im cool – Page 9 – The only certainty is bad grammar

I need you to need me.

Published: May 6, 2010 / Updated: May 6, 2010 Crystal anti-meat, feminism?, god, humor, im cool, medium

I was strolling though the Barnes and Noble yesterday at the mall where that girl got stabbed (true story) and I saw this book called, “Why men love b*tches.”

And I was all, “Crap, why DO men love b*tches?” So I picked it up and read it. The entire first two pages. And it had all this stuff in there about how men like a “mental challenge” and women who “know what they want” and I was all, “Frick. I’m too nice.”

Then, I kind of started freaking out in a needy sort of way.

That’s how I roll.

I’m needy, with a capital NEEDY.

Wait. Please don’t go. Stay. Please. PLEASE!

I usually just blame all my screwed-upness on my childhood, because my childhood was very weird. No. No. Weirder than whatever you’re thinking right now. In fact, take whatever you’re thinking, times it by 40 and add dead mice.

To be fair, the dead mice thing mostly was handled by little brother Steve while I was at college (Go Steve!). But still, there were dozens of dead mice. In my house!

So ya. That’s why I’m screwed up.

I have this problem where I constantly worry that whichever boy I’m with will find a hotter girl because there’s no way I’ll ever be THE hottest girl ever and boys only like girls for looks, right? I worry that I’ll call too much. Or that he’ll randomly leave. And now, I worry that I worry too much.

I don’t understand how to date.

I just want a boy to come along, and not suck and embrace all my neediness with a smile and not worry about the fact that when it comes to men I have the confidence of a cow at a slaughter house (that’s my vegetarian plug of the day). I don’t want to pretend I’m easy going when I’m clearly not. I don’t want to pretend that I don’t like to know plans in advance, when I clearly do. And I don’t want to make you think it’s OK if you’re atheist when it is clearly not.

I don’t want to work on me for you. I want to just be me with you.

And, I’m kind of awesome once you get past the fact that I like to call you six times a day and text 500 times an hour. I’m smart, I have a strong faith and some people call me pretty. Once in a while, I bet I’ll make you laugh, I’ll never judge you for eating Taco Bell, and I’ll talk football with you any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

Oh, and I have a super awesome blog.

And if a guy would just take three seconds to see past my shaking hands, and total lack of confidence, I bet we could totally rock together.

Maybe. Probably. Eventually. Right?

Getting in the mood

Published: May 4, 2010 / Updated: May 5, 2010 Crystal feminism?, humor, im cool, medium, random thoughts

OMG guys, where the heck have I BEEN?

I’ll tell you where. Social City. That stupid Facebook game is like some sort of social media crack poured on my laptop each day. I obsessively check it as soon as I boot up and then, by the time I clean my factories, build a new car dealership and fire the lifeguard at the city pool, I’m all computerd out and then I don’t blog.

I’m sorry.

I’m joining a support group though. The people seem really nice and they keep saying that I can solve all this with something called Farmville.

Speaking of Facebook, can you people please like me?? I takes less than a second to click my shiny, new, state-of-the art “Like” button at the bottom of my posts and it would make me so very happy.

So please, for me?

Moving on.

It’s SUMMER! (Ish) (Today) (Weather subject to change tomorrow).

It’s finally nice outside and instead of trying to hide my purple finger nails because I’m oddly colder than everyone else around me (true story), I finally get to be the one at a normal temperature while everyone else sweats too much and my company waits to turn on the air conditioner.

YAY!

I’m so happy it’s summer that I wouldn’t even mind a little sunburn right now just to get in the mood.

Speaking of getting in the mood, dating life still sucks here folks.

I really like the 22-year-old, but he keeps being 22, so then I have to get mad because, for real, you can’t even make solid plans once buddy? Once?

Soooo, then I try to date other boys, but well, at the clubs all the cute ones are umm, 22 and that age doesn’t work so well for me. Then, I try to meet boys online, but that means I have to write all these e-mails and it’s so tedious and for all I know the guy on the other end is actually a 290-pound 12-year-old girl who lives in Alaska, so then I question whether it’s worth the effort and ya, I’m home alone tonight. The end.

I’m sure I just haven’t met him yet, as Michael Buble would say. But any day now would work for me God. Any. Day. Now.

In unrelated news, I think I’m going to dye my hair dark brown with honey highlights. This neon blonde is too hard to maintain, and it washes me out like I’m Tide unless I get a spray tan, which I think a lot of people think is weird.

I’m not 100 percent on the dark-brown thing, but assuming the stylist I eventually see when I eventually get money doesn’t think that will eventually make my hair fall out, I’m probably going to get aboard the brunette train for awhile. Do you think I’ll still have fun?

Serious question.

Body paint

Published: April 18, 2010 / Updated: April 18, 2010 Crystal feminism?, humor, im cool, medium

I got a spray tan and I love it with all my heart, and my Barbie blonde hair no longer makes me look sickly, and even my feet are tan, and it’s so glorious.

The money was from when I won my NCAA bracket at work (Holla!).

I can’t get real tans because A. They give you skin cancer and then you die, and B. I only burn. Like red as Rudolph’s nose on a tomato, carried by Clifford on a fire truck-burn. So even if I tried to use the sun, it wouldn’t work.

For those who are either A. Black, B. Mexican or C. A boy, spray tans basically: cost a lot of money, ($30), last for 8 to 10 days (5), and have about a 10 percent chance of making you look either orange or 10 pounds skinner (Luckily, I do not look orange). (At least, I don’t think I do). (Wait, do I? Do I look orange? Frick. I probably look orange? This lighting sucks).

To get the tan, you stand naked (yes, naked) in a chamber that’s kind of like an upright CAT Scan Tube and a man from space comes on the speaker and counts down.

“FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO. ONE”

And then you’re blasted with a cold, wet spray for about seven seconds. You then get five more seconds to turn around so the tube can do your back.

You have to make sure to hold your arms out like your carrying a gallon of paint in each hand otherwise you’ll have half-tan arms that look like you laid out in the sun with your palms glued to your hip bones.

Then, you get out of the chamber and try to dry yourself off without wiping anything at all, ever or the whole thing could make your an orange zebra.

Over the next three to five hours you gradually get darker and darker and darker and it’s kind of weird, because people want so bad to assume it’s a real tan, but they know in their hearts that nobody tans under florescent lights, so it must be some sort of paint and that’s just awkward.

Then they try to ask you about it, thinking maybe you just went to Florida between getting off work Wednesday and coming into work Thursday, all, ‘You look like you got some sun?’

You can say, “Yes.” And then walk away.

But, I’m too open to do that, so I’m always, “NO! I just got a spray tan! Isn’t it AWESOME? Look, look at my wrist! You can see the part where it got messed up.”

And then they give me sad look that says, “Oh, Crystal. It’s so sad that you can’t tan in the sun” and walk away.

But I know I look awesome (and humble), so I don’t even care.

I wish could afford to get one every week though. For now, I just have to make this last as long as possible, which basically means no exfoliating at all, and no washing my face, and as few showers as possible. (Yes I went there. Yes it’s true).