Five Completely Sane Ways To Ask Someone To Prom

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[I apologize for the lack of sound. This post is half experiment, half high school.]

1. Write her a thoughtful note. I think it is extra sweet to cut out the letters from magazines. It shows you really put some time and effort into your gesture.

2. Decorate his car. Why waste all those post-its when you could go a more memorable route? Use your keys so he won’t forget this day for the rest of his life!

3. Get her a kitten. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will say, “I will be the best prom date ever,” like a ritual animal sacrifice. Plus, it’s always a smart idea to have some ancient pagan gods on your side when a slow dance comes on. Wink.

4. Serenade him. Russian is considered the most romantic language in the world. Dress up, rent a theater, pick a song with no real words.

5. Leave a message on her lawn. Use fire.

Wolf Like The Animal takes no responsibility for any kittens, cars, lawns, or arrests made as a result of this post. Good luck, prom-goers!

Sporknotes: A Brief History of Birthday

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Thank you, friends, family, and complete strangers, for the incredibly sweet birthday wishes!!

I looked up the history of my birthday, hoping to find some incredible events, like Santa’s release from jail or the invention of the baked bean, but instead I found … some other stuff. So, I present you with a Brief History of May 13th.
(Special shout-out to my pals at Wikipedia for providing me with this information.)

In 1848, Finland debuted its national anthem. It’s … catchy?

In 1917, three Portuguese kids claimed they saw Our Lady of Fátima, later resulting in about twenty different ill-produced movies that I watched at my Catholic elementary school. I feel like I had this particular one memorized:

Our Lady of Fatima

I share my birthday with Bea Arthur and Dennis Rodman, who also apparently share my love for dress up.

birthday beaDennis Rodman birthday

Lena Dunham was born on May13, 1986, and set an impossible bar for young female writers/actors/show-runners/naked people everywhere.

Lena Dunham birthday'

I think the most historically significant May 13th happened in 1996 when Mrs. Jacquelyn Wolfgram organized The Best Birthday Party Ever. (This isn’t on Wikipedia, but you’ll have to trust me.) There was a homemade bean bag toss that involved throwing things into the mouth of a cat painted on a big piece of cardboard. There were slap bracelets in the goody bags. Everyone in my class was invited, and the cake had Timone and Pumba figurines ON IT. As in, I got to eat cake covered in icing and TOYS. Plus, I got to turn six, which you really only get to do once. It was pretty awesome, I highly recommend it.

Young Christina

Twenty-three has not been too shabby thus far (grown up Christina does have a few things over young Christina, like a driver’s license, a really nice boyfriend, and the legal ability to drink alcohol), but I carry that Lion King cake from the Giant bakery in my heart. Here, take a piece. Make sure to get some with blue icing — it will dye your tongue.

Happy May 13th, everyone!! Hearrrrrttttzzzzzzzz!Especially you, Mom. This is all your doing.

 

Ask Me How I’m Feeling: Day Changers

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A day changer is a sentence or an event or even just a weird eye contact situation that, well, changes your day. Day changers can be both negative and positive, so I’ve indicated which is which with — surprise! — negative and positive signs. You’re welcome.

(I had two glasses of wine at lunch, so this doesn’t quite qualify as drunk ask me how I’m feeling, but I should let you know that there is some pinot grigio involved.)

+ “Have another glass of wine.”
- “We are out of wine.”
- “We don’t serve hard alcohol.”
- “We don’t serve any alcohol.”
+ “Your legs look great.”
- “I understand why you hate exercise. I’m out of shape, too.”
+ Zing! Blog post idea.
- This idea was funnier in my head.
+ My essay is way over word count!
- My essay is way over word count.
+ So many people are in love.
- It is all being documented on Facebook.
+ Spring is in the air!!!!
- Re: Facebook.
+ MARRIAGE
- FACEBOOK
- I’m addicted to Facebook.

+ It is gorgeous outside, I should tan.
- “I need you to stay at work a little late today.”
+ Awesome internship.
- Free labor.
+ Finding an open seat in the library.
- “My friend is coming.”
+ Getting the door held open for you.
- Getting your butt pinched.
+ I look awesome.
- “You look tired.”
+ You can make videos for the internet!
- You are that biotch who makes videos for the internet.
+ But I’m so young.
- But you’re so young.
+ My apartment is so clean!
- Rent is due.

+ ” I made you dinner…”
- “… it’s vegan.”
+ Feminism.
- “Women can’t be funny and sexy at the same time.”
+ Lucy.
+ Carol.
+ Tina.
+ My grandmother.
+ Wine at lunch.
- Hangover by 3:00 pm.

The Ask Me How I’m Feeling Verdict, from the library basement …
tiredFriday. I feel Friday.

Happy weekend to you all. I hope it is filled with only MAGICAL day changers (like “THIS IS THE WINNING TICKET” and “Oh, you don’t have to pay for that,” etc, etc.)

Missing College

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I’ve decided that it’s okay to miss college.

It’s okay to look out your window at a perfect, sunny day and wish that you could skip class and drink pre-mixed margarita out of a water bottle. It’s okay to daydream about a time when waking up for a Biology class at noon was really really hard. I’d even venture to say that it’s okay if you miss the cafeteria where you could get a heart-stopping taco salad at two o’clock when you finally rolled out of bed.

It’s okay to miss your friends. I bet they miss you, too.

It’s okay to remember how your paychecks went directly into the cash register at the liquor store down the street. It’s okay that this time last year, your extracurricular activities had gone from newspaper, a capella, and tutoring to happy hour, happy hour, and happy hour. It’s okay that you haven’t done karaoke in a while; nothing could ever top that time we sang Eminem and the whole bar sang along.

It’s okay to miss buying outfits for themed parties, and to miss the powdery smells of getting ready with your friends. It’s okay to choke back a sob as you unsubscribe from the Pizza Kingdom newsletter, and try to remember what it was like to eat junk food at three in the morning. It’s okay to go through your phone and wonder how the supporting characters — the guy you only talked to in Philosophy, the girl your friend dated for half a second, that hilarious dude always inviting you to house parties — are doing: are they happy? Are they different?

I think it’s okay to acknowledge how much time you wasted: on sleeping in, on boys who would never care about you, and on worrying about “the real world,” which now you realize is just like your old world, except now there are bills and deadlines and traffic. And your friends are far away. But the cool thing is that they are figuring this shiv out, too, so you have that special connection, just like you always will. Once you’ve seen someone barf in public, your friendship is pretty much unbreakable.

So, it’s okay to wish that you still had that group of people who never thought twice about spooning. It’s okay to go through Facebook pictures and realize suddenly that all of your college friends are actually really good-looking. (Why didn’t we all just create a commune and have each others gorgeous babies? Oh yeah, because we’ve all seen each other barf in public and that kind of changes things.) And you know what? It’s okay to look at those Facebook pictures a lot. And maybe have them a little memorized.

It’s okay that, after nineteen years of school, the smell of spring still makes you feel like you should be studying for exams.

It’s okay to wish that you could still take painting class. And to wonder why you are so tired, and “why is it that now every time I even have a glass of wine I wake up hung-over?” It’s okay to email your favorite teachers to let them know you are still alive. I bet they’d like that.

It’s okay to feel like this year has gone by really quickly, and that you haven’t accomplished what you thought you wanted. It’s okay to feel like you’ve changed. It’s okay to feel like you are exactly the same person, only trapped in an alternate universe where people wear khaki un-ironically and it’s not really okay to get drunk and kiss that guy from your Psychology class. It’s okay to think about reading Faulkner and getting to History late and rolling your eyes at yet another cheesy student event, and not be completely sure whether or not you miss it.

Because you’ve done it, you’ve moved on, and that is, well — for lack of a better word — okay.

On Love

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I did not know love before you.

You have completely changed my life. I spend the whole day with your body pressed to mine, and to part from you is to crave you. I wonder what you’re doing when I’m gone. I wonder what my absence means to you. I wonder if you wait for me to come back.

I think about things I never cared about before: nutrition (I want us both to live forever), responsibility (because I want us to live comfortably), and death (which is never allowed to touch you). Everything I do is now for you. Even a trip to the grocery store becomes a quest: what can I buy to make you happy? I toss in my sleep when you’re not next to me. I listen to music and want to play it for you, want to see how you react. I read a book and want to read sections of it to you as you fall asleep with your head on my chest.

I hear your voice everywhere.

This sounds crazy (I must be crazy), but even sitting at my desk at work, I find myself wondering if you’ve pooped today. I hope that you’ve eaten enough, that you’re warm enough. I get overwhelmed, suddenly, with the power you have over me. I’m scared to ever have children because my love for them might even be more overpowering and I will be a woman obsessed and I will never be enough. I will never be everything you need. You are going to grow away from me, I know it, but that doesn’t stop this light feeling in my lungs. My boyfriend looks me straight in the eyes, accusatory, and says, “You’re in love with him.” I sputter, trying to deny it, but it’s true.

I wonder about you now, even as I type this. You are asleep in your bed somewhere else, or maybe up and about, smelling the air. Everything is new to you, you are an adventurer, and it makes me look at the world in a new way. I’m thankful for that.

It’s only been three days since I found you, wandering the neighborhood with your eyes glued shut, a blind, furry little flea bag, lost and mewing as loud as you could. Now, you look at me with clear blue eyes and mew softly, like a baby. You drink out of the bottle I offer you, and fall asleep in my hand; how are you this impossibly small?

You fall asleep, tucked between my neck and shoulder, and, exhausted, we both sigh.

Glam Kitten

Photo By Lauren T. Nelson

Excuses

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I’m way behind in my schoolwork.
I had to wake up really early this morning.
I have to wake up really early tomorrow morning.
I need a nap.
I need another nap.
I’m trying not to eat cheese.
I’m trying not to eat sugar.
I’m grumpy as duckkkkk.
I’m just not feeling inspired.
I can’t focus.
I haven’t had my coffee yet.
I have had, like, twelve cups of coffee.
I don’t really know what’s going on, but I’m wicked out of it today.
When I have so much to do, I just don’t do any of it.
I’m distracted by my new kitten.
I’m distracted by my new boyfriend.
I’M NEVER GOING TO GET A KITTEN.
I’M NEVER GOING TO GET A BOYFRIEND.
I AM GOING TO DIE ALONE SO WHAT IS THE POINT OF DOING WORK?
This has been kind of an easy week, so I need to take the time to catch up on Netflix.
I wanted to treat myself!
I had a Groupon!
I had a stomach thing. Not like barfing, just a thing.
I had a medical emergency.
I had my period.
I’m getting over a cold.
I need some me-time.
I need to get out and meet new people.
I think I might be depressed.
I think I might have mono.
I forgot how to spell.
I don’t have a driver’s license.
I rode a horse here, so I might need to take a cab back.
It’s supposed to snow.
I have to study for my exam on Russian tribal dance.

YOU CAN DO IT! ... later.

YOU CAN DO IT! … later.

I’m sore from going to the gym yesterday.
I’m sore from going to the gym two weeks ago.
I’m sore from thinking about the gym.
I just ate.
I’m starving.
I’m Catholic.
No one will understand.
Everyone will think I’m a dingbat.
Someone already wrote about this.
There are so many people trying to do the same thing.
I have no motivation.
I took too much Adderall.
I will do it tomorrow.
I have a whole hour free on Thursday; I’ll do it then.
I bet our parents never had to deal with this shiv.
Even if I start now, I’ll never get it done in time.
YOLO.
But I could just do all the laundry at once!
Fast food isn’t that bad for you.
I’ll eat a salad for dinner.
It was way cheaper than a trip to the store.
Gas is expensive.
My elbow itches.
It’s too beautiful outside.
There is a hurricane outside.
There are squirrels outside
But I made a blog post laaaaaast weeeeeeek.

An Open Letter to Lil Wayne

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[This post contains crude language and some crazed lady-ranting. I'm not apologizing. I'm just saying.]

Dear Mr. Wayne,

Last week, a friend sat me down and insisted I listen to what he deemed “the most misogynistic song to ever exist.” While I usually don’t go out of my way to listen to music that will make me want to rip my own ovaries out,  he seemed so excited about it. So I complied. I listened to your song, “B*tches Love Me,” and I listened pretty closely, mostly because I thought I was missing something. Is this song supposed to be funny?

I’ve heard the song on the radio since, and my blood pressure gets out of control every time a word gets bleeped out — every two seconds — because THE WHOLE THING IS DISGUSTING. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I am just ashamed that I laughed a little when I first heard it, before the chorus got in my head and the lyrics really sunk in. If my speaking voice was less shrill, I would just complain to my friends about this, but, Mr. Wayne (or can I call you Lil?), I am just plain mad at you. Seventh grade girl, red in the face, ignoring you for a week before I burst out on you in the lunchroom MAD.

But, I have recently been told that I can finally communicate above a seventh grade level (Woo hoo! I can read something other than Where the Red Fern Grows and restore some of my faith in humanity at last!), so I am going to try to be rational.

Here are some of the lyrics I laughed at during my first listen:

 ”And these hoes love me like Satan
f*ck with me and get bodied
And all she eat is d*ck
She on a strict diet.”

Wait, what? Are these “hoes” like Satan? Are you like Satan? Or do they love like how Satan loves? Because I heard a rumor he only loves killing puppies, and by heard a rumor, I mean read it in a book (Damn you, Red Fern!!). Anyway, I don’t understand how that would be appealing. I also didn’t know what “bodied” meant, so I looked it up. The dictionary says it means, “Give material form to something abstract.” That sounds pretty philosophical, I guess. Urban Dictionary defines “bodied” as, “piss drunk,” and/or “slang word meaning killed or murdered.” Well, which is it, Lil? Are you going to murder me or are we going out in the backyard and shotgunning beers?

Lil Wayne

In terms of the last two lines, I don’t even know where to start. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt (sort of); are you referring to some European delicacy? Is d*ck actually slang for ice cream? I don’t really want to have to look it up on Urban Dictionary, so I suppose I will never know. Even if it was slang for ice cream, you know people can’t live on ice cream, right? They will die. PEOPLE NEED NUTRITION. IF YOU ARE SO FRICKEN RICH AND FABULOUS WHY CAN’T YOU BUY YOUR DATES NICE DINNERS?! WHERE IS THE LOBSTER, I ASK YOU?!

Okay, we should move on before I have a stroke.

“And girl, I f*ck who I want
And f*ck who I don’t
Got that A1 credit
At that Filet Mignon
She say “I never wanna you make you mad,
I just wanna make you proud”
I say “baby, just make me cum,
Then don’t make a sound.””

WHAT. WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!?!?!?!?!

Who said that? What woman actually said that to you, Lil Wayne?! And then was like, “Oh yeah, sure, I really didn’t want to talk ANYWAY because as a WOMAN talking is rather DIFFICULT because it requires all that THINKING so instead I’ll just be here as your sexual object. No, no, please. You haven’t offended me at all! I will not make a sound. Not a single sound. Here, I will even hold my breath just in case breathing out my nose makes my boogers squeak.” And, is this one of the girls you want to have sexual intercourse with or one who you don’t? I’m a little concerned about your prioritizing. I mean, you clearly deserve the best, so WHY SETTLE? Have some self respect, dude. Your body is a temple and stuff.

(I’m sorry if my words are hard to understand, I keep vomiting in my mouth a little.)

In your song, poem, drunken monologue or whatever this is, you go on to say that,

“Can’t treat these hoes like ladies, man.
P*ssy, money, weed, codeine
She say my d*ck feel like morphine … ”

What constitutes a ho, exactly? Is it a woman thing? Is it an outfit thing? I don’t want to jump to conclusions again. Maybe a ho could be a dude. Wearing a fur cape. Maybe a ho is a slang term for ill-tempered raccoon. In that case, I can see how it would be inappropriate for you to treat a ho like a lady.  But just in case these “hoes” are actually women, I think you should state a clearer definition. I mean, I would never want my friends to be mistaken for hoes. Or my sister or my mom. Because those are some ladies who deserve to be treated like ladies. DUH.

Also, this might be a weird question, but are you ingesting money? Is “p*ssy, money, weed, codeine” some kind of new health shake?

And, lastly, I don’t mean to burst your bubble (or whatever), but are you aware of the actual side effects of morphine? Yes, I get it, morphine is addictive, but according to drugs.com, it can also cause severe diarrhea, nausea, urinating less than usual or not at all, nightmares, rectal bleeding, and unconsciousness. Is that what your d*ck does? You should get that checked out.

I’m not going to freak out at you anymore, Lil. I still have to write my letters to Future and Drake (c’mon, Drake, did you learn NOTHING from Degrassi?!). I hope your song stops being popular soon because hearing it all the time is taking years off my life, and I clearly don’t have the same health resources as you (my dentist refuses to give me grillz). Maybe someday we can collaborate on a parody. Maybe it can be called, “I treat women like human beings.” Catchy!

Yours in Seventh Grade Girl Fury,
Christina