Author: Emma Unedited

My Comeback Blog Called Downward Dog

Posted on by Emma Unedited

Hello blog world.

If you’re reading this, or if you’ve followed my blog AT ALL in these last few months (years), you will know that

IT

HAS

BEEN

A

MINUTE

since I’ve written.

Now stop judging me. Things just get crazy in this life and we forget to do the things that make us happy in order to check off the things that make us feel competent.

 

You know.

 

Gal things.

 

In order to get my parents off of my back for neglecting my civic duty as an amateur blogger (one of very few?), I am here and ready to write. And to be honest, I feel pretty rusty and I don’t even know if I’m funny anymore so guess you can roast me in the comments section with all of my other followers (?) if you feel like this was a waste of time. If enough people do so, I will take another sabbatical and probably be there until I die.

Anyways.

Here we are.

The topic of this blog has to do with, none other than, the sweet, sweet YMCA.

A word of the wise to all of you fellow amateur bloggers out there—if you are looking for writing material, go to the YMCA. People will provide you with comedy gold without even trying. If you don’t believe me check out one of my previous blogs about a lady who cut the cheese in a Pilates class. That really did happen.

Anyways.

Without further adieu…

Our story begins in the Harris YMCA. The Harris YMCA is generally my least favorite branch because I always see people I kind of know. This usually results in a flashback to my high school days when I was simply way cooler than I am now, OR I have one of those weird encounters when you keep making eye contact with someone but you’re simultaneously doing sumo squats so you want to make darn sure they don’t get the wrong idea because the world has decided to sexualize squatting–particularly of the sumo variety (idk).

giphy

(There are several directions this blog could go now, but imma just move forward because most of the above info wasn’t actually relevant at all.)

ANYWAYS.

I’m at the Harris YMCA, getting ready to go to yoga.

Side note: since my last blog I’ve switched over to the dark side of actually liking yoga so you can hate me now, sorry.

SO

YES

I’m in yoga.

Back corner.

The room is full of the “YMCA New Year’s people” (the ones who mysteriously vanish into thin air on February 1st)

At this point, the lights are down and I feel so Zen I could literally physically transform into a savasanaaaaaoijfcahuwfhuaw.

I am there. Present. Ready to move forward in my practice. My life. My now. My third eye. Hey.

 

And. We begin.

 

We start with some stretching and breathing like normal. I am finding my breath.

 

Feeling like a queen.

 

Flash forward.

 

About 25 minutes we are still stretching the same leg and I think to myself, “This is probably the easiest yoga class I have ever been to.”

 

I look around.

 

And I realize.

 

I

Am

In

A

Yoga

Class

For

Senior

Citizens

 

Heck.

 

(side note: the best part of this story is that whenever I tell someone that I accidently went to a yoga class for seniors, they WITHOUT FAIL respond with,

 

“well you’re a senior”

“a senior in college”

 

giphy (1)

 

HEHEHHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHHEHEHEEHEHEH

HahahahahhahahaHAHAHHAHAHHAHHAHHAHHAhahhahahhah

HOHOHOHOHOHOHOOHoooooooHHHHHHHHHHOHOHOHOO

HOOOHOOOOHOOOHOOOOOoooooooooOOOOOOOooooooOOOOOOOOOOhOOOOO

 

(!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!iamrollingwithlaughter!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

 

I just wanted to include that bit to let everyone know that my friends are obviously coming up with some unparalleled comedic material. Check out their Netflix special arriving in 2020.

 

Anywayssssssss.

 

Panic ensues.

 

Why did no one tell me?

 

You may be thinking, “Well Emma. You should have looked around the room prior to the class beginning.”

 

And to that I say,

 

Yeah, you’re right….

 

Quite literally, I was the youngest person by AT LEAST 40 years. And I was in the back corner, so any escape plan would make me look like an old lady hater. And I don’t hate old ladies. I quite admire them.

 

SO

 

YES.

 

But yeah that’s pretty much the end of the story.

 

I went to a yoga class with a bunch of old people and it was super easy.

 

Hope you enjoyed.

 

Bye!

old ladies.gif

 

A Week of Whoops: How a Clumsy Girl Fares in the Big Apple Without Her Mommy

Posted on by Emma Unedited

Hello world. So if you keep up with me on social media you might notice some pictures of me in the Big Apple. That’s probably due to the fact that I was, indeed, in New York City for Spring Break. Lit, right? Well. No.

Well, actually, yes.

It was a super fun trip and I absolutely love NYC every time I go. However, this blog isn’t about all of the things that go as planned in my life–that would be LAME and far too short… This blog is about all of the crazy and inconvenient things that happen to yours truly. So without further adieu, here are a few of the moments that epitomize why my mom made me start a blog.

1.) So if you’ve ever gone to NYC with a theater kid, you’ll know that we tend to get exceptionally excited and more often than not exit the plane like this….Sound of Music

It’s a thing.

Anyways, my friend Cassie and I get off the plane, hop onto the ever so classy NYC Airporter bus, and make our way to Grand Central Station. (If you are a basic white girl, you will know that Grand Central Station plays a large role in the FIRST EVER episode of Gossip Girl. So you can imagine we were pretty stoked.)

After a 30 minute bus ride we hopped off and busted through the doors. In our excitement, we ran to the spot where Serena first stood (because, duh) and snapped a pic while embracing the beauty and chaos constantly flowing through the building.

Then, however, disaster struck. We realized that we had made a grave mistake.

We

forgot

our

suitcase

on

the

bus. (see gif below for reaction)

nooo

Yep…

This suitcase had all of our stuff in it–clothes, toiletries, coats, and my 250 dollar pair of LaDuca character shoes (cue the theater kid gasp). We were screwed. However, in our childlike innocence, we ran around for about a half hour trying to catch the bus at its next stop. Nothing.

But then, a miracle happened.

I saw something green out of the corner of my eye.

The one.

The only.

The shimmering, beautiful….

NYC AIRPORTER BUS.

I ran as fast as I could across the busy streets of the concrete jungle and found out that it wasn’t our bus….

HAHA.

BUT THENNNNNNNN, a nice man named Brandon (shout out to you, B) told us that our bus was coming back around. He called into headquarters, located our bus and had the bus driver come back and give us our bag. Wow. Thank. You. God. (and also Brandon). Solid start to our trip….

2.) After a solid week of sightseeing, I got to the airport early for my return flight to try and avoid any unexpected mishaps (continue reading to see why this is ironic). I told myself I would get through security, grab a snack, and read my book until I boarded. And that all went according to plan! Yay! I got through security, took a quick bathroom break to avoid the yucky airport pottys, and sat down at gate B6.

Then however, I couldn’t find my phone.

Of course.

So I asked the lady next to me to call my phone number. She proceeded to say yes and convince me that New Yorkers are not mean people like everyone thinks they are. Thanks lady. I now believe you.

However, I still couldn’t find my phone. So I got up to go retrace my steps.

As I stood up to walk toward the bathroom, my foot got caught in the strap of my duffle bag and I fell for what felt like an eternity. Flat onto my face. In the middle of gate B6.

Literally why does this happen to me.

My tumble had my jacket thrown out in front of me, my foot still in my duffle bag, and my water bottle on the other side of the seating area at some poor old man’s feet.

Pure class, my friends.

I stood up as gracefully as humanly possible and looked for a ditch to hop into until Jesus returned. Unfortunately, LGA is bereft of any such thing.

Things couldn’t get any worse.

Or could they?

3.) Just when I thought losing my dignity was enough for one day, I realized that I still couldn’t find my phone. I went into the bathroom stall and it wasn’t there. I looked at the book store and it wasn’t there. I went all the way back to security and it wasn’t there either.

I decided it would probably be best to embrace defeat and go crawl in a hole and die. Before accepting my fate, however, I saw a man with cleaning supplies walk out of the men’s room. I asked him if he had cleaned the women’s restroom lately and if he had found a phone. He nodded and pulled my phone out of his back pocket.

YAS YAS YAS.

YAs

I thanked him over and over again to which he replied “bano” and laughed.

I don’t speak spanish so I was like okay, you sweet man, I don’t know what you’re saying and I can’t say that I really care because you returned my phone and for that I am eternally grateful.

I went back to the scene of the tumble from earlier and sat down. Right as my pride started to slowly repair itself, the lady next to me said “Oh are you the girl whose phone they fished out of the toilet?”

Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…

Oh. no.

Oh. no.

OH. NO.

I was then informed that earlier–probably as I was falling onto my face in front of the entire airport–my phone was taking a nice bath in an LGA toilet bowl.

Yum.

She told me she was waiting in line and saw the man fish it out and put it in his pocket.

Bano means toilet in Spanish, friends–you learn something new every day.

Perfect.

In the end, when I tell people these things they think i’m exaggerating. I’m not. I’m just a girl trying to make it in this world and clearly not doing a very good job. I’m cursed with clumsiness and poor sports abilities except when the goal is a good ole’ airport bano.

So yeah.

Anyways, If you need to get ahold of me, send an email. Or a fax. Or talk to me in person. And stay tuned to see if the rice trick actually works.

Xoxo,

Emma

A Song of Weeping: When My Tears Feel Ignored

Posted on by Emma Unedited

I like to consider myself a pretty positive “glass half full” kinda gal. Aside from the occasional explosion of built up sadness resulting from an age old insecurity or the playing of the Holiday classic “Christmas Shoes,” my every day life consists of pretty level emotions. I think….

This quality of level headedness has served me well and allowed me to get through most weeks unscathed.  However, this Monday my emotions apparently felt ignored and decided to make themselves known with an extravagant entrance and absolutely no warning.

So I’m in my Monday voice lesson, working on all of my material for my Jury (a Jury is what they call our final in this class). And as I’m singing my first piece, my accompanist stops playing and says, “Could you breathe before you sing?”

My brain heard exactly that, “Could you breathe before you sing?” But APPARENTLY my emotions translated this simple statement as, “You are the worst singer in the entire world, you will never succeed in this business, and you are also fat and smelly.” 

In my mind, I knew he wanted me to breathe more visibly so that he could follow my singing accordingly.

But in my heart, he wanted me to stop breathing altogether so that I would drop dead and quit stealing air from those who are worthy of sweet sweet existence.

So I start the song over. But before I could even get to the chorus I feel something bubbling up in my throat. The emotions. The tears. The horror.

Oh. no.

And then before I knew it, one single cry escaped from my being and I was sobbing. Literally. Uncontrollably. Sobbing. Like picture the Big Bang, and then change it to a personification of tears, and you’ve got a pretty accurate description of me on Monday.

And anyone who knows me knows that once it begins, it doesn’t stop. The nature of my crying is like the thought of demon possession before going to sleep–once you invite those thoughts in you can’t get rid of them…and the more you tell yourself, This isn’t real, the more you find yourself thinking, This is it. This is the night i’m going to be possessed by the devil.

And the worst part is that both my voice coach and my accompanist are men, so they could only console me with their words. So just imagine me, standing in the middle of this room, face in my hands, sobbing, and having two grown men repeating, “It’s going to be okay” over and over again while remaining at the appropriate physical distance.

Bless it.

 

I think I made things worse because I kept telling them that I had no reason to cry. I literally didn’t. This semester has been wonderful. But all I could think was….

Why am I crying? 

Why am I wearing this outfit?

Why do they call this final a “jury” if my voice teacher keeps telling me the point isn’t to judge me? Isn’t a jury by definition designed to judge someone?

Ugh.

So anyways, I finally stopped crying. Thank God. And (surprise, surprise) my voice lesson ended early. I guess the moral of this story is to confront your emotions so they don’t hate you and make themselves known at the absolute worst of times.

Like John Lennon said, “The one thing you can’t hide is when you cripple inside.”

You speak to my soul, Mr. Lennon.

Xoxo,

Emma

Still Not Over It: The Day My Self Confidence Actually Died

Posted on by Emma Unedited

As mentioned in other blogs, I am currently pursuing a major in Musical Theater. In one of my acting classes recently, we have been doing a lot of character development work–exploring the physical and mental effects of allowing a character to truly become a part of you. One exercise we did was performing a common nursery rhyme as if we were an animal.

I was given an elephant, so my movements were large and my voice was low. My friend Cassidy was given a snail, so she curled up on the ground and spoke slowly. We discussed the essence of each animal and what distinguished characteristics allowed for development in their character.

At the end of that exercise, my teacher said that each person possesses certain qualities that make them like some type of animal. She then asked all of us to talk amongst ourselves and figure out which animal we were.

Ironically my friend Kat was labeled a cat. Like her name, she possesses a subtle mysterious and feline nature: so this made sense to me. My friend Bailey was labeled as a panther because of her  confidence and attention catching presence.

“What did my classmates label me?” You may be wondering. Well, after virtually no discussion whatsoever, my classmates decided that I was a monkey.

And not just any monkey. I guess one of my classmates must have noticed the look of genuine hopelessness on my face and tried to alleviate the situation by clarifying….

“Not just any monkey!” she said.

“One of those red monkeys you see at the zoo! (I guess she wanted me to ignore the fact that she was SAYING I LOOKED LIKE A MONKEY by bringing me back to some fond memories I had at the zoo as a child…)

So at this point I actually start to tear up because I’m hormonal  but also because IM JUST GIRL ALREADY STRUGGLING WITH WOMANHOOD AND THE MEANING OF LIFE AND THE POTENTIAL OF DYING ALONE AND NOW MY CLASSMATES TELL ME THAT I LOOK LIKE A RED MONKEY.

So naturally I google this “red monkey” and this is the first photo that pops up.


awwwwwwwwwwwdkdjkwdjjswhsjhdhhAHHHHHHHHHHHWWHHATT

Im not sure if my classmates noticed my misty eyes but I suspect that they did due to the fact that they changed their answer to a golden-doodle (which in my opinion is more accurate considering they have the smarts of a poodle and the fun-loving nature of a golden retriever).

I’m smart and fun, right?

Ugh. So that is my tragic tail.

I mean tale.

(Ew sorry I had to.)

So just remember, ladies. When you get a wicked zit or put on a few pounds, at least no one told you that you look like a monkey.

Oh sorry excuse me…a red monkey.

No one told you that you looked like a red monkey…the ugliest of all monkeys.

No one used your face as evidence for the claim that we did, in fact, descend from primates.

I hope you feel better about yourselves now.

Xoxo,

Emma

Red Cheeks and Rubber Boots: A New Girl’s Quest to Make it Rain 

Posted on by Emma Unedited

I currently go to school at Coastal Carolina in Conway, SC (whoop whoop go Chants) which is essentially 20 minutes away from Myrtle Beach. On the weekends, students pack up their surfboards and coolers and hit the sand for a mini vacation before Monday arrives and the week begins again. The weather has been beautiful thus far-a little bit hot at times but mostly sunny with a beachy breeze (forgive me for sounding like a weatherman).

According to my weather app, however, this past Tuesday was supposed to be a different story.

Sixty percent chance of rain starting at 10 o’clock and continuing throughout the day. And since I had class from 9-5 I knew I had to take preventive measures to avoid getting soaked.

Boy oh boy, I was ready for that rain. I had my rain boots (knee height, rubber, totally retro), my rain jacket (monogrammed with school color–perfect for teal tuesday) and my umbrella. A little bit of precipitation was not going to rain on my parade (i hate me too). singing in the rain  <——–(my expectations of Tuesday)

But then 10 o’clock came, no rain. 11 o’clock, no rain. Noon, no rain. I started to feel like one of those people who buys 60 loaves of bread for the day that they are CONFIDENT is going to be the apocalypse and then feels stupid when they end up having to go to work and eat sandwiches for the next 4 months despite what the “stars” told them.

My pride was a little bit tarnished. Not to mention my rain boots were giving me blisters.

And if things couldn’t get any worse, while I was walking to my last class I passed a kid who turned to his friend and said, “dude, why is that girl wearing rain boots?”

Ok.

What do you mean, “why is that girl wearing rain boots?”

That’s a good question, sir.

Hmm…

I don’t know….

MAYBE I WORE RAIN BOOTS BECAUSE I THOUGHT IT WAS GOING TO RAIN?!!

ONE DOESN’T SIMPLY WEAR RUBBER FROM THE CALF DOWN TO MAKE A FASHION STATEMENT..!!!

Punk…

AND TURNS OUT, I was correct. It ended up raining for about 15 minutes while I was in class (of course). And now Conway, SC is in the middle of a giant flood which most of the nation knows as Hermine.

SO HAH.

Anyways, as a result of this embarrassing encounter I have learned a few things.

Number one: If my acting career doesn’t work out, I am going to be a weather woman because they can be completely incorrect and no one blames them.

Number two: Rain boots don’t match with very much–especially the beating sun.

Number three: Haters gon’ hate.

Hopefully the next time it rains, I will take this experience and allow myself to learn from my mistakes.

Because after all…

“Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, but about learning how to dance in the rain.”

Even if your rain boots give you blisters.

Xoxo,

Emma

 

Sources:

http://giphy.com/

10 Things You Don’t Have To Do Before You Die 

Posted on by Emma Unedited

So I’m laying in my bed and it’s almost 1:00 am. If you know me at all, you are probably wondering why in the world your grandmother of a friend is still awake at this hour that greatly surpasses her usual sleepy time.

Well let me tell you.

I am awake because I am annoyed.

Why are you annoyed? You may wonder…

Well here’s why. I am sick of logging onto Facebook–excited to catch up on peoples’ lives and see cute baby pictures and watch videos of recipes that I know are much more complicated than the videos portray–and seeing blog articles that follow this type of formula…

15 (or any number) of (verbs) you HAVE TO DO BEFORE YOU (insert common life events)

I mean seriously, people.

Do I really HAVE TO?

No.

I don’t.

In fact, I really do believe that my life will turn out a-okay if I decide not to climb a bunch of mountains or eat a cronut.

So being the rebel that I am, I made a list of 10 things that you DON’T need to do before you die as a response to a recent blog that I read entitled, “Things You Need To Do Before You Die” published by PopSugar.com.

Get ready, folks. I am officially rebuttal-ing.

I have selected 10 of my favorites from the list and have written out my thoughts regarding each item. So without further ado…

10 things you DON’T need to do before you die (even though PopSugar.com said you do)

1.) Dance in the rain– LAAAMMMEEE. I’ve done this. It’s not romantic. Despite what “The Notebook” makes you think, you will not end up with true love and a nice make out sesh. You will end up with rachet hair and a serious need for some chaffing cream.

2.) Jump into a pool of jello- Just picture yourself rolling around in a pool of jello. Awk. 

3.) Make your mark on this world– Ah yes, of course. I will try and fit that in right between my trip to the store for jello and my hair appointment to fix my new nasty hair. 

4.) Bathe in Milk– So while Tim McGraw is “sky diving, rocky mountain climbing, and riding a bull for 3 seconds” at least I will be able to think to myself, well I didn’t do any of that, but I got to take a milk bath that one time. 

5.) Break a Guiness world record– Ah yes, of course. And while I am at it I will go ahead and win 17 olympic gold medals and become the President of the United States.

6.) Put vanilla pudding in a mayo jar and eat in public– Yes. This was on the list. A thing to do before you reach your demise.

7.) Meet grumpy cat– He’s a cat with a slightly negative expression. That is all. You don’t need to meet him. 

8.) Cook a 10 course meal– Because that’s necessary…

9.) Forgive people and let go of grudges– Ugh. Ok, fine.

10.) Cage dive with great white sharks-Probably smart to make that the last thing on your list chronologically if you catch my drift. 

Whoop, there it is people. Please know that my intention is not to bash PopSugar.com or to discredit the writer of that blog. It is only to encourage you that you can live your life without an 18 page bucket list full of crap.

xoxo,

Emma

Sources:

http://www.popsugar.com/smart-living/Things-Do-Before-You-Die-31147739#photo-33499580

 

An Open Letter to the Lady who Farted in Pilates Today

Posted on by Emma Unedited

Dear Lady who Farted in Pilates Today,

Don’t worry–I don’t know who you are. I have been a member of the YMCA for a whopping 72 hours so you can find rest in the fact that your name will remain unknown/undisclosed. And I can honestly say that I remember the distinct sound of your flatulence more than any easily identifiable facial features (good/bad thing?). Because your identity remains in the dark, I will unfortunately have to refer to you as pila-toots. Sorry, ma’am. I just wanted to write this letter for you and for everyone else who has suffered from a public booty cough. I feel that this issue needs to be addressed and it is important for you to hear what I am about to say. Pila-toots–

1.) Your Fart Does Not Define You- So other than the fact that this blog is written about you, a nameless/faceless farting Jane Doe, I know that THERE IS MORE TO YOU THAN YOUR CHEEK SQUEAK. You had the courage to scoot your gassy little butt into a YMCA pilates class–crawling with lululemon wearing, skinny soccer moms–and you made yourself known by serving them a nice fresh air biscuit. Do not let this make you feel insecure. Feel proud. Because despite what society tells you, farts come out of skinny butts too.

2.) You’re an Inspiration– When you let it rip today, we were in the middle of an ab exercise. My legs were shaking. I was losing hope. I didn’t know how I would finish the set. When you farted, however, I smiled. You broke wind and it shattered my insecurities. You cut the cheese and I straightened my knees. Your butt exercised its right to free speech and my butt found its way back to neutral center. And for that, I thank you.

3.) Your Fart Should be Celebrated- Guess what? Farting is healthy and normal. The average person farts over 14 times a day, and if we make the grave mistake of holding in our farts, we LITERALLY GET FART BREATH. I’m serious. That’s a thing. I read it on linkdin (eh?). ALSO, farts are made up of approximately 25% hydrogen. You know what else is made of hydrogen? STARS. So there. Your fart is basically a star. And so are you, Pila-toots. You are a star.

So thank you, Pila-toots, for reminding me that not everyone who takes pilates is a robot. I know you may never see this letter, but somehow I have confidence that my gratitude is sort of like your fart–even though you can’t see it, you know it’s there.

xoxo,

Emma

 

Peppered with Stupidity: A Lesson In Self Defense

Posted on by Emma Unedited

On Wednesdays, a group of girls from my dance company go to Wendy’s after rehearsal (we call it Wendy Wednesdays). It is a time to unwind, get some homework done, and justify buying extremely greasy food off of the value menu (because less money means less calories right?). So yesterday we were sitting there, chatting away, being girly gals, when one of my friends looks down and sees my pink pepper spray that is key-chained onto my wallet. “Have you ever had to use it?” She asked. “Well, not really.” I replied. And with a look of confusion she asked how one can “not really” use pepper spray. You reply “not really” to the question, do you like nachos? Or “is it raining right now?” When it comes to pepper spray, you either shoot burning liquid into someone’s eyes or you don’t. It isn’t a “not really” type of issue.

Oh, but it is. At least in my case it is. You see friends, one can “not really” use her pepper spray if she accidentally uses it on herself. One can also “not really” use her 53 million volt stun gun if she unintentionally stun guns her own thumb. I can actually say that I have done both. Am I proud of it? Not really…

So the stun gun story is more understandable than the pepper spray story, so I will tell that one first so that I can easily and cautiously expose you to my stupidity.

It was one of the first weekends of school. I was freshly moved in, wide eyed, and ready to achieve a perfect 4.0 GPA (BAHA). My roommate invited her friend over so that he could see our new room and meet me (looking back he probably thought I was insane). Somehow we got on the topic of being nervous walking around such a big campus everyday. That’s when I proceeded to talk about the stun gun that my boyfriend bought me as a graduation gift. Ok– let me get one thing straight. This stun gun is legit. Too legit to quit in fact. The video advertisements depict large men giving the ground a good ole’ smooch after coming in contact with its power. So when I pulled it out of my drawer, I sort of felt like Rafiki when he lifts Simba up at the beginning of “The Lion King.” (see pic below)

Rafiki

After fully realizing the magnitude of power in my hands, my roommate’s friend asked me how it works. And instead of explaining it to him like an intelligent little freshman, I decided that I would just show him (of course)! So I geared up, flipped the “on” switch with as much swagger as I could, and pushed the button that releases the electricity. I soon realized, however, that my thumb was on the metal part from which the electricity is released.

Ouch.

I then proceeded to whimper and pay my respects to my right thumb which felt like someone had taken a hammer to. After the initial shock subsided, I had to walk around with my PackIt lunchbox over my hand for a solid 3 hours (because it wasn’t embarrassing enough that I simply brought a lunchbox to college).

The second time I used a self defense weapon against myself was in the CVS pharmacy. This was also one of the first weekends of school and my friends and I went to get groceries, toiletries, etc. for the dorm. I felt super adult-like with my little CVS basket and my list of things to purchase. Oh also, we were at a CVS plaza (very posh) which is basically a 2 story CVS. I needed to go to the bottom floor to get something, so I got on the elevator (laziness is what caused this all apparently). Whilst riding the elevator, I looked down at my wallet and noticed my pink pepper spray. I thought to myself, I wonder what this looks like when it sprays. You see friends, I thought pepper spray would come out like hairspray and diffuse a nice peppery mixture into the atmosphere. Well, I was obviously wrong. As I pushed down the button, pepper spray shot out like a jet and created a giant, orange mess all over the elevator wall.

Great.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my eyes began to experience an intense burning sensation, and I started to cough like a chainsmoker on her 6th pack of the day. It was not a pleasant experience. When the elevator doors opened, I felt as if I was taking my first steps through Heaven’s Gates. However, that feeling ended when I had to tell the register worker that there was pepper spray all over the elevator wall–ruining the image of the oh so classy CVS Plaza.

So there it is folks. The two stories which sum up the most irrational moments of my life. If someone wants to make a self defense product that will help me defend myself from my own stupidity, that would be great.

xoxo

-Emma

A Weekend Wasted: A Reflection Upon My First Days of College

Posted on by Emma Unedited

Well, well well. Look who is back! Good news, friends. If you are reading this, it means that you are really making a difference in my blog following. Yep, that’s right. Upon finishing this second entry, you will have officially made up about 20% of my views! Wow. Give yourself a pat on the back. You are a loyal friend.

So hopefully you know that in my last blog I defended myself for giving birth to (interesting diction=better writing) yet another WordPress blog. I explained why I entitled the site “Upon Further Investigation” and apologized for any cliches’ (punctuation?) that my blog may commit simply by existing. In this blog, however, I am going to take you on a journey back to my first week of freshman year. Ah, yes. Good old college life. You see, the subtitle of my blog is “a day in the life of a sober college student” so my mom said that I should write about being on the outskirts of the so-called “partying scene.” And since my mom has made up around 75% of my views so far, I figured I should respect her wishes. So here it goes. In this blog I will impart upon you some (unfortunate) truths that I learned about college all within the first weekend.

1.) Boys are icky-Some of you older and wiser women may have known this already. And to be honest, I had a feeling this was true, but my first weekend at college confirmed my suspicions within about a 20 minute time span.  I was at a frat party. I was hanging out with my brand new suitemates who I had known for about an hour, so things were already sort of awk.. Plus I had no idea what to wear. And I missed my mommy. So I just stood there looking (and feeling) like this photo of Wallace and Gromit. (yes, people have told me I look like this when I start to feel awkward.) Wallace_and_gromit

Anyways, so I’m just doing my thing when this chick with legs for centuries walks by in a black, strapless romper and tan wedges. As she passed, the guy next to me optically stalked her and so flippantly stated, “Wow, she’s really asking for it tonight.” Classy, right?

So…I did the whole “silly girly giggle” thing and (out of nervousness that he could smell fear over his own beer breath) I looked down at my shoes. My tan wedges. Accompanied by my black. strapless. romper.

Lovely.

When the guy noticed that I was wearing the same thing he made a quick and dashing recovery with, “well the same clothes don’t look the same on everyone.” I think it was the first time I actually thought to myself, Good thing my legs are as short as this guy’s list of right swipes.  

Luckily, my outfit TRULY stopped resembling leg girl’s about 20 minutes later when that same guy spilled an entire solo cup of beer on me in passing. It’s okay though. He apologized.

2.) Everything is better in moderation-so you may think that I am referring to alcohol here and I am about to tell you that my middle school D.A.R.E. teacher was right and that alcohol in no way fulfills the soul. But alas, alcohol was not the issue on this humid August night. No siree. But if there is a way to measure “blood sushi content” I’m sure mine was way above the suggested limit. On the first weekend of school while other freshman are plummeting head first into the CCrrrAAAzzYYY college life (and later into their toilets), I was having a peaceful dinner at a local sushi joint. BUT ALAS! I still managed to experience the same amount of nausea they all did. You see my friends, I got good old fashion food poisoning the first weekend of college.Yep. A classic case of “bad salmon” that all sushi places warn you of with the minuscule font and asterisk at the bottom of their menu. Cool. Yum. Good times.

3.) College Beds are Small (aka Boys Are Icky 2.0)(aka lock your doors)– BLESS. So this didn’t directly happen to me. But it was too juicy not to share and is something my suitemate is okay with me posting on the world wide web. ALSO ON THE FIRST WEEKEND OF SCHOOL, my suitemate had an unexpected visitor sneak on into her room for some unplanned “snuggle time.” (PAUSE: you may be asking yourself “How did all of this happen in one weekend? Just as a frame of reference, this particular debacle was pre beer-spillage and post sushi-tashtrophe). RESUME: So it is about 4 am. All of the other freshman (who are secretly terrified to be away from home) are sleeping (or salivating depending on how much raw fish they consumed that night.) When all of a sudden the door opens and the dude from across the hall walks into her room. (after getting to know this kid better and some further investigation, we have confirmed that he thought he was in his own room due to the dangerous ramifications of consuming an excess of alcoholic beverages.) He walked in, proceeded to use the restroom and got in what he thought was his own bed. But unfortunately, the poor babe was mistaken. Let’s just say my suitemate wasn’t really “in the mood” and after a few choice words sent the kid on a whole new kind of “walk of shame” back to his (actual) room. We now lock our doors every night.

So there it is, loves: three things that probably only ever happen to the “me’s” of the world on their first weekend away from home. I hope you never have to relate to any of this. And if you do–I apologize for your suffering.

Xoxo

Emma

 

I Can Explain: A Justification for Yet Another Blog Coming Into This World

Posted on by Emma Unedited

 

Hello web friends! If you are reading this, it could mean several things: 1.) You are bored and you think I’m an interesting person so you thought you’d give reading my blog a try. 2.) You needed inspiration (you probably won’t get that here but keep reading anyways please.I beg of you.) 3.) You are my mother. (AKA my number one fan). Any of these options are just peachy so thank you for not hating me. I thought I would take the time in my first blog to explain why I am allowing (yet another) artsy looking (free wordpress) page to grace your screens. Upon further investigation I have the answer for you…

Why Start a Blog?

1.) My mom told me to. She made it clear this past weekend that she thinks I am witty and told me I should start one. So I am doing this for her (an act of selflessness really). I also feel like what I go through on the reg (mom, this means “regularly”) is relevant and important and everyone probably cares what is going on in my life (insert sarcastic emoji face here). Basically, this ones’ for you, Ma.

2.) I Don’t Want to Confuse Anyone. Every other basic white girl has a blog, so why can’t I? I thought to myself, I’m wearing UGGS, I enjoy a warm PSL (Pumpkin Spice Latte) in the fall. Heck! I even use acronyms to describe basic white girl things! All I need now is a blog to confirm to everyone that I AM INDEED A BASIC WHITE GIRL! So with the addition of my mother–this blog is for those of you who were confused about that issue (again, this really isn’t about me).

3.) Blogs are Challenging. Honestly I feel super ballsy doing this blog. Writing blogs is hard. I spent like 45 minutes trying to figure out what to freaking name it. It got to the point where I was like, Okay, i’m just gonna look around my dorm and name it the first words I see. However, I felt that naming my blog “eucalyptus mint foaming hand wash” was too lengthy and titling it “The Archaeology of the Holy Land” would be too #offensive so I had to come up with a new plan. So I looked in the mirror (apparently I thought the sight of my own face would provide some inspiration) and I noticed my pink hair. Friends, my pink hair was not by choice. I had to dye it red for the musical I was in and no one told me that TEMPORARY DYE DOES NOT COME OUT OF BLONDE HAIR. So I currently look like the love child of the pink care bear and the chick from Lazy Town (shout out to all my 90’s homies). You see, the director for the show said that I didn’t look “edgy” enough so he asked me to shave one side of my head and get a mohawk (umm?). In an effort to achieve the vibe of this “edgy”character, I decided to buy some crappy red spray hair dye (according to my boyfriend it gave me more of “a female roller derby type look”).  And as a result, my dorm looks like a scene from a crime show. I kid you not, the bottoms of my shoes, the entirety of my bathroom, and the back of my neck are completely covered in red hair dye. Cute right? So I said screw it, I will name my blog upon further investigation because that’s a detectivey type thing and my room looks like I murdered someone. I also thought it was symbolic of how I overthink things and can learn life lessons and blah blah blah….

So there it is folks (mom), my first blog. I hope it makes you giggle until you pee or at least pity laugh until you feel like a good friend. Stay tuned for more fun times.

Xoxo,

Emma