When it comes to my peers, I am always the one playing catch up. They’re more… how do I put this… developed. They own more than two bras and maybe have a cheese grater in their kitchen drawers. I wear the same bra every day and still live in a dorm room. There’s no competition. I just watch them from the sidelines, occasionally asking annoying questions about what womanhood is like, to which they reply: “One day, you’ll understand.”
It’s not like I haven’t been desperate to develop. I’ve always wanted to leave my girl-status behind and go all Shania Twain singing Man! I Feel Like a Woman. But the fact of the matter is that, for a long time, maturity hadn’t quite hit me. As much as I craved to learn the secret to being a badass lady-chick, I was just a late bloomer. I was trapped in the realm of the training bra. Pity me.
When I would admit my late blossoming to people, they would often gasp, saying things like, “Wow…I mean… getting ‘it’ at 20 years old is like really late, right?” I would nod my head and mumble “Uh huh,” as if I didn’t already know how stunted I was, as a woman. Even my mom was perplexed.
Then one day, it happened.
I was walking down Angell Street and I just knew, like a sixth sense: I told myself, this is your time—you’re a fucking woman now goddamn it. I exhaled sharply, turned left, and stared onwards into my future.
Yes, I am proud to announce that on September 27th the world of womanhood slapped me in the face and I got it: the drive to get an internship.
Images via Sindura Sriram.
I ran into my friend Anna the other day while walking through the Main Green. I think she yelled “Hi,” and after taking a graceful moment to recognize her, I responded with what bodylanguageproject.com calls “the tight lipped smile with low intensity.”
Apparently, the tight lipped smile with low intensity is a very dishonest smile and masks the distaste an individual has for the recipient–a rather unfortunate description because this is the smile I give to literally everyone. Continue Reading…
Hi, my name is Christina, and I am a mailaholic.
I love getting mail. I loved getting mail in high school, when colleges I’ve never heard of sent me gilded letters declaring that I was very special indeed, and that they wanted
my money me. I still love getting mail, but since coming to Brown I have discovered something more exhilarating and sinfully more expensive: packages.
Walking through the Main Green, I often pass students sauntering from the mail room, hauling several packages at a time. Who do they think they are? I can get packages too. I too am a proud consumer of this godforsaken capitalist country. Continue Reading…
Every night, before bed, I brush my teeth with gingivitis toothpaste and watch videos about serial killers.
It’s a great routine. I prevent my gums from bleeding, and then I prevent myself from going to sleep by thinking about a man in a flannel shirt and dungarees sneaking into my bed chamber with an ax, a hatchet, or a combination ax-hatchet, giving myself the heebies and the jeebies until I realize that I’m not in a bed chamber (I’m in a dorm room) and that combination ax-hatchets don’t exist (I hope and think). Continue Reading…
I once wrote right here for The Rib about this weird, narcissistic idea I have. Essentially, I thought that not changing my hairstyle was the only “constant” factor that kept this wacky weird world from transitioning into the next stage of apocalyptic human life on Earth. I.E. I truly believed that because I had decided not to change up my grown out brown locks to something drastic like a blonde pixie cut, I knew I was the sole factor that continuously kept WWIII from erupting. I know that’s weird. In my defense, I feel like movies train you to think that every little thing matters and that one tiny thing could disrupt the whole space-time continuum. I just happened to think that one tiny thing was my hair. Yes, I do see a therapist, why do you ask?
Recently, I dyed my hair purple. So, yes, as you may be able to deduct, I 100% stopped giving a fuck about the world. And the world, in such cases, has a fun way of getting even with self-obsessed pricks like me. For one, it gives us very few brain cells. So when one’s egotistic-ass-self dyes their hair a dark purple, it makes one forget basic chemistry so that when one has a thought like: “Man, a quick swim in a chlorinated pool right now –at this very moment, merely minutes after I have permanently bleached and dyed my hair– seems hella refreshing and, also, like a great idea!” your little brain cells don’t even budge. So if you’re vain fuckin’ self wanted a dark, mysterious, sophisticated, brown-purple hue, you will instead get a tacky, overdone, RISD-wannabe, mason jar-lovin’, vinyl-record listenin’, lavender-gray mane.
Which is just so not me.*
All I wanted was a “natural” purple! I wanted people to see me and think, “She could be so into experimental queer theater, but, gee, I don’t know, I really can’t tell– she could also be like, the new diversity hire at Goldman Sachs, you know? Because that purple is more than just artsy. It is… refined. Is it even purple, or is it brown with a violet aura of je ne sais quoi?”
But instead, I got “hipster” lavender. So people see me and think, “Okay, so clearly, this bitch thinks she’s in a Wes Anderson ‘film’. How many fucking Pitbulls do you think she claims to have rescued? You know she just can’t wait to get some weird part of her body pierced. Also, I know she’s fifty feet away but, do you smell quinoa and kale farts?”
This is exasperating. I already am fake edgy, some claim. I don’t want the lavender hair to push me over the “edgy” edge! I try to stay in the mainstream! I keep my tattoos in check and my mason jars at home, and yet somehow I now have to face Wannabe Manic Pixie Dream Girl prejudice! I don’t want to be cool! Or edgy! I am the least edgy person I know! I watched High School Musical last night! I would never pierce my nipples!
But I want you to think I could.
And that’s the difference. I naïvely thought purple hair would allude to my Experimental, Free-Spirited, Sagittarius self. Yes, I would never pierce my nips (because of the nipple noodle story), BUT I want you to think I’d at least consider it. And with purple hair, you might have. But with lavender hair, everyone just assumes I have three nipples and three lovers, and that they all have gauges. It’s fuckin’ insulting.
Purple hair was going to make me mysteriously sexy. Instead, lavender hair unambiguously renders me a fucked up lover. Because lavender hair says “I do anal.” While purple hair only asks, “Does she do anal?”
I know. I know. I look like I’m a septum piercing away from selling you LSD. I guess I’ll just have to deal with it until I can dye my hair a perplexing purple once again. But who knows, maybe this life won’t be so bad. For example, I no longer have to move around people on the sidewalk. They are the ones who move around me because god forbid I’m carrying one of my Edgy Girl Sex Ropes, accidentally whipping them away from me and into oncoming traffic. Or maybe, they’re just really scared I’ll talk to them about veganism. In any case, I guess I’ll just never “have” to deal with new people again.
I could get used to that. So maybe catch me with granny-gray hair soon. And with a tattoo on the inside of one of my fingers. Chainsmoking by the MCM building. Wearing a The Lumineers t-shirt.
*I know people will contest this. W/E. Look for me at Knead Donuts, ready to fight you.
Image via Sarah Clapp.
For the past three years at Brown, I have been at the whim of the campus meats. I salivated over egg and bacon sandwiches at the Blue Room, cried out in jubilation when the Ratty had chorizo sausages for breakfast, slurped strips of Ivy Room gyro meat down my gullet, and every fateful Friday I scarfed down about 7 or 8 chicken tenders as honey mustard dripped down my fingers.
Like Margaret did to God, I asked the Empire State Building a lot of questions this summer. Unlike Margaret, these questions didn’t revolve around puberty.
You see, this summer I had a direct view of the Empire State Building from my (summer housing) dorm room window in New York. I had a double room to myself, with enormous windows. And when I say direct view I mean direct view: it was a 10th-floor dorm on 15th and 2nd, right across Stuyvesant Park,* so there was zero obstruction of the building. Continue Reading…
It was early September. I was caught between a rock and a hard place—the rock being a mom loudly debating the redeeming qualities of two different brands of air freshener, the hard place being the check-out line of the Bed Bath & Beyond in Providence Place Mall, the relief being the impulse purchasing of a $25 umbrella.
I say impulse buy, but I had actually yearned for this umbrella for quite a while. It was made of clear, durable plastic domed over a mushroom shaped frame, and I had heard them referred to as “bubble” umbrellas. I found it to be whimsical yet practical (which is a descriptor I sort of mold my entire being around). It was impulsive in the sense that I hadn’t been planning to stumble upon something I had hoped for in such a random place. I didn’t expect to buy in so cavalierly to something that I had exalted in my mind. Continue Reading…