This is how to run a stick of Chapstick
down the black boxes on your scantron
so the grading machine skips the wrong
answers. This is how to honor roll. Hell,
this is how to National Honor Society.
This is being voted “Most Likely to Marry
for Money” or “Talks the Most, Says the
Least” for senior superlatives. This is
stepping around the kids having panic
attacks in the hallway. This is being the
kid having a panic attack in the hallway.
This is making the A with purple moons
stamped under both eyes. We had to try.
This is telling the ACT supervisor you have
ADHD to get extra time. Today, the average
high school student has the same anxiety
levels as the average 1950’s psychiatric
patient. We know the Pythagorean theorem
by heart, but short-circuit when asked
“How are you?” We don’t know. We don’t
know. That wasn’t on the study guide.
We usually know the answer, but rarely
HIGH SCHOOL By Blythe Baird (via blythebrooklyn)
I wasn’t actually in love, but I felt a sort of tender curiosity
F. Scott Fitzgerald (via unfocusedminds)
The story of my life.
Word of the Day: hooey (n.) silly talk or writing; nonsense.
Whoever said alligator is bad to eat is talking a whole bunch of hooey. Yesterday I tried two culinary first here in Nawlins, even though this is my 4th visit to the Crescent City. I tried fried alligator and a NOLA original: the muffuletta.
The alligator was delicious! It was a perfect taste/texture combination of chicken and calamari. A little salty, a little crispy, not chewy, and all southern. I tried not to think about the alligators from “American Horror Story: Coven” while I was eating it - the idea that alligators come from the swamp isn’t exactly appetizing. But with mind over matter, I can say I’m officially a fan of gator! That’s how our waitress said it. As soon as we sat down she said, “who wants to try some gator?” And I did! Not to mention we ate at a joint frequented by Tennessee Williams when he was alive. That made the English teacher in me squeal with delight.
The Central Grocery in the French Quarter is the creator of the muffuletta sandwich, which is essentially ham, salami, and Swiss on fresh French bread topped with an olive tapenade. I’m a big fan of olives and an even bigger fan of fresh French bread. Paired with the alligator it was a beautiful New Orleans lunch in the Quarter. I love this city so much!
The idea of traveling on Christmas Day is rebarbative, but nevertheless that is how I spent my Christmas - traveling to New Orleans to see my brother and sister-in-law. The fact that I had to travel with my parents made the situation even worse. My dad thinks he knows everything. And my mom doesn’t think at all, she just reacts. It’s a volatile combination when added to Newark Airport (or any airport, for that matter).
By the time we had arrived in New Orleans I was feeling Grinchy and my attitude was piss poor. It certainly didn’t feel like Christmas, considering my Christmas dinner was chicken quesadillas from an airport bar. But then as I was greeted by two furry puppies, a gorgeous Christmas tree, and my family all in one place the sour attitude I acquired traveling started to melt. The Pinot Grigio definitely helped, too. Suddenly I was surrounded by the Christmas I had been denying myself all season long because of my unhappiness with my living situation, my job, and my lack of a love-life. Watching Elf with the family allowed me to rediscover the meaning of the season.
Even though I’m at the beginning of a quarter-life crisis, Christmas worked its magic and helped assuage my anxieties for now. I have much to work on to become less rebarbative to myself. But here’s to trying.
Rebarbative (adj.) - unattractive; unappealing
Bullshot (n): a cocktail made from vodka and beef bouillon.
The mafioso walked up to the wooden bar framed with tarnished gold. The bartender had a jaded look upon his face when the mafioso said “give me your best Bullshot.”
The bartender took a deep inhale allowing his head to rummage through his brain for yet another story tell - another bartender story told to many, but remembered by few. He didn’t want to tell another story. So the bartender replied, “sorry, I don’t have any more bullshit to tell. I’m all out.”
The mafioso looked at him inquisitively and then realized the communication breakdown that had just occurred. “I don’t want your best bullshit, I want your best Bullshot. Vodka and beef bullion? You have?”
The bartender looked back at him with relief. He didn’t have to tell a forgotten story. “Well, sure. But who the hell drinks that?”