The Soundtrack to My Life

If you have never been to Disney World, you need to go. No, this is not a paid endorsement (although if they’d like to throw a few bucks my way for the publicity I’d be cool with it), and no, I’m not trying to make all of you deprived adult children out there feel bad about the fact that your parents didn’t love you enough to take you to the Happiest Place on Earth. There’s a lot more to it than Mickey Mouse-shaped fudgesicles and multiple rides through It’s A Small World. If I could incorporate aspects of the Disney fantasy into my everyday life, I would obviously start by beginning each day with a spin through the Teacup ride and having rotating daily lunch dates with each of the seven dwarves. Unfortunately, this is not realistic, but with the help of an iPod and an impressive need to feel like the most important person alive at any given moment, I have found a way to quell these magical desires.

 

 

In any Disney movie, the characters cannot seem to walk around without some kind of cheerful flute tune or ominous cello music reflecting their current situation. I’m the first to admit that my mood fluctuates as often as Miley Cyrus’ role model status, and I think it’d just be easier for everyone I come in contact with if there was some tunage to indicate how I felt at one particular second or another. Enter The Soundtrack to Skylar’s Life:

When I get up in the morning: The first three minutes will be dedicated exclusively to Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” simply because it’s an upper and anything that distracts me from the fact that it’s 7:30 a.m. is a huge plus. As I get out of bed and get ready, it will switch to a montage of girl power songs like Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women Part 1,” Christina Aguilera’s “Can’t Hold Us Down,” and Kelis’ “Milkshake.” I can now take on the day.

 

 

When I’m driving to my internship: Ludacris’ “Move Bitch,” because navigating through Downtown is a nightmare, and then the Speed Racer theme song because I’m perpetually late.

 

 

When I finish my work and the other slacker intern’s assignment all in one day: A back-to-back combo of Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best,” “It Ain’t Hard to Tell” by Nas, and obviously, “The World’s Greatest” by R. Kelly.

When I realize I won’t have time to go to the gym today and immediately decide to throw all calories out the window: Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls.” And “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-A-Lot. Then Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt.” Because I now feel like a fatass and realize I probably have some kind of seriously twisted relationship with food.

When I get a cute text from my boyfriend: “Sweet Pea” by Amos Lee because it’s just precious and so is he J.  

When work calls and tells me they need me to come in half an hour early: “Hate My Life” by Theory of a Deadman. This needs no explanation.

When I’m helping a guy in the fitting room and his girlfriend is giving me the stink eye from across the store: Tila Tequila’s “Fuck Ya Man” to her, and to him, Avril Lavigne’s “Girlfriend” minus the whole, “I should be your girlfriend” part because thanks but no thanks I’m not interested, I’m just trying to get you to buy a $120 pair of jeans and hopefully a belt.

 

 

When no one’s come into the store for an hour and a half and I’ve refolded the same pile of denim twice: Todd Rundgren’s “Bang on the Drum,” followed by Blue Oyster Cult’s “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” because I’m almost positive I’m going to die surrounded by peasant blouses and graphic tees.

When I meet my friends at a bar after work and they’re already breakin’ it down on the dance floor: Without question, “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” by Will Smith. Since I am not yet drunk but don’t want to miss out on the fun, I throw my self-consciousness to the wind and on comes Lady Gaga’s “Just Dance.” After a few whiskey and Cokes, Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat,” Snoop Dogg’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose,” and Irene Cara’s “What A Feeling” will ensure that the mental image I have of myself while dancing is vastly different from the actual display of awkwardness taking place.

 

 

When I get tired of people stepping on my feet and Fun Drunk Skylar turns hostile: Mystikal’s “Danger,” then “Awnaw” by Nappy Roots. This is not the time to mess with me.

When the cabbie drives completely out of the way because he realizes we’re too tipsy to notice: Supertramp’s “Take the Long Way Home.” When we arrive at our apartment and our fare tops out at $20 even though the usual ride costs only $8 but we’ve had such a fun night that no one really cares, the friend with cash hands it over while T.I.’s “Whatever You Like” plays

When I climb in bed only to realize that I have to be up again in four hours: Drake saying “Yolo” over and over and over and over and over and over and over…

Graduation Acceptance Speech

Wow, I really didn’t see this coming! It was an honor to even be nominated! I don’t even have anything prepared. Just kidding, here goes:

First, I would like to thank the Business School for weeding me out after first semester of freshman year. I thought since I was successful at DECA events in high school that I really wanted to be a Marketing major, and could potentially turn that into a career in PR. Luckily, by forcing me to take math, science, and bullshit gen ed classes before I even stepped foot inside of a marketing classroom, you ensured that I would change my mind and fall back on the one thing I’ve ever actually been decent at: writing. I owe ya one!

I would also like to thank my parents for not telling me “Well why not stay in state for school?” They also did not force their alma maters on me, and my dad calmly accepts defeat when Louisville beats UConn twice in one basketball season. They sent me care packages and did not have me delivered to a mental institution even when stress freak-outs caused me to start crying over the phone for no particular reason. When I came home on breaks after living off of nothing but Ramen and apples for three straight weeks, my mom plumped me right back up. Basically, they’re awesome, and if I ever become rich and famous I promise to pay them back for my tuition. Way to be, Mawm and Faja!

A big shout-out goes to my adrenaline levels for forcing me to eek out multiple all-nighters without the help of Red Bull, Monster, coffee, Adderall, or any combination of the four. I am very proud of my ability to stay up all night fueled entirely by procrastination, self-loathing, and the fear of failing out of school, and it goes without saying that I’m just an all-around better person than anyone that is incapable of doing so.

To all of the pref night and formal dates I have had, you are all stud muffins and thank you for inviting me to get drunk in a pretty dress at a hotel fo’ free. Not everyone can say that they slept in the hallway as the night maids vacuumed around their freezing body; or stepped in the puke of another girl who was unable to handle her Heaven Hill; or did the Cupid Shuffle on Bourbon Street while horse cops took videos on their iPhones; but I sure as hell can, and the memories (or at least the pictures) will last forever.

Every cop that has broken up a party and forced me to hop fences in heels; every professor who has taken a liking to me and allowed me to turn in a paper a week late just because I didn’t feel like doing it on time; every time I hit the refresh button to view my grades at the end of the semester, only to find that my Comm grade STILL WASN’T UP; every girls’ night spent talking about the Dud Friend and/or whichever guy screwed us over that week; every time the Campus Preacher told me I was a harlot who was headed straight to the fiery depths of Hell; every outlet in the library that was conveniently being used when my computer was on 2% battery and I would lose the last eight pages of my paper if I didn’t plug it in like now; every free food event hosted by a student organization I had no intentions of joining; every time someone asked me if I was in a sorority, and I said no, and I got the response of “…Well that’s okay;” every random person that I have ever come across that I now say “Hi” to even though neither of us is really sure how we met in the first place; and of course, every year living in the lovely city of Louisville that has given me an inexplicable hatred for anything UK related:

Thank you. It’s been real.

Surprise Stud: The Hinge

When I first came to college and didn’t know anyone, I would identify certain people by nicknames. I now know the names of Highlighter Shirt Kid, Pukes-And-Brushes-Her-Hair, The Shnoz, and Fishface, but that doesn’t mean I ever stopped using the nicknames, and I probably never will. Giving a person a nickname grants you a lot more conversational freedom, because talking about someone “behind their back” right in front of them is like, way more respectful. Duh, it’s called manners.

I was once told that guys spoke in code around girls so that they could talk freely about them with the girl being none the wiser (sketchy), but SURPRISE we do the same thing. I love giving guys nicknames because even if the one they are awarded is painfully obvious to the rest of the world, generally the guy has no idea he’s being talked about, which gives me a hearty chuckle. Let’s explore my favorite and most widespread (among my friends, at least) nickname invention. I’m gonna need to copyright this shit:

If you are one of the 0.0001% of red-headed males out there who are actually attractive, and you have ever been around me, you have probably heard the word “Hinge” thrown around quite a bit. Congratulations, unlikely-babe magnet, I’m talking about you. A Hinge is a Hot Ginge[r]. That’s right, an attractive person sharing a follicle-likeness to Carrot Top. I didn’t think it was possible either. Jokes about the carpet matching the drapes and a lack of soul aside, a Hinge should own his Hingeness, because when girls realize what a hot commodity and rare occurrence a decent looking red-headed guy is, they pounce. It’s a part of every girl’s bucket list, promise! Red-headed females are especially fond of Hinges, because if they’re going to repopulate a species, they might as well give the next generation a fighting chance with a strand of surprisingly sexy DNA. A Hinge cannot be determined by anyone except an outside source, aka a girl, because if Hinges were all going around self-proclaiming Hinge-dom, Rupert Grint might actually stand a fighting chance in society (sorry, Ron). If you’re a guy and a ginger, keep on crossing those fingers that you make the cut. You probably don’t, but at least you distracted yourself from your unfortunate freckly knuckles and lower-than-average life expectancy. 



A thousand times yes.

Potential...

SAVE ME JESUS