Stop apologizing for the things you like, even if it happens to be British boy-bands

So, here's the thing: I am completely over the concept of "guilty pleasures". Here is a list of things that I believe you should feel guilty about: kicking puppies, kicking my best friend who does a great impression of a puppy, chewing gum loudly in public, shoplifting, thinking about how easy it would be to shoplift (because I mean come on, it is a tiny nail polish that I could just slip into my purse, and I'm not saying I would do it but I totally could if I really wanted to but just thinking about it makes me feel like a criminal), etc.

Pictured: my roommate being really disappointed in how often I imagine being a kleptomaniac

Here is a list of things that I am sick of feeling guilty about: liking certain movies/music/TV/food/anything that makes you happy and doesn't hurt anyone else.

Now I'll make a confession (but not an apology): this post is a little bit about One Direction. If you don't know who One Direction are, they are a British boy-band who rose to fame on the X-Factor and sing some of the most aggressively teenage pop music since Tiffany left the mall circuit. And I love it. Their music is fun, it is energetic, and I think that they are genuinely good singers. And when I first heard a song of theirs and started singing along, I was embarrassed and annoyed at myself.

Because come on, I am way too cool to have such bad taste in music. I told my sister that I liked them, and she replied "you are so gross". And oddly enough, that was the reaction I was looking for. I specifically told her to get it validated that yes, this is something that it is not okay to like. And then I listened to the song again and danced around my apartment.

I know all the words to this and I am starting to know which member of the band sings which part. No shame. 

But then, sometime around the fifth replay of this song, I reached a moment of clarity: I used so much energy enjoying myself, I didn't have any left to be ashamed for the way I was enjoying myself. Something that some of you know is that I have had struggled with depression in the past. Because of this, I try to take every good mood, every smile and every little thing that makes my day brighter as a blessing. And it hit me that it was extremely counterproductive to feel guilty about the things that I enjoy. 

Sometimes my roommates and I have 'wolf pack' nights where we cuddle on the couch and then go outside on our deck and howl like lunatics. I am currently watching the most melodramatically staged "reality" show I've ever seen, in which a monkey wearing plaid just brandished a gun at a man who legitimately calls himself Urban Tarzan. I often reread a children's book series called Unicorns of Balinor, and last week I ate two donuts, a muffin and two cookies over the course of one day. And there are a thousand other things that fill me with joy but that I normally would never admit to, or would temper with one of those self-deprecating "I know it's awful and I'm so silly for liking it but I was probably hypnotized anyway" expressions.  

Oh, I mean, yeah, those are my Avril Lavigne CDs but I only like her um...ironically?

Really, if you think about it, it is all pointless. What are we really afraid of, someone judging us? I can almost guarantee that every super-cool movie snob who you think will despise you for liking Crank: High Voltage goes home, locks their door and reads the Twilight books for the fifth time with the same sense of skin-crawling shame. Or something. The point is, we all have our things, and I think it is about time we embraced them. 

So here's my challenge: like the things you like. Try to have the most fun you can in this life. Find the things that make you smile, make you laugh, make you dance around the room like an idiot, and embrace them. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch this One Direction fan-made cartoon for the third time. And I'm not even sorry. 

We're like Charlie's Angels, but with less crime fighting and more arguments about food

I have recently been musing upon the complexities of cohabitation. Or in my case, tri-habitation (I am 78% sure that I made that up.) To put it bluntly, living with people who aren’t your family is weird.

Since I have been living with my two best friends for the last two years at school, I have yet to experience the bone-searing awkwardness of living with strangers. Most likely I would only survive that until my small talk ran out. (How are you? Still good? That’s good…)

So in terms of living situations mine is pretty tops. I’m not one of those people who can tell excellent, cringe-worthy roommate anecdotes. But I would like to take a moment to point out the little things that people never talk about but that are completely bizarre.

To point out something obvious: Heather and Courtney (henceforth known as ‘the roomsies’) were not raised by my family. They had their own families who formed their own habits. Teeny, tiny nothing habits that you never think about until holy shit why do they do that differently than you?

For instance: did you know that breakfast pie is apparently NOT a thing? In my household, if there was leftover pie (or certain kinds of cake) it was basically expected that it would be enjoyed in the early morning.

Neither of my roommates has ever enjoyed pie for breakfast. I weep for their misfortune. Also they eat a lot of things with whole wheat and enhanced fiber. And they talk about apples the way normal people talk about brownies. (“Ooh, yeah, I love honeycrisp! Honeycrisp is the best kind!” “Me too, although red delicious sounds good right now!” “MMMM yeah it does!!!” “…have you guys even tasted chocolate?”)

But I digress. Although I could rant about their obnoxiously healthy food habits forever, that wasn’t entirely my point. I don’t think. I tune in and out of my own thoughts a bit. There is only so much ‘me’ I can handle at a time.

Another example: I’ve never owned a wooden spoon. Which is apparently a big deal or something. I don’t think there has ever been a single moment when I felt the need to have a wooden spoon. But the roomsies act as though they are the most important utensil ever to grace the earth. Wooden spoons are second only to apples.

I often call my sister and tell her about these little quirks just to regain some sense of normalcy.

Me: “People eat hotdogs in tortillas, right?”

Sister: “Of course, that’s the best.”

Me: “Ok, just checking.”

That’s something about family: they are the only ones who will completely understand and identify with every little quirk and habit you assumed were universal. Because I’ve found out that just about nothing is universal, and part of what makes family so indispensable is that they do things the way you do because they are the ones who taught you to do it in the first place. (I’m pretty sure that sentence was impossible to follow. Well, my family will understand it. BAM, point made.)

But as much as I love my family, there is something to be said for living with friends. I have managed to find at least two people who, even though they don’t agree with it, allow me to cover the stove burners in tin foil. And then are totally unfazed when I use the excess foil to make tiny animal sculptures. Or decide to dry my fingernails by prancing around the dining room to ABBA. Or yell the word “train” in response to the train whistle (it just sounds so lonely).

Me and the roomsies are extremely different on paper: A blonde, a brunette, and a red head. (We're like a television trio.) A Christian biology major who is possibly dressed by birds and other woodland creatures in the morning, an Athiest computer science major who listens to dubstep and is wonderfully sarcastic, and an Agnostic, childlike business major with a tendency towards crazy. 

But we work. Because we all use words like “roomsies”. We can turn on a strobe light in our dining room and have an impromptu rave just because studying is killing us. Because they are completely into the idea of me recreating the Wuthering Heights music video over Christmas break. (Oh yeah, it’s happening. Prepare yourselves for the overload of awesome.)

So I think there might be two kinds of families: the people who form all of your weirdness, and the people who later have to put up with it.

But I still say breakfast pie isn’t weird. Only amazing. 

It takes a lot of work to look simultaneously disaffected and like you're attending a rave in the 80s

I started writing a full post about my Halloween costume (which I may still flesh out and post if I need a way to avoid responsibilities) but for now I decided to just let it speak for itself:

I also made the costume/did the makeup of my roommate Courtney. And decided on our band name, inspired by this video from The Mighty Boosh. If only we could find some musical talent this could really be something…

We may or may not have taken over forty pictures in different badass poses...

Happy Halloween Everyone!!! 

Stop destroying my childhood, United States Mint people

The other night I was feeling extremely hyper, energetic and incredibly bored. On top of that, my roommates had the audacity to leave me all alone when I was in such desperate need of amusement. Something about needing to study or going to church or freeing giraffes from captivity or something, I was pretty tuned out.

Sweet Freedom!!!!

The important thing is that they left me at home, all alone, knowing full well that I had recently finished watching all of my British comedy shows and had no way to mindlessly amuse myself. Unforgivable.

So I wandered the apartment for awhile, sighing loudly until I remembered there was no one around to hear how dreadfully I was being treated. Then I came across a penny, which made me happy until I realized it was one of those new pennies.

Whoever made the decision to deprive future generations of the joy of discovering the teeeeny Lincoln sitting in the monument on the back of classic pennies should go sit on a cactus. It was honestly one of the defining moments of my childhood.

Bask in the glory of tiny Lincoln! He's in there, I promise. 

Disquieted by my musings on minuscule presidents (or lack-thereof), I decided to be the bigger person. I wouldn't be angry at my friends by leaving me to my own devices; I would use this alone time to show them how much I care.

Thus I wrote nice things on seven-post it’s for each of my roommates and hid them around the apartment. It was a gesture that I felt was appropriately equal parts sweet and serial killer, which is just my style.

This took me about nine minutes. Or it may have been forty. I have a really bad sense of time. The point is that after doing this I was still bored, hyper and alone. After nixing the idea of covering the light fixture in tin foil (I just couldn’t come up with a feasible reason) and writing the word “Mummy” on the bathroom mirror with my finger so it showed up when my roommate showered, I retreated to the only possible course of action.

I am speaking, of course, of this song. Listen. Watch the video. Then go watch the other pretty much identical video (except she had a white dress instead of red and is indoors). And try not to get sucked in. I dare you. It is impossible. It is simply too glorious to be ignored. WATCH KATE BUSH DO WEIRD ARM DANCING. 

My roommate did not find it quite so glorious when she finally got home. Although she may have been distracted by me singing and dancing along. She simply narrowed her eyes at me and said “you know way too many of those lyrics. What even is that?”

It is my life now Heather. It is my life.