is that cornbread I smell? I think I smell cornbread...

I don't even know. You don't even know. 

I have this thing I do, and it’s called “Naming My Autobiography In Everyday Conversation.” I also like to make everything into the title of any sort of book. It’s a pretty annoying habit, but it can be entertaining when the timing is right. For example, just now my roommate had a boy over (not unusual biznat). So I reintroduced myself to this boy, who in this story we will call Dave. You see, Dave and I had met before, but he didn't remember.

I’ve discovered that since being on the yearbook staff in high school, I have been cursed with a sore cursing. I remember everyone and nobody remembers me. If you do remember who I am, it’s only because I did something embarrassing or said something embarrassing to you which made you feel embarrassed for me, and now that feeling of humiliation has been stamped on your brain forever. “Oh look at that poor blogger who once bled all over her pants and then her tween-crush saw her in that awful state, oh the poor, poor blogger lady.” See what I mean?

So the point is, I said to Dave, “Hi Dave. We’ve met before.”

Dave: “We have?”

Me: “Yes.” (isn’t this riveting)

Dave: “Are you the couch girl?”

Me: ‘I’m sorry?”

Dave: “You’re the girl that was on the couch that one time.”

Me: ????????????? (pretending like I don’t remember but if anybody deserves the title “Couch Girl” it’s probably me, and I guarantee you I wasn’t wearing a bra that time either)

Dave: “I’m pretty sure it was you.”

Oh great, I’m thinking. He only remembers me as couch girl. The girl who is constantly invalid and probably has to have her fruits and veggies blended up to the consistency of Gerber baby paste and fed through a tube while she watches Office reruns through her thick bifocals because her sight has gotten terrible because she never looks at anything besides a computer screen because she is COUCH GIRL. 

So I said the only thing I could think of in that moment which was, “Yeah. It’s me, ‘The Girl Who Was On The Couch That One Time: An Autobiography.” He looked perplexed. I finished tying my shoes and walked away. 

I have been naming my autobiography for the past year. And now you can too. Simply chime in with “An Autobiography: By Me” anytime someone says a phrase that you feel personifies your life. 

To help get you started, I’ve compiled a short(?) list of my current ideas. The list keeps growing. help. I’M ONLY 24. When I’m 80 it’ll probably say stuff like “I Went On Thunder Mountain and Peed A Little” but it will still be true.  Just different, is all.

p.s. all of these are straight-up excerpts from my journal circa 2014. I just capitalized the words and made them into book titles. SHA-BOOM.

• I Used My Roomate's Razor Because I Left Mine in My Room & Now My Legs Are Itchy Do You Think This is Karma Rash?
• On A Scale from One to Making a Mixed Tape How Serious Is This Relationship?
• I'm Pretty Interested In Eating A Lot of Bread
• I Should Probably Do It But I Really Don't Want To
• I Burned My Mouth On A Hot Roll Because I Was So Hungry, Not Because I'm Hardcore
• Work, Cry, Bike, Food, Cry Some Mo' (the entire journal entry was this sentence. NO CHISME)
• I Took A Nap at 10:30pm #WishIWasJoking
• The Ratio of Dark Chocolate Covered Pretzels I Have Eaten to Number of Tears I Have Cried is DIRECTLY Related. What A Dumb Sentence.
• Life Would Be So Much Easier If I Was a Raccoon Who Dropped Smooth Jazz Albums For A Living <-- this is gonna become a doodle. mark my wordzz

I'm on a horse. ...or is that a donkey..??? gUYS WHAT are AnimaLS EVen

maybe if you're a guy maybe you shouldn't read this (but maybe you should)

here is a picture of me being uncomfortable and wearing a jacket around my waist (this will be important later in the story)

I was taught from a young age that we must keep journals. We absolutely must keep a charming (but not too wordy) record of our lives for our posterity! To 8 year old me, that advice apparently translated to “You must write every single day of your life about the upcoming talent show.” I, for one, can’t imagine my future children wanting to read anything else about my childhood besides the Minuet in D. Reading those entries now is a big joke, because my childhood was just about the most hilarious mini-series that nobody ever knew they needed on their local cable network. This essay is simply me doing my future self a solid, since it’s likely I’ll get Alzheimer’s and may not remember the day in 1996 when Danny Woodruff jumped from the third tier of our treehouse and landed on his feet like some kind of feral cat (and then ten years later he was the star quarterback and it just felt like poetic justice). 

If you are a girl and have been to a sleepover (I mean…if you are a girl you have most certainly been to a sleepover), then you undoubtedly have played the “Truth or Dare” game (or some sick derivative like “Truth or Truth,” which should just be called “A Confession Session,” and should be saved for church). You have probably also been exposed to the painfully loaded question, “What’s your most embarrassing moment?” As if simply being 14 years old wasn’t embarrassing enough, now you have to pin down just one singular moment? Well, I had one that I have since filed under “Things I Hope Never Happen to Even My Worst Enemies, And That Includes the Guy in the Library Who Tripped Over My Power Cord, Almost Destroying My Computer, and Then Winked At Me.” Of course, this particular moment could not possibly happen to that guy or any guy for that matter because yes, it had to do with the omnipresent sloughing of my uterus, or as one friend has crudely named it, my “per-per.” I know.

Now, before we delve into this, you should know that I had already had a few really awful moments surrounding my period. But the last one took the cake. Took the cake and shoved it in its mouth (cuz that's what a period would do if a period was a person). 

Exhibit A: The day I started, I was at my grandmother’s house and my two friends were with me. We were having a sleepover (what else). I woke up in the middle of the night thinking I had been murdered. My grandma stumbled bleary-eyed from her bed and handed me what looked and felt like a small diaper. I’m sure the look of confusion on my face resembled that of a possum before it gets hit by an oncoming car. “I’m supposed to put this where?!?!?” (I’m ignoring my excess punctuation rule for this story because you would use that many question marks and exclamation points too, if your grandma was telling you, a 12 year old girl, to put on a mini-diaper). I later threw up in a bucket from the garage, screamed at the sight of my own blood, and my father gingerly patted me on the back while simply saying “It’s all a part of growing up.”

Exhibit B: The first day I had to go to school while I was on my period (the horror!), I begged my mom to let me stay at home. She looked at me like I had just asked her if I could give up my pubescent lifestyle and start dealing cocaine on the streets with a band of dwarves. In other words, she said no. When I got to class I was still trying to calculate when I would need to use the bathroom next. Panic-stricken, I decided to go during the 6-minute lapse between English and Social Studies. Mrs. Baum, my mustachioed teacher, wouldn’t notice if I was late, right? Mrs. Baum was most often horizontal, on her couch, because she had back problems. It was a special treat being taught Egyptian history from the throes of a La-Z-Boy. Did I mention she had a mustache? Okay. 

When I got into the bathroom, I was the only one. Until about 5 minutes later, when an 8th grader barged in. She sounded like she had a nose piercing. I know she was wearing Adidas Superstars because that’s what every single popular kid wore back in 2002. And also you can get a pretty good view of someone’s feet when you’re in a bathroom stall. She, however, did not get into the stall next to me, like most people in public bathrooms do even though there are plenty of empty ones far from yours (ask me how I feel about this…go ahead.). She stood outside the stall and actually looked through the gap. The “I have no more privacy” gap. She gave me the hairy eyeball and asked me, no demanded, “How old are you?!” I was in the middle of my feminine hygiene routine and obviously should have said “younger than you are…now go away before I salmon-slap your face.” But I didn’t. I was terrified of her nose piercing and her Adidas Superstars, and I stuttered, “S-s-sixth grade…?” She snickered, turned around, turned off the lights, and walked out. At which point I buried myself in a hole in the ground. Just kidding. I went back to class, having forgotten all about Egyptian history, Mrs. Baum’s mustache, and Superstar Adidas. Spoiler alert: I did get some Superstars in 8th grade. I know, I know. Sellout. 

Now, for the piece de resistance! The scene was thus: Mr. Tiemann’s 7th grade math class was in session. The hour before, I had discovered that I was leaking. Quite literally, like a fire hydrant. This is no hyperbole. My jeans were going to have to become acid wash, which is sad, really, because acid wash hadn’t come back in style yet and would not for another 15 years. But I digress. I put my hoodie around my waist and figured I could weather the storm until math class was over. Plus, Jacob Young was in math class. I have since looked Jacob up on Facebook. He’s bald now and fixes dirt bikes for a living while simultaneously bathing in Red Bull. I’m kidding about that last part (he showers in it. Who even takes baths anymore?). However, Jacob was the apple of every girls eye all throughout middle school, and I was no exception. Something about his….well….I’m not really sure what his allure was now, but it will come to me later maybe. The point is, I endured further discomfort and potential humiliation/public shunning for a boy. An Autobiography, By Me.

I sat in my chair and reasoned that all would be well, as long as I didn’t have to get up at any time during class. Mr. Tiemann never called me up to the front to do problems anyhow (everyone knows I don’t do math—math does me). I patiently sat and waited for the bell to ring, distracting myself with my split ends. Suddenly my name was being called. I was…being summoned? I stood up from that chair feeling exactly like Mulan felt when she faced the general of the Chinese army and volunteered for her feeble, crippled father! But I didn’t have to chop my hairs off at any point. I then felt my hoodie fall from my hips, almost in slow motion. As it fell, taking my pride and dignity with it, I looked over at Jacob Young. He was, of course, staring at me. Cue the sad violin music. 

A couple of years later, Jacob started to pursue me. At one point, he even asked me to “bear his children.” I thought it was a pretty awful way to propose, especially to a fellow 14 year old, but then I remembered the Incident. He probably remembered too, and was taking advantage of the fact that I was fertile. 

honestly I didn't know how to end the post except with this picture

Merry Christmas...??