Gotcha Bitch: Ne-Yo

It is impossible to get anything past me.

That's not actually true, as evidenced by my boyfriend's several successful attempts at surprising me with anything from M&M's to a TV to a freakin bed, but when I am given ample time to figure something out I am the master at observing the situation and cracking the code.

My most recent bout with being a sleuth came when I heard Ne-Yo's new song "Let Me Love You." When the radio announcer introduced the new tune, the first thing that popped into my head was a song by Mario of the same name, circa 2004. Of course, I currently have no idea how Ne-Yo's new song goes, because all I can think of is Mario's song, which led me to a life-changing epiphany:

Ne-Yo is a copycat.

It is my overwhelmingly correct opinion that Ne-Yo gains success from the previous accomplishments of other artists. Nice try, Popped Collar, looks like I figured you out. And unlike the girl in the Bacardi commercial I will not be swooned by your fedora.

Miss Independent - Raise your hand if the first person you thought of after reading those two words was Kelly Clarkson. She released her version during the heyday of girl power songs such as Destiny's Child's "Independent Women (Part 1)" and Christina Aguilera's "Can't Hold Us Down." Immediate success, giving lots of awkward middle school girls hope that society would not limit them to a life of huge foreheads and questionable bob haircuts (whattup). Five years later, Ne-Yo decided to recycle this success with his own version. "Omigah he is like the perfect man, he totally gets that I'm my own person I LOVE HIMMM," said other women. "Oh reeeeeal original," said I.

Think About You - This is Ne-Yo's David Guetta collabo. I believe the thought process went something like this: "People like dubstep. David Guetta makes dupstep popular. David Guetta worked with Usher. I am Diet Usher." Regardless of the melodic dissimilarities, "Think About You" and "Without You" are basically the same thing, because everything dubstep is the same thing, aka I'd rather bury my head in the ground like an ostrich than listen to it. I'd have a lot more respect for Ne-Yo if he had avoided the dubstep route entirely, but what would the world be without tantric beats and glow sticks flooding the radio airwaves? Lack of strobe lights is the reason for political unrest in Syria, count it.

Lazy Love; Sexy Love; Crazy Love - Ne-Yo isn't even innovative enough to not imitate himself. How many schizophrenics have you dated, sir? I'm afraid to ask, but considering the sheer amount of baby mama drama songs he has produced, I can only assume that his Number is way high, and we all know what that leads to, right? Syphillis and illegitimate children. Maybe hang up the falling in love fantasy and adopt a hit-it-and-quit-it mentality like the rest of the music community. It's working out phenomenally well for Taylor Swift.

So Sick - This isn't actually a copycat song. I just find it incessently funny when people tell me, "I'm so sick" and I reply, "...of love songs?" This song came out in 2006. I have a lot of friends.

Thrust into the Real World: Month 4

This was a month of firsts.
It was my first time living completely, entirely by myself in my whole life. This led to me following Alanis Morissette's recommendation of walking around naked in my living room aka the entire apartment, which led to my first meeting of my across-the-airshaft neighbors. They really like me now.
It was my first experience with Reggie the Roach, an eight-foot-tall, 600 pound monster who scared me away from my countertop for a day and a half. I might be exaggerating, but not really. This allowed me to give Lowe's its first experience in selling the largest supply of roach killer imaginable, and now Reggie is mounted on my wall like a prize buck head. DON'T MESS WITH ME.
It was my first time not having a first day of school. I thought I'd have a sentimental breakdown about this, but as soon as the "It's the third day of classes and I already have an exam?!?!" statuses started popping up, my superiority complex reared its perfectly-teased head and I felt juuuust fine.
It was my first time ever having my power and gas shut off. My mom and dad did a great job of never letting this happen when I was growing up, and despite the dumpiness of some of my living spaces in college, I could at least always ensure my straightener would turn on. What...a luxury. The biggest #firstworldproblem that arose from this was the fact that I could not keep my phone adequately charged, which (when coupled with my lack of digital clock) meant I never knew what time it was and had to rely on primitive instincts to determine when I should leave for work. FYI: darkness means its 8 pm.
So my life has more or less calmed down. Hopefully more fun firsts continue to come my way, while Reggie's vengeful relatives continue to quiver in fear instead of eating my face in my sleep.

It's Me! The Picture You Didn't Share

I can't even look at you right now.

I told you your mom would die, Jesus would smite you, and that precious little girl with leukemia would also develop AIDS unless you "liked" or "shared" the picture, and you just kept scrolling down your newsfeed, not thinking twice about the damage you were doing. 

Do you know who I am? 

Do you know what I'm capable of?! 

I'M THE INTERNET, BITCH.

You really think that those posts don't matter? I'm sure you remember the "Don't step on a crack or you'll break your mother's back" chant that everyone sang in elementary school as they walked down the sidewalk. Welcome to the modern adaptation. Obviously, by bypassing the post, you despise your mom, the woman who gave you LIFE and tolerated your bullshit when you were 13 and thought frosted pink LipSmackers were a good look. Now, everyone that is either overwhelmingly superstitious or isn't aware that such things appear on your newsfeed is considered a much better child than you will ever be, all because they clicked the thumbs up. 

You are also obviously completely ashamed of your love for Jesus. What's that? You're Buddhist? Fuck if I care, this is America, and as is the case with gay marriage and abortion laws, you are not allowed to think anything different without being chastised relentlessly. What's that smell you say? Sorry, I ate Chik-fil-A earlier. Waffle fries, nom. Anyway, all I'm saying is, you are going straight to hell and are now going to be known by all 1,100 of your best friends as a hethen. 

As if we all (including God) didn't hate you already, you really sealed your fate by bypassing the photo of sweet little Hannah, 7, suffering with leukemia. Every single "like" equals a dollar that could magically cure her, because THAT'S how charity works. Hannah is a fighter, and you are a weakling who doesn't have any compassion in their whole body. You volunteered with the Make a Wish Foundation last summer and spent an entire month in the youth cancer ward? Erroneous, because you didn't share Hannah's story. Asshole. 

You can try to explain yourself, but we've all judged you already (HARD) and have come to the firm conclusion that you're a self-centered, heartless loser. I will continue to bombard your Facebook with similar posts because my beliefs are superior to yours, and I insist on driving this point home one share at a time. Think long and hard about the life you're living, because it's clear that your lack of dedication to the online realm is leading you nowhere fast.

Thrust into the Real World: Month 3

  If you’ve ever wondered what it feels like to be borderline homeless, gather round, children, and lend me your ears.

I started off this month with a trip home to good ole V to the A. Because a visit is not a visit without some underlying chore, one of the main things I was assigned to tackle was the packing up of my room. My parents have decided that now is as good of a time as ever to up and move, which means that eighteen years worth of memories, knick-knacks, and third grade school projects get to be shoved in boxes and moved to a house that we’re all expected to have some sort of connection to come Christmas time. I am admittedly the most annoyingly emotional and sentimental person in our family, so naturally, every day I spent purging old books and discovering where my Barbies have been after all this time was met with a rousing session of bawling my eyes out while sitting on the floor in my closet. I’m 22 years old, and I still had to “say goodbye” to my room and thank it for all the good times. Tip: don’t listen to John Mayer’s “Stop This Train” as you pull out of your driveway presumably for the last time ever, because when he sings the “And you don’t miss a thing/til you cry while you’re driving away in the dark” part, you WILL burst into tears and almost side-swipe a parked car.

After I chilled the eff out a little, I realized that I’m a big girl now, and big girls have their own apartments. Before I left for home, I had submitted an application for the cutest little studio in the world, and had more or less had it guaranteed to me. This was going to time out perfectly: they’d process my app while I was gone, I’d return, move out of my old apartment, and move right in to my new place where I’d have two closets to sit on the floors of. Tip: don’t trust leasing agents, because they do not operate on the same psychological wavelength as the rest of us, and they’ll shoot your plans straight to hell with an AK-47. My leasing lady, who we will call Brainless, decided not to submit my app to the powers at be until two days before I returned to the Ville, meaning that the peachy-keen timeline that I had laid out for myself could now be used as toilet paper. Do you know what it’s like to drive down the highway with everything you own blocking your rear view and fending off the bags of shoes that keep attacking you from the passenger’s seat? Do you know what it’s like to actually get used to driving this way, because two weeks later you’re still not in your apartment? Do you know what it’s like to feel constantly apologetic towards everyone around you because of all of the favors you have to keep asking? Do you know what it’s like to scream, “I can’t right now! Maybe next weekend!” at Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Woman” when they sing, “All my women, who independent, throw them hands up at me”? I fucking do.

So here’s where I stand: I drove away from a home that, after Septemberish, will no longer be my home, but an empty house with some minor water damage and excellent faux painting on the walls. I drove away from another home, which has seen a wine-glass-throwing fight and way too many laughs at the expense of my roommate’s Pomeranian. I’m currently staying at someone else’s home where there is a ghost named Frosty and a two-year-old honey-baked ham in the freezer. 

My roommates and I joked about having to live in cardboard boxes on the side of the road if we couldn’t find new apartments; that joke isn’t funny anymore. If and when I ever move in to my new place, I plan to just sit on the floor and either laugh hysterically or cry uncontrollably, as is, apparently, my new shtick. Way to go, Brainless, you’ve reduced me to a blubbering psychopath.

Tip: when staying with others, cook. A lot. No one hates someone’s forced presence when there are brownies in the oven.

How to Enjoy the DMV

I am one lazy sonuvabeautifulwoman, for many reasons that all culminate in the fact that I've been using a license with "Under 21" engraved across the top for over a year. It never seemed like a big enough deal to me to go through the process of "getting it flipped" because A) I was in Kentucky the majority of the time so I really couldn't anyway, and B) my license picture was actually semi-decent and you don't mess with success.
It wasn't until recently that it seemed as though everyone in a position of power (i.e. those who provide me with alcohol) took issue with my vertical identification. One night, a beverage cart lady refused to sell me a Stella Artois because my ID wasn't facing the correct way, not only pissing me off but thoroughly inhibiting my ability to be classy. A slew of similar events finally convinced me to to solve the problem once and for all, and since I am briefly home in good ole NOT WEST Virginia, I figured a trip to the Department of Motor Vehicles was in order.
The DMV is an awful place. No one will argue with that. Normally, I would dread a visit there, but for some reason this morning I woke up in a stellar mood, and decided that I was going to make this the best experience it could possibly be. Since it is my nature to share my expertise with the masses, I hope the next time you have some vehicular responsibilities to take care of, you will follow these guidelines and resist the urge to backhand whichever parent decided to bring their screaming toddler with them to purchase a vanity plate.

Proof I can't have an Instagram:
I'm super uncomfortable taking
pictures of myself

Step 1 - Get wildly overdressed for the occasion: Everyone at the DMV wants to kill themselves. Maybe not outright, but I'm pretty positive the glamour of suicide seems enticing to all parties as you wait in line for 45 minutes surrounded by people who cough without covering their mouths. Getting ready this morning, I avoided the Soffe's-and-a-T-shirt route and instead put on real clothes. This is a struggle for me basically any day of the week, but it is my experience that a person who looks halfway presentable gets a hell a lot further than the one who has ketchup stains on their wife beater, so I eeked out the extra effort. I'm pretty sure Paris Hilton has a quote about this, but like anything pertaining to Paris Hilton, I don't give enough of a shit to google it.

Step 2 - Make friends in line: In college, I might as well have gotten my degree in girl-on-girl social interaction, because after 4 years of obligatory friendliness at house parties, etc., I am an expert in pretending I'm not a bitch making temporary BFF's. The line at the DMV is notoriously long, regardless of the time of day, and instead of playing Tetris on my phone while avoiding eye contact, I decided to force an innocent bystander into conversation. The girl directly in front of me also got the Look Cute memo, so I instantly complimented her on her maxi dress. And also on her Longchamp. And then she complimented me on my skirt, and I could tell that we'd both played this game before. We bonded over the fact that no one likes coming to the DMV and made her boyfriend feel like a superstar for waiting with her, and she was called to be helped right before I was going to ask her if she'd like to forget this crazy world and run away to Europe with me. I think I found my soulmate.

Step 3 - Get competitive: Stupidity runs rampant at the DMV. People are always forgetting important papers or alternate forms of ID or their first name, which usually results in several losers exasperatedly removing themselves from the line and trudging back to their cars in a huff of frustration and defeat. Bitches. I live to one-up the weakling of the group, and this is the perfect opportunity to do so. Watch with disgusting pleasure as individuals drop like flies, ambling past you with their heads hung low, both of you knowing that their error has gotten you one step closer to getting home in time to watch Ellen.

Step 4 - Embellish your personal info: Minus a few parking tickets and an unfortunate accident in a Subway parking lot when I was 17, I am very proud to say that I have never been involved in a car issue that has required police involvement and/or any sort of courthouse visit. Therefore, since my time doesn't need to be spent creatively side-stepping these types of situations under the "Driving History" section of my forms, I get my kicks elsewhere. Those who are fortunate enough to see me on a regular Wednesday afternoon (when I am not donning 4-inch wedges) know that I am not, in fact, average-sized. I don't think my boyfriend even realized how short I truly was until about three weeks into our relationship when I finally wore TOMS to go get Jimmy John's. While everyone else would swear up and down that I'm an even five feet tall, I use this opportunity of alone time to add the extra inch and be known across the state of VA as 5'1". I also got very specific with my hair color and wrote "light brown" because I figure this will cover whatever questionable hair choices I make over the next ten years. Side note: I debated changing it up and recording my eye color as "Hazel" strictly because I was feeling saucy, but then thought better of it because I was starting to feel like I was entering myself into the Witness Protection Program instead of just renewing my license.

Step 5 - Accept DMV Dude's flirtatious advances: No one likes being at this godforsaken place less than the people working there. Between the aforementioned idiots arriving in troves and the fact that the room is seriously underdecorated, I can't imagine surviving an 8-hour shift without entirely losing my mind. Apparently, though, Rajesh (my guy and potential new lover) took the same optimism pill as I did this morning and was refreshingly chipper. We joked about how unnecessarily necessary it was to represent my legality through a 90-degree rotation of my picture, and he assured me that I should keep my hair blonde regardless of what my license says because it is "very beautiful" (a point of contention I will use against my boyfriend next time he suggests I go back to brunette. Who could disagree with the wisdom of a DMV worker? Exactly). Rajesh said that it could take up to 10 days for my new license to arrive, but something tells me that he's going to expedite the process just for me, and that he will also be keeping a copy of my photo for himself because his creep vibe was way strong.

No Fun

All in all, I'd call this DMV visit a monumental success. I considered making a grand exit complete with Miss America waves and a curtsy, but everyone else seemed peeved by my positive attitude, so I instead decided to shoot an encouraging smile at the 15-year-old kid who was about to fail his driving test for the second time and cut my losses. I can only hope that my picture didn't turn out god-awful, and that I can finally go buy my Stella in peace.

Retail Rant

Working in retail is like working in hell.

Anyone who works in retail will support this assertion.

If you work in the food service industry, you are in a deeper circle of hell than I, in which people send back the plate of food that they’ve already finished because it’s “not what I ordered” and ask for extra sides of ranch for no other reason than the fact that they feel better if there are at least twelve ounces of ranch within a five foot radius of their body at any given time. You win.

The retail world, however, has its own woes. Let me break down a few of the miseries I experience on a daily basis, and maybe, on your next shopping excursion, you will realize that your friendly sales associate would actually rather go all bath salts on your ass than dig through a perfectly folded pile for a size medium that you definitely cannot squeeze into.

Upon entering the store, I am obligated to greet you. “Hey there, how are you doing today?” could either be a genuine enquiry or a segue into informing you about the new merchandise we just put out. I’m not asking you to be my blood brother or to babysit my dog while I’m on vacation; I’m just asking a simple question. I may be small, but my vocal cords are mighty, and I know you heard me. Continuing past me as if I didn’t exist – much less asked you about your current state of being – is rude and automatically guarantees that I will tell you the least-flattering pair of shorts you try on “Looks great!” Take that, fat ass; all you had to do was say hi.

Now I happen to work in a store that specializes in jeans. We sell other shit too, but we are in the jeans business, and the well-made jeans business at that. Well-made, brand-name jeans are expensive. The jeans you bought at Old Navy that give you saggy Mom Butt and accentuate your fupa are the opposite of well-made and are falling apart for that reason. When you come up to me and ask, “Are these really $99?” and I reply with the affirmative, don’t look at me like I’m a founding father of the KKK. It wasn’t me, I didn’t do it, it’s not my fault. “Can you afford $100 jeans?” you ask me condescendingly. Fucking of course not, you moron, that’s why I work here and get the discount. If we had such a problem selling the jeans at their full price, this store probably wouldn’t be here and they would’ve replaced us with a Gymboree months ago. Quit yer bitchin and either try a pair on or get out of my way: I have board folding to do.

Side note: since I do work in a specialty-brand jeans store, the joke, “Do you guys sell jeans?” lost all of its hilarity about halfway through my first day. Just stop.

So let’s say the previous transactions have gone smoothly and you’ve agreed to try on a few styles in a fitting room. We’ve gone through the whole, “How do you like your jeans to fit? What size do you think we’re looking for? Do you prefer a boot leg or straight leg? Light wash or dark wash?” spiel, and you have about six pairs of jeans at your disposal. At this time, we’ve already spent a solid ten minutes together, and I feel like we’ve forged a decent bond. I know things about you that I don’t even know about my own family, and while I wait for you to show me how the next pair looks I strongly consider inviting you to my wedding and making your niece my flower girl. “What do you think?” I ask about the dark-wash slim-fit boot leg you’re modeling. “The fit is great, I really like these a lot!” you say enthusiastically. Hooray! Success! Good things! As I am anticipating the wave of achievement that can only be felt by swiping someone’s MasterCard for $150, you all of a sudden exit the fitting room, no jeans in hand, and say, “I think I’m gonna come back later. Thanks,” and out you go. The curses I utter as I return the jeans to their shelves are enough to shock Richard Pryor, and I can only hope every item of clothing you wear for the rest of your life either shrinks in the dryer or loses all of its elasticity and never fits the same EVER.

I actually really do enjoy my job – mostly because I work with some hilarious people and we all agree that being treated like shit by customers is more entertaining than degrading – but please keep in mind: if you’ve made the trip to the mall, you probably had at least half an intention of purchasing something. Being an asshole to me is completely unnecessary, and when I see you out in the real world, you will realize that we are, in fact, the same species. The only difference is, my jeans were 60% off, and no one lied to me about whether or not they hide my muffin top.

 Thanks for stopping in! Come back and see us!

Thrust into the Real World: Month 2

Things have not gotten better in my second month of forced adulthood.

First of all, apartment hunting is not only a huge pain in the ass, but also, it makes me want to die. Like I was actually driving to work this morning and thought, “Huh, you know what would make this housing search a lot less stressful and would allow me to sleep through the night without nightmares of homelessness and shame? Getting massacred by that huge eighteen-wheeler filled with gasoline barreling down behind me.”

That, my friends, is morbid. But I’m nothing if not honest, and I figured if I got into a harrowing car accident [that I somehow survived because I’m one resilient mofo], at least I’d get a cushy stay in a hospital bed for a few weeks and could continue to Google one-bedrooms with the assistance of a morphine drip.

Because the stress of home-hunting has left me broken and battered, I have realized that I heavily depend on two things to quell my anxiety: Diners Drive-ins and Dives, and My Drunk Kitchen. It should come as no surprise that my bank account hasn’t really improved in the last month, and I’m still broke as a joke making meals out of canned green beans and Yoplait Lights (100-calorie White Chocolate Strawberry: get in my belleh), but these two shows are solely responsible for keeping me from making horrible decisions.

Number one: Instead of stress-eating (as I am prone to do), I watch Guy Fieri do The Hunch over a massive bacon-wrapped bison burger, and in my malnutritioned state of being, I can actually taste said burger in my mouth, and my stomach is satisfied. Juices dripping to my elbows, cheese grease slicked across my face, pieces of lettuce sticking to the corners of my mouth. Nom. Side note: I don’t even like burgers, which is an even greater testament to how close I am to becoming a featured charity case on a Christian Children’s Fund commercial.

Number two: Alcohol is not the answer….Until you’re forced to get your apartment application co-signed and you start crying in front of the leasing agent and all of the precious decorating plans you made for the PERFECT studio apartment you found all retreat into the distance as Nickelback plays mockingly and mercilessly in the background. Ten Months Ago Skylar would’ve picked the world up and dropped it on its fuckin head while simultaneously chugging a bottle of Pinot. NOT ANYMORE. Hannah Hart does this for me, while hilariously creating “meals” that really just consist of passing a bottle of Svedka back and forth and making witty puns that even I didn’t see coming. The best part about this is, I am distracted by my pathetic post-grad life for a good  3 ½ minutes; I get in a much-needed laugh or twenty; and for some reason (and my roommate backs me on this), you can watch these videos without a glass of anything alcoholic and I swear you’re still buzzed afterward. Maybe life isn’t so bad after all.

Stayed tuned for next month’s update! Perhaps I’ll actually be living in a place that has a roof, typing up these posts on a brand new computer, occupied by things other than a man with peroxide-blonde Dragon Ball Z hair? Dare to dream, friends.