What I’ve Learned From Three Days At College

Hello again, folks! I have been absent lately because I just moved into my college dorm and it’s been a chaotic week. Turns out college is just a bunch of waiting in lines and climbing stairs. I’m going to have unbelievable patience and buns of steel by the end of the month. I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m keeping this post brief and I haven’t gotten to plan it out, so I apologize in advance for the disorganization.

In three days of college, I have learned the following:

1. Silence is not an effective method of social networking.
2. If you don’t want to walk from the front desk of your residence hall to your room carrying two rolls of toilet paper, out there for everyone to see, be sure to bring a bag when you go to replenish your t.p supply.
3. No matter how well advertised your university’s food is, it will not exceed, or sometimes even meet your standards.
4. Everyone seems to think that all college kids ever eat is cheese or pepperoni pizza
5. Walking across campus will always take longer than expected.
6. Not all residence halls are created equal
7. It is entirely possible to discover standing water within your shower’s drain within the first two days of college
8. Alone time feels infinitely more sacred when you live with a roommate and two suitemates, even if your roomie and suitemates are pretty damn cool
9. The R.A may forget to tell you how to get ahold of him
10. People actually expect you to memorize your university email address even though the only thing it’s proven itself good for is notifying you of financial aid issues that you don’t actually have
11. Finding private time to journal is as difficult as finding a trace of logic in Donald Trump’s campaign speeches
12. Colleges love to throw around the word ‘mandatory’ a lot when referring to events that they have no way of holding you accountable for attending

Please Stop Invalidating People Who Self Diagnose

Recently, I saw a livid Facebook post about self-diagnosing and how this apparently invalidates ‘real’ mental health problems. This viewpoint is nothing new. The internet is crawling with people who suffer from mental illnesses that they have been diagnosed with by mental health professionals, who resent those who have no official diagnosis, but who use the same diagnostic terms to describe themselves. I understand why this can be frustrating for people who have mental illnesses and I understand that there are people out there who certainly misuse diagnoses. Self-diagnosis can be unhealthy and risky and I don’t recommend it.

However, I cannot get behind the arguments of so many of the people with ‘real’ mental illnesses. In fact, I think the arguments many of them present are harmful, ignorant, toxic, hypocritical, and lack empathy on many levels. This disappoints me, because for the most part, in my experiences, people who suffer from mental illnesses tend be quite adept at taking their own experiences with adversity and turning it into compassion for other human beings. Their wisdom and empathy is more often than not, unmatched by most other people. The portion of mentally ill individuals who resent self-diagnosers surprises me.

I want to briefly note that I have never been diagnosed with anything. I talk about depression a lot on my blog. But if you read my early posts about it, you will notice that I preface everything by desperately assuring my readers that I use the term depression in non-clinical sense, because I am so afraid of someone getting on my ass about how my ‘depression’ isn’t real and how I am offending and invalidating ‘real’ depressed people. I don’t pretend to have been diagnosed. I don’t claim to have a mental illness. I do, however, know that I have, for years, had an unusually difficult time accessing the feeling of happiness, or often times, any feeling at all, it has impacted my life profoundly. I’m trying to get myself back. I’m trying to stop feeling numb. So I talk about my struggles and feelings online and I try not to offend anyone with ‘real’ mental illnesses. I am not someone who feels the need to self-diagnose though. So I stand kind of in the middle of this argument.

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The reason I have never been diagnosed with anything isn’t because I’ve visited a bunch of mental health professionals and still received no diagnosis. No, it’s because I have grown up in an unsupportive family who doesn’t believe in therapy or counseling. They do not believe in sharing emotions, and don’t seem to even believe in mental illnesses. Asking my parents to see a mental health professional would put me in an emotionally unsafe place. To get caught visiting a mental health professional in secret, would be even worse. There is no emotionally safe way for me to receive help or a diagnosis until I am financially independent and living entirely separate from my parents. On top of that, I do not have the funding to spare to see a professional, much less repeatedly visit one. I don’t have a ‘real’ diagnosis because I have not had the opportunity to even come close to getting one.

What these “I hate people who self-diagnose” people do not seem to understand, is that not everyone has the privilege of seeing a qualified mental health professional. Not everyone has the privilege of having their emotional adversity recognized, identified and validated by a qualified individual. Not everyone has the privilege of receiving the help they need to heal, a prescription, a word to tell them that their pain matters. There is a massive population of mentally ill people who don’t even know why they’re struggling or how to get better. They think there is something wrong with them. They think they’re alone. Or worse yet, because of the “I hate self-diagnosers” party’s shaming and hate speech (yeah, I’ll go out on a limb and call it that), these people are forced to feel like their feelings do not matter, their feelings are invalid and as if they’re the villains because they’re apparently ‘trivializing’ ‘real’ mental illnesses.

It seems to me that if you face emotional adversity, and you’ve been lucky enough to have that emotional adversity recognized, you should be aware that you probably had that same emotional adversity even before you were diagnosed. Having a therapist tell you you’re OCD isn’t what made you OCD. You had OCD before that. If you didn’t, your therapist would not have told you that you have OCD. If you are mentally ill, you should also be aware of how crucial validation is, and how much it hurts when you are blatantly invalidated. If you want others to make you feel validated, you should put forth an effort to make other people feel validated, or, if that’s too much trouble for you, at least refrain from hurting and invalidating your fellow human beings. Mentally ill or not, everyone needs validation and kindness. Insisting that a person is not really mentally ill does not make harmful words and invalidation any more acceptable.

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Your mental illness is not invalidated as soon as other people (mentally ill or not) say they have it too. It is always valid and real, because you feel it and it impacts you. You don’t have to feel threatened or trivialized because there are people using the same terms you use to describe your struggles, to describe their struggles.

There are so many self-diagnosing people who probably really do suffer from some kind of mental illness, and are lost and scared and confused and just want to know that there is a word for the emotional turmoil they are experiencing. You can argue that self-diagnosers are not qualified to claim they have a mental illness, but you are no more qualified to tell them they don’t have one.

Hello Again! Let’s Talk About Journaling!

First and foremost, sorry for the hiatus, folks. I’ve been backpacking with some fellow college freshmen, preparing to move into my dorm next week, losing sleep over getting tuition and everything paid for, but also, in some weird, paradoxical way, managing to feel very at peace with everything. I returned from the backpacking trip feeling like a new person for some reason, and I’m still working out why that may be, and I promise when I know the answer, or at least have the slightest idea, I will try to write a post about it, because it was a really pivotal experience and I want to share it. For now though, I want to talk about journaling again, because I’m thisclose to filling one of my own up and starting a new one, and I am totally, extra all about the journaling thing these days. Also, don’t expect this post to be a very organized one. I’m just trying to get back into the headspace for blogging, so I don’t know what I’m doing.

I realized recently that the kind of journal I keep is actually not really the norm. Not that there is a norm. It’s just that, when I read blog posts about journaling that are written by people who seem equally passionate about the activity, they all seem to have really different ideas of what journals are for. For me, it serves as a convenient place to hoard my memories. I write about moments that matter to me, and read into them and suck all the emotional nutrients out of them. Then two or so months later, I decide I want to relive them and flip back a year in my life story and reread them because I have a nasty habit of dwelling in the past. Journaling is my way of making sense of everything that happens to me. I rarely use prompts. I choose to record my creative ideas elsewhere, usually. My journals are my life stories. They are full of my thoughts about the reality I am living in and dreams for the future that I want to have. But they really aren’t that creative. I feel bad about that. Like, what kind of journal keeper am I? There’s no poetry in my journals (I take that back actually… there are some pitiful attempts from 2012. I try not to think about those though). There are no little stories or beautiful drawings or inspirational quotes or romantic observations of the world. You might find a corny joke or two or an awful pun though. It’s likely that you will find pages of my languid, numb, depressed musings. Or the word ‘fuck’ engraved into the page twenty one times along with bits of broken pencil led and murderous holes stabbed in the paper (I do not miss my days of being a suicidal wreck).

It’s like every other journal keeper has a way more creative approach to journaling though. Among those people, there is a vast diversity in journal types, but I was so sure I was the majority. So I don’t know whether to feel like I’m missing out on a type of journaling that could be super awesome, or to feel proud that my simple approach to journaling is something that is apparently out of the ordinary, even though I was so certain it was the norm. Or maybe I should stop fussing over it altogether. I don’t know. What do you do with your journal?

I Dream Of A Glorious Day When Menstruation Is No Longer Considered Taboo

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Deeming menstruation socially unacceptable is damaging. I cannot continue to pretend that the stigma surrounding periods doesn’t impact me. I am exhausted and annoyed (really more like infuriated, but I chose a less intense word lest some ignorant douchebag play the ‘psh… you’re just pms-ing” card) and actually find it really sad that those of us who have periods are taught to be ashamed of such a natural process.

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My problem with, what I’ve come to refer to as ‘Period Shame’ is not just about the fact that this stems from a long thread of deeply rooted, historic misogyny. That aspect of it is certainly awful, but at least it’s getting talked about more and more these days. What I’m not seeing enough awareness brought to, is the health risks that can arise as a result of Period Shame.

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When I first started menstruating, I was twelve. There was a lot of anxiety surrounding it because it happened on literally, the first day of seventh grade (’cause I didn’t have enough to worry about then), so, I shit you not, overly-cautious 12-year-old-me panicked and ended up crafting a bizarre safety-net of multiple maxi pads ‘just in case.’ Being inexperienced, I didn’t realize how hilariously excessive that was.

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However, I was also slightly relieved that day. Part of it was because I’d intuitively known it was coming. The days leading up to it had felt different to me, both physically and emotionally, so I had a clue, despite being new to all this. But most of my relief was rooted in the way periods remind you that you’re healthy. I was growing up, my body was changing right on schedule, and as inconvenient as it was, I had a concrete reminder that I was a healthy, ‘normal’ girl. What I can now draw from this experience, is that Period Shame is not natural. No one is inherently ashamed of this process, we are conditioned to feel that way.

For the sake of brevity, I’m going to make a simple list of ways Period Shame has impacted me, as well as people I know, instead of diving into a cumbersome paragraph-form explanation. People who menstruate are often affected by Period Shame in the following (as well as many other unlisted), ways:

-May be afraid, embarrassed or uncomfortable telling a parent/guardian when they first get their period

-May not have an adequate understanding of how to hygienically take care of their periods

-May fear seeking help if there are complications (example: getting a tampon stuck)

-May be afraid/uncomfortable voicing concerns about their periods or asking important questions

-May find that the emotional variations that often accompany periods are exacerbated by this belief that when you’re menstruating, your body is doing something ‘gross and unmentionable’

-May not be aware if their menstruation is indicating health problems

-May not even know what menstruation is, and believe they’re dying or experiencing some kind of severe health problem/injury when their period comes. I know someone who got her period at age 9. This was her experience, because parents are often afraid to tell their younger kids about periods, despite the fact that hearing about this will not scar them or instill fear. This is problematic for early developers.

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The stigma surrounding periods is unhealthy, inconvenient and often leads to unnecessary embarrassment. In a worst case scenario, silencing people about menstruation can be fatal. We, as an entire society (all genders, all different bodies, all people) absolutely must destroy this harmful, misguided notion that periods are taboo. Aside from having damaging results, it is ridiculous and illogical. Those of us who experience menstruation, need to feel comfortable talking about our periods and asking questions, those who don’t, need to be aware that it’s never okay, and often inaccurate, to accuse another person of PMSing in attempt to invalidate feelings, and should also be aware that no matter what your sex is, you have hormones too, and your emotions are influenced by them whether you know it or not. Just because your mood swings aren’t correlated with a specific bodily function, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. In short, it is the 21st century. Maintaining outdated beliefs that negatively impact a large portion of Earth’s population, is unacceptable.

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Laughter Is A Side Effect Of The Best Medicine

A lot of people really seriously subscribe to the notion that laughter is the best medicine. They value humor strongly because it makes them happy and to them, laughter is an integral part of happiness. In their eyes, when it comes to emotional problems, there are few better solutions. I agree that laughter is very important and can often play a unique role in the healing process, but not because I believe laughter alone is therapeutic (though it can be) or because humor makes people happy (though it does). I think that in the midst of all that, there is something even more intrinsic to the healing process that is often overlooked when it comes to this subject.

In many, many situations, laughter is a symbol of a mutual understanding, a relationship of sorts, between two or more people who have both found the same thing funny. When people laugh at a joke, it’s because they both get it. They’re on the same page, and whether they know it or not, they are bonding over something. I think that bond is what makes laughter so powerful, because we all crave relationships with other people. We want to know that someone else ‘gets it,’ even if ‘it’ is just the punchline to an amateur comedian’s corny joke, because if someone can ‘get’ that, maybe they can ‘get’ you too.

Laughter reminds us that we’re not alone. It breaks down those invisible walls that make us feel isolated, and brings people together. It helps us connect, and I think that human connection is the best medicine. Laughter is just a common side effect.

My Mom Thinks I’m A Lesbian/Advocating For Other Humans

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In light of some recent remarks I’ve heard from my mother, I have become fairly sure that she thinks I’m gay. Lately, I have been learning a lot about gender and sexuality because this is a fascinating topic to me and I don’t believe I can consider myself supportive of the LGBTQ community unless I educate myself. During bursts of excitement, I often share my newfound knowledge with my family, so I’ve been pretty vocal about this subject recently. While my mom wouldn’t deny LGBTQ people any legal rights, she doesn’t consider herself an ally. However, she has been awkwardly and subtly trying to let me know that I will not, in fact, be disapproved of if I bring a girlfriend home from college this year.

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Damn… if I’d known that being an ally to the LGBTQ (or MOGAI, if you prefer, but for some reason it’s like no one on WordPress uses this term?), community would automatically make me a lesbian, I’d have declared my alliance much earlier because hey, I’ve been heterosexual my whole life, why not mix it up a bit? I’m an adventurous soul! Stupid jokes aside though, this is actually something I’ve been meaning to bring up for a while now: You do not have to be gay to support equality. Just like you don’t need to be a woman to be a feminist, you don’t need to be black to believe black lives matter, you don’t need to be an animal to be disgusted by animal cruelty, you don’t need to be depressed to be pro-mental health and you don’t need to be an emu to think emus are the most punk rock birds ever.

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Seriously though…

This notion that the only person you should feel obligated to support is yourself is absolutely appalling to me, and what’s even more unbelievable is that I see it everywhere. It manifests itself in the most mundane ways and because of this, it’s often overlooked because we have become so accustomed to it. People who drive as if they’re the only ones on the road, people who refuse to hand five bucks to a homeless person simply because ‘It’s mine! Why should I give it away?!,’ people who litter and knowingly pollute the environment that they know they share with the rest of humanity just because they’re too damn lazy to walk a block to the grocery store or they’re so passionate about maintaining a perfectly green lawn that they think they’re entitled to obscene quantities of water… these people are all exhibiting the same repulsive, ‘I come first, everyone else comes second. I’m all that matters in the world’ attitude. It’s totally fine, and actually quite healthy to advocate for yourself. I encourage everyone to love themselves and support themselves. But there is absolutely no reason you can’t also love and support other people. I am not suggesting that we all start handing our retirement funds over to the homeless or stop using paper because it’s made from dead trees. If you want to do that, that’s great (as long as it doesn’t put you in a dangerous or unhealthy place).

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I mean, look at it…

All I’m saying is that the idea that other people matter, should not be so inconceivable or radical. I feel like that’s just common sense, but the amount of times I have been given weird looks for supporting racial equality, or been asked if money is an issue in my home because I support economic equality (yeah, it happened) or had my gender and sexuality called into question because I am supportive of the LGBTQ community, leads me to believe that an enormous portion of our population cannot fathom supporting another human being simply because other human beings deserve and need support. I think what this boils down to, is failure to recognize other people as human beings. I find this very sad, and I hope that one day everyone will support and love each other because of our shared humanity, and the recognition that love and support are two very universal needs among human beings, and everyone deserves that. I know that not everyone is greedy and self-absorbed. There are plenty of kindhearted individuals who are very passionate advocates of their fellow people and I am thrilled that they exist. But we need more of them, and I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

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You just don’t fuck with these things…

You Know That Awful Feeling Of Descending Into A Gloomy Pit Of Depression?

I apologize in advance for the disorganized and melancholic nature of this post. It’s not really a fun or interesting one, it’s just something I felt like I needed to write about and get off my chest.

When you’ve spent the past three years of your life existing in a sort of languid fog of sadness , self loathing and paralyzing numbness, feeling even just ‘okay’ for a few months seems like this massive feat, partially because it is, but mostly because when you’re living in this state of mind, contentment seems like some kind of distant dream or coveted impossibility. For the past few months, I’ve managed to achieve ‘okayness.’ There were even days where I was legitimately happy with myself. Mostly though, I was absolutely thrilled that I still had the ability to feel that emotion and that somehow I had crawled out of the dingy hole I’d been rotting in. I hadn’t felt that way in literally years. Lately though, the best words I can find to sum up my feelings are, “Well, fuck…”

I’ve been finding that ‘okayness’ becoming harder and harder to access. Contentment only comes in intermittent bursts, my smiles feel fake, I make stupid jokes sometimes and no matter how hard people are laughing, I remain straight-faced, not because I am a master of straight-faced humor, but because in the past month or so, it seems that nothing I do can make me happy. I reread old blog posts and start blushing with humiliation because it all just sounds like pseudo-intellectual, mawkish bullshit now. Hours of my time are wasted staring at blank Word documents because starting the story I want to write just feels so futile. I haven’t written a good song all summer and what’s even scarier, is that I pick up my guitar less and less these days. Even back when I was suicidal I still played.

The problem isn’t just the sadness and numbness though, it’s also about the fear. I don’t trust sadness to just go away anymore. I used to be able to assume that sadness was a fleeting emotion. It would pass, I’d be okay, it wasn’t anything to worry about. Last time I got sad, it stuck around for three years. The feelings I’m experiencing now are frighteningly familiar, and I keep suppressing them and trying not to feel them because I just want to be okay and it doesn’t work.

College is starting next month. Aside from worrying about starting this new chapter of my life depressed and numb, I am terrified. And I know I’m supposed to be terrified. Everyone is terrified of college. But I’m terrified of my inevitable failure. It’s not just that I’m terrified of the unfamiliarity of college. My terror is not a question, it’s a statement. It says “You will not make friends, you’ll fail your classes, you’ll eat every meal alone, you won’t join any of those cool clubs you were interested in, you’ll make everyone hate you including yourself and that is why you should feel terrified.” That just keeps circling in my head, keeping me up at night.

So I’ve been feigning happiness in attempt to run from my sadness. A few weeks ago, at college orientation, I adopted this persona of enthusiasm and sociability and pretended to be having fun. I met some really nice people that way, but they didn’t meet me. My journal has been sitting untouched in my top desk drawer because I’m afraid if I write in it, the true feelings will come out. Next week, I have a five day outdoor orientation for college that I signed up for where I’ll go backpacking with some other incoming freshman, and I’m sure I’ll spend the whole time pretending to be as outgoing and friendly as I can and basing my first friendships on lies.

Some part of me feels guilty for not being happy. I am so privileged. I have no reason to feel like this. I also feel like I owe it to those around me to be okay, like if I let my sadness show, I’ll drag everyone else down with me. And I feel selfish for thinking about my own emotions so much because technically I’m being self absorbed. But I’m also kicking myself for lying to everyone I meet. I guess I just feel like, by existing, I’m doing a disservice to the world, and the only bright side is that at least I was able to cut the bullshit for long enough to admit to myself that I am not okay right now, and as much as I really want this to end up being a false alarm, it is entirely possible that I’m not going to be ‘okay’ for awhile.

What is wrong with being ordinary?

Such an insightful and well written post! It’s high time someone addressed this issue. I get annoyed with the grandiosity of advertisements all the time. I’m so glad I stumbled across this post!

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There are many annoying things about advertising.

How loud and in your face it can be,

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The way you are sold a product through an (often highly polished and unrealistic) image of a coveted lifestyle,

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And the way women’s heads are periodically removed from their bodies:

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But one theme in advertising that has been bothering me lately is this: That to be ordinary – to be anything remotely like anyone else – is unacceptable.

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Advertising is something I try not to pay too much attention to, mainly because when I look at most ads the standards they imply through photos such as those above strike me as unfair and unrealistic. Like a strange pseudo-reality, or a fictional narrative in which one has to suspend one’s disbelief to get very far, ads frustrate me from how removed they often are from everyday life.

And yet…

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Starbucks Horoscopes

If you buy your coffee at Starbucks, it can be confirmed that you either don’t like coffee, are confused about what coffee is, or are a rich, white middle school girl in mukluks and hipster glasses, trying desperately to impress your friends. You are also the punchline of copious coffee jokes exchanged among pretentious coffee snobs like myself, who lounge ostentatiously in local, independently owned coffee shops sipping broodingly at the espresso they ordered to prove what sophisticated, Italian taste they have, but who secretly guzzle milky, instant decaf almost religiously every night before bed. Recently, I had a somewhat traumatic flashback to a darker, hollower time in my life that predates my discovery of local coffee shops and the development of my taste for quality coffee. In this flashback, I bought coffee at Starbucks. Please forgive me as I try desperately to piece my shattered ego back together by making fun of Starbucks drinkers in this cathartic endeavor in modern coffee comedy.

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Iced Skinny Flavored Latte: You buy all your clothes at the mall, live in California and have developed impeccable mathematical skills from years of adding and subtracting calories. You also have a Pomeranian, most likely named Victoria, after your favorite lingerie brand, who you tote around in your Gucci handbag while you traipse around the mall, wearing your sunglasses on top of your head and chewing your gum to the rhythm of your walking. I would warn you to take care not to overdraw your bank account, but the coffee spirits are telling me it’s inevitable.

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Mocha: You are desperately trying to conceal the fact that you don’t like coffee so that you can still go on those chatty Starbucks dates with your group of girlfriends. Your best friend BFF is Iced Skinny Flavored Latte girl, who you’re actually far too intellectual to be hanging out with, but who is very popular among the freshman class of Godawful High School, therefore putting you under enormous pressure to feign your friendship. You are living a lie. However, one day, for better or for worse, you will find yourself sitting in your college dorm room in a university hoodie, questioning the meaning of your vapid existence. You will spiral into a vortex of self-doubt and discombobulation in which you will battle your inner demons and make a resolution to live life to the fullest from this point forward. You will start by dropping out of college and using the remainder of your allocated tuition money to travel the world with hopes that this spontaneous journey will inspire a poignant memoir about self-discovery and mindfulness. The memoir will eventually be downgraded to a blog with two followers, who may or may not consist of your mother and your therapist.

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Starbucks Doubleshot +Protein: You may like coffee, you may not—whichever’s manlier. All you know for sure is that your girlfriend dragged you away from GTA for this and the inclusion of protein powder in this drink is just enough to keep your fragile male ego afloat for the duration of the date. There is a distinct possibility that in the very near future, your girlfriend will dump you for an unconventionally beautiful lesbian in an alt rock band, who will open her eyes to the world of independent coffee shops and the underground music scene. Also, your football team is going to lose the next game.

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Starbucks Blonde Sparkling Americano: You ordered this drink in celebration of your new implants, which you got even despite the fact that you’re still thousands of dollars in debt from the hot pink mustang you bought last month. You’re not entirely sure what an Americano even is, you just ordered it because it’s blonde and sparkling, like you. Be wary of who you flirt with today. The cute college boy with the impeccably groomed facial hair taking your order may very well be irresistible, but his girlfriend is running the espresso machine and will most definitely not hesitate to hawk one in your drink if she sees you bat your false eyelashes at her guy one more time.

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Pumpkin Spice Latte: You post photos of everything you eat on Instagram and have already finished garnishing your house up with nauseatingly adorable autumn themed decorations, even though it’s still August. Your room reeks of seasonal Yankee candles and the amount of selfies you take per day indicates that you are in dire need of an intervention. Your twin sister is a Macy’s manikin in the mall modeling this year’s latest fall fashion.

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Coffee: You were dragged here by a group of unbearably peppy and gregarious coworkers who need absolutely anything except more caffeine. You will also be very disappointed to find that Starbucks does not serve this drink.

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Double Chocolaty Chip Crème Frappuccino: You really just wanted desert, but settled for this preposterous nonsense instead. Much like your relationships, you will enjoy your drink while it lasts, but will be left feeling curiously unfulfilled when it’s gone. You fiercely insist that the problem with your empty love life stems from your compulsive habit of denying yourself your true desires, but deep down, you know it’s because your heart is as cold as your Frappuccino. One day a strapping young latte drinker will come to your rescue and teach you how to love without inhibition. Shortly after melting your frigid heart, he will be killed tragically during an encounter with a rabid capybara.

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Evolution Fresh Sweet Greens Smoothie: You speed-walked to Starbucks at nine in the morning with hot pink, 3 pound dumbbells in your hands, listening to ‘Roar’ by Katy Perry. You wear yoga pants almost religiously and have somehow duped yourself into believing that kale is good in smoothies. Your exercise is not a continuous life habit, but rather happens in sporadic bursts, motivated by the workout photos your friends post on Facebook as pathetic, passive aggressive attempts to assure everyone that they have their lives together. As you suck your green, sugary goo through your plastic Starbucks straw, you will come to realize that your friends lives are actually just as messy as your own, and you have no reason to feel obligated to exercise to avoid feeling inferior. This will not, however, stop you from posting your own exercise selfie online as soon as you get home.

I realize this is starting to get ridiculous (or at least, more so than when I began writing), so I’m ending this here, before it gets completely out of hand. Also, after proofreading this post, I’ve decided that I can’t put this on the internet in good conscience without noting that everything I’ve written is intended as a joke and nothing is meant to be hurtful. I know this is all pretty ludicrous and completely inaccurate. It’s not meant to be correct, it’s meant to be stupid. I am aware that parts of this post can be interpreted as alluding to or making light of eating disorders, emotional meltdowns, death or rabid capybaras. I take all of these things very seriously and understand that they are not laughing matters. However, I do, from time to time use them in my humor because I am an awful, sardonic bitch who doesn’t know how to make jokes in good taste. I’m not trying to offend anyone, but I understand if you are offended, and apologize in advance.