At Brown, there’s a nagging pressure to have a unique style and general vibe; unfortunately, we’re not all as “different” as we may choose to believe. Before leaping into my first year at Brown, I purchased the obligatory “I enjoy quinoa” accessory: The Birkenstock. But upon arriving on campus, I was hit with the harsh reality that every third person was wearing the exact same shoe as I was: the identity crisis ensued. If I wasn’t “the cool, hippie, vegan girl,” then who was I? Not only were there people who were more socially and politically conscious than I was– they dressed like it too! I primed myself for a college experience where my personal style, academic achievement, and all aspects of my life would be consistently validated. I was shaken to my core when I happened upon the realization that I’d have to work to make myself seen.
Image via Megan Pope
“You’re a hoot and a half!” I exclaim after one of my peers delights me with a witticism or an amusing tale of woe.
“Come on y’all, let’s go to get soft pretzels. It’ll be a hoot and a half!” I say coercively, hyping up the prospect for fun and whimsical salty bread on any given Saturday night.
“Hey kid. Keep your head up. You are a hoot and a half,” I say to the mirror as I give myself a pep talk on a particularly lousy day (lmao rip midterms).
Tracking my own copious usage of this phrase, it brings a couple of things into question. What is a hoot and what happened to the other half? Continue Reading…
Former Brown University president, Henry Wriston, once proclaimed The Blue Room as “the boldest experiment [he had] ever seen.” That was in 1939.
Today… not so much. Sure, it’s a social hub, a muffin hub, and an after-4 p.m. hub. It may scream “let’s meet for awkward coffee,” “sure, I get work done in here” and “I’m social, bitch!” But, bold? Nah. BLUE? Not even. It’s as blue as a JetBlue terminal… which is to say, not at all. It’s floor to ceiling white. This might be a call to The Blue Room’s 1970s nickname, which was, I kid you not, the “Airport Lounge”—a name that says: I’m just gonna pretend that I’m boarding a flight to Budapest and never coming back! Sorry, econ exam. 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…
In one of the most dramatic and poignant moments in cinematic history, Helen Thermopolis tells her recently known-as-royalty daughter Mia “My mom always told me I couldn’t cry…and told me to be a big girl…but you’ve been hurt, so you just cry.”
Lil’ Dana Schneider looked on, internalizing this and all the other bountiful wisdom that The Princess Diaries has to offer. I was reminded of this wisdom recently in conversation with some good pals as we discussed their many talents. One of my deepest, darkest truths was revealed: I don’t play a musical instrument, I can’t throw things far or accurately in a particular direction, my dance abilities are limited to the confines of enthusiastic yet regrettable body rolling in the club. In a word, I’m talentless.
But hey! If I were to point to any speck of talent in my mediocre body, it would be the muscles of vulnerability and introspection that I flex like a Dude Bro posted up in the free weights section of the gym. That’s right people, being Sensitive™ is my super power, unleashed through the times in which I cry, both publicly and privately. Here are some vignettes of my top three Power Cries: Continue Reading…
Lately, I’ve been watching the same episode of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia over and over simply because it brings me joy. Although I have viewed it over ten times since the semester began, rewatching the episode does not get old. This is a phenomenon that I do not understand; never before have I watched a single episode that many times. Therefore, I am embarking on a quest to analyze this episode in-depth by utilizing my MCM brain. Prior knowledge of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia is highly recommended before reading this fine literature. If you don’t have prior knowledge of the show or the episode, scroll all the way to the bottom of the article so I get a lot of views. Thank you.
Image via Megan Pope
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.