Sleep Is A Sacred Thing

Having neighbors has to be one of the most stressful situations ever. You’re required to be constantly pleasant to the strangers that live next door all the time, regardless of their attitude towards you. In all fairness, most of my neighbors are decent people. The nice ones brought us muffin baskets when we first moved to the neighborhood. The really nice ones left us alone in peace. But then there are the really obnoxious neighbors- the neighBUTTS. Every neighborhood has them, no street is complete without their presence. Remember- when you get sick and tired of your neighbutts, find comfort in the thought that mine are probably worse.

The main problem would have to be the rooster. My darling neighbutts have this wonderful rooster that starts crowing at 4:30 am. I kid you not, I honestly wake up every morning thinking I’m in Little House on the Prairie. Or that I’ve been kidnapped and put into a burlap sack in the middle of a barn in rural Iowa. But no, it’s just the damn rooster next door. And it gets worse. This rooster is either old or has a perpetually sore throat, so it’s crowing is always hoarse. If you’re going to interrupt my precious sleep, at least give me a clear crow.

If my neighbutts are reading this, and they’re probably not, I just want to make one thing clear: sleep is a sacred thing. Why can’t you be normal like all the other neighbors on the street and just gossip behind everyone’s backs? Excuse me for thinking that my own house is a peaceful place in which I can get some shut-eye. Personally, I feel that a person’s home is their safe haven- a place where they can put their hair up, take off their makeup, dance like an idiot, and eat too much cake without feeling judged.

But no. The neighbutts have taken all of that away from me. Last week, Mrs. Neighbutt mentioned to my mother that she “loves it when she drives by and sees our family through the windows”. Aside from being VERY creepy, these 13 words have ruined all comfort I previously had around my house (13 is an unlucky number… oh the irony). Because my mother is now paranoid that Mr. and Mrs. Neighbutt are potentially spying on us 24/7, I am required to be fully clothed at all times. After having to wear skinny-jeans all day long, I am denied the luxury of coming home and jumping into an XXL t-shirt. I have to wear pants AT HOME.

If you see the tragedy in my situation, please come and rescue me. My house isn’t hard to find- just follow the unbearable cock-a-doodle-doo-ing. If you do not see the tragedy in my situation, you are most likely a neighbutt yourself, and deserve to be eaten alive. By a sore-throated rooster. At 4:30 am. 

WordCount: 480

The Class Caste

Going to a public school, I have come to notice that there are different types of class in the world. There is a caste system based on class, which will from now on be known as The Class Caste. To begin with, there is the “high-class prostitute” type of classy. This type of classiness requires a wardrobe full of tight pencil skirts, low-cut blouses, 6-inch heels, and an overly bitchy attitude. Someone needs to tell the girls in this class caste to calm the fuck down and cover themselves up, unless they want to end up in the back of a white van with a middle-aged man waving stacks of cash in front of their wide mascara-covered eyes.

Then, there is the “risqué” class caste, made up primarily by hot-pink fishnet stockings and neon high-tops. These are the kids who think they have a future in rapping/break-dancing/being in a band and that if they stop trying to get an education and only focus in rapping/break-dancing/being in a band it will ultimately benefit them. These are also the kids who are very sadly mistaken.

Worse than these future-welfare-collectors are the “ghetto” kids straight from the hood, with so much swag that they can’t seem to be able to walk in a straight line. Since selling meth to 13-year-olds is such a profitable business, their pockets become so full of cash that they can’t even keep their pants up, and have to walk around with their Superman boxers peeking out above their Louis Vuitton pleather belts (which are very obviously not doing their job).  

A little more publicly suitable (but not much) is the “tired-out” class caste, consisting of the children who think that not only can they wear monochromatic gray sweat-sets in public, but that if they are the same shade of gray then it’s socially acceptable. If I had to guess, I would say these are the students who have decided that they have given up caring about what people think of them, and are focusing on their “inner beauty”, and blah blah blah. I have no words for this caste except to say- come on. At least pretend you’re making an effort. How about going crazy for a day and mixing it up, eh? What about trying out some… gasp… jeans? It wouldn’t kill you to brush your hair either.

Lastly, there are the “borings” who always wear normal clothes to school and are very much less entertaining than any of the aforementioned class castes. They usually wear jeans, shirts, hoodies, sweaters, and 80% of the time have on matching socks. This class caste contributes nothing for the gossips to talk about, and gives teachers faith that maybe there is some hope for our generation after all.

WordCount: 459

Michelle Obama's Poster Child

Jogging is a wonderful habit, and one of my favorite things to do. Getting out in the sun, hearing your feet thud on the concrete, smelling fresh-cut grass and listening to birds chirping can be very therapeutic. Personally, I see it as a leisure activity- something to do to keep in shape. It doesn’t require fancy equipment, a coach, or any training. You just stretch a little and take off!

So there I am, jogging down the sidewalk, smiling at the passing cars and waving Miss-America-style to pedestrians. I’ve been running for 10 minutes thinking about how healthy and fantastic I am- Michelle Obama and her health campaign would be so proud of me. I should be their poster child. Still thinking about my future as a potential model, I turn a corner and see something. It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s… a fellow jogger! And then tragedy strikes. Her running shorts are cuter than mine. This means war.

The couch potato non-joggers out there probably don’t understand the seriousness here. But believe me this was an extremely sticky situation. The common courtesy rules of jogging are very similar to gang rules. Just as gang members have rules over who can wear what in the sketchy side of town, joggers have rights over certain streets. Sometimes we even flash gang-signs. Since this little bitch was invading in MY neighborhood, she had no right to be looking cuter than me. Who did she think she was?

The thing about hating another girl is that after the onset of the hate, everything she does becomes exaggeratedly irritating. Look at her ponytail swinging like she’s hot shit. God, the way she blinks is so damn annoying. So obviously to regain my status as “hottest jogger on the block” I had to overtake Miss Priss. Bowing my head, I ran as fast as I could, and accidentally-on-purpose bumped into her while getting ahead. Looking back, I gave her a snobby smile and discreetly put up my gang sign. Feeling satisfied, I kept on jogging.

Because I’m so beautiful, fast, and talented, Miss Priss was apparently intimidated by me. Two minutes later there she came running up, trying to get ahead of me again. By this point I was getting tired of our little game, so I did what any sane jogger would do- I pushed her into an oncoming semi. Haha calm down, I’m kidding! It was just a sedan. That’ll teach her a lesson.

But seriously, I’m joking. She eventually got tired of trying to out-jog me and ran off in a different direction. And that was the last I ever saw of her. But it’s only been 5 hours since the incident so we’ll probably run into each other again sometime. Pun intended.

WordCount: 462

Grease Has Like A Million Calories

Dear couple that makes out next to my locker,

            First off, I would like to offer a friendly hello! Now that that formality is out of the way, I would like to propose some equally friendly suggestions. To begin with, I just want to let you know that I understand how you are in deep, true, forever-lasting love. Really, I do understand. But with that said, I am also a tad bit concerned about your well-being. One of these days while you’re sucking face, one of you is going to swallow the other one whole. Now think about what a huge problem this will be. First off, and I mean this in the nicest way possible, both of you have extremely greasy hair. So when ingesting your partner whole, one you will be consuming a good cup or two of grease. And like grease has like a million calories. And like carbs. Like gross! 

            If this doesn’t scare you, maybe you should pause a second during one of your passionate rounds of tonsil tennis to observe your surroundings. If you did, you would realize that you are both the main subjects of one of my almost-famous social experiments. Congratulations! It’s a spin-off of the well known “How Many Licks Does it Take to get to the Center of a Tootsie Pop” experiment. But mine is called “How Many Shoves does it take to stop the Smooching Next to My Locker”. Thanks to me, you’re both going to be incredibly famous someday.

Ever since school has started, I have been testing how long it takes you to respond to a stimulus while you’re engaged in your hormonal activities. Translation: every day I “accidentally” drop my heaviest textbook on your toes in the hallway and shove you to see how many shoves it takes to stop your snogging session*. Your best score to date is 12 shoves**. I’m hoping that with enough dropping textbooks this score will be lowered to a maximum of 8 shoves. I’m also hoping that one of you will eventually have to get a toe amputated or something. Serves you right.

            I’m very sorry. Our newly established friendship is already taking a turn for the worse. But I feel like once I’ve seen you stick your double-pierced tongue down someone else’s equally disgusting throat I don’t have the same respect for you that I potentially could have. And those beached-whale sounds you make during your passionate interactions are absolutely repulsive. I would rather listen to my grandpa yodel. He’s tone deaf. And wears a hearing aid.

Sincerely,

A very worried and exceptionally disgusted fellow student

* I am not liable for any injuries, hospital visits, or hurt feelings

** This data is based on estimated averages only

WordCount: 459

Under-the-bleacher Adventures

In the United States of America, freedom of speech is assured to all Americans, and I strongly believe that this is a basic human right. Every person should have the guarantee to be able to say what he or she wants to say without fear of persecution. With that said, I would like to discuss the issues that occur when people exercise their right to say anything and everything whenever they please. Or as I like to call it, “Shit I hear in the Hallway”

Like most teenagers, I go to a public school. Like most teenagers, I spend a total of more than forty minutes a day (in increments) in the school hallways. Unlike most teenagers, however, I don’t completely zone out when walking from one class to the next. Try as I might, I can never be totally deaf to the weird and wonderful things that people inadvertently spew out to their friends in the halls. I catch snippets everywhere. Needless to say, some things I hear fascinate me, but others… not so much. For example, I really don’t need to be informed about your mom’s latest bra-shopping trip. Or about Uncle Jimmy’s gigantic goiter. And please- if I hear another story about Harry and Susan and their under-the-bleacher adventures, I will slap someone. And that someone will be you.

To make everyone’s life more bearable and beautiful, I have come up with a list of rules for what can and cannot be said in high school hallways. Please take the time to memorize these, since they will be in effect from October 1^st, 2012 onwards:

1) NO in-depth descriptions involving: open-anything surgeries, bloody injuries, pus-filled wounds, or gory battles scars. School is painful enough without these tales- we don’t want to hear them

2) NO talking about food and/or baked goods before lunchtime. We’re all hungry and it’s just not fair

3) NO political banter (unless you actually know what the hell you’re talking about). If you don’t watch the news or know the candidates for the election, stop talking. If you’re just trying to find an excuse to argue, go join mock trial or something. If you actually do know the difference between democrats and republicans, first explain it to me. And then please keep your discussions to a minimum.

4) NO thorough evaluations about visual appearance. Nobody gives a rat’s ass as to whether the cream eye shadow matches your shoelaces better than the powder eye shadow. Sorry.

That’s all I got for now. Obviously there will be more to come later, seeing as hallway stupidity is never-ending. There’s no need to thank me for taking the time and effort to put this together for all of you out in cyberspace. Don’t thank me. I’ll be fine. Really.

WordCount: 463

College Football: Hoochy Mama Edition

Yesterday I went to the Iowa vs. Iowa State football game. The game itself was really fun (even though Iowa lost) but the activities associated with pre-gaming were not so attractive. First off, this was my first time going to a two o clock game- mostly my family and I just go to the 7 pm ones. Obviously there is a lot of tailgating and juvenile stupidity associated with all football games, but I honestly never would have thought that it would start so early in the day.

Since this was a college game, there's obviously some pretty reckless students that show up, deciding its a good idea to drink and smoke and show the world how hardcore they think they are. But then there's also the "oldies". The oldies are the women (and sometimes men) who think they are still living young. These are the hoochy mama wannabes that come to the games in their college-logo printed miniskirts and tight fitted tube tops thinking they look sexier than megan fox in a bikini. If you are a hoochy mama reading this I'm sorry but you need a reality check. Just stop. You are not hot shit. Leave your revealing-clothing-wearing antics back in your prime where they belong and go back to your knit sweaters and mom-jeans. I'm begging you. Society is begging you.

Now for the college badasses- don't think you're off the hook just because the hoochy mamas of the world were bashed first. Let me just start off by saying- you're not nearly as cool as you think you look. In fact, you look pretty damn idiotic downing six-packs of miller lite before noon. Hey blondie over there? Yeah you. You just flashed your hot pink thong at everyone and your boyfriend snapped a picture. I'm sure mommy back at home is going to be thrilled when she sees that on Facebook tomorrow. And you? Yes I'm talking to you. Please stop dancing. If the weird flailing movements you're creating can even be called "dancing". Your hands just bumped into blondie's best friend's chest (which in your defense is spilling everywhere... But still). Judging by the look on her face you are most likely going to wake up tomorrow with a black eye and a horrible reputation. Haha jokes on you booze-man.

Moral of the story: when at football games, please cover yourself in appropriate attire and watch your alcohol intake. Or don't and get judged by the rest of us college football fans. The ones that are sober enough to judge you anyways.

 

WordCount: 427

Criminal Minds

The emergency department at any local hospital gets very exciting after 8 pm. Ask me, I know. I volunteer there Sunday nights 8-10 pm. Why? To build my immune system and strengthen my college resume of course! And also for the free coffee. Free beverages are always a plus. Free anything is always exciting. By now I have collected 15 (unused) hospital masks, 11 blue surgical gloves, and more than 40 sparkly Mickey mouse stickers. Pretty soon I could start a store. I hope you'll all come to the grand opening.

But there's more happening here in the ED than just stickers. All kinds of fascinating characters show up here after the sun sets. The most interesting would have to be the criminals. The potheads and alcoholics that come in handcuffed accompanied by a decorated officer. The criminals can be classified into two distinct categories. First we have the "loudies" who are usually either kicking, screaming, or yelling profanities at anything with a pulse. The other category is the "silents". These are the much less interesting but easier to deal with group. The silents are either meek and tired out or drugged up and staring into space with bloodshot eyes. Although they don't attract the same kind of attention as the loudies, they have a certain charm of their own. It’s like a guessing game. You always have to wonder: Are they on meth? Cocaine? Can they even talk? Do they know where they are?

The officers who wheel them in are no less entertaining. Most of them are small-town cops and bringing in these people to the hospital is probably the most action they get all week. They come in with their beefy hands on the patients' shoulders (or, if it's a loudie, pinning the patients' arms down) and puffing their chests. In their best deep movie-cop impersonation voice they tell us all about what's "going on" with the patient, which ends up being extremely inaccurate 80% of the time.

So there we sit, us emergency department volunteers and listen as the cops tell us all about their heroic escapades, complete with hand gestures, jumping around, and play-by-plays. We usually let this go on for 3 minutes before gently interrupting to remind them the reason they're here... The criminal patient.

It's around this time that either the slightly embarrassed cops or the fed up handcuffed criminal will (finally) tell us the nature of the emergency. And that's the end of the whole episode. Until the patient decides to make a run for it... But that's a story for another day.

WordCount: 432