Helpful Advice

You Are So Smart and Awesome

If you have limited knowledge on a subject, do not let that stop you from correcting anyone who says anything about that subject. You are an expert, with your very limited experience. Make sure everyone knows that.

If someone else has knowledge on an obscure topic, such as the mating rituals of the flamingo, question how they acquired such knowledge. Look down on their understanding of such a topic, and do your best to make them feel badly about it. Furrowing your brow and frowning works well, as it often causes said person to question themselves and makes you, the genius, look so much smarter and much more beautiful. Later, when you are home alone, basking in your own brilliance, find as much information as you can on the mating rituals of the flamingo. No way is that commoner showing you up again.

Smart phones are extremely useful nowadays for finding information. If some peon thinks they know more than you about anything, prove them wrong. When they’re busy drooling and trying to remember how to blink, whip out your fancy iPhone right there and use that Google app, which was created just for you, you super smart, magical human. “Do flamingos really start breeding when they are five years old?” Haha, NO! It’s when they’re six years old!! Say this loud enough so that bumbling idiot can hear you over the sound of their own heavy breathing, and with a tone that says I totally already knew this, but I waited to say it so you’d feel good about yourself for once in your life.

If ever another person makes a generalized statement, such as “I think that, by now, all American adults know where cow’s milk comes from,” disagree with them. “Actually,” you’ll say, “A lot of adults living in America don’t know where cow’s milk comes from. You would be surprised.”* When the peasant looks confused, smile and tilt your head to the side, so they can actually see your amazing intelligence seeping out of the glorious pores that have the privilege of making up your face.

Has someone done something creative, like recreate a battle from The Civil War, in 3D, using just an old hardcover book and an X-Acto knife? Roll your eyes and ask this artist “How do you have time for that?” Then, sneering, go back to reading that article on how flamingos do it.

Did someone just make a joke you don’t understand? NOT FUNNY. Make sure they are aware of this. Narrowing your eyes and shaking your head does wonders.

When in class, speak up as much as possible, even if what you have to say is not related to the discussion. It can be your person opinion on Starbucks' blonde roast, what your genius cat did that morning, how often you change your Egyptian cotton sheets, the A+ you received in high school algebra, the fact that you read Life of Pi before the movie came out (and you thought it was totally unrealistic, but you get the metaphors), anything. Everyone wants to hear you speak, all the time, always. Everything you say has true value.

Playing a video game and losing? Turn the system off! If the Wii doesn't remember you lost at Mario Kart, no dumb humans will, either.

Remember: You are super fantastic and amazing! Everyone loves you and can find no fault in anything you do! You are the really big, expensive Christmas gift to the world, and everyone else is just those shitty gas station chocolates that parents put in their kids' stockings to make it look fuller.

  

*Even if you do not know, per se, that a lot of people living in America don’t know where cow’s milk comes from, you should still say this. Most likely you’re right, because you are always right. 

Things to Not Say Part One

*Edit: Where are my eyebrows?? I do not know.

Super Important Update!

REALLY EXCITING.

I Am an Adult

I’ve been a legal adult for almost three years now, but there’s something about my appearance, I don’t know what, that makes people question my adulthood in the strangest of situations. I’m not saying that it was weird when I was carded that one time I bought cigarettes for my mom when I’d recently turned eighteen; that is a time when I absolutely should be questioned because that’s standard procedure and the law. No, I am assumed to be a minor when I’m doing things that I’ve never heard of anything being questioned or carded for doing, and it’s usually confusing and awkward for everyone involved.

The first time it happened I was nineteen years old and shopping with my mom in the Publix by her house. I was wearing shorts, a t-shirt, and flip flops, and I’m not saying I looked incredibly mature but I also wouldn’t say I looked like a child. As my mom made her purchases, I went over to the vending machine that sells scratch-offs, next to which a Publix employee was doing something with the dry ice freezer. I decided on a scratch-off that costs $1 and was about to put my dollar bill into the machine when the woman turned around, looked at me accusingly and said “Uhh, do you have your ID?”

I’d never been carded at a scratch-off vending machine before, so I was a bit confused, and I know it showed on my face because I have problems hiding my feelings. Because I make no effort to do so. “Uhh, yes,” I told her as I took my driver’s license out of my wallet. “I’m nineteen years old.”

She took it out of my hand, looked it over, and her expression quickly went from doubt to embarrassment. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, and I smiled at her as I put my money into the slot.

I told her it was okay and went on my way. Of course I didn’t win anything.

It does make sense, I guess, to card someone at a scratch-off vending machine because they’re still playing the lottery even if they aren’t interacting with a human when making the initial purchase. If I weren’t of-age, though, I wouldn’t be able to cash the winning ticket in, so it seems kind of silly to assume I am legally a child as I’m spending my money on a scratch-off dispensed by a robot.

The second time I was presumed to not be an adult also happened last year when I was at the county fair with a friend. We were in the exhibit hall around 10 PM, looking at the winners of the craft contests, when I woman who worked there approached us. “We’re about to close,” she said, her eyes narrowing like we were planning to swipe a little cottage made of popsicle sticks. “And isn’t it past your curfew?” she added, crossing her arms.

Well, that was new. The only curfew I ever had was that I could not legally drive after 11 PM when I was sixteen years old, or after 1 AM when I was seventeen. Never had I had any rule enforced on me saying that I wasn’t allowed to be out after 10 PM, so I have no idea what age she thought I was. Twelve, maybe? I don’t know.

“No,” I told her, looking confused, again. “We’re twenty years old.” This was a lie on my part because, like I said, I was only nineteen but I wanted her to feel even more wrong than she really was, and it was faster than saying “I am nineteen years old, and he is twenty years old.” I wanted to let her know she was mistaken as efficiently as I could.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the woman said, a look of bewilderment spreading across her face. She uncrossed her arms and cocked her head to the side. “You look a lot younger.” Her tone had changed since she learned she was talking to an adult and not a child; her voice was a lot cheerier and less critical. It really was interesting to watch these people’s attitudes change right before my eyes.

“I know,” I told her, and we headed for the exit.

The third, and most recent, time is the weirdest of all. Buying scratch-offs, fine, that’s a legal issue and the store could have gotten in trouble if it was discovered they sold to a minor. Staying out past my curfew, that makes a little less sense because it was a Friday and what curfew is at 10 PM? But the building was about to close and we were still wandering around, so okay. Asking a twenty-year-old if she has an adult with her when she reaches for a tiny pastry sample at a Costco? What??

            Costco gives out free samples of whatever products it is they’re trying to push on people that day, and on a Saturday this January, small, frozen, pink cakes was one of those products. I’d taken plenty of other samples that day: crackers and fancy cheese, carrot juice, some kind of crabmeat cracker topper thing that I keep meaning to buy but that continues to cost $8, and I’d visited that same store at least four times before, which made it even more surprising that this one woman was questioning me.

            I was with my boyfriend and our roommate, Louis, in a crowd of at least ten middle-aged-to-elderly patrons. I reached out my hand, plucked a little cake off of the tray, and was about to put it in my mouth when the Costco worker looked me in the eyes and quickly asked “Do you have an adult with you?”

            Confused and taken by surprise, I panicked, putting it in my roommate’s hand. I thought that maybe it had alcohol in it, which doesn’t make any sense because, for one, I don’t think Costco even samples alcoholic things, and second because why would just having an of-age person with me mean I could consume it? And if I thought I could consume the liquor-filled cake, why did I give it to someone else?

            “Uhh??” I stammered, looking back at the woman as I left the cake between my roommate’s fingers.

            “Oh, no, you can have it, you just need to have an adult with you,” she said, putting her own hands up, in a sort of defense.

            “Uhh??” I said again, looking at the woman, then Louis, then the woman again.

            “She’s eighteen,” Louis said, which is also wrong. I don’t know how he forgot my age. I look younger even to someone I live with, I guess.

            Finally realizing what was going on, I took the cake out of his hand and put it in my mouth. “I’m twenty years old,” I told the woman, composing myself. Then I watched her face do the same thing those other ladies’ faces did as she gradually looked more and more embarrassed.

            “I’m so sorry,” she told me. “You look a lot younger. It’s a compliment!”

            As I walked away from the sample station, the older people in the crowd laughed and found it all very amusing. It was sort of funny, but only because I had a metal rod going through my left eyebrow, which should be a pretty good indication that I can make very basic decisions for myself, like whether or not it’s okay that I eat a piece of baked sugar. I was also wearing a t-shirt that said “UCF Knights” in a large, bold font across the front of it, which should be another helpful hint that I am at least eighteen years old.

            In hindsight, perhaps this situation was reasonable. Perhaps Costcos are frequently audited, with people from corporate going undercover to catch employees giving out samples to seventeen-year-olds, which would undoubtedly cause all kinds of havoc because what if that teenager has a food allergy that only his or her parents are aware of, and that teenager dies on Costco property because a piece of chocolate has a peanut in it?? Then Costco gets sued for millions of dollars and every parent of every child with a food allergy is now afraid to shop at the wholesale store, losing them even more money?? What if that happened, huh?

            Really, though, they should be more concerned with the employees not checking IDs when people are purchasing alcohol, because that happened with Jason and Louis.

            So anyway, I still don’t know what it is that makes me look like a child. All three of the times this happened I had my eyebrow piercing in, and while in the state of Florida you’re allowed to get a body piercing done at the age of sixteen (with a signed, notarized document from your parent or guardian saying it’s okay), I’m pretty sure every high school in the area has rules against visible body piercings, and it’s rather difficult to hide one that’s right above your eyeball. It could be that I have an ever-present look of teenage angst on my face, but that’s just my neutral expression, and it doubles as a “bitch face.”  Perhaps it’s my choice in attire and I should make an effort to wear more pantsuits. Whatever it is, I foresee it sticking around for a long time because my mother was carded when buying cigarettes until she was forty years old, and I won’t hit that age for another nineteen years. 

Welcome to 2013!

I'm a little late, considering it's the beginning of June, but that's okay. I haven't posted on this blog in over a year, and the reason for that is I've been busy procrastinating in every aspect of my entire life (besides gaining weight. That has been happening at a steady pace. Congratulations, me).

Since I've been gone, there have been many changes in my life:
- I've moved to a house.
- I've changed my hair color at least a dozen times.
- I've stopped being angsty about my romantic situation (See: "Happy LOL You're Alone Day"). Mostly because I don't have a reason to be. I hope.
- I've started exercising. This is significant because I no longer become winded when climbing the four flights of stairs to get to my job.
-Oh, right, and I have a job. One of the many things that I complained about last year was that I didn't have a job. Now I do. Goodbye, moneyless Haley. Hello, Haley Who Can Afford McDonald's.
- I don't play the Sims 3 anymore because my laptop doesn't allow it. What's ironic is that my laptop can't run the Sims 3 because it has too many Sims 3 expansions on it.
- I've fallen in love with "Game of Thrones" (The show, not the books. Those require a certain kind of patience that I do not possess).
- I've acquired two cats, four fish, and one water frog.
- I bought a blender and now I make smoothies, sometimes.


Since I've been gone, there are many things in my life that have not changed:
- I haven't stopped singing Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" in my head every time I say the words "Since I've been gone."
- I'm still working toward earning the probably, most likely useless degree in English with a focus on Creative Writing.
- I still don't read as much as an English major probably should.
- I still don't like papayas.
- I still sleep lying down.
- I still have more piercings than my mother approves of.
- I still make a lot of lists.
- I still have difficulty writing blog entries, even when they're as simple and insignificant as this one.
- I still get winded when climbing five flights of stairs.
- My face. I've still got one. (I hesitated writing that because I don't want to jinx it. See: Any bad joke on the internet about the new drug "bath salts."*)
- I still really, really love French fries.



Now that that's out of the way, let's get to the important stuff.

I turn twenty-one in sixteen days. In sixteen days I will be able to legally drink all the alcohol my body can tolerate (which is very little, so I'll never have to worry about going over the legal limit. Thanks, acid reflux!). To quote a very wise Jason Delarosa, in sixteen days "No one can tell me 'no.'" In sixteen days, I'll be able to take advantage of free entry into all the clubs that I have very little interest in entering. In sixteen days, I can purchase all the cheap, bitter, vomit-inducing wine I want because I can.

But then what? What happens in seventeen days, when the novelty has worn off and I'm pretty much over being twenty-one because that means I'll be expected to chip in for the alcohol at parties because I might not have cash, but I can always use my card to buy stuff since I can. What happens in seventeen days when I have no more milestones, age-wise, to look forward to until I'm fifty and I get my AARP card in the mail? What happens in seventeen days when I realize I've done almost nothing with my twenty-one years of life and I crawl, hungover, to my bathroom to puke in the toilet, make a huge effort to stand up, reluctantly peer at myself in the mirror and think "Look at you. You're pathetic. You should be studying or writing or applying to internships. Now brush your teeth for the eighth time today, you monster," then I dramatically collapse onto the cold tile and cry because my stomach hurts, but the Pepto Bismol is all the way in the medicine cabinet.

What happens then?


Anyways, happy hurricane season, ya'll!


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*Edit: That drug isn't new anymore. I have no sense of time.