pity)party that had taken place the night before. No matter the reason for the gap in consciousness, I had to get up and go to class. I had skipped the previous day and the previous week's assignment wasn't a good one, so it was important that I be in class. It was a chilly morning and despite my outfit that was revealing my skin to the bitter wind tunnel that is UNC-Chapel Hill's campus (a chambray shirt, only buttoned halfway, of course; taupe striped shorts with a minimal inseam and black Vans), the cold wasn't affecting me. All I could feel was the aforementioned wind. The wind is always a burden on a brisk Chapel Hill morning, but on this day, it was like all the winds that were blowing across the hill were directed at one point: the fingernail on my middle finger on my right hand. At this point, the efforts to ignore the pain were futile. The slightest breeze sent a jolt through my body so rigid that I thought I would lose my confident stride. And of course this happened on the day of the week on which I had to make the longest walk.
I finally got to class ten minutes late. (Luckily for me, this unique class functioned more as a workshop; my presence was only required when I finished the assignment and had to discuss it with my teacher.) As I waited for my turn to conference with my teacher, I continued to try to take my mind off of the throbbing pain that engulfed my entire hand. I attempted to recount my story to my friends on Facebook, but the pain that came from using any of the fingers on my right hand was so great that typing was near impossible. But then it was almost my turn. The teacher was finishing up with the dumb girl whose name was ahead of mine on the list. I only had to make it five more minutes, then I could go somewhere and pass out. But my body didn't quite understand that concept. At one point I was looking at my computer screen and my entire field of vision looked like the white noise that you see on those old TVs in old movies; the temperature in the usually comfortable room seemed to be somewhere between 90 and 212 degrees. I couldn't take it anymore; even as the girl who signed up ahead of me stood up as her meeting finished, I stood up and walked out the door, down the stairs and out onto Franklin Street. This time the bitter cold was my friend: it was like jumping into a pool after a long brutal day of tanning in the hot sun. It was like turning a fan on during the hot summer. It was the best feeling I've ever experienced. I was finally walking into heaven after being trapped in hell. My stability still was not at 100%, though, and there wasn't a bench in sight. So I just sat down on a small brick wall. I'm not sure how long I was out there or how many people walked by and stared at me, but I finally gained the strength to go back into the classroom and speak to my teacher. I couldn't tell you what he said and I probably didn't change a thing in the assignment. I just left and never returned to that class ever again (I dropped the class for unrelated reasons).
I went through the rest of the day in severe pain every time my finger touched anything of even moved, which was a lot, surprisingly. I don't think anyone realizes how much they use their middle finger until moving it rivals a meteor-induced apocalypse. I went through that day and the next few days using my finger as little as possible and I watched the blood ooze from the point of contact and slowly fill my entire fingernail. Internet research told me that draining the blood by burning a small hole in the nail with a heated paperclip would relieve the intense pain, but I couldn't find anyone who would do it for me. I asked my friend, my roommate, my friend's roommate, strangers... the only person who agreed couldn't do it for several more hours. By the time she came around, the thought of burning a hole in my fingernail made me sick, so I never went through with it. Now my fingernail was just the grossest sight I had ever seen.
When I was at home for Spring break the next week, I decided to spare the world and myself of the terrorizing sight and cover my fingernail with a band-aid. Weeks, then months, went by and eventually the pain subsided. I kept the nail covered with fun colored band-aids and fingernail polish. Then when I finally took the nail polish off to look at the progress of the nail in late April, I noticed something wasn't right. Of course I couldn't exactly tell WHAT color it was, but the nail definitely wasn't a natural color or the color of blood. I began to fear the worse: if it's infected that could mean that I'd have to have the nail removed. That would be horrible. Nails never grow back correctly after they've been removed. At this point I began to panic as the idea of being permanently disfigured instead of temporarily disgusting began to set in. But with a trip to campus health, I found that nothing was wrong with my nail (but I was ridiculed for not being able to properly tell what color it was).
I went into summer with a large supply of band-aids and a halfway normal-looking fingernail (fingernails grow approximately one millimeter per month, so I had about 2 millimeters of regrown nail). The only nail drama I've had since I've been home was when I was peeling old nail polish off of it and some of the nail came with it. It didn't hurt, but I decided to stop before I peeled too much; now there's just a giant hole in my fingernail with an ugly-colored new nail underneath. So I'll be spending the next three months or so with a fingernail with a color that I can only describe as muddy blood with a few specks of leftover black fingernail polish. Luckily I have managed to live a relatively normal life despite my disfigurement; the only time I have any trouble or feel self-conscious is when I forget to grab a band-aid before I head out the door. So if any of you are unfortunate enough to have to see that, I apologize, but at least now you know my story. I hope this inspires all of you; you too can fight through hardships and try your best to be beautiful. Just wait. The universe can't punish beautiful people forever. I'll be back.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Lists on lists
During my time in college, I've constantly struggled to figure out what to do with myself in my free time. I've tried studying, reading, working, socializing, as well as several other things, but nothing has brought me such great pleasure as staying completely inside my own head. I may be participating in outside activities (mostly perusing tumblr), but I never turn my brain off. This usually results in what I consider to be a hilarious train of thoughts that should be shared with the world. Every once in a while when I can keep the train on track for long enough, it does get shared with the world via this blog. If the train isn't too long (i.e. longer than 140 characters), it may be shared with the world via twitter.
Since starting this blog, I have realized that there is no better way to spend my time or to express my thoughts than writing (hence alexusescommas.blogspot.com). Unfortunately I can't always produce a captivating lengthy narrative when my heart is yearning for self-indulging entertainment. Recently I have been developing an interest that somewhat alleviates the stress of writing something that is worthy of a whole chapter in a book: making lists.
I know. Nerd alert. I always thought that people who enjoyed making lists were freaks. Then I realized that I do it ALL the time. For as long as I can remember, if I needed to remember something, I wrote it down. I mostly have done this when I'm going on a trip; I make a list of things that I need to take in order to remember everything (though that may have more to do with some sort of anxiety than enjoyment). More recently I've been creating lists in my head in order to entertain myself. Please understand that these lists are rarely simple lists: they usually represent the complex and cluttered workings of my mind and each list leads to another list. The first list I made that I truly enjoyed was "Reasons why ______ is gay." For this person's sake, I must omit his name and the list, even though it really was a gem.
If I haven't yet convinced you that making lists can be fun, just know that I've spent the last hour making a list of lists that I could include in this blog post. And just for a little more convincing (and a glimpse into my mind), I will include them in the end of this post. Some of them are short and some of them aren't interesting at all. But the way I see it, making lists is like playing sports when you're a child: pointless, stressful, possibly traumatizing and to be done only "for fun" and not to win.
Things someone should pay me to do because I'm so good at them
Sleeping
Making lists
Dressing myself
Listening to songs on repeat
Things I do when no one is looking
Dance
Look at myself in the mirror (frequently)
Talk to myself (though this sometimes happens when people are looking, which isn't good for either of us)
Sing (usually better when no one is listening, for everyone's sake)
Things I would do every day for the rest of my life without anyone paying me
Write
Draw
Play with puppies
Things you couldn't pay me to do every day for the rest of my life
Make phone calls
Wake up before 7am (that early is pushing it, but I'm trying to be realistic)
Math
Science
Things that make me so excited that I make strange noises
Puppies
Jeans
Birds
Emotive noises I make on a daily basis
"Meh," when I don't like something, disapprove or have no feelings at all towards something but am obligated to respond
"Hnnnnn!" I don't know exactly how to type this noise, but if you know me, this is the noise I make when I see a puppy or a bird. Or a midget, but that's for the completely opposite reason.
"Waaah" when I realize that no one loves me, which happens every day.*
Songs I listen to on repeat
"Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler
"Shake It Out" by the UNC Loreleis
"Party" by Beyonce
"Cockiness" by Rihanna
Things that make me smile uncontrollably
Jennifer's Body
My best friends
The UNC Loreleis (Spring concert and the debut of their new album on March 24!)
My twitter profile
Things that, if my room was raided by MTV, would tell someone all about me
Dixie Chicks poster
The skeleton on my desk
Approximately 74 Pepsi cans scattered about the room
Lorelei poster/stickers
Zero room in my closet and drawers
Easy things that I have difficulty doing
Remembering my keys
Typing my last name
Closing a door, apparently
Things I just don't understand
How cell phones work
The appeal of tube socks
People who don't care about how they look
Things that freak me out
People on stilts
Talking to people
Endless loops
The future
Being dirty
Things I should be doing right now
Studying
Reading one of my many textbooks
Getting a job
Eating
Anything but this
Everyday things I find strange
Shoes
Kissing
Eating in public
Generalizations
Any human under the age of 10 is a "baby"
"Babies" that aren't within 5 feet of a parent are on their own and are at risk of being stolen
Every dog is a puppy no matter its size or actual age
Songs that I have to hear at a party to be satisfied
Party
Booty Wurk
Dance (A$$)
Killing Me Softly (This one rarely happens)
A partial list of potential lists
*This is an over-generalization and a joke. Please don't lecture me.
Since starting this blog, I have realized that there is no better way to spend my time or to express my thoughts than writing (hence alexusescommas.blogspot.com). Unfortunately I can't always produce a captivating lengthy narrative when my heart is yearning for self-indulging entertainment. Recently I have been developing an interest that somewhat alleviates the stress of writing something that is worthy of a whole chapter in a book: making lists.
I know. Nerd alert. I always thought that people who enjoyed making lists were freaks. Then I realized that I do it ALL the time. For as long as I can remember, if I needed to remember something, I wrote it down. I mostly have done this when I'm going on a trip; I make a list of things that I need to take in order to remember everything (though that may have more to do with some sort of anxiety than enjoyment). More recently I've been creating lists in my head in order to entertain myself. Please understand that these lists are rarely simple lists: they usually represent the complex and cluttered workings of my mind and each list leads to another list. The first list I made that I truly enjoyed was "Reasons why ______ is gay." For this person's sake, I must omit his name and the list, even though it really was a gem.
If I haven't yet convinced you that making lists can be fun, just know that I've spent the last hour making a list of lists that I could include in this blog post. And just for a little more convincing (and a glimpse into my mind), I will include them in the end of this post. Some of them are short and some of them aren't interesting at all. But the way I see it, making lists is like playing sports when you're a child: pointless, stressful, possibly traumatizing and to be done only "for fun" and not to win.
Things someone should pay me to do because I'm so good at them
Sleeping
Making lists
Dressing myself
Listening to songs on repeat
Things I do when no one is looking
Dance
Look at myself in the mirror (frequently)
Talk to myself (though this sometimes happens when people are looking, which isn't good for either of us)
Sing (usually better when no one is listening, for everyone's sake)
Things I would do every day for the rest of my life without anyone paying me
Write
Draw
Play with puppies
Things you couldn't pay me to do every day for the rest of my life
Make phone calls
Wake up before 7am (that early is pushing it, but I'm trying to be realistic)
Math
Science
Things that make me so excited that I make strange noises
Puppies
Jeans
Birds
Emotive noises I make on a daily basis
"Meh," when I don't like something, disapprove or have no feelings at all towards something but am obligated to respond
"Hnnnnn!" I don't know exactly how to type this noise, but if you know me, this is the noise I make when I see a puppy or a bird. Or a midget, but that's for the completely opposite reason.
"Waaah" when I realize that no one loves me, which happens every day.*
Songs I listen to on repeat
"Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler
"Shake It Out" by the UNC Loreleis
"Party" by Beyonce
"Cockiness" by Rihanna
Things that make me smile uncontrollably
Jennifer's Body
My best friends
The UNC Loreleis (Spring concert and the debut of their new album on March 24!)
My twitter profile
Things that, if my room was raided by MTV, would tell someone all about me
Dixie Chicks poster
The skeleton on my desk
Approximately 74 Pepsi cans scattered about the room
Lorelei poster/stickers
Zero room in my closet and drawers
Easy things that I have difficulty doing
Remembering my keys
Typing my last name
Closing a door, apparently
Things I just don't understand
How cell phones work
The appeal of tube socks
People who don't care about how they look
Things that freak me out
People on stilts
Talking to people
Endless loops
The future
Being dirty
Things I should be doing right now
Studying
Reading one of my many textbooks
Getting a job
Eating
Anything but this
Everyday things I find strange
Shoes
Kissing
Eating in public
Generalizations
Any human under the age of 10 is a "baby"
"Babies" that aren't within 5 feet of a parent are on their own and are at risk of being stolen
Every dog is a puppy no matter its size or actual age
Songs that I have to hear at a party to be satisfied
Party
Booty Wurk
Dance (A$$)
Killing Me Softly (This one rarely happens)
*This is an over-generalization and a joke. Please don't lecture me.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
When I die I'll be a Tar Heel dead
One of the things I love about Carolina is the all-encompassing acceptance that comes with being a Tar Heel. Walking through this campus, even alone, I feel like I belong. Even looking dead into the eyes of the pit preacher today, I felt accepted.
Being a Tar Heel is so much more than going to school in Chapel Hill. It's so much more than getting into the best journalism school in the country. It's so much more than buying a blue shirt. It's shouting "TAR," knowing that somewhere, no matter where you are and no matter the time of day, you'll hear "HEE-EELS" in response. It's reading the kvetching board, hoping yours got published or that someone kvetched about you. It's singing "Hark the Sound," arm in arm, with the most pride possible whether we win or lose. It's the chills you get when you hear Eve Carson's immortal "I love UNC." It's knowing, without a doubt, that you go to the best school in the world. Being a Tar Heel is about being a family and nothing shows that better than the shirts that are being sold this year with the phrase "Together, we are Carolina."
But the most important part of being a Tar Heel, the one that defines us as students, the one that gets us more pumped up than getting into the B-school, making an A on a test or staying awake during a 75-minute lecture, is exemplified on the shirts we've all been seeing this week that say "GO TO HELL DUKE."
That's right. Submitting an application to UNC-Chapel Hill is signing a contract saying "I promise to hate Duke with all of my heart and soul." Scoffing and/or gagging when the word "Duke" is mentioned or when anyone even refers to Durham is just part of being a Tar Heel.
One thing I realized tonight after the heartwrenching loss to our unfortunate-faced neighbors is that there is a difference between a fan and a Tar Heel. I was never a sports fan growing up. Even so, I wore NC State red up until the day I got my acceptance letter from UNC. That day was the beginning of my transformation into becoming a Tar Heel. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that coming to Carolina has made me a sports fan, though this would be the place to be if I was one. I still don't really care about basketball games, stats or players. I couldn't tell you a single thing about another ACC team or even what other teams make up the ACC. But tonight and (most) other game nights, I put on my Carolina blue and I pull for a Tar Heel win. Why? Because I love my school. At the end of a game, a Carolina fan will continue on in his or her roles in life and, especially after a loss, ignore the team in which he or she had put so much faith. The difference here is that I'm not a fan. Sure, my heart dropped a little when d00k hit that shot at the last second, but I walked away from this prouder than ever to be a Tar Heel. The fact is, I get to wake up tomorrow not only at the greatest school in the world, but as a part of the greatest community in the world: the Tar Heels.
Being a Tar Heel is so much more than going to school in Chapel Hill. It's so much more than getting into the best journalism school in the country. It's so much more than buying a blue shirt. It's shouting "TAR," knowing that somewhere, no matter where you are and no matter the time of day, you'll hear "HEE-EELS" in response. It's reading the kvetching board, hoping yours got published or that someone kvetched about you. It's singing "Hark the Sound," arm in arm, with the most pride possible whether we win or lose. It's the chills you get when you hear Eve Carson's immortal "I love UNC." It's knowing, without a doubt, that you go to the best school in the world. Being a Tar Heel is about being a family and nothing shows that better than the shirts that are being sold this year with the phrase "Together, we are Carolina."
But the most important part of being a Tar Heel, the one that defines us as students, the one that gets us more pumped up than getting into the B-school, making an A on a test or staying awake during a 75-minute lecture, is exemplified on the shirts we've all been seeing this week that say "GO TO HELL DUKE."
That's right. Submitting an application to UNC-Chapel Hill is signing a contract saying "I promise to hate Duke with all of my heart and soul." Scoffing and/or gagging when the word "Duke" is mentioned or when anyone even refers to Durham is just part of being a Tar Heel.
One thing I realized tonight after the heartwrenching loss to our unfortunate-faced neighbors is that there is a difference between a fan and a Tar Heel. I was never a sports fan growing up. Even so, I wore NC State red up until the day I got my acceptance letter from UNC. That day was the beginning of my transformation into becoming a Tar Heel. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that coming to Carolina has made me a sports fan, though this would be the place to be if I was one. I still don't really care about basketball games, stats or players. I couldn't tell you a single thing about another ACC team or even what other teams make up the ACC. But tonight and (most) other game nights, I put on my Carolina blue and I pull for a Tar Heel win. Why? Because I love my school. At the end of a game, a Carolina fan will continue on in his or her roles in life and, especially after a loss, ignore the team in which he or she had put so much faith. The difference here is that I'm not a fan. Sure, my heart dropped a little when d00k hit that shot at the last second, but I walked away from this prouder than ever to be a Tar Heel. The fact is, I get to wake up tomorrow not only at the greatest school in the world, but as a part of the greatest community in the world: the Tar Heels.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
But seriously.
I don't know if I have ever been 100% honest about anything. It's just an immediate reaction, to treat people like they're stupid and hope that they're not. It's not my fault everyone isn't on the same brainwave as me, is it?
I think the reason I do it is to make myself feel better about myself. I'm not going to be humble and say that I don't think I'm better than other people. I definitely am. Sometimes people think they're on my level and, since I'm a kind soul, I just can't be mean. So to spare the feelings of my loved ones, I lie. I'm not going to sugarcoat it and call it "sarcasm," because we all know that that's just a fancy word for a lie. If you don't know that, I hope you wake up from your little dream and grow up so you can realize that people are not nice; they're selfish and mean and ruthless.
So I lie. It's practice for my prospective career in writing and it's fun for me. The way I tell the lie, with a straight face that is devoid of emotion, is practice for my backup career as a psychopath.
The way I see it, lying is my way of telling the truth to people who are on the same intelligence level as I am. See, I don't just make up lies out of nowhere. I generally make up answers to questions that have obvious or boring answers. If you're not smart enough to know the answer to your own stupid question (or to find out the answer for yourself), you don't deserve a straight answer from me. I'm just trying to help people learn for themselves. I rarely ask questions because I value finding information on my own and I think that's the best way to learn.
Though I don't believe this process is wrong, I think I owe some people some explanations. If you're reading this and recognize any of the following lies, you're smarter now than you were when I told them. If you don't recognize any of them and ask me if you're on the list, my answer will be no.
A list of lies, made right.
My name is not Tres.
Or Garret.
I have never been strangled.
You can't make more than a 5 on an AP test.
That's not your baby.
I've never killed or eaten a person.
I don't hate Glee, I actually really like it.
No, I didn't hear what you said and I don't care.
I'm not sorry and I never have been.
I think the reason I do it is to make myself feel better about myself. I'm not going to be humble and say that I don't think I'm better than other people. I definitely am. Sometimes people think they're on my level and, since I'm a kind soul, I just can't be mean. So to spare the feelings of my loved ones, I lie. I'm not going to sugarcoat it and call it "sarcasm," because we all know that that's just a fancy word for a lie. If you don't know that, I hope you wake up from your little dream and grow up so you can realize that people are not nice; they're selfish and mean and ruthless.
So I lie. It's practice for my prospective career in writing and it's fun for me. The way I tell the lie, with a straight face that is devoid of emotion, is practice for my backup career as a psychopath.
The way I see it, lying is my way of telling the truth to people who are on the same intelligence level as I am. See, I don't just make up lies out of nowhere. I generally make up answers to questions that have obvious or boring answers. If you're not smart enough to know the answer to your own stupid question (or to find out the answer for yourself), you don't deserve a straight answer from me. I'm just trying to help people learn for themselves. I rarely ask questions because I value finding information on my own and I think that's the best way to learn.
Though I don't believe this process is wrong, I think I owe some people some explanations. If you're reading this and recognize any of the following lies, you're smarter now than you were when I told them. If you don't recognize any of them and ask me if you're on the list, my answer will be no.
A list of lies, made right.
My name is not Tres.
Or Garret.
I have never been strangled.
You can't make more than a 5 on an AP test.
That's not your baby.
I've never killed or eaten a person.
I don't hate Glee, I actually really like it.
No, I didn't hear what you said and I don't care.
I'm not sorry and I never have been.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Dress to Impress
I recently came across this (via etiquetteforagentleman.tumblr.com) and I could not disagree more. I may be the only one who feels this way, but the way I see it, the only way a person can be a better person than an attractive person is to be an attractive person who is also a stylish person. Got it?
Frankly, if I see an attractive person, I'm interested in him/her. That's all it takes. I don't care if you're a "good person." Or even an interesting person. I entertain myself enough to get through a conversation. The only purpose of the other person in a conversation is to make myself look good. Mainly because talking to no one seems to be an automatic red flag for some people. Also, because talking to an attractive person makes you look better.
Now onto style. One of the only things that can make me interested in someone else moreso than myself is if they're dressed nicely. Nice clothes get you in the door, but unique, fashionable, edgy clothes will get you in the bed (sorry for being crude...). Not only do good clothes make a person more attractive, they make a person more desirable all around. I'm waiting patiently for the day that I find my style match: someone who understands and challenges my style at the same time and would be willing to discuss my clothes, his/her clothes, other peoples' clothes, next year's clothes, vintage clothes, designer clothes, cheap clothes, celebrities' clothes, etc. Not only would this make a person more visually enticing, but we would actually have something to talk about.
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