What I Fucked Up

I am chubby. Most of the time I’m pretty comfortable with how I look because hey, I am not grossly unhealthy and I do have other nice features, dammit! On a good day, I’d say I’m a solid 7!*

*Back home in the Midwest. 

However, every few months I decide that it’s time I finally make a change and get in shape. I’m a very determined person in most aspects of my life, why should weight loss be any different?

I begin by setting goals. Reluctantly I step on the scale, treating the number it shows like a Stephen King monster. At last I look and confirm, yes, this diet is long overdue. So I make a plan! Sometimes this involves a program (like a calorie counting app), other times big sweeping decisions (“no more dairy!”), and sometimes I just go with something trendy (Beyonce’s Master Cleanse Juice Fast). If it sounds too good to be true, sign me up!

The food part of the diet starts off well—I am a lazy creature at heart and so if I only leave myself celery in the fridge, that’s what will be my dinner. Occasionally I’ll even cook; a process that takes anywhere from 2 to 18 hours, because I’m making sure to build sustainable habits.

However, apparently just eating celery isn’t enough. People say you have to like, move your body, or whatever too. Ewww. 

While most people’s spirit animals would be lions and wolves and eagles (pretty much any sigil in Game of Thrones), mine would be a slug. Eh, maybe that’s not totally fair. A DEAD slug. Mmmm, better.

However, during these brief bursts of diet inspiration I decide that maybe secretly I AM an athletic person! Yes! It’s just been very deep down… buried under the fat I’ve so carefully cultivated. With enough delusional self-encouragement, I actually go to a gym or even step outside.

This is always a terrible idea. After treating my body like a living bean bag chair for years, the only thing my muscles know how to do is lump. In fact, the only way I know I have muscles lurking somewhere under my doughy exterior is because I am so sore. I’ve never been hit by a truck, but I’m pretty sure that’s what pushups feel like.

Depending on how motivated I am (the equation for which is sadness multiplied by free time), I keep up my exercise program from anywhere between one and ten days. At the end of this period, when my resolve is starting to waver, I’ll examine my results. But instead of a Bikini Bod, the girl I see in the mirror looks more like a melting snowman.

After the first week food starts getting stressful too. I get obsessive about being “healthy” and following the plan and suddenly small inconveniences become life-wrecking obstacles. A coworker’s birthday with free ice cream cake is a common nightmare scenario. At various points on diets, I have actually begun to dream about desserts. Just wanted to slip that in before someone accidentally developed a crush on me!

And the more pressure I put on myself combined with my lack of immediately visible results, pushes me to a breaking point. 

Bang! Gulp! Mmmm! The diet is over. I tell myself “hey, maybe people just can’t change!” along with a mix of other B.S. excuses. Luckily I am extremely gullible about lies I tell myself to feel better, so it totally works.  And I go back to being chubby and just not worrying about it. At least until next month.

For those of us with inflated, romanticized images of ourselves, few things sound as utterly cool as “road trip.” So when in 2007 Lollapalooza announced that the headliners would be Pearl Jam, Muse, and Daft Punk, my best friend and I knew we had to make a journey to Chicago.

We had saved up enough money at our summer jobs for the tickets, food, and gas, but hotels were far out of our limited price range. Luckily one of my mom’s old friends lived in Chicago and so we set up arrangements to stay with her for the three days. The woman was a middle aged actor, recently divorced, and more than a slight alcoholic… But she had a house, so we were all set for our trip!

However the morning of our third day in Chicago, my mother’s friend told us that there was a change of plans. She’d booked a gig out of town so we couldn’t stay at her place that night after all! Oops! We weren’t sure what to do, so we went to the concert and decided we’d just figure something out.

While waiting in the giant crowd for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, we started talking to the people around us and discovered two boys from our rival high school in Ohio. They were the year above us… they had flown in on Thursday… they had a hotel downtown- THEY HAD A HOTEL! My friend and I exchanged a look, reading each other’s minds the way all teen girl best friends can, and realized this was our opportunity to not spend the night on the streets of Chicago. We got their numbers, saying we should “hang out” later, secretly scheming to sleep in their hotel room.

The hitch was that we didn’t actually want to sleep with them. Both of us had boyfriends, plus, we weren’t whores. So, we needed to trick these boys into thinking we were going to sleep with them just long enough for them to invite us to stay over, but not actually put out. I had the brilliant idea that once in their hotel room my friend would get a “stomachache,” then I’d have to take care of her and we’d just go to bed. She was reticent but I knew it was foolproof! So that night, after rocking out to Pearl Jam, we called our new friends to hang out. They suggested going out for pizza or… “You could always come over to our hotel room and we could order in?” We leapt on it, saying we’d be right there!

The plan was working perfectly—it was late enough that the boys had suggested we “crash here with them.” My friend was just about to start her Great Abdominal Pain Act when suddenly my stomach rumbled. It felt like there was a creature inside, gnawing at my innards. Apparently the three days of eating nothing but greasy festival food was catching up to me. I ran to the bathroom and did terrible things. Terrible, terrible things. I wanted to believe the other three people couldn’t hear me, telling myself this hotel might have soundproof walls or something! After about an hour, I emerged, and knew my hope was wrong. The boys looked disgusted, my friend shocked, as if I’d just murdered a baby panda. I tried to speak but one of the guys interrupted me: “Let’s… just go to bed.” I agreed and lay down on the floor with my friend. Sure I was embarrassed, but the plan had still worked. We had a roof for the night, and those boys did NOT want to sleep with us.

When I was in high school I had two relationships. The second lasted through a good chunk of college, and while it had some pretty bad parts, ultimately was one of the best things to ever happen in my life. The first one was a total train wreck.

I’ve already discussed my disastrous attempt to give this particular guy a lap dance, but there were so many other moments that just make me wish I’d just been trapped in a coma from ages 14 – 16. So many badly handled situations.

On this occasion, my boyfriend’s parents had gone out of town, leaving my beau home alone. Well, almost. Rightfully not trusting him, they had asked a family friend to stay at the house and essentially babysit their 16-year-old son. They were fairly lax about rules except for one: No Chelsea. While they were unable to properly chaperone, I was not supposed to be within a ten-mile radius of their son’s penis. And unfortunately the house sitter had been thoroughly briefed on this rule.

However, one Saturday afternoon an opportunity struck. The family friend had plans for the evening and so headed out for the rest of the day. My boyfriend called the moment she left and I immediately asked my mom for a ride! My mother did not like his parents (or him), and so didn’t speak to them. Which was great, because then she didn’t find out pesky little details like when they would or would not be home.

So I arrived at his house and our secret day of romance was going great! Until we heard a door slam. We fumbled for our clothing, he muted the Incubus song on his stereo, and we heard the babysitter call up a hello to him. She was back much earlier than expected. Immediately my boyfriend started to panic. He was already in trouble with his parents for drinking and so could not afford to get caught with me in the house. But with the sitter directly downstairs, it would be impossible for me to sneak out unnoticed. Especially because his house was the very old kind, where every step causes loud creaking. He began frantically whispering at me to climb out of his bedroom window. I looked outside. There was no tree, no ivy… nothing to climb. I pointed this out and he said “I’m sure you’ll be fine. It’s only like 30 feet. You can jump!” ROMANCE! As I insisted once and for all that I would not be jumping out of his window to my death, I came up with a new plan.

In unison we walked, step for step, to the bathroom down the hall from his room. Once inside he turned the shower on, thus covering up the sound of our voices. I pulled out my cell phone and called our mutual friend—a guy who lived down the street. Thankfully he answered. “Come over,” I told him, “and wear a sweatshirt and jeans!” He was confused, but agreed to do it. I then called my mom and asked her to pick me up at the park nearby in 20 minutes. My boyfriend turned off the water and we carefully walked back to his room, again in unison to avoid suspicious creaking. He called down to his house sitter and said a friend was stopping by to do some homework. She said that was fine, and laughed, “anyone but that Chelsea girl!”

Our friend arrived a few minutes later and headed upstairs. We grabbed him once he entered my boyfriend’s room and explained our situation. He was confused how he could help, when I ordered him to strip. As most freshman boys would do if a girl asked them to take off their clothes, he obliged. So I proceeded to put on his baggy sweatshirt and jeans, stowing my clothes in a plastic bag. My boyfriend handed our friend some of his extra clothing, which left my friend in a tight t-shirt and athletic shorts and me in an outfit 3 sizes too big. But the plan was in action. Realizing my mom would be at the park any minute, I pulled up the hood and walked downstairs, now with a new male identity. I stared at the ground, trying not to be noticed.

“That was fast!” the babysitter commented, since “I” had only arrived for homework a few minutes prior. I nodded, not wanting to risk the voice, then rudely rushed toward the door without another word. When I got outside, I ran to the park and arrived just as my mom was pulling in. She was confused at my outfit, but I assume not as confused as the house sitter was when an hour later the real friend left the house for a second time that night. But the ruse worked. And it will probably be the closest my life will ever come to a heist. 

Just about everyone thinks their life is like a movie, and I’m no exception. However, I think I am unusual in that mine is The Parent Trap. No, I don’t have a twin (well, not that I know of. I suppose that’s sort of the point of the film…), but I do have parents who rekindled a romance after not speaking for approximately 16 years. 

To start, we need to go back to before I was even born. My dad was married to another woman with four kids, just as all fairy tales begin. Soon after he and my mom started seeing each other, he left his family to pursue this new, redheaded love. They dated for a few years, moved in together, broke up, got back together, broke up again, etc. until finally my mother got pregnant and they decided to stick it out and try to be a family. Which totally makes sense considering how well it worked for him the first time.

Sadly, things fell apart yet again and so by my 5^th birthday, I had every kid’s favorite euphemism: Two Christmases. Though, in my case it’s actually not a euphemism for divorce, because they were never married. Alas, I am a bastard. Much like Jon Snow, Gendry, and the Sand Snakes, I too- Oh, this isn’t a good time to launch into Game of Thrones discussions? Ahem. The point is, my parents split and not on terribly good terms. My childhood was filled with “I don’t want to say anything bad about your father, BUT, isn’t he just a selfish liar?” and “I don’t want to put you in the middle… but how can you stand your mother’s manipulative, evil ways?” I’d know my dad was on the line by my mother’s cursing; a screaming match having erupted in the five seconds of “hello.” Every effort was taken to avoid any contact whatsoever, which was fine by me. I should probably have been scarred by all this, but honestly, I didn’t really care. I loved them both, but I was far more concerned with things like ice cream, my cats, and my long-time crush to dwell much on my parents’ relationship. It’s clear why I became so selfless and not at all self-absorbed… she wrote, in her blog about her life… 

However, my junior year of college things got weird. In the same three month-stretch, my mom had to get shoulder surgery and my dad had to get knee surgery. Both of them had recently ended relationships and with me off at college, they had no one to help them through the procedures and physical therapy. On the phone to my dad I joked he and my mom could always help each other. It was a joke because of how obviously absurd it was. That’s like suggesting a Lannister and a Stark work together to- OK FINE, I’m just really excited about Game of Thrones right now. The problem is, my dad said it was a good idea. Later when I spoke with my mom she mentioned that my dad had called and they were going to get lunch this week. Wait, what? Well, I guess that’s fine. Nothing to worry about…

Wrong. When I came home for winter break they told me it was official: they were dating again. I was horrified. We all ate dinner together. We all went to the movies together. WE SHARED ONE CHRISTMAS. Were these the same psychos that had raised me? I tried bringing up how weird it was that they were dating again but they seemed to have selective amnesia, only remembering the things that used to work and strategically omitting all the relationship-warfare that had been going on for all of my life. But they both seemed happy so I decided I shouldn’t get involved. Maybe it’s nice that they have each other, I thought. It’s weird, yes, but maybe theirs really was True Love and they were finally mature enough to make it work! I checked my own discomfort with the situation and gave them my support.

Six months later I was consoling each of them on the phone, switching between lines as they yelled to me what a complete monster the other was, though of course that shouldn’t affect how I feel about them… unless I want it to… And as I calmed them down through expletives and tears, I wished I’d blown the whistle on this romantic death trap the second it rose from the grave.

So now things are back to normal and they hate each other again, just now with fresh venom. And I finally understand why Lindsay Lohan is so fucked up: she had to live through the greatest cinematic lie ever told.

Freshman year of college, my best friend and I stayed in New York over spring break. “We’ll have adventures!” we agreed; the newness of The Big Apple still thrilled us to the core (PUNS!). So the first night of freedom, after everyone else went home to pack for trips, we decided to go to a 24 hour diner fittingly named Around the Clock.

We walked in the direction that we thought was correct, but immediately got lost. A police car passed us once, then a block later passed us again, then slowed. The driver’s window rolled down and a police man with a thick Brooklyn accent greeted us. “Evening, ladies, I noticed you seem to be changin’ directions back there, didn’t know if you were lost.” We said yes, we were, to which the officer informed us we were a long way off. “Why don’t you get in and we’ll just give you a ride,” he suggested. When parents tell you not to get into cars with strangers, surely that doesn’t mean police, right? We climbed in. 

We sat behind a set of bars that made us feel criminal. A second officer was riding shotgun, a fat guy in his early forties who hardly spoke. The driver, meanwhile, couldn’t shut up. “The reason we’re patrollin’ around right now, is we got a call about a naked guy. So when we saw you turn we thought, ya know, maybe you saw him. You girls didn’t see him, right?” We shook our heads no. “Well you girls have been the highlight of the night! You know, meeting two pretty, beautiful girls…” We giggled uncomfortably, but seconds later they pulled up in front of the diner. We stepped out of the police car, red and blue lights flashing, and walked into the restaurant, but the host immediately stopped us saying they were closed.  

“What?” I asked. “You can’t be closed, you’re literally open Around The Clock!” The restaurant was half full and all eyes were locked on us. Oooh, I realized, these people think we were just picked up by the cops and that we’re prostitutes. As we stepped back outside, we saw the police car do a U-turn, driving the wrong way up a one way street to get back to us. When we said we’d just go home the driver insisted on finding us somewhere else to get food. “I can’t have two pretty girls left unsatisfied!” So he drove us to another diner he knew, far from the village. As we drove we made small talk. “So… what do you girls do?”  

“We’re freshmen in college.”  

“Wow. Brains and beauty. You girls are the total package, huh! What bars do you go to?”

Was this a trap? 

“Uh… none. Because we’re 18…”

“Well I could suggest some good ones. They don’t really ID around here anyway. You should try this place over on Avenue B!”  Were we really being told about a good bar that didn’t card by a cop? “You should give me your numbers and I could give you a call when I’m going with some people or something,” he added as we pulled up to a new diner.  We said thanks but we just NEVER drink, and we left in a hurry. We watched as the cop car pulled away and disappeared. Then laughed, relieved. 

As we exited the restaurant, now filled with cheese fries, my friend lit a cigarette and we tried to figure out where the subway was. Suddenly, a car rolled up. A police car. Apparently our friends had parked nearby and waited for us. For an hour. “We drove you pretty girls far away from where you live and realized you have no way of getting home! We should have at least given you our numbers so you could have called us for a ride…” We tried to use my friend’s cigarette as an excuse to walk but they countered. “Go ahead and smoke in here! Besides, it’s almost 4 in the morning, it isn’t safe for you to be walking alone out here… Who knows who you’d meet.” So once more we got into the back of the car. They rolled down the windows for the smoke and turned on the radio, blasting 80s music. “Up next,” the DJ said, “is ‘Roxanne’ by The Police.” My little heart just about exploded from the irony. The driver turned it up and said “I love this song. A lot of people think it’s romantic and use it as their wedding song but actually Sting wrote it about a stalker. Kinda like us! Since we’ve been following you girls all night!” We laughed awkwardly. I’d never encountered someone so direct with their creepiness.

He changed the subject: “Have you girls been to Madison Square Garden yet?” We said no, we’re just poor college students, we mostly stay in. “Well why don’t your boyfriends take you?” We said they preferred taking us to do other stuff. Neither of us actually had boyfriends but it was clear where this was going.  “Well, maybe you girls just need to date older men who can afford to take you out. You know, The Police are coming to Madison Square Garden next month. I work sometimes as a security guard there so I get free tickets to all the shows. If you give me your numbers I could take you girls. I could show you the city.”  We insisted our boyfriends wouldn’t like that, again stressing the we-have-boyfriends angle since the we-are-barely-legal angle didn’t seem to matter. “Don’t worry, you could both go so you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable or anything. I could take both of you out. Believe me, I could handle both of you at once.” My friend and I glared at each other, more aware of the bars trapping us than ever. Is this how girls get murdered? “And you know, they give us guns so it’s kind of in your best interest to go out with me right now. You know, for your own protection.”  At that point his partner forced a laugh and said “HAH you’re just joking around!” We pulled up to the corner a few buildings away from our dorm and the driver made one last attempt, “so you’re really not going to give me your numbers? It never hurts to have friends in the NYPD.” We got out of the car and thanked them for driving us around, then bolted into our building. We may not have gone to Cancun, but how many Spring Breaks involve getting both literally and figuratively picked up by the cops? Actually, probably a lot.

New York is a weird place because unlike most of the country, you can (and do) run into celebrities in daily life. After seven years here I’ve seen, met, sat behind, and literally bumped into too many to list. I don’t say this as bragging because I don’t really think of it as an accomplishment. I don’t need a magazine to tell me CELEBS ARE JUST LIKE US because it’s pretty clear we’re all just people figuring it out (though some are doing a better job than others coughbeyonce couchgwynethpaltrow). However, when it comes to people who create work I love, I turn into a real weirdo. 

As I’ve said in the past, meeting people on OKCupid can be a gamble. But when I received a message from this guy who seemed sweet and was very much my type, I had to give it a shot. The only real negative was that he lived off the G train. For you non New York readers, the G train is your asshole “friend” who chooses somewhere really inconvenient to meet you and then texts you an hour later with “LOL oops I fell asleep! Be there soon!” but then never shows up. Ever. Also she smells. Luckily for me, the guy was happy to commute to Manhattan so we continued to see each other.

However, after a month of dating, I decided it was time to end things. Though he was cute and nice, he just wasn’t that interesting. He was trying to become an artist, but for now just worked in a comic shop. Plus he was considering moving back in with his mom and dad since they apparently were in the city, and hooking up silently so as not to wake parents was something I’d hoped to leave behind in high school. I told my friend about the decision and she agreed I should call things off with, uh, what’s his name again? I told her his full name, not really thinking about it, and she laughed saying how it would be cool if he were related to this writer that I loved… who had the exact same last name… WAIT A MINUTE. Attractive. Check. New York parents. Check. An artist who’s not concerned about money. Giant red I-should-have-noticed-this-before check. I ran to Wikipedia. Sure enough, it was true. Google backed it up with pictures of him and his dad at events being fancy and impressive together. I was dumbfounded, and muttered “I can’t break up with him now.”  

My friend agreed.

So we kept dating. I didn’t want him to know I knew who he was, yet I could no longer act natural. Plus, I wanted to meet one of my heroes! When he’d ask about plans for the evening I’d counter with “What do you think your parents up to tonight?” At the time that seemed like a normal thing to ask. It isn’t. I chose dates in TriBeCa intentionally so he might say “hey why don’t we stop up and see my folks,” because nothing says romance like parents. Finally, after another couple months of dating he went off to a cartooning workshop in Florida and we never bothered to pick things up when he got back. Which was fine by me, except for the fact that I’d still never met his father.

Until a year later when I passed him on 46th street. We didn’t exchange any words, but there was a look. A look that said, I admire you, sir. And also I’ve seen your son naked.

To save money in college I applied to be a “Residential Assistant” in a dorm. The deal is you get free housing and a meal plan in exchange for being a glorified babysitter. For two years of my life, my job was consoling homesick 18-year-olds who were secretly just upset that someone ate their yogurt. The dumb thing is, I loved it. Many of my best friends from college were the fellow RAs I met in that job, and I even stay in touch with a few of my former residents. However, there were moments over the course of those two years where I hated it beyond words and wanted nothing more than to go on an 18-year-old-punching-spree.

Junior year I found myself suddenly single and new to the New York dating scene. As previously mentioned, my way of dealing with this was to sign up for online dating. Through that, I’d met a guy I thought was a little bit perfect—he was getting his PhD in neuroscience, he was a former punk with tattoos to prove it, and he looked exactly like Young Tom Hanks. Obviously he made quite a SPLASH (wait, you’re telling me 80s references aren’t hilarious?). After going out for Thai food and spending a day in the park, we’d made it to date #3. The BIG one (OK fine, fine, I’ll stop). I intentionally picked a local bar for drinks and after a pitcher or two got the confidence to invite him back to my place. 

We giggled and kissed as we approached my building and stumbled into the lobby. Where we were immediately stopped by a security guard and prompted for our IDs.

“Uh, is this a dorm?” he questioned. Somehow I’d forgotten to mention that. 

“Yeah… you, um, have to sign in.” He awkwardly fumbled for his ID and filled out the form until the guard asked how long he’d be in my room. He paused, clearly uncomfortable and I grabbed the pen and scribbled something, blushing hard. However I was determined not to let anything ruin this night! But when we got to my floor, things only got worse. Despite the late hour, my residents were all up and had decided to camp out in the hallway. Seeing this guy with me, they winked, they cheered, and they cat called. I ushered my date down to my room, my face now a shade of purple with embarrassment. “Shut uppp” I hissed at them, suddenly understanding how older teen sisters feel in movies when their dates get busted by little brothers. Luckily, when we got in my room, there was a bit of a reprieve. Suddenly it was just us again and soon enough we began hooking up. Drunk and satisfied, we laid down… or tried to. The bed was of course a twin, designed to be barely enough room for one person, let alone two. We attempted to cuddle, then just tried to sleep, and somehow before morning I realized he’d moved down to the floor. 

We both had things to do the next morning so he gathered his things and prepared to leave. Despite some set backs, I said I’d had fun. He agreed, saying there were a few strange moments but overall, worth it. I smiled, as I opened my door. And then I saw it.  My residents, the clever little demons, had taped up homemade posters on my door and the wall by my room. Phrases included “GET IT” and “Please fuck more quietly!” and simple wink faces. His mouth dropped open, and he picked up his pace to the elevator.

“Thanks again,” he said. “I’ll call you soon.” 

He didn’t.

I am, unfortunately, a greedy person. Not necessarily in the way that corrupt Wall Street traders and corporate raiders are greedy—I don’t try to sabotage others to increase my own wealth or anything like that—but as I’ve mentioned before, my brothers were only around on the weekends so I never had to learn about stupid things like “sharing,” or whatever. To put it in terms that I prefer, I’m basically just your textbook Slytherin: ambitious, a little power-hungry, and not always the best team player. Or if you’re my mom you can just explain it as me being “such a classic Leo!” 

At times, this mindset has helped me—classes graded on a curve became instant competitions, spurring me on until I had surpassed all other students. At other times, my greed has just made a little rude by say, not offering a piece of the chocolate I’m eating to friend because IT’S MINE, DAMMIT. However, as I’ve gotten older I’ve started to realize that my ambition and desire to be the best has had some negative side effects. And it’s something I see a lot of other young people fucking up as well. I think it all comes down to Mercantilism. (Nice blogging, Chelsea! No better way to reel people in into a story than with a lighthearted discussion of historical economic theories!) My probably incorrect memory of Mercantilism is that wealth is a limited quantity. The richer you get, the poorer I get. Now as badass economist Adam Smith wisely said, “that’s bullshit, son.” Everyone can get what they want. It may not all be equal, but it’s not like there’s only enough room at the top for the select few. Now, although this ideology was long abandoned, I’ve seen people take this philosophy in many aspects of their lives. By your girlfriend loving something else, there’s less love left for you, or by your friend being super hot, you won’t look as attractive. And in my case, by the people around me becoming successful there would be less success left for me.

Comedian/writer/MTV host Sara Schaefer wrote something that touched on this topic wherein she says, “it feels like we are all fighting for a piece of the pie. And there are only so many pieces of pie to go around. But that’s a myth! There isn’t just one pie! And guess what, you can MAKE YOUR OWN PIE.” I’ve said things about friends out of jealousy that I regret, and I’ve held back much deserved congratulations to others because I was too busy feeling sorry for myself. But the older I’ve gotten, the more I’ve been able to honestly cheer on others without thinking about how I compare. Which is probably a good thing, since 95% of the time, I’m wearing sweatpants. 

Guest post by Austin Hall, author and artist of Austin Was Alive.

Maybe this is a ribald claim, but no one wants their mom to see their dick. For me, that Special Organ is reserved for moments most intimate, such as hazy one-night stands and weird second-cousin stuff. With great cognitive dissonance, I have to accept that since I was once a human baby, my mother has seen me naked countless times; even then, the thought of my baby dick waggling around in front of her still makes me a tad uncomfortable. The only safety is that years later, though hardly increased in size (Hello, ladies!), at least the junkzone has developed an air of pubescent mystery. For most people. Not for me, anymore.

I was home for the summer, sleeping in my parents’ basement as 21-year-olds are wont to do. In what I believe may have been my first alcohol purchase in the United States, my friends and I marched into our local Grocery Store Booze Section, driver’s licenses brandished with cocky aplomb. Friend “C” was teaching friend “L” and I all about various beer-types (a thing I still haven’t really picked up on) - so naturally we each got a six-pack of The Finest Belgian Stouts (¿maybe?) and The Ones with Weird Gnomes on Them (my choice). We went back to C’s house as he began to explain what a “sipping beer” was, contrasting our selections with his homemade Sangria and an entire case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. As I downed the sipping beer to make room for the one designated “First Place,” I remembered I hadn’t really had a drink in a few months. Nor anything to eat that day. No worries! If the Media was to be believed (and why shouldn’t it be!), Tolerance is in the mind, just.

Then my mind threw up, all over C’s bathroom. Unable to appreciate my Rorschach-like vomit pattern in his sink, C decided it was time to take me home. Luckily he only lived a few blocks away, but as he and L dragged me by the arms to my abode, I remembered my father’s only stipulation for the evening: “You have to have the car back by 8am!”

“Gentlemen, it is most imperative that you return the patriarchal vehicle promptly eight hours ante meridiem!” I probably yelled. Or maybe it was something like “Car! 8! [Vomitsounds]!” My memory is a little hazy on details - in fact, the next thing I remember is waking up in my bed, with my dad standing over me. “Where’s the car, Austin!?”

“They said they’d have it back by 8,” I assumed.

“Well, they don’t. Ugh. Fine. I’ll figure something out.” He left after thrusting a trash can towards the bed. Huh! How did he know I vomited at C’s last night? With that riddleseed planted, I passed back out.

I woke up much later in the day, feeling great, feeling good, how are you? I went about my business, wondering if I had run into my parents after I got home and told them I puked. That didn’t seem like a thing I’d do, considering I even hid my middle name from them. Eventually my mother came home from work, and with a weird blank expression, asked how I was doing.

“Feeling great, feeling good, how are you?” I responded, predictably. Eyebrows raised, her expression barely changed. “Do you think you can you clean the bathroom?”

“Yeah, of course! I’m a helpful and altruistic son!” I set about, arbitrarily cleaning the bathroom out of Parental Love rather than obligation, as far as I knew. The toilet was a little dirty, it seemed, but otherwise, it wasn’t so gross. What a silly chore, I figured.

When my dad came home, he revealed that C and L had pulled the car into the driveway just as he came upstairs. The delay was due to L’s vomiting all morning, which was a relief - my 6’ 5” friend was as much of a lightweight as I was! Ego restored and mystery solved, I decided! Nothing else to learn about last night’s blackout! Random trash can aside, of course. I brought the Trash Herring back upstairs to the kitchen where my mother was, determined to end this story because it was already long enough.

But my mother wasn’t so eager to let my Ignorance be Bliss. “Do you really not remember?” she asked me.

“I can remember! I have the capacity for memory!”

“Do you not remember talking to me last night?” is what she meant, apparently.

“No…?” Oh dang. For some reason, I must have told her about vomiting at C’s. That was the conclusion I drew. That was the worst I thought could’ve happened. Then, I learned the truth.

The Blackout, as Relayed By My Mother:

Between stumbling home and being woken up, I had apparently been clutching the toilet all night long, just vomiting repeatedly and moaning so loudly and endlessly that it echoed throughout the house, to the point of waking my parents with my woeful cries. My mother came down to check on me, apparently having an entire conversation to who knows what end. I guess I was so loud that I kept them up the entire night, and only when the moaning stopped were they truly worried, afraid I had choked on my own vomit like some sort of heroin-addicted newborn. Making sure she didn’t have to roll me onto my side, my mother had come into the bathroom again to find me passed out, completely naked for Whatever Reason, sitting on the toilet. Just a quick pants-off, dick-out, potty doze. Nothing weird.

She didn’t check on me after that.

The only consolation I have from this experience is that I don’t remember it. I will never know what kind of appraisal my mother gave my penis; I will never have to see the letdown in her eyes at what her genes passed on. Reality has been cruel, but alcohol saved my shame from being comprehensive. Plus, at least my anus is still sacred.

For now.

Be sure to check out Austin’s darkly funny comic,  Austin Was Alive.

As I mentioned in my last post, I am not always the most graceful creature. I bump into table corners and street posts, and unfortunately, the things I carry end up bumping right along with me. So, my trusty laptop has taken a beating over the past three and a half years. The MacBook Pro which started off its life as a beautiful streamlined machine slowly accrued dents and scratches until it looked like a warped steam punk computer knock off. However, no matter how ugly it got, it never stopped working. 

Until now.

I have two cats who are just terrible. They’re demons strategically covered in fur so that they are too cute to kill, Somehow, these hell spawn have made it their mission to destroy all of my belongings—lamps, books, dishes, pillows, clothing, etc. Basically all the stuff I enjoy, they’d like to obliterate. Knowing how much I like staring at my magic noise and picture screen, I suppose it was only a matter of time until they took it out as well. I left my apartment this afternoon with a working computer. An hour later when I returned, everything was exactly as I had left it, just now my laptop had a cracked LCD screen. As I imagine, the laptop was hanging out on my bed minding its own business, when one calculated jump from a plump kitten ended its poor digital life. 

Unfortunately, that computer has all of my life on it, as well as things like Photoshop which I use to illustrate my blog posts. So for this week, I will not be posting. If you need to blame someone, you can blame these little assholes.

However, do not fear! I have enlisted the amazingly funny, strangely dark, and utterly unique comic artist Austin Hall to fill in this week with a guest post. I just decided that guest posts are a thing I do here. In the meantime I’ll be off paying a ridiculous amount of money to try to get the thing repaired and hopefully I’ll be back with a new post next week!

As you may remember from the Blowjob Education Fiasco, I learned a lot from TV and movies growing up. My role models were the sexy ladies of the late 90s screen, with their mismatched clothing, crimped hair, and high-waisted jeans. My figure has always been on the rounder side, so I could never look like the 25-year-old models playing normal high schoolers that I loved. However, I was determined to emulate them in other sexy ways. With guys, I’d make the first move; I’d leave sexy little notes in the book bags of my boyfriends; and when it came to being physical I was set on being more HBO than the WB.  

On this particular occasion, I was dating a slightly older guy from a nearby school. He’d become my boyfriend when during a hook up I told him I didn’t feel comfortable going further if things were just casual between us. He said “well, how about I become your boyfriend… then what do you say?” and somehow that worked. I got what I wanted and he got what he wanted. Now, a few months in, I was trying to expand my sexual repertoire and so I’d plan out some sexy things for our dates. A conveniently placed scarf to serve as a blindfold or a candle full of hot wax (this may be a future post because it did not. end. well.) was the sort of thing I lived for. So to prep for this date I had gotten some lingerie from the Victoria’s Secret in the mall and planned on trying something new. When I heard his car in the driveway, I put on a mix CD I’d made earlier in the week that just had a wink face drawn on it in a Sharpie. As he walked in, Portishead crooned, and when he went to kiss me I pulled away. He looked curious as I walked toward the bed, unbuttoning my shirt as I walked. Soon I was down to my new black undergarments and I told him to sit on the bed. I started to crawl toward him, going in for a kiss but pulling away again at the last second, teasing playfully. I felt like I was straight out of Sex and the City or Ally McBeal. My strip tease had worked so well, I decided to take things even further and give my man (well, my man-ish anyway, I’m not sure he could grow facial hair) a lap dance.  

As Placebo’s “Pure Morning” came on, I trailed my finger down to his belt and moved my body along with the beat. I stretched my legs out on either side of him and kissed his neck. Switching back to the bed, I raised my right foot to sensually slide the smooth skin on my leg against his cheek. But as I moved, he turned his head the wrong way. In one unfortunately timed moment, my toe went directly into his eye. Let me say that again: My Toe Went Into His Eye. He cried out and I screamed, fearing I’d blinded him. I hadn’t, but I had torn his contact lens with my toenail and he spent the next twenty minutes trying to remove it. And the next day he had to go to his eye doctor to make sure everything was OK, which of course involved inventing a story for his parents as to how this injury could have possibly happened. In the homecoming pictures we took a couple weeks later, you can still see his left eye is red and swollen. What they don’t teach you on TV is that being sexy is dangerous business.

I started using the Internet in elementary school, in the days when AOL keywords were the main tool of navigation, respectable businesses marketed themselves with flashing Geocities websites, and chat rooms were the love of every child and the fear of every parent. But what I remember most from those early days of the Net was constantly receiving chain letters. Some had quizzes about my personality, some told my future, some had jokes, some warned of viruses, and some offered exclusive deals on electronics. But the most memorable (and the one that led to my fuckup) contained a horror story. 

The gist of the email was this: a girl is alone with her dog on Halloween. The power goes out and she starts hearing sounds in the house. Each time she gets scared in the dark, she reaches her hand down to the dog and is reassured by him licking her hand. Because there’s nothing more reassuring than dog slobber. Finally, the power comes back on and the girl goes upstairs, only to find her dog’s severed head nailed to the wall with a note: “Humans can lick too.”

As a 4^th grader, I thought it was the most gruesome, face-meltingly scary horror story ever told. So creative! Such a twist! Plus, my 14-year-old brother sent it to me so it was verified as cool by Older Kids. At the bottom of the email was the standard chain letter spiel: “If you send this to 10 people you will have good luck for a year, if you send this to 5 people you will have a good day, if you send this to 0 people your dog will be next!!!!” Obviously, I had to import my entire address book right away.

Later that evening my mom received the first call. My peers did NOT find the story as amusing as I had, and were in fact completely traumatized by it. One girl could not stop crying and holding her Golden Retriever, terrified that he would indeed be the next to be killed. She should probably have just forwarded the chain letter, but instead she ratted me out. When my furious mother asked me about the email, I panicked.

I could have said it was a virus that auto-forwarded. I could’ve said I was so scared that I forwarded it out of fear for our own pets. Or I could’ve said my older brother made me. Instead, I claimed that I had accidentally forwarded it. Of course that wouldn’t make sense to anyone with a rudimentary understanding of email, but that was what I went with.

To my dismay, my mom made me show her the email. My mother is an animal lover, so as you can imagine, she was not a big fan of the story. I figured if she read the whole thing she would go berserk, so before she could get to the gruesome end and the dog’s demise, I closed the window and said “That’s all there is.” She saw through my ruse and said there was clearly further to scroll. Thinking fast, I explained that I had only copied and pasted up to there, so the end wasn’t a part of it! Smooth move, Chelsea of the Past.

You have probably already realized the problem with my lie: if I intentionally copy/pasted, then I couldn’t have accidentally sent the email. To make matters worse, she could read the ending herself because she had also received it, considering she was a contact in my address book. 9-year-old Chelsea: not a good liar!

As punishment, my mom made me call and personally apologize to every person who’d received the email. And for the record, it was far more than 10, so I’m pretty sure I was owed some good luck.

On a related note, if you share this story across at least THREE social networks your crush will fall in love with you!!!!!! <3 <3 <3 ~*~*~*~*~*~

And if not you’ll die in a fire. <3

After my boyfriend of four years and I broke up, I needed to start over and wasn’t sure where to begin. Thus, I signed up for the online dating site OKCupid. Despite the stigmas against online dating, I had a great experience. Sure there were some jerks and a lot of weirdos sending creepy messages, but every now and then you’d encounter someone really smart, cute, and nice. And so when I found this particular guy’s profile, I knew he was something special. Ivy league-educated getting his Masters in mathematics, looking for a real relationship, and cute in a nerdy way. I messaged him immediately.

We met up the next weekend for lunch and I was surprised how nervous he was. I figured that must be it—nerves—because why else would he not make eye contact with me? That must also explain why his conversation was so stilted. But knowing he was sort of a nerd, I thought his awkwardness was cute. When he kissed me on the cheek and asked for another date, I said sure. Maybe I couldn’t quite get a read on this guy yet, but that was alright. He was still a hot math genius!

For our next date, we went to Central Park, but again he acted really weird. I’d make a joke and he wouldn’t react, unless I said it was a joke in which case he’d promptly start laughing. It was like he was an alien pretending to be human rather than an actual person. As we sat together, he would just stare at the ground, focusing on his hands instead of trying to get close to me. And all of his stories were just lists of facts… I decided I probably wouldn’t see him again because of our lack of chemistry. When again he kissed me on the cheek and asked for another date, I was surprised. He didn’t even seem to like me! I said didn’t think it was a good idea, and he didn’t seem to be bothered.

However, when I got home, he’d written me a message full of passion—telling me what a wonderful time he’d had, how he’s just not good at showing emotion, that part of it is he has a secret. He didn’t want to tell me before but he is still a virgin and that was why he was so nervous. WOW, I thought. It all makes sense now! Of course he was acting weird, he’s probably just intimidated by me! He’s so naïve and I’m so worldly and self-aware! I wrote him back telling him I understood and that of course I’d see him again.

Things didn’t start off much better on the third date, so I decided to get him drunk. He said he’d never been drunk before (I guess he’d been pretty sheltered by his parents) but he said he wanted to so we hit up a dive bar. After a couple beers he kissed me, so I figured my plan was working. Conversation started loosening up too! He talked my ear off about theorems and why math is the best. Boring? Maybe, but seeing him so passionate was a good sign! He invited me back to his place and I accepted.

We started fooling around and though he was clumsy, he was sweet. Wow, this is going really well—Then I opened my eyes. Rather than the normal closed-eyed, messy drunken make out I thought we were having, this boy was staring at me very intensely and being very intentional in his touching. I freaked out and pulled away and asked what he was doing. I tried to be nice, teasing that he just sort of looked like a robot. He didn’t get the humor and instead said yes, he’s gotten that a lot. It might be because of the Asperger’s.

“…You’re autistic?” I asked, shocked.

“Yes. Obviously.”

And then I left. Because I’m horrible. And in the end, more socially awkward than an Autistic person. And for the record, ladies, if he’s still single someone should snatch him up. He’s hot, he’s smart, and he’s sweet. I’m just a dick.

As I mentioned when I described my disastrous freshman debut, I attended a private, preppy high school. While I did eventually tone down my fashion choices, I continued to rebel against Conformity/The Man/[INSERT NOUN FROM A 13-YEAR-OLD DIARY] in other ways.

One of the great things at our school was a student-led monthly performance night called Coffee House. I fell in love with it immediately and by my sophomore year, I was running it with my best friend. In addition to getting the appropriate faculty signatures, handling scheduling, and actually hosting the event, we also handled advertising. The year before us the hosts had run an effective poster campaign in the school featuring images of baby seals with the headline “For every person who doesn’t come to Coffee House, we will club one baby seal.” It was a hit (ZOMG PUNS). So we decided to kick our year off by bringing that campaign back for another go, but with a twist. 

One of the school’s teachers (my Honors Geometry professor), was absolutely hilarious. He loved getting a rise out of his students and would pretend to be really weird, though the lines of what was acting and what wasn’t were very blurry. He’d talk about how he missed his army days because he just wants to blow things up, how his wife was a mail order bride, and how his favorite meal in the world is dog. In fact, he had a running joke that he was trying to hunt down another faculty member’s big dog frequently seen on campus. So instead of the baby seals, we covered our posters with puppies and a photo of our professor, saying “For every person who doesn’t come to Coffee House, we will feed this man one puppy.” We hung them everywhere. 

The reaction from students was very positive, however, the administration ordered us to take the posters down. We didn’t understand what the big deal was—last year’s campaign also talked about killing animals—but we obeyed. But that wasn’t enough. We were pulled out of our classes for the day to speak with an administrator about our racism. I was very confused as she rattled an encyclopedic list of anti-Asian epithets I’d never heard of, including “Gook,” “Dink” and “Dog eater.” Apparently our posters were incredibly racist because our teacher was Asian and eating dogs was a racial stereotype. “It wasn’t a generalization. We just used him because he talks about eating dogs. In real life.” “Because he’s Korean!?” she snapped. She marched us to the teacher’s office, bringing along a poster she’d saved. However, when she showed him our handiwork he confirmed that yes, he approved the posters, and yes, he does enjoy dog. 

We probably should have been satisfied with that victory, but we were assholes. Instead, insulted by being called racists and mad about having to miss class (we were also nerds), my friend and I created a new poster. This was a 10 ft banner hanging in the main hallway that read “Since we don’t want to offend anyone, please come to Coffee House Generic Beverage Place of Residence.” We thought it was hilarious. The administration disagreed. We were given immediate detention, told we may face probation, and informed that our entire club might be disbanded because of our actions. A personal review with the Headmaster and his team was scheduled for that evening. I was a ball of stress, outraged by injustice, sure this violated some tenant of free speech. As the meeting that evening began, I was ready to explode.

But before I could open my mouth and get us suspended, my friend smiled at me, reassuringly, then at our stern Headmaster. “We’re a little confused why we’re here right now,” she said, “because we took down the offensive posters immediately and were very sorry to have inadvertently implied a racial slur. We understand now how serious that was.” Her earnestness seemed to confuse him, but he proceeded. “Well, you’re here because your new poster doesn’t seem very sorry! In fact, it seems like you are mocking our entire administration!” Again she jumped in before I could speak. “No! God no! Coffee House is all about bringing people together and we hated to think we’d made anyone uncomfortable. So rather than dwell on that, and let that negativity spoil the event, we wanted to make light of our mistake and move on!” In an instant, the tone changed, and suddenly they were apologizing to us. 

Because it was a small school, the story of our poster drama spread like an STD at Bible camp. It turns out, scandal is the best way to advertise, because that became the most attended Coffee House ever—kids from every different social group showed up to support the cause and give a silent Fuck You to The Man. Even the pompous Headmaster and his administrative lapdogs came. Which was fine by us, especially when our Geometry teacher tried his hand at stand-up with a set all about his favorite furry meal. 

I’ve always idolized my older half brothers. I never went through the typical sibling-hate that so many of my friends experienced, because growing up, I lived with my mom and they lived with theirs, so we only saw each other every weekend. Therefore, anything these two heroes brought into my life during those special weekend visits was instantly awesome. Build a fort in the backyard? GENIUS. Wrestle to see who gets to jump in the leaf pile? GOOD IDEA. Watch you play Nintendo 64 for eight hours straight? YES PLEASE NOW.

Thus, my brothers’ friends also became immediately cool. I began collecting Pokemon cards because they did. I read the book Dune as a 4th grader because they recommended it (I don’t remember much from it besides loving the Bene Gesserit). And, any time I had the opportunity to date one of my brothers’ friends, I took it.The first time this happened, I was an 8th grader and the boy was a junior in high school, which looking back is totally disgusting. How he was into that is beyond me… But, at the time, I thought I was a total badass. Luckily for both of us, nothing came from the romantic fling besides some make outs and a rapid inflation of my ego.

The next time this occurred was when I visited the older brother in college. I spent the weekend partying with him and his frat brothers and even flirted with one of them—he was even older than my brother and therefore extra cool! My brother noticed this happening and promptly shut it down. Unfortunately for him, my brother’s attempts to protect me and prevent this from happening actually made the guy’s attention that much more special.  So when I received a Facebook message from that particular frat brother five years later after I’d moved to New York for college, I was thrilled. I mentioned it to my brother and he immediately tried to talk me out of it. 

“You don’t understand,” he tried, “it’s not just that you’re my sister. This guy sucks. He was never my friend. Everyone in the house hated him!”

“Suuuure,” I replied, knowing this was just overly protective brother stuff. “I’m sure he’s a really bad guy! Well, too bad because he invited me over for a nice dinner…”

“Seriously, you do not want to go. Please, please, please trust me on this.”

I did not trust him on it. Instead, I went over to the dude’s apartment on what just-so-happened to be my 19th birthday. I had high hopes—from Facebook I knew he was a lawyer, single, and cute. Plus he’d even offered to grill me a steak dinner! I eagerly knocked on his door, but the guy who opened it was not who I’d expected. He was short, fat, bald, and had a voice that sounded like a stoned Mickey Mouse. And indeed, his apartment reeked of marijuana. But I figured I’d stick around and be polite, give him a shot! However his personality was even less attractive—he grumbled out stories in his strange high-pitched voice about not one but three exes, whined about how annoying it was that I didn’t want to get high with him, and when I mentioned my dress was new, his way of complimenting me was to say “well, I’d fuck you.” But the last straw was when in his rant about how much college sucked, he dared to insult my big brother. NO MAN CAN INSULT MY BROTHERS! So I bailed and called my brother on the walk home to tell him he was right.

And how right he was I found out more and more with each passing month, as the guy continued to send me Facebook messages whining at me for another date. It went on for close to a year, each one with a new offer—movie tickets, concert tickets, even a trip to a techno festival (turns out those exist!), which I sadly declined. To be honest, I think the only bait that would’ve worked is an invitation to play Pokemon cards.

Growing up, I think I missed the Girl Training that my female friends seem to have all received. Instead of playing with dolls, I spent my time wrestling with two older brothers, and was always proud of not being a “girly girl.” However, now that I’m older and interested in looking like a professional lady, I wish I knew these fundamental Girl Skills like applying makeup, painting my nails, and walking in high heels.

The worst part is I am now too old to reasonably practice these activities. Other girls experimented with make up when they were 12, so crazy eyeliner still ranked far below pimples and braces. However now I’m surrounded by beautiful, powerful women who Know What They Are Doing In Life. So when I decide to try these things, as I do every few months, they tend to end in public embarrassment.

My most recent fuck-up involved thinking that I could walk in high heels. At work, women wear heels at all times, and I had begun to feel very insecure about my un-elevated shoes.  So, I enlisted my girliest friend and went shoe shopping to find something more appropriate for a lady. This particular friend is short and so crazy 4-to-5-inch heels are part of her daily routine. But knowing that I could only handle a tiny amount of height without complaining about pain, she found me “baby heels.” A starter kit, of sorts. I bought them, excited to finally look cool and fashionable.

Most of my first day wearing them went well—a little wobbly perhaps, but my confidence more than made up for it. As I entered the subway at the end of the day, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. In fact, as I passed a group of tennis-shoe-clad tourists I sniggered, thinking how New York I must look to them. I heard my train arriving below and hustled to the stairs. But as I descended, rushing for the train, I lost my balance. At first it was a wobble, and I tried to reach out for the railing to steady myself. However, that only spun me around so that my head slammed into the railing as I fell down the entire concrete staircase. People ran over asking if I was all right but I was completely frazzled. Not wanting to miss my train, I crawled wordlessly onto the subway and took a seat. That’s when the pain sank in—my head throbbed, my palms and knees stung, and my stupid heels had dug into my pants and legs, tearing both. I realized I was bleeding and I began to cry. Again a few people asked if I was OK, which only made me cry more because I was so embarrassed. The black had been completely scraped off the sides of my new shoes and the heels were both bent and mangled. I breathed slowly, trying to regain composure. And across the car from me, the same family of tourists looked over and sniggered.

Being a redhead has always been a strong part of my personal identity. So much so that I literally have it on my business cards.

With other redheads I feel an immediate camaraderie—we’re part of a not-very secret but very pale club! But girls that have dyed their hair red? The Fakers? HELLS NAW. These Ariel-wannabes know nothing of sunburns and childhood teasing, yet with a $5 purchase at CVS they are suddenly “fiery” and “rare.” And what’s worse is that no one cares, or even notices. Except me! People care about real boobs vs. implants, so why are fake hair colors so acceptable?

However, my prideful little prejudice finally became a problem earlier this year. I do improv and during a rehearsal a friend brought in a new girl to join us. Not only was the new girl super funny, she was stunningly beautiful. And a fake redhead.  That day we did an exercise called Park Bench of Truth, where two improvisers sit and talk about something real. No characters, just honesty.

“At work there’s this ginger guy who always hits on me. It’s so creepy, he always jokes about us procreating because redheads are dying out!” She laughed and looked to me, waiting for a response. It was too perfect; she brought up the topic all on her own. I couldn’t help myself.

“But… that wouldn’t work.” I said. “As a redhead, he should be able to see that.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, you’re obviously not a real redhead. That’s crazy that he even thinks you are!”

Her face flushed and I realized: the other people in our group didn’t realize she dyed her hair and it wasn’t something she wanted people to know. But in my quest to assert myself as THE LEGIT REDHEAD OF THE GROUP, I had publicly outed and embarrassed her.

Despite my apologies after the exercise I could tell she still felt weird around me. Over time, the more I got to know her, the more I learned how completely awesome she was. Totally someone I’d love to be friends with, but I had blown the opportunity by being a judgmental dick during my first impression. So now if I ever do meet someone like Christina Hendricks or Emma Stone, maybe I’ll keep my goddamn mouth shut and just be nice. After all, dyed or not, those women are making redheads look really good. Certainly better than I had been. 

Before you call Chris Hansen based on the title of this story, you should know that when this happened I was also a child. But unlike most 10-year-olds, I knew a lot about sex (though I insisted on calling it “S-E-X”). Not because I had two older brothers, but because I watched TV. As a toddler, I would sit in my mom’s bedroom and watch Saturday Night Live, not understanding the jokes but loving it anyway.  With enough time and after-school access to cable, I learned all about “lesbians,” “blue balls,” and “tossing a salad.” 

The Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky incident was in full swing and I was very frustrated because I didn’t understand what everyone was so worked up about. What was this “fellatio”? Why were adults whispering about it and not answering my questions?  Then, fate intervened. Channel surfing one afternoon, I found a comedy segment premised around explaining the scandal to kids. Chris Rock was dressed as a clown and used balloons to demonstrate before being cut off by the host. I’d love to someday meet Chris Rock and inform him that his kids show parody on blowjobs actually impacted at least one child. I’m sure that was his dream. 

Suddenly, I understood what the adults were talking about. It became my duty to explain the concept to every child I encountered. Not only was I instantly in a position of power and could totally blow their minds (eh? Eh?) but I could also prevent anyone else from being confused by this thing all the grownups were discussing. The other 5^th graders needed me—they didn’t know anything about sucking dicks! So when my aunt and family came to town, I knew my little cousins required enlightening.

Unlike my mother, who took a very laissez-faire approach to parenting, my aunt was determined to deliberately craft perfect children. As such, my cousins were not allowed to watch television, they had never owned a video game, and soda was a foreign, forbidden commodity. They were like the Amish, but without any useful skills like barn-raising.

When I thought the grownups had gone to bed, I led my female cousin into the living room and we started whispering and gossiping. I asked her if she liked any boys. She said yes, a kid named Chris. “Ooh… So do you want to give Chris a blowjob?” I asked, knowing it would confuse her. She took the bait. “What’s that?” she inquired. I explained all about it, sprinkling in the Presidential scandal so she’d know it was a real thing and not something I’d made up. After another 5 minutes of whispering, my aunt appeared and ushered us back to bed with a stony face. Fear gripped me. While I was eager to know everything about sex, I also knew I wasn’t supposed to know any of it. That was part of the whole appeal.

Sure enough the next day my mother and aunt called me privately into a room for a serious talking to. They were not at all amused by my professorial turn. Much to my aunt’s dismay, I couldn’t be grounded because that didn’t even exist as a concept in my mom’s house. However, for the next 7 years I was never allowed to be alone around those cousins again. Supposedly, I was a “bad influence.”

Then again, when I was next alone with that cousin, I helped her lie about her age and hook up with one of my older friends. And later on, I might have possibly enabled some underage drinking. Oops. I’m going to be a great mother someday.  

As some of you may know, I have red hair and pale skin, which means I go from zero to lobster every time I step into direct sunlight. I used to joke that I was a vampire because growing up I hated garlic, never slept, and every time I went outside I would burst into flames. I was also stalked by Sarah Michelle Gellar.

One summer a friend of mine asked me to sunbathe with her. I didn’t want to seem lame so I agreed, but secretly put on SPF 40. I laid down on a bench and read a book for about 20 minutes while my friend napped. As she woke up, I turned toward her. “Oh my god your face!” she exclaimed, before bursting into laughter. That’s not a phrase you ever want to hear. No one ever says “Oh my god your face! … is covered in puppies! Yay!” I pulled out a mirror and saw why: half my face was deep red and the other was still my signature shade of translucent. Apparently I should have rotated myself to cook evenly so that I didn’t look like a Batman villain. The only way to hide it was to apply make up that turned my entire face a uniform orange.

But my biggest sunburn fuck-up was when I didn’t wear sunscreen skiing. My logic was that it was “too cold” out to get a sunburn, as if temperature affected UV Rays. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Snow bounces the sunlight back up at you so even places that wouldn’t normally burn get exposed. ­­­­And so, in my first day of skiing in Colorado I got so badly sunburned that I had to go to a hospital. My entire face swelled and bubbled and cracked; I couldn’t open my eyes and I could only eat through a straw. But the thing I most regret about the experience is that I let my dad take my photo. To this day, it my biggest potential blackmail weakness, and the closest I think any human being has ever come to looking like Sloth from The Goonies.

My formative years were spent writing thinly veiled “poems” about my life on my AIM profile. That’s probably why when someone breaks up with me, rather than letting him move on, I decide I am going to send him ONE FINAL MESSAGE. Some profound piece of writing that will make him really reflect.

In my mind, this will accomplish two things:

1. My eloquence and reflective nostalgia will make him realize he’s made a HUGE mistake in ending it.

2. My maturity and aloof attitude will show him he’s totally not breaking my heart.

So when a coworker I’d been seeing (yeah, that’s a whole separate fuck-up) told me he was “suddenly unsure of us,” I felt I had an opportunity, nay, a responsibility, to compose an email to this man.

Dear ________,

I truly appreciate your honesty, though I have to say, I think you are over-thinking everything. Personally I’ve been trying to just do what’s fun. Up until now I’ve had a lot of fun with you—I loved marathon-ing Star Wars, I liked meeting/drinking with your friends, and I was pretty psyched about introducing you to Thai food. But it’s not fun if you’re not into it. I’m just confused because you still seemed so interested two weeks ago when you invited me to meet your parents. But if you don’t know what you want, I guess there’s nothing I can really do. You just have to find it. There’s a reason I haven’t done the “exclusive dating” thing for a while and it’s because I don’t want to settle. I would much rather be single than date someone whose esteem for me is unsure or fickle. So, of course I’m disappointed that things didn’t continue like they did at first, I’m sad because I do think there is/was a lot of lost potential, and I’m frankly a little frustrated because I think just hanging out would have made things better (maybe even better than before). But if you’re unsure, let’s not waste either of our time and we can just say we’re done. I’ll see you at work and I’ll be your friend to a certain extent, but I’m going to go back to dating other people. Continuing to see you right now would be bad for both of us. In the meantime I hope you figure out what you want and maybe sometime in the future we’ll see how things are rather than trying to force it now. See you around (oh wait, we work together, see you in exactly 12 hours haha).

Sincerely and fondly,

Chelsea

Finally, a response appeared:

Word. Word to all. We cool?

And with that completely asinine six word response, he’d won. That’s when I realized that writing pseudo-poetic closure emails doesn’t work. Because if someone is breaking up with you, they probably don’t give a shit. Fumbling for what was left of my pride, I sent him a final response:

yea gurl. respect.

It didn’t help.