Twenty-Something: An Open Letter to Russell Stover All Dark Fine Chocolates.

Dear Russell Stover All Dark Fine Chocolates,

Thanks very much for supporting me in my time of need. I knew you'd understand. You always do.

I bought you just about an hour ago, drove around ALL OF FRICKIN CAMPUS trying to find a parking spot, and finally opened you at 12:55am. I have already destroyed half of the box and it has hardly been 10 minutes. I have class at 9am. I should probably be asleep, but you know what I'm doing instead? Eating chocolates, watching Bridget Jones' Diary, and wishing I could chug a bottle of wine (obviously can't due to previously mentioned class at 9am). You may be wondering why I'm doing this, and maybe why I belted/sobbed "Someone Like You" by Adele on the way home (on repeat, naturally). You might also want to know why I was willing to spend $9.69 on something I'm going to digest in a couple of hours when I only had $16 in my account in the first place.

The reason why is because a) another friend of mine from high school is now engaged, ON TOP of me being the maid of honor in my best friend's wedding next fall, which suddenly makes me realize b) how quickly we've all grown up and sends me into a spiral of depression and self loathing because c) I am single and d) am in love with a man who will never feel the same way, and due to this, unfortunately, e) I have recently been battling feeling of loneliness and losing hard (i.e.- trying to get over it and failing miserably, turning to chocolate as my only companion).

See Russell, it's not that I'm not happy for all of the people getting engaged. Well. Saying I'm happy for all of them would be a lie. I'm happy for a select few. And even that happiness is a little shaky. The whole thing stresses me out.

For some reason I always thought that getting married right out of college was what everyone was supposed to do, so I guess that's what makes me feel like my whole life is a failure. At some point in my green (read: naive) teenage years I came up with a plan: To have children by age 25. That gave me all 4 years of college to meet my future husband, for him to propose to me after we graduate, a year to be engaged, a year or so to settle into our marriage, and a year to try for a kid and/or 9 months to actually be pregnant. According to that plan, I am 4 years behind. I really don't know what made me think that if I didn't have my first child by 25 my "biological clock" would run out. If anything, at this rate my uterus is bound to stop working simply because it's given up hope of me ever reproducing. I feel like I walk down the street and potential mates (all males) run in the other direction.

Really though, what makes me feel like even more of a loser is now that I'm actually starting "adulthood," I've come to the conclusion that I want to put off having children for as long as is reasonable. Getting married is no longer something I want to achieve by a certain point, it's just something I hope to achieve at some point. I don't even care about any of that. I like being a selfish twenty-something wayyyy too much to give a damn. And that makes me feel bad, like my 14 year old self would be disappointed. She'd say something about how I've "lost sight of the mission,"or how I'm "going to end up being one of those fat old ladies who wears pastel sweatsuits and breeds dogs to AKC standards as a hobby."

So now I'm in this bizarre limbo where I'm feeling lonely and maybe wanting a boyfriend on one side and really enjoying my independence on the other. I often wonder if I'm the only one going through this.

mmm...roman nougat...

You know Russell, I bet when the right guy comes along, stuff will start to make more sense.

I just wish he'd hurry up and get here.

What Your Clothes are Saying About You

This post is inspired by a guy I saw walking around campus. He was wearing shutter shades. I felt like he might need some help.

A lot of people think that clothes are just objects used to cover up our nakedness. This is false. I am no fashion guru, but I think I might be able to help people out with this guide revealing the silent implications of different accessories or clothes.

You're Welcome.

Contrary to popular belief, this guy has never seen
a girl naked, and probably never will.

Shutter Shades: If you aren't Kanye West, and particularly if you are a white-male-college student, say no to the shutter shades.
Desired Image: You may think the shutter shades make you look like a cool, fun guy. You don't really take too much seriously, but you party like it's your job. Girls will take one look at you and think, "Damn, I wanna suck that guy's dick."
The Reality: Putting a pair of these bad boys indicates that you think you are God's gift to the universe, and that your weekend plans include pounding a case of Natty Ice and roofying a new sorority recruit. Girls will take one look at you and think, "Damn, that guy desperately wants to get his dick sucked."

Sammi Sweetheart: A hoop earring enthusiast, professional
skank, and the sweetest bitch you'll ever meet.

Hoop Earrings: If hoops are your earring of choice, you need to be careful. They can be cute, but be aware: Hoops are frenemies.
Desired Image: You want people, boys specifically, to know that you are a classy/hot/sexy lady. Guys will look at you and think, "Ooo, that girl is super fine. Look at those hoops!"
Reality: Hoops mean that you'll probably put out on the first date. Even if you're wearing them to church every damn Sunday. Get a couple vodka+cranberry juice's in you and there's no amount of prayer that can keep those legs closed. Guys will look at you and think, "I'm gonna get that girl wasted, because she looks like a sure thing." Take my advice, and avoid the hoops, unless the image you want to project is Jersey Trash.

Unless the class you're attending is "How to be a
High Class Stripper," take these OFF.

Heels to Class: Now, I need to be clear about this. I mean club-heels, or "f-me" heels. Heels can work in a classroom setting if appropriate. Call me a square, but I feel like the classroom is not necessarily the place to wear "f-me" anything. I have broken this rule when there's a hot guy in the class who I'm too afraid to talk to. The idea is to let my D-cups do the talking for me. Pathetic, I know. What girls need to remember is that everyone in the class can see you, not just the hot guy. The other girls can see you and will judge you accordingly. The teacher can see you. All the other guys in the class can see you. Even the creepy one who sits in the back corner and picks out his bellybutton lint.
Desired Image: You want everyone in the class to be impressed with how much effort you put into your outfit, and think that you wear heels everywhere. To bed, in the shower, while you're pooping. You want the guys to see how hot you look in class and assume that you look hot all the time. You want the girls to be jealous and feel bad about wearing sweats. I mean, you're wearing heels. These broads need to step it up. You want your teacher to think you're fancy.
Reality: Everyone in the class thinks it's weird that you wore those heels. For one, it doesn't make any sense. If you're going to be walking around campus all day, why on God's green Earth would you want to wear stilettos? The hot guys think you're an idiot, and that you try too hard. The girls are all thinking that you're a whore. The teacher probably can't see them, so it doesn't matter. Bellybutton boy in the back corner is sniffing his lint covered fingers and thinking "Me likey."

Ditto all of this at the grocery store. You're walking around with a box of tampons and some Pepto Bismal. You do not look sexy. Go home and change.

Affliction/Ed Hardy Tees (men): Stop it. You look like a douche bag.
Desired Image: I honestly don't know with this one. Maybe you think you look tough? Like, "Ain't NObody messin wit me at the club tonight. I look mean in this rhinestone covered purple tee shirt!"

Reality: You do not look tough. You look god awful. It's looks like Elton John started taking steroids.

Even that plant thinks you look like a moron.

Readers: Readers are glasses without prescriptions. A fashion statement I will never understand and that I hate with a fiery passion.
Desired Image: Maybe you think you look artsy, or intellectual. Maybe you're a slave to trends and since they sell them at Forever21, it must look cool.
Reality: You look like an idiot. You're probably one of those people who does really stupid things like go to a big city and stay with a stranger you found on couchsurfing.org who ends up being a rapist/murderer. And you know what? It's because of the readers. I don't even feel bad for you.


Socks with Sandals: Again, to be clear, this goes for people who are trying to make a statement. Athletic boys who really don't give a crap what they look like can step out in some socks and sandals any day. I think that's endearing. Who I'm talking about are the douchey guys who think they look really cool.

Socks with Sandals: Only okay if you are a) Eugene from
Hey Arnold, b) Japanese, or c) a grandpa.

Desired Image: You want to look really laid back. I hear that this is a big thing for boys who go to school in Colorado. You want to look like you rolled out of bed, and your toes were cold, and the only shoes you own are sandals.
Reality: We all know you own more shoes than that. Mummy did not send your snooty ass all the way to Boulder without a decent pair of closed-toed shoes. You're probably one of those rich kid hippies. You are a different kind of douche bag: the Mountain douche bag. You smoke a bowl before class, and spend your summer back home in the midwest talking about how beautiful Colorado/Oregon is and complain about how the change in altitude is messing with you. It doesn't matter how disheveled you look all the time, when you graduate you'll still probably land a six figure job that you don't need because of your hefty trust fund. And for that, I can speak for everyone and say we all hate you.

Slutty Clothes Over the Age of 40: We've all seen her. The mom who comes to her son's soccer games wearing less clothes than her teenage daughter. A little belly shirt, some ass-crack hanging out the back of her too tight jeans, it's a mess.
Desired Image: 40 is the new 30, right? Who says you can't look as hot as your 16 year old daughter and her friends? You are a MILF and no one should be denied the right to check out your smokin bod.
Reality: Dressing like this suggests that you are experiencing some serious mental issues. You are not a MILF. You're a MINWTSN (Mom I Never Want To See Naked). Trust me, Granny, nobody wants to see your wrinkly sagging titties, so put that shit away before my eyeballs liquify.

(Side note: I was trying to find a picture of this, and I googled "Slutty Mom." Only do this if you want to watch porn about slutty moms. I should've known.)

Happy Birthday

Awkward Birthday Serenade!!! Thanks, Celine. 

Women's Magazines: His Member, Your Va-jay-jay, and Why It's All a Load of Dog Sh*t

It's my blog's 1st birthday!! YAYYYYYYY A WHOLE YEAR OF WRITING ABOUT STUPID STUFF!! If you haven't already, I'd like the blog's facebook page (button to the left) because it would make the blog feel loved on its birthday.

Technically, since it's 12:10am Mountain Time (I'm at my dad's in CO), there are 14 days until I go back to school. Well, 14 days until I leave for school. I can't actually move in until the 21st. I miss my friends terribly.

But that's not what I wanted to talk about. What I wanted to talk about was my problem with popular magazines for girls/women.

The most popular options, at least amongst the 17-25 crowd are Cosmopolitan and Seventeen. Now, granted, I don't actually know any 25 year olds who read the latter, but I know all 17 year olds read the former. At age 21, I've read both, for the most part.

See if you notice a trend...

I stopped reading Cosmo a couple years ago, because I got sick of it. Ladies, don't tell me you haven't noticed after 15 billion issues that it's ALL THE SAME CRAP EVERY ISSUE. Really. Take a look at the covers to your left. "100 Sex Truths," "Sex He Craves," "Do This on Date #1 and He's YOURS!!" "25 Sexy Office Looks," (in what office is it okay to look "sexy"??) "Lipstick colors He Adores on You," "Real Men talk: Shoes That Make You Irrestistable." ARE YOU FRICKIN KIDDING ME?!?


A whole lot of teenage girls buy Cosmo for one purpose: to read the sex tips. This may be because they both think very highly of themselves and have a very busy sex life at a young age, so they consider themselves the target audience (like a select number of popular girls at my high school. I suspect a couple of them started reading it in middle school. How else would they know so much about "His Down-There Domain"? Ick.) The other reason teenage girls have a desire to read the sex tips is because at 17 years old, a boy has not so much looked at them, and they're desperately curious to see what goes on when a girl is lucky/hot enough to dance the mattress jig with a dude. In other words, they read the sex tips while in the magazine aisle at Walgreens to fill a void because they're virgins (like me and my friends in high school).

So yes, while it is unbelievably funny to read all the ridiculous euphemisms for "penis" Cosmo comes up with (my personal favorite: "his member"), what bugs me about this magazine is that it seems as though we women have no other purpose in life but to provide mind-blowing sexual experiences for our male counterparts. Everytime I read the magazine, my self esteem took a dive straight into the crapper because a) Guys weren't throwing themselves at my feet begging for me to sleep with them, and b) my ass never has and never will look like Kim Kardashian's. But once I got to college, like a great number of college students do,  I became all self-righteous and enlightened and decided that this magazine wasn't for me. For one, all those tips are totally pointless, because if we're being honest, it doesn't really take much to satisfy men. As long as you're naked and willing to let him hump you, that's a pretty good start. And I don't want to read anymore stupid crap like "10 Things That Make A Woman Undateable." It makes me feel as though I'm selling myself short.

I'd like to point out that I
did not intentionally pick
covers with only blonde
girls. That's just what came
up on Google Images.

And to expand on the "10 Things": I actually came across this article today on Cosmo's website while I was researching funny names for penis. It made me laugh. It's a list of guys' "dating deal-breakers" that were submitted via twitter. For example, @Matty_Millz will not date you "If you can't kiss." @djklutch is not a fan of "The pale skin and really red lipstick combination." Good for you guys! Way too look past all the important things, like her personality and how motivated she is, and focus on the shallow stuff. She could be a total genius and spend all of her time volunteering, but if her skin is pasty and she likes red lipstick, it's automatically a no-go. My all-time favorite tweet though has to come from @Zay_InkdUp, aka the man who will never ever find love. This pitifully stupid individual can't stand it when "A girl farts in her sleep." Talk about high-maintenance. I wonder how he feels about girls who fart while conscious. I would like to see how that would play out: He takes a beautiful girl on this wonderful date, they totally get along, awesome conversation. He asks her if she wants to sleep over, and she miraculously says yes, they do it, and both fall asleep. Around 4AM she lets one rip, and I can totally picture him, with the collar of his t-shirt covering his nose, poking her and saying "Okay, you gotta get the hell outta here. Either call yourself a cab, or go sleep on the couch. Take this can of febreeze with you. No I will not give you blanket. Goodnight." Romance at it's finest. What the hell, bro?? If all men are like you, I am screwed. Apparently you missed that element of biology or anatomy that says all mammals fart. It's like pooping and peeing, EVERYONE DOES IT. Even girls. Were you expecting glitter and roses? Sorry for that, man. What a let down. If you want to see whether or not these 10 douche-bags on twitter would date you, you can do so by clicking here. (Notice how the girls' answers are equally as shallow.)

Good wholesome fun with Paris Hilton

The other magazine that makes me angry is Cosmo's skanky idiot kid-sister Seventeen. When I say that, I mean it's the exact same content, just replace the word "sexy" with "flirty." "376 Flirty Looks That Will Get His Attention." Seventeen does a better job at marketing towards actual 17 year olds in an appropriate way than Cosmo. They preach that whole "abstinence is the safest route" brouhaha, which, I think, is good not so much for the 17 year olds who are probably already having sex, but more for the 14 year olds who's idiot parents let them buy the magazine. They also talk about other options like contraceptives if you tend to be more of a hoochie-mama-Cosmo-gal. So that's all fine and dandy for the younger crowd. My age group, the college crowd, we've pretty much learned all of that already. Actually, there's a lot in Seventeen that is irrelevant to college-age girls. Also, most of the focus is on, go figure, boys and dating. Yes, for a lot of teenage girls (myself included, when I was one) boys are the center of the universe. However, I don't feel that young girls should make their entire existence about getting a boyfriend. It makes high school incredibly unbearable for loser girls like me, who read Seventeen and set unrealistic goals like "obtain boyfriend." Another thing that would be really great for Seventeen to do would be to market to the young lesbians. If there was any group in the world that needed a resource for love and dating and life in general it would be teenage homosexuals. Now, being a hetero adult myself, I don't actually know if there are any magazines geared towards gay youth, but I wouldn't be surprised. That's not what I mean though. I think it would be cool for a 17 year old having trouble with her sexuality to read about lesbianism in Seventeen amongst the rest of the articles about boys. Maybe this would help her realize that her feelings are normal, since they are talked about in Seventeen. I don't know. Just a thought. So, Libby, why do you read it if you hate it so much? Good question. It's the only magazine I've come across that dresses it's models in cute AND affordable clothing.

Amy Sedaris AND Cake. Need I say more?

One women's magazine that I really have grown to love is Bust. I call it my snotty-feminist magazine, because it focuses mainly on feminist issues. It's certainly not perfect. Once, I left it open on the counter in my parent's kitchen, and my step-dad walked by and I guess started thumbing through it. He came across an article about foods to make your guy's, um, "spunk" taste better, and told me I shouldn't read such filthy stuff. In his defense, that is pretty damn gross. And in my defense, I didn't read that particular article. It also has weird advertisements for reusable menstrual products (ewwwww), and, like Cosmo, every issue has a sexy story. Cosmo goes for the more subtle title "Red Hot Read" whereas Bust goes for the more in-your-face "One Handed Read." Awkward. Despite all of these oddities, this magazine so rocks. Every issue includes one page of sexual advice from two sex therapists, one page of, uh, masturbatory literature, and one or two ads for vibrators and the like. So 3-4 pages about sex, so the rest of the magazine can devote itself to content that actually matters. It highlights strong females doing things to change the world in some way, which is what I love. It has a little of everything for every woman: knitters, old ladies, cooks, lesbians, straight girls, crafty girls, musical girls, black girls, white girls, asian, girls, christian girls, jewish girls, atheist girls, skinny girls, fat girls, even some stuff for gay men. It's awesome.

I suppose women will have to search to find meaning in magazines, meaning beyond spreading our legs to get what we want in life. In conclusion, Bust is a pretty cool magazine, check it out, Seventeen is not for the 21+ crowd, Cosmopolitan is completely and totally useless, and I really really really wish I was back in Nashville.

"No Offense"

I know, I know. It's been too long. You may ask, Libby, what have you been doing with your summer that has kept you too busy to write anything? I've had a very tight schedule of sleeping and eating any sugary food stuffs I can find in my parents' pantry. (Side note: if you eat an entire tube of green frosting, your poop will be green for about a week.)

My sister Allie turns 15 in a little less than a month. She's going to a Girl Scout Horse riding camp tomorrow, and was telling us about how at camp, she has to go by her "camp name," Goldfish. So when my mom writes her a letter, she must address it to Goldfish Moehrle. All the girls have to go by these nicknames, which I thought was pretty weird, but hey, that's Girl Scouts. She said one of the girls in her troop was given the nickname "Sarge." No I do not know why. I thought to myself, what a most unfortunate nickname for a 15 year old girl.

When I hear "Sarge," I think of one of the driving instructors I had for Drivers Ed. back in the day when I was 15. There were three instructors. One, a woman, was in charge of teaching the book stuff. Red means stop, green means go, a "rolling stop" is not a real thing and will result in a ticket, that kind of stuff. The other two instructors were in charge of the physical stuff, utilizing one practice car provided by the Ladue School District, fully equipped with a "STUDENT DRIVER" sticker and a brake on the passenger side. One of these instructors was a coach from another school district, a man we'll call "Coach Assbag," and the other was Sarge, who was biologically female (I think), but without a doubt had more testosterone than Coach Assbag and The Hulk combined. She was a very no-nonsense kind of lady. She actually told us she preferred to be called Sarge. So that's what we called her. And on my very first day ever behind the wheel of a car, she was the one in the passengers seat, barking out "LEFT!.... RIGHT!... EASY!" as I coasted at a cool 5mph around my high school's parking lot. After 15 minutes, my turn was up, and she rewarded me with a nod and a "Good."

The two other girls in my assigned group, Hannah & Jessica, had driven more than me (which is to say they had actually driven.) (And yes, I'm going to use their actual names, because I know when they retell this story, they use my full name, and fair is fair.) Because of this, they were allowed to leave the parking lot and drive on actual roads. I was okay not driving on real roads, because quite frankly, I was petrified of the whole experience. The death trap in which I was riding around, the man-lady barking at me, everything.

Day 2, Coach Assbag was in the passengers seat. This was his first time teaching drivers ed. He wasn't a seasoned veteran like Sarge, who had done it for years. Being new to the game, he had a very optimistic, bordering on idiotic approach to instructing 15 year old drivers. He let the other girls drive on the highway, all around West County (which isn't really all that far, but when you're a new driver sitting in the back seat, knowing that your turn is soon, it seems like a big deal). My turn came around, and we were parked in a neighborhood. "Ready to get on the roads?" he asked me with a big grin. Suddenly feeling myself fill with determination, I got behind the wheel.

"Alrighty Miss Lib, Take a left up here! Remember to use your blinker!"
I get to the end of the street, and turn on the wipers.
"Woops! Haha! Try it again!"
I finally get the wipers off, and get the left blinker going. I turn right.
"Oh, okayyy... that's okay! Just turn right in here and we'll go around through neighborhood again!"
I turn right, follow the curved street through the neighborhood, and get back to where I started. 
"Okay, now turn LEFT!" he says, sounding out "left" as if I'm retarded.
I successfully turn the left blinker on, and execute an exceptional left turn out of the neighborhood. 
"Very good! Now, take this next right."
I take a right, I turn the wheel too much and skid off onto the shoulder. Assbag grabs for the wheel.
"Who-ha-hoooaaa!! Careful now! Don't want to over-do it! Let's try another right up here."


At this point, my confidence is completely shattered. I'm mortified because Hannah and Jessica are snickering in the back seat, and I've never been more scared in my entire life. It becomes very clear to me that I'm a terrible driver, and that I'm going to kill everyone in the car, and it'll be Assbag's fault for letting me drive on the roads on my second day. Still, I accelerated forward.

I approach the right turn.
I turn the wheel to the right.
I keep turning the wheel to the right.
The car rolls off the the pavement and into a deep trench on the side of the road. 
I feel Coach Assbag slam on his brake, to no avail.
The car is now almost on its side at a 45 degree angle.
Hannah and Jessica are screaming.
Coach Assbag is yelling "THE BRAKE!! THE BRAKE!! IS YOUR FOOT ON THE BRAKE??!!"
The fear of dying has rendered me paralyzed, and my foot is firmly pushing the accelerator to the floor.


So, Coach Assbag kept asking if my foot is on the brake, and I kept answering "yes" not knowing what was happening. He would momentarily let his foot off his brake and the car would lunge forward, because my foot remained pressed on the accelerator. He was still trying to talk me through it, but I was beyond that point. Words would not help me. We went through the lunging forward and abruptly braking thing a couple more times before he finally told me to let go of the wheel. He drove the car, from the passengers seat, out of the trench and into a nearby parking lot. He got out of the car and started laughing hysterically. Not in the good way. Not like how you laugh when watching Anchorman. Literally hysterical. He just kept saying, "Ohhh man I'm getting my pink slip today! This is it! This is it for me."Apparently, I'd totaled the car.

My bad.

After he'd calmed down, he offered to drive back to school so I didn't have to (finally, a wise decision).  I sat in the passengers seat, silent. I had never been more embarrassed and scared in all of my 15 years. It was quiet for a while, and then from the back, one by one the girls piped up with "No Offense" comments.

I hate "No Offense." It's just about the most selfish phrase ever. Much like "Bless Her Heart," "No Offense" is used when the speaker is about to say something, well, offensive, but doesn't want to come across as rude. Unlike its southern cousin, "No Offense" says the mean comment directly to the person's face, instead of behind her back. For example, "No offense, Darlene, but Eddy probably only wants to take you to prom because he knows how easy you are." Or "No offense Sally, but ever since you've gone to college, you have just let yourself go." The idea is, if you preface the rude statement with "No Offense," you the speaker won't feel like a bad person, because in saying "No Offense," you've secured that the person you're speaking to should not take offense to whatever heinous things you want to say. However that person always does. Always.

"No offense, Libby, but I'm really glad I'm not the worst driver."
"No offense, but I was really worried you were gonna hit that telephone pole."
"Yeah, I definitely hit my head on the window. I might have a concussion because of you. No offense."
"No offense, but I'm never getting in a car with you ever again."

We got back to the high school, and it was immediately decided that no other groups could go out and drive that day, because "Miss Genz totaled the car." So for the remainder of the time we would watch graphic videos from the 1980's detailing the results of drunk driving, not wearing a seatbelt, and the risks that come with road rage. It was a great feeling.

Day 3, Sarge pulled me aside. She pointed a thumb toward Coach Assbag. "He doesn't know what the hell he's doing. From now on, you're with me." It was odd how un-intimidating she was being, but I appreciated it. She didn't talk to me like I was a baby. She didn't make fun of me for being a bad driver. She didn't make me do things I wasn't ready for. She just did what she had to do: teach me drive safely enough to pass the test. And sure, I spent days 3-5 coasting around parking lots, but by the next week, I was driving on a highway.
 
6 years later, I have a license, I passed the test the first time (barely), I'm still a terrible driver, and that story is something I can laugh about forever. Someday I can tell that story to my 15 year old, and he/she can say "Wow, mom, you really are a born loser, aren't you?"And me and my beautifully hunky husband will nod in agreement. It's a wonderful vision.

Oh, and to those girlies who sat in the back seat and snickered at me: y'all are some damn bitches. No offense.

Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give A Damn

I finally got around to watching Gone With The Wind, despite all the negative things I'd heard about it.

Did you guys know it was 4 hours long? I missed that little piece of very important information before I'd decided to start watching it at 1:30am on a school night.

Everything I'd heard about GWTW is that it a horribly racist movie. And, as it turns out, it is a horribly racist movie. Even for the 1930's when it was made, it's just bad taste. My opinion on the subject is that Southerners need to not ignore that part of the film, because it is part of our history.

I'm talking to my people now, so listen the eff up. Sugar-coat it however you want, but real talk: during the Civil War, the South was fighting to uphold the institution of slavery. Truth. It's not something to be proud of, but it happened nonetheless.

Yeah. Shit's getting deep now.

If you are a Southerner in 2011 you have no reason to feel guilt when watching films like GWTW, or hearing about the Civil War. There's no sense in feeling guilty, you didn't do anything (unless of course you're racist, then yeah you should feel pretty bad. And get over yourself. It's the 21st century for Christ's sake.) Feel whatever you want, just for the love of God, let go of those damned Confederate flags. It's embarrassing, really y'all. Sure, it represents Southern Pride, blah blah. Would it really be so hard to find a symbol for the region that doesn't say "My great-great-great-grandpaw owned some brown people, and dagummit, am I prowd"? Honestly. It's about as stereotypical White-Trash as mullets and Nascar. (side note: look at this awesome website I found)

So other than the blatant, awkward racism, I had some other issues with the movie.

For one thing, I hear all this talk about how Scarlett O'Hara is this goddess of the South, and she defines "southern belle." I don't get it. She's a bitch! In what world is the quintessential "belle" a bitch? No world! According to wikipedia, a belle's "attractiveness is not in her beauty but her charm," and describes Scarlett as "Charming but not beautiful." Supposedly, her "charm" is supposed to attract all the men. I guess Scarlett has charm. I liked her at the beginning of the movie when she was a teenager and flirting with all the boys at the BBQ. Now that's my kinda girl, I thought. I even liked her when she got pissed at Ashley Wilkes in the beginning of the movie, slapped him across the face and threw a vase at the wall. (Ashley's the guy she's in love throughout the story. It's not until the last 12 minutes of the movie that she finally accepts that he actually never loved her, and we as the audience realize that we've spent 4 hours watching her life fall apart because of this stupid bastard all for nothing.) See the scene below.

This scene brings up something else entirely. And that is I love me some Rhett Butler.  He's a dirty piece of shit, but I love him. He managed to be slimy, witty, dangerous, and sexy all at the same time. And it works for him. He's not necessarily the most handsome man, but his personality makes up for it. I'd do him. He's definitely better than Ashley.

Let me get back to why I hate Scarlett. She uses men as pawns to get things she wants. Some girls think that's awesome I guess. Maybe I'm just bitter because all that my "charm" manages to get me is socially retarded assholes. But whatever, she's still a bitch. She marries her first husband, what's-his-name, to make Ashley jealous (to no avail), and he dies at war. She married her second husband, What's-his-face Kennedy, because she needs money to pay the taxes on her house, and he happens to be running a successful business. He also happens to be the man her sister Sue Ellen is in love with, but marries him herself after she makes up some bullshit about how Sue Ellen is marrying someone else. Not cool, Katie Scarlett. Not cool. Not only does that go majorly against the girl-code, but I feel like it must go against sister-code as well. I don't really know though, since my sister is 14 and we've never had feelings for the same man, and I'm fairly confident we never will. Anyway, Mr. Kennedy is shot in the head whilst leading a KKK raid of a shanty town. So then, the twice-widowed Scarlett marries Rhett for the money, and ruins the relationship with the one man who actually understands her. Such a dumb bitch.

So for 4 hours, we sit back and watch this dumb bitch's life go to shit. Pretty much everyone she knows hates her, both of her children die tragically, and she can't seem to hold down a man to save her damn life. I would like to take this opportunity to point out that NO ONE GAVE ME ANY HEADS UP THAT THIS WAS A SAD MOVIE. I thought it was a love story. But no. It starts off bright and shiny, and then keeps rolling downhill as the minutes drag on, all 233 of them. With each scene you think, Oh Sweet Baby Jesus, her life couldn't possibly get any worse, could it? Spoiler Alert: Yes, it could. And it does. (mental note: RENT TALLADEGA NIGHTS.)

It's worth mentioning in this summary that the man she's in love with, Ashley Wilkes, is married to just about the sweetest woman ever, Melanie "Melly" Wilkes. Melly is who I see as the the exemplary Southern woman. She is kind to everyone she meets. She is the one person who doesn't think Scarlett is a bitch. She always has Scarlett's back, no matter what the circumstances. She even befriends Belle Watling, a "friend" of Rhett's and many other gentleman in Atlanta, and that is all they say to describe her occupation in this G-rated film. (For those of you who are slow, that means she's a prostitute.) Everyone in town treats Belle poorly except for Melanie Wilkes. Always forgiving, and hangs out with hookers. The woman is about as close to Jesus as a person can get. That being said, I can kind of feel for Scarlett. The only thing worse than the man you love being with another woman is if that woman is too nice to hate.

Overall, I hated the movie so much that I loved it. Funny how that happens. I now own it and I've watched it a couple more times, fast forwarding through scenes I don't like, which makes it about an hour. I think watching that way makes it an all together better movie, and I suggest if you're interested in viewing it to watch Libby's Cut.

Will Work For Food

Alright. I am officially done whining about being fat. Goodbye ugly gut, bingo wings*, scary thighs and double chin. You will be gone by the end of the summer thanks to My Fitness Pal. (*bingo wings = the arm flab that wiggles when old ladies put their hands in the air after winning a game of bingo. It's horrible, I know. But terribly funny.)

My Fitness Pal is a website, not a real person. But to make it more fun for myself I'm imagining that it's an actual personal trainer, more specifically one that looks just like Shemar Moore. I call him "Eric, my fitness pal."

Don't even pretend like you wouldn't do 500 pushups for this man.

Eric keeps track of what I eat and how much I exercise, and when I meet my daily goals, he rewards me with sex. 

I really wish that last part was true.

So here is my plan: Each day I eat a net total of 1210 calories, and I'm supposed to get 60 minutes of exercise. That means I should lose around 2 lbs a week. (assuming I don't cheat.) I'm not going to tell Eric about any calories gained through alcohol consumption, because what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Why is it that at the beginning of diets you always feel like a piece of shit? Really. When I signed up online, Eric asked me for my current weight, which I thought was rude, and my ideal weight. I hadn't seen a scale in months, and when I stepped on the one in my parents' bathroom I was beyond embarrassed. I don't know how I let that happen to myself, but I'm fairly certain that I have recently awoken from a coma that began around Christmas. I'm not really sure what all went down, but I know it involved a lot of cookie dough and taco bell. 

I had to tell Eric the exact amount, but I don't have to tell y'all. So lets just say I am roughly the size of a tractor trailer, and I would like to be about 35 pounds less than that. 

In these first days, I am having to face my fatness. On top of that, I'm f-ing hungry and I can't eat. What's worse is that within three days I have become one of those annoying people who counts all the calories in everything. A little part of me died when I told the waitress at Fox & Hound the other night that "I can't have the whole salad, 'cause I only have 326 calories left today." She gave me a look that was either pity or hatred. 

I haven't yet mastered the equal distribution of calories between meals. For some reason, lunch always ends up being between 700-1000 calories, which leaves me with 300-500 for dinner. What the hell kind of dinner is only 300 calories? "I'll have a water and a bowl of lettuce please." No thank you! Did you know that three chicken tacos from Chipotle, without cheese OR sour cream, is 900 calories? Bullshit. A chicken fajita salad from Chevy's is 1450. WTF?! SALAD SHOULD NOT BE THAT MANY CALORIES. Good news is that a six inch Veggie Delite from Subway without cheese or mayo is 230 (suhweet!). I still don't understand how a plate full of vegetables has more calories than a sandwich, but whatever. Subway it is! Just call me Jared Fogle. 

What's funny to me about the website (myfitnesspal.com) is that it encourages you to invite a friend to diet with you. "Don't diet alone!" I've heard that before, that losing weight with someone helps sometimes. What I want to know is how one goes about "inviting" a friend to diet with her. Even if you can think of a friend, she won't be your friend for long if you ask her. I can't think of any circumstance where having someone ask you to diet with them doesn't come off as insulting. That's like giving someone a gym membership for Christmas. You may think it's a nice gesture, but the person you give it to won't see it that way. And I totally understand. Gym Membership as present = "You need to lose weight and I don't know how else to tell you." It's the same thing! How do you ask someone to diet with you?

You: Hey Mary! I just started using My Fitness Pal, you should do it too so we can support each other!

Mary: What're you trying to say? I'm fat?

You: No! I just thought we could support -

Mary: I mean, I know I don't look like I did in high school but my boyfriend says I'm beautiful! That's all that matters to me!

You: Mary, you're overreacting, I was just saying -

Mary: And ya know what? You should really look in the mirror before you go around calling people fat!

Pretty soon your "Fitness Pal" would be your "Only Pal."

But hey, with a pal as fine as Eric, I don't need the rest of you assholes.