These are not my pants. Or they are. I just don't know anymore!

I had an absolutely wonderful day today. I had two classes that I enjoy and was done for the day by lunchtime (hooray for leftover hamburger helper! I won’t tell you the flavor. I'm mysterious like that.)

However, throughout my whole day I couldn’t shake an ominous, uncomfortable feeling. The feeling that I was wearing someone else’s pants.

It is important to note that these were, in fact, my pants. Allegedly. Let me explain. I own one pair of black jeans, which I haven’t worn in a while because 1) it was hot and 2) pants are for chumps. But last night I had painted my nails metallic silver (partially to feel like female wolverine), so I decided to wear my long-neglected black jeans to go with it.

As soon as I put them on I became extremely confused. They didn’t feel the same way as I remembered them. Don’t get me wrong, they fit me perfectly and were extremely comfortable. But they didn’t feel the way I had expected.

A normal person probably would have said to themselves, “you just haven’t worn them in a while. Obviously they are your pants. You’ve already spent more time than is acceptable thinking about this.”

But that’s not what I thought. What I thought was, “the stitching is totally different. No, wait, maybe not. Oh god, who’s pants could these possibly be? Did anyone come to my house and leave their pants behind? Do I even have any friends with the exact same pant size? These are definitely slightly shorter.”

And so, the Case of the Foreign Pants put a cloud of confusion over my otherwise sublime day. Yet, I got the distinct feeling that the others around me did not find this issue quite so puzzling.

Me: So, I don’t think these are my pants. I mean, I have pants like them, but these don’t seem like those ones.

Roommate: Yeah…those are probably your pants though.

Me: But…they don’t FEEL right. I mean they feel fine. Better than the other pants actually. Maybe there is some sort of pants-improvement-gnome that goes around very slightly altering your pants just to drive you crazy.

Roommate: Maybe. But probably not.

And then she left the apartment. I don't know if she's coming back. 

My mom’s response to my very long pants-related diatribe when I called her was to tell me to put it on my blog. I think just so SHE didn’t have to be the one to listen to me about it anymore.

…But seriously, those pants are definitely different. Maybe.  

Apparently it is rude to call them "rental children"

I am either a business genius or a horrible person, according to a running argument I have with my friend Heather. It began one day when I had the completely normal urge to be covered in kittens.

Me: “I require a box of kittens.”

Heather: “For the last time, I’m not going to get you kittens. We live in a dorm room.”

Me: “Well obviously I don’t want to KEEP them. I just want to lie on the floor and cuddle with them for awhile. It will make me feel better.”

Heather: “I don’t think there is any place where you can temporarily get an entire box of kittens.”

Me: “Just rent them.”

Heather: “Kitten rental is not a thing.”

Me: “It’s totally a thing! I’m making it a thing right now. You can be my business partner. We’ll make millions.”

Heather: “I am not going to be your business partner. That is a horrible idea. You can’t just pass kittens from one home to another, that’s cruel. They’d get attached to you.”

Me: “Well, it could be rent with the option to buy, like with couches.”

Heather: “I just don’t think it’s very nice.”

Me: “I doubt cats are anymore sensitive then children.”

Heather: “…do I even want you to clarify that?”

Me: “It would basically be like foster children, but with cats. If you can rent kids you should be able to rent kittens.”

Heather: “You can’t call foster kids ‘rental children’!”

Me: “…It’s totally the same thing. Except that rental kittens would be way better because instead of a stupid kid you can get like, an entire box of tiny baby cats.”

Heather: “That is completely horrible.”

Me: “So you’re saying you won’t go rent me some kittens?”

Heather: “No, I will not go get you a box of kittens from the fictional business you just made up. Especially since it is a horrible idea.”

Me: “You are so unsupportive.”

Heather: “PETA is going to attack you.”

Me: “PETA will love me. You’re jealous and mean and now I’m a storm cloud because you won’t invest in my business.”

Heather: “Get out from under the blanket, Bailey.”

Me: “NO! It’s my cave! Grrrrr! Did that sound like a panther?”

Heather: “I thought that was your Velociraptor noise.”

Me: “That was clearly a panther. Velociraptor are accompanied by the short arms.”

Heather: “You’re under a blanket, I can’t see your arms. And all your growls sound the same.”

Me: “Now you are just trying to hurt me.”

Hopefully the police don't read this, because I think I'm technically that blanket's employer

Note: This was originally posted as a facebook note a few months ago when I was still living in the dorms at Oregon State University. 

So after spending three hours in my bed tonight watching a marathon of American Pickers (it still counts as a marathon if it is just me repeatedly playing them on Netflix, right?) I realized that I had reduced my bed to what could roughly be viewed as a singular mass of swirled up blankets roughly perched on a mattress that was desperately trying to cling to its fitted sheet (and failing). After wondering if it should worry me that I apparently writhe violently while watching TV, I realized I would need to make my bed if I wanted to sleep in it tonight.

But first I moved my computer out of the depths of the blanket-whirlpool on my bed to my desk and read blogs for a while. A long while. Finally, I realized that three things needed to happen: I needed to shower, I needed to make my bed, and I REALLY needed to pee. The last one pretty much overruled the other two, and being a genius I realized that showering also takes place in the bathroom (my deduction powers are amazing.) Now, I know myself pretty well. And I knew that the last thing I would want to do after showering was anything that felt like chores. Making the bed=chores. However, it is also absurd, unthinkable even, for me to make TWO separate trips to the bathroom. Because lazy always beats intelligent.

After showering I was determined to prove my earlier self wrong. I would make the hell out of that bed and not simply resort to tunneling under the heap of blankets and curling up like some desperate animal (because it is much harder for them to make beds properly, lacking thumbs and all that.) However, after pulling all the covers off my bed and onto the floor, I spent longer than was acceptable debating whether or not I could just sleep on the bare mattress or the (very cozy looking) blanket-floor-nest.

But I am nothing if not tenacious! So I began to make my bed. When I got to the blanket my parents had brought back from Mexico, it had somehow built up enough static electricity to shock me THREE TIMES. Oh, I get it Mr. Blanket, you are judging me for not doing this earlier when I would not have been disturbing my roommates who are waiting (oh so patiently) for me to finish my extremely long process of bed-making so they can sleep and escape my craziness for a moment by slipping into blissful unconsciousness.

WELL YOU CAN'T JUDGE ME, MEXICAN BLANKET, YOU ARE AN ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT! WHERE IS YOUR GREENCARD, HUH?

And that is how I discovered that I am racist against linens while making my bed. Thank you and goodnight.

Write like nobody is watching

When I went to bed last night, I had four followers. When I woke up this morning I had thirty. And yes, I did a little jumpy/flappy arm dance (it was a masterpiece). Everything was instantly made of kittens and sunshine and creamy custardy flan. My day was made perfect, and it was all thanks to Jenny Lawson, known to all as The Bloggess.

Yesterday after writing the epic tale of OWSR, I decided to indulge a random whim and send an email to Blog Jesus (not to be confused with Keanu Reeves Jesus or Jesus Lion). The email was as follows, with the subject line of I promise, if I wanted you to sell toilet paper for me I'd pay you:

Hi Jenny,

....or  The Bloggess, or My Ladyship the Princess of Germany (has that ever been settled officially?). Anyway, obviously I'm just another one of those peons who is probably just going to clog up your inbox and never be read. I apologize for not being Nathan Fillion. And yes I have just realized the whole first part of this email comes of as like, "ooh look at me I read your blog I bet NO ONE else ever does that and then quotes it back to you in an email." So yeah...sorry about that. 

Anywho I guess I am writing to you because you are awesome, and I kinda sorta maybe wanted you to possibly read my blog if you had a chance. Obviously I don't want you to promote it or anything because 1) who do I think I am? and 2) I've only posted four things so far, which is not much to promote. I just want to see if you think I'm funny at all I suppose. Plus it'd just be really super cool. I know you have to get these kinds of emails literally all the time, in fact mine is probably sandwiched between two shockingly identical ones. However, I figured what do I have to lose? 

But as an anxiety-ridden nineteen year old currently on jury duty while all her friends are at the beach, more disappointment would kind of suck. Ooh, guilt trip! That was uncalled for. So here's the link. Do with it what you will, oh mighty deity of blogging. 

So yeah, it was long, desperate and obviously trying too hard, but I actually managed to send it. And she read it. And clicked the link. And then read that too. And THEN tweeted my blog.

So now here you are. And about twenty seconds after I felt that first sense of elation, I realized that people will actually be reading things I write. AND THAT IS TERRIFYING.

But as it turns out, this was one of the rare times when The Crazy actually got overruled. Sure, I could freak out. I could panic about what I was going to write next, how quickly I would manage to lose all these new followers, or how I would probably become so powerfully uninteresting from now on that the Bloggess would issue a tweet-traction and then find out where I live and mail me a picture of herself looking disapproving. Like this pumpkin.

Disapproving pumpkin, why must you hurt me so? 

However, sane Bailey must be working out, because even though she is one-nineteenth the size of The Crazy she managed to muscle her way through to the forefront. And so, I’m not going to freak out. I’m just going to keep writing and hope you still find it interesting.

And at some point I’m going to figure out how to reply to comments, because I totally have some now (repeats flailing dance).

Sorry to interrupt with this non-humorous post, but I couldn’t just continue on without acknowledging my new readers or the reason for them. So if you still think I’m worth the shot, tune in tomorrow to find out when I found out a terrible truth about myself: that I am racist against blankets.