Confession #11- If zombies attacked, I probably wouldn't pick you to be on my team.

Okay, don't cry or anything, but in the case of the zombie apocalypse, I've got to think about my own survival here. I'm gonna say this, and only say it once- I don't think any of you would make the cut. It's not like I don't love you, or care about you, or blah, blah, blah, but let's face it- you just wouldn't make good teammates.
-------------------------------Zombie Dream Team-----------------------------------

Now, when zombies attack, your team needs a good leader. Someone who wouldn't crack under pressure or anything. Someone kind of like:

Yeah, I went there. I would pick Arnold. I know what you're thinking: "Oh, this girl is so cliche, and dumb, because Arnold ain't got nothing on no one." Okay people, see that's where you're wrong.

Big Biceps > Accent > Demanding Personality > You.
So, it would be really awesome if you would all still be my friends after this.

Next, you need some sidekick. You know, someone who will take all the blame and yelling and stuff. Kind of like:

Yeah, he's perfect for the job. You guys ever seen Holes? Or, you know, Disturbia? Or, you know, Transformers? This guy takes orders, and can think quick on his feet or whatever. He's also remarkably easy to pick on.

Next, you need someone to like be all: "I'm a damsel in distress and stuff," and be the first one to die when the zombies begin to catch up to us. You know kind of like bait or something. So, I think I choose:

 Yeah, she's pretty good at being helpless, and flailing her limbs around. You know, actually this might be a situation in which her bad acting really won't matter. Win-win for us all.

Next, you need the guy packing heat that makes reckless decisions, and is generally bad a** about everything he says and does. Oh, and he's gotta sweat a lot and have minor breakdowns that actually give him brilliant ideas. So, I think that position would be best filled by:

Yeah, he's been there before. I am Legend prepared him for zombie invasion part deux. Also, experience in aliens probably would help in this situation. And his love of dogs. I love dogs.

Next, you need the funny guy. Someone to help pass the time or whatever. Someone who is so dumb, you will be laughing for hours because you honestly feel sorry for him or something. Oh, and he's gotta be awkwardly skinny- adds to the appeal.

I think he's clearing his throat or something. Kind of looks like a bird choking. HILARIOUS.

Finally, you need the attractive one. Like, you know for when the world is cleared out and Arnold kills off all the zombies, and we are the only ones left? Yeah, someone to make repopulating the Earth fun. Kind of like:

Or even....

Or maybe.....

Oh....just kidding bout that last one. We will just feed him to the zombies. But really, out of the first two which ever has the time in their schedule. I know being movie stars and all, they're like really busy. Zombies or no zombies- it's whatever.

Anyway, so I mean, you're probably like: "BLAH BLAH WTF, why didn't you pick your family or loved ones or you know something like that?" Well, its simple. I can't repopulate the earth with my family. That's just gross. Also....okay yeah, that's it.



LOVE Y'ALL!

Confession #10- I love beaches, but beaches don't really love me.

I know you think this is a pun, or like a play on words or something cool like that, but it's really not. It's really about beaches. Those sandy things that are attached to water of some sort- usually containing large amounts of salt and stuff. Just from that description, it would be hard to understand why people actually like beaches, because that just sounds plain boring. Never fear though, the sand actually feels nice and malleable underneath a fluffy beach towel. The saltiness actually makes the air smell fresh, and the waves methodically hit the shore and make this soothing kind of light cracking noise. Basically you all want to go to a beach now, right? Well, so do I dang it.
However great all this sounds, I personally have to remember how much beaches don't really like me. I can remember going to one when I was very young- probably about four or five years old. I had picked up a stick, and decided it would be a lot of fun to drag it behind me and make lines all down the shore. You know, where the water just barely laps up onto the sand and makes it kind of damp? Yeah, there. Well, I had failed to take into account the presence of seagulls and how inconsiderate they are. Before I knew it one had left a nice little present right on my shoulder and another on the tip top of my head- Don't worry, my parents caught it before I decided to investigate.
Then, when I was around eight years old, I had another opportunity to go to the beach. This time, I actually got in the water because it was warm enough to splish- spash around in, and I went out with my dad into the deeper waves. I could barely stand up on my tip toes and keep my head above the water, so I decided to abort mission and go back to water that was a little more shallow. So, as I was walking back along towards shore, I felt my feet go out from under me right as a wave began to crash over me. I knew this would be bad. I was caught under water in this sick, twisted cycle of water in the face, feet over head, water in face, feet over head. I thought I was going to legitimately drown and die. Luckily, once again, my parents came to the rescue, but I was spitting out salt and water for the next half hour at least.
When I was eleven years old, we went on a trip to the east coast, and I once again got the opportunity to swim in the ocean. I was so excited to erase that whole swimming in the ocean is equivalent to imminent death debacle that happened when I was eight. So, my sister and I went out and played in the water, and then ran out and played in the sand, and then back out to the water. After a little while, I started noticing a little extra weight in the crotch area of my suit. So, I mean, I wasn't an idiot- that happens, sand can get caught all in your swimsuit, so all you had to do was brush it out, right? Well, I tried that, and it would NOT come out no matter what I did. I decided to do the whole shrug your shoulders thing, and go play some more. So I did that whole pattern thing again: play in the water, play in the sand, play in the water, play in the... Okay. Something was definitely wrong. I was thinking to myself "This is so embarrassing. This sand WILL NOT come out, and I keep getting more and more!" So, I went to my mom, and told her what was happening. She told me: "Oh honey, if you just go out into the water, and clean your suit out, everything will be fine." I still listened to what my mom told me to do at that point, so I ran out to the water, and did all I could to try and get that sand out. I even did whirly-dos and flips in the water hoping that would dislodge some of the sand. It was to no avail, but I did not want to miss out on fun play-time experiences, so I played again with my sister in the sand and water for what I would guess was another twenty minutes until I couldn't take it any more. The crotch of my suit was bulging a good three inches from my skin. Let's just say, it was very uncomfortable, and a little more than mildly embarrassing. So, I ran to my mom and told her to look more closely, and grab the sand and see if SHE could get it out. Right when she touched it, she started laughing hysterically: "Hannah, it looks like you have a sand penis, I'm sorry, it's not funny." That got my dad going, and then my sister- who was too young to understand why she was laughing- started laughing because both our parents were. It was TRUE. I looked like I was a girl with man parts! I HAD TO get out of this suit. I booked it to the van, and my mom followed to try and see what the problem was. I stripped down and handed her the suit, and she was giggling as she inspected it. There was a good couple pounds of sand in the crotch of my suit, and everyone on the beach had seen it. I was wondering why people were looking at me so funnily. You know why it was doing it? Collecting the sand? There was a small hole in the liner of my suit, right in that area, and the sand was getting packed in there because of the waves. ARE YOU KIDDING? That was awful.
The last time I was on a beach was when I was sixteen years old, and my parents decided it would be really cool to take a family vacation to Padre Island, Texas. We road tripped down there, and as soon as we got there and got situated in a hotel, we hit the beach. I mean, that IS why we came. So, we walked out to the nearest expanse, and set up our towels. We played in the water for a while, because it was pleasantly cool, and felt nice on our hot skin. After a while, we all began to get sore throats from all the salt that was in the water, so my mom suggested that she and my dad go on a short walk, and my sister and I lay out and talk. So, that's what we did. As she and my dad were walking away, my mom casually yelled over her shoulder: "We'll only be about a half-hour at the most. Stay out of trouble!" Well, it was really hard to get into trouble on the beach, or so we assumed. We were just laying on our towels talking, and looked at our phones, and noticed an hour had passed. We felt really hot, and I noticed my sister's head was getting a little red. So, we thought: "Maybe if we get in the water, it will cool us down, and we won't feel so hot." It worked for a little while, but then we were just beginning to feel more and more hot, and our skin was getting really sensitive. So, we retreated back to the towels, and realized we needed shade and quick. As we looked around, we couldn't really find anything- apparently you had to pay for shade, because it was no where to be found. Luckily, a couple got up from under an umbrella, and we raced over to take their spot. Once our eyes adjusted, my sister and I realized we were in bad shape. Four hours had passed and our parents still weren't back, and we were BURNED. I don't mean like a little brushing of red, or a little splotchy area on your face in shoulders, I mean like whole body red and throbbing. Right around that time, we looked over to the direction my parents had walked off to, and saw their silhouettes slowly trudging towards us. They looked exhausted when they reached our confiscated umbrella, and almost collapsed under it. Apparently they had gotten lost, and thought it would take a lot less time to get to the other end of the beach, and now we were all severely sunburned. We walked back to the hotel, and inspected the damage in man-made light. It was extremely painful to remove clothes, but we did and rubbed Aloe Vera all over each other and tried to lay in bed. It hurt wherever our skin would wrinkle a little bit, which was in every single movement. The next day, we all had blisters that would make anyone uncomfortable, and had to wear a lot more clothing than we would have liked to. About a week later, when I was home, the whole top layer of my face peeled off- in one solid piece. Gross, huh.
So, anyway, that's that. Those are my only experiences on the beach. I mean, yes I always had a great time initially, but ... well, we will just leave it at that so we can end on a positive note. Oh, and if you want to take this as a play on words, that's true too. I love everyone, even the beaches.

Confession #9 - Ten things that bother the he** out of me.

I like to think I'm a very open-minded and accepting person, and so I don't usually let the cat out of the bag on this subject (by the way, why was the cat ever in the bag- that's mean), but I just feel like I have to talk about this on a confessions blog. So, basically what I'm saying is don't judge me, because I know you all have lists of your own just like this one. I'm sure there are more than ten things that bother me, or fit under what I would describe as "pet peeves" or whatever, but these are the ten cardinal sins in my book that if you commit them, it's really hard for me to forget about it. We can still be friends, but just know I might be secretly annoyed by you- just for a moment.

10. When you keep something from me, because you think it will make me upset or something, and I have to find it out from someone else. Like, seriously everyone knows EXCEPT me.

9. When you chew with your mouth open more than 70% of the time, and it makes little smacking noises that could easily be turned into the back beat of a horrible rap song from my nightmares.

8. When you are constantly a "debbie downer," and never want to do anything ever, and everything is always so bad for you, and your facebook statuses are always about how horrible your mediocre middle-class life is, and blah, blah, blah....

7. When you are a sexist chauvinist pig and tell me that my place is in the kitchen, or doing laundry, or something to that effect. Oh, and sexist jokes? I don't think they're funny. I might give you a pity laugh, because I feel sorry for the woman who ever gets stuck with you, but that's about it. Sorry if that seems harsh, but that's how strongly I feel about it.

6. PEOPLE WHO CUT YOU OFF AND CONTINUOUSLY INTERRUPT ANYTHING YOU TRY AND SAY. Okay, this one is in all capital letters, because it is just THAT annoying. Like, seriously can you not pay attention to what I'm saying for like more than one minute? Did you have to interject with that story that means absolutely nothing, and doesn't even follow the same subject we were just discussing? Hmm.

5. When you are a guy, and you stare at me, sneak glances at me, or make up excuses to talk to me, but don't ask me for my number. Now, I know that sounds so weird, and that it's kind of annoying of me even to think this is annoying, but it really bothers me when a guy isn't confident enough to take the next step. Maybe I should just bring a Polaroid camera around with me and take a picture of myself right at that moment, shake it until it develops, and then hand it to mister staring problem and tell him "don't worry, I took a picture. It'll last longer."

4. When you talk bad about one of my other really good friends, and expect me to agree with you or talk bad about them with you. I am not even okay with that stuff. I am a very loyal friend, and I stand up for them. If you're going talk bad about them, you better be ready for some trouble and stern words from me, because I'm not going to stand for it.

3. When you lie. When you lie to my face. When I confront you about said lie, and you still continue to lie about it. When I find out from someone else that you're lying. When I'm friends with you for 7 years, and the whole time you've been lying to me about who you are. YES. This IS personal. If you lied to me, I will forgive you really easily and quickly if you just tell me the truth right when I confront you. I promise, I won't bite.

2. When you have a problem with me, but you don't tell me. Like- you'll tell Joe Schmoe on the street, but you won't tell me. I am willing to change, and I am willing to fix it. For example: There is a girl here on campus, and I don't even remember her name half the time. I don't think she even knows mine, but I hear from people that I just meet that they have heard bad things about me from said girl. That's when I remember her name, but only then. I'm not sure what I did to offend her, but she still hasn't told me. She tells everyone else. Please, I am begging you here and now, if you have a problem- TELL ME.

1. Last but DEFINITELY not least, I hate when you lead me on, and then make it seem like it was me the whole time. Like, you weren't ever into it, and I'm like some sad puppy that just followed you around holding your hand for months on end. I hate that. Seriously, you were into it too, and I KNOW you liked me too or else you wouldn't have wasted your time. I just really don't like feeling played and embarrassed. That's my biggest pet peeve I think. Feeling that way. I guess that's mostly towards guys, and the guys in my past. But hey, ladies I bet you can relate. :)

Okay, thanks for listening to me whine, and accepting me for who I am. I'm sure there are many more things I can add to this list, but these are the most general and most important in my opinion for you to know. I know this post wasn't very funny, or full of stories, but I promise the next one will be hilarious. You just wait. Anyway, I've gotta get back to this thing we call life.


Until next time....

Confession #8- I love old people.

I'm not talking about dating older guys, or whatever. Which I was into for a while, but I'm talking about the population living in nursing homes, experiencing what it's like to be confined to a wheelchair, or being spoon-fed your dinner. I mean, not all "old" people are doing these things, but my favorite are.
I went and visited a nursing home about a week ago, and decided to pick the dementia ward. You know, the place full of people who have developed some kind of memory or brain dysfunction? Well, anyway, I walked in, and immediately fell in love with an old man in a ball cap with a basketball on the front. Not literal love mind you, but I just knew we were meant to be friends. I walked up to him and introduced myself. This is how the conversation went:
"Hi! My name is Hannah- what's yours?"
"I'm Garth."
"Oh, well Garth where are you from?"
(He looks around slightly confused.)
"Are you from here, Garth?" I kind of prodded.
"Yes, here yes. I like rocks."
"Oh, you like rocks? Was that your job? Looking at rocks?"
"Yes, yes I like rocks. There are many kinds of rocks. Rocks are good, they do so many good things for so many people. Rocks, rocks, rocks..."
At this point, I looked over beside us, and saw a woman sitting in a chair rocking a baby doll. I got up from my conversation with Garth to speak with her a little bit. She looked up at me as I walked over to kneel down beside her.
"Hi! My name is Hannah- what's yours?"
(Inaudible muttering.)
"Oh, well do you like rocking babies? Do you have some of your own?"
(More inaudible muttering.)
At this point in time, Garth had wheeled himself over to where I was talking to this woman- which I later found out is named Isla- and began to start conversation with us.
Garth: "Do you like rocks? Rocks are so good, they do so many good things for so many people. Rocks, rocks, and rocks. There are many types, igneous. I like rocks."
Isla: (More muttering)
Me: "Do you have children Garth?"
Garth: (As he takes off his hat and points to it) "Yes, I have one-two-three-four-five and six. Rocks on the floor, and rocks over here. Rocks are everywhere. All kinds."
Isla: (While staring into my eyes, and said very softly) "I just don't know what they're going to do about the store, they don't sell enough to keep it together. She asked me what I thought, and I told her to stop, I didn't know. All those people. All those people."
Me: "Garth? Are you a basketball player?" (I then pointed to the basketball on his hat)
Right as Garth began to answer, Isla's eyes went a little cockeye, and she looked slightly crazy. She frantically tossed the baby doll onto the floor, sat up in her seat and practically screamed for the busy nursing home front room to hear: "YOU HAD AN AFFAIR WITH THE MAYOR?"
At this point in time the whole room turned and looked at me- some in disgust, some in confusion, and some just had no idea why everyone was looking and just didn't want to be left out. Garth slowly wheeled away from me, and then Isla picked up her baby doll from the floor and went back to rocking her back and forth. Everyone within a few minutes went back to whatever they were doing whether it was picking at their dinner, or watching a movie. And just like that, all was forgotten. I love the dementia ward almost as much as I love old people.

Confession #7- Your no might mean yes to me.

I'm a determined little bugger. Like mentioned earlier, I have asthma. My doctors told me that I would not be able to run like normal people, or participate in competitive sports. Well, nobody tells me what I can't do but my mom, and even that has changed, so there was no way in heck I was gonna listen to that old smelly man wearing a lab coat. I ran every opportunity I got. I ran on the playground, I ran back in forth in the house, I ran around my yard with my dog, I ran to the bathroom (when I really had to go), and I even ran on the track team in High School. Now, in exactly one month from now, I will be running 26.2 miles in the Teton Dam Marathon. I'm still alive you stupid doctor.
Also, I was incredibly nerdy in middle school. Like I mean seriously the whole glasses, braces, and acne. Oh, another thing: I was very awkward around you know the b-o-y-s. I never stood up for myself, so the only way that I could truly exercise any kind of confidence was in doing kind of radical things in art class. I know right? I was such a rebel. I mean, any time my teacher told me to quit talking, I didn't. Anytime she said: "Hey Hannah, draw this: blah, blah, blah," I drew that blah, blah, blah. Anytime she said: "Hey Hannah please clean out your paintbrushes." I didn't until she wasn't looking and then I did, because that's just a waste of educational resources. Anyway, I felt like by doing the opposite of what she asked, I was a little less nerdy.
Something else that I am is persistent. I am persistent. Like, when I was fourteen, I went to my first church sanctioned dance, and saw what I thought was the love of my life. He was two years older than me, and I was incredibly interested. He asked me to dance that night. I was hooked. So, first I got close to his family- you know, invited myself to their house and stuff. Then, when I saw him more and more often, I talked to him about how I felt. He said "no", and I said: "okay," but really I was thinking: he's a boy, so he probably doesn't even know what he wants. So, I knew that I needed to take his no as a yes, and keep pursuing him, I mean that's what would be best for him, right? So, finally after two years of hearing "no," and turning them into "yes" in my head, he decided he wanted to date me after all. We dated off and on for almost three and a half years collectively. Worth it? Of freaking course.
I know that it may seem like there is no point to this cluster of stories, but I promise that there is. That point is: no can mean yes- to me. I've learned that I am right in interpreting answers this way, because I have never found a reason not to. So, if you really want to tell me no, maybe try telling me yes, or maybe there's just no hope for you.

Confession #6- I write dance routines in my head.

If you have ever spent any considerable amount of time with me, you would know that I zone out a lot. Like, full out gaping mouth staring into the distance. You may think that I am doing this, because I have lots and lots of other things to think about, or I'm actually thinking about nothing at all. Neither of these are actually the case. I will tell you what I am thinking about: dance routines.
Now, I have always been a fan of music and dancing. When I was five all the way until last year, I thought I was going to be a professional ice skater when I grew up. I mean, all three times I went ice skating, I never fell. Everyone knew I had the talent. Anyway, my parents used to love to let me believe in myself and stuff, so they would take a light-blue sheet and lay it on the ground. I somehow acquired a pair of sparkly heels, and would put them on to "skate" across the sheet. My parents had previously recorded Michelle Kwan skating at the Olympics, and would let it be my inspiration as I skittered around the blue cloth. So, I decided at the tender age of five that my calling in life was to be a professional ice skater or something.
I wasn't dumb, so I realized that it takes more than just skill on the imaginary ice to be a successful skater. I also had to be pretty good at writing dance routines. Once my sister was old enough to understand that she was the little sister, and had to do what I said, we began to make the dance videos. I would roll them out one after another, and I thought to myself that they were pretty darn good. With titles such as: Beauty and the Beat, and Ada Spears, I was on the fast-track to fame. My parents were so supportive; they were dedicated to filming every routine, and clapping at all the right times... I felt like a million bucks, and knew I would be worth that or more once I beat Michelle Kwan at the Olympics.
Everything was going according to plan until Ada got to be a sassy preteen, and Michelle Kwan stopped skating professionally- my world was over. I packed away the light-blue sheet and heels in my closet, and now keep all my dance routines to myself. DON'T WORRY, they're still there, just all in my head- and in home videos. If you ever come over to my house, my father will be glad to show you. Now that I'm all washed up, and have no reason to live, I just zone out from time to time and remember the glory times. The good times. When I was on the fast-paced road to becoming a professional ice skater.

Oh, how things change.

Confession #5- I went to Asthma Camp.

Oh yes, it is true. You didn't read the title wrong. I went to Asthma Camp. I was diagnosed with Moderate to Severe Asthma when I was pretty young, and was told that I would never be able to participate in sports or any kind of running activities as I grew older. I think my parents felt really bad for me, because they jumped at the opportunity to take me to a camp where there would be others just like me, and fun activities that I could participate in.
What is Asthma Camp, you ask? Well, it is this summer camp where large numbers of kids from age 5- 18 with Asthma can play and participate in activities under close supervision of a doctor. There were things like fishing, drawing, water balloon fights, medicinal tutorials, hikes, swimming, and finally soccer. We even got cool little T shirts to wear that said clever little things like: "Got Asthma?"
Out of all the activities, I remember soccer the most, because no one really knew how to play, because they were always told by their parents that it was off limits. I remember turning eight years old and after a few years of watching from the sidelines, finally deciding to try it- I just wanted to know what all the hype was about, and it's what all the "cool Asthma campers" were doing.
So, I walked timidly out to the group and whispered to the doctor in charge that I wanted a turn to play. He smiled and told me to be very careful, and if I felt like I couldn't breathe, then just stop. I speed-walked out to my side of the field, and the game began. The first thing that I noticed was how slow it was, and that everyone was kind of waiting for the ball to get to them. I got bored really, really fast. I also looked around to see that my parents weren't around to see what I was about to do- I started running. I ran and snatched the ball from the kid that was walk-jogging, and took it all the way down the field and GOAL! For the next twenty minutes I ran all over that field. I totally showed all those kids what it was really like to play soccer, and made every single goal made during that game. I felt like a champ, and loved that feeling.
Now, I know what you're thinking: "That's awful! You were running circles around poor, pathetic kids with a disease, and there was nothing they could do about it." That was only partially true, because once I started running, everyone started running- and having Asthma attacks. One by one as the kids ran, they dropped to the ground unable to breathe and the doctors would come and get them to take their breathing treatments, and I would still be out there showing those kids what was up. I went for the next four years just to play soccer against kids with Asthma- it's a real confidence boost when you know you're going to win every time.
I think it was karma that fourth year though- when I was fishing, I got a fish hook caught in my finger all the way through. That was the end of Asthma camp.
Now, I want you all to know that I still have Asthma, but I run around like nobody's business. Just goes to show if you can believe it, you can achieve it. Oh yeah, and also its fun to play soccer against kids with Asthma.


......still single?

Confession #4- I am extremely accident prone.

Picture this: I am four years old, and it’s the fourth of July. I am with my parent’s at one of our family friend’s homes, and I had never seen fireworks before and understood what they were until that day. We were shooting off fireworks, and thought it was just a fine and dandy day, and then my dad decided to let me be the one to light the next one, which just so happened to be a roman candle. He pulled out my little stub of an arm until it was what he deemed to be far enough from my body, and lit the candle. Now, you may be asking, how did both parents think it was a good idea to allow a four year old to light this firework all on her own? Well, my mother was very unaware, and left me with my dad for “like five minutes” while she went to get a hamburger. Back to me holding a firework. Let’s just say it didn’t really go very far forward- it actually shot backward onto my face. Next thing I remember, I’m being rushed through a home I didn’t recognize and my face is being shoved under a bathroom sink faucet. I was in shock, so I really didn’t feel the pain you should normally feel when your nose is on fire, but don’t worry, that came after. All I remember is seeing the pretty bright flames on my face in the reflection of the bathroom mirror.

Twelve years later, I was in the house prepping the food for dinner for my family on the fourth of July, and my sister came in the house and begged me to come out and shoot fireworks with them. I had a flashback to when I was four years old, nose on fire, and told her I was fixing dinner. She was relentless, so I finally said: “Alright, alright, I will come outside and watch you guys set some off.” Well, ten minutes later, I found myself convinced into holding a roman candle as far as my arms would stretch away from my body. Then, my sister lit it. Flashback to when I was four years old, but really it wasn’t just a flashback- it was real life. My face was on fire again.

Whose face catches on fire twice?

About this time last year, I was taking a test in the “testing center” which is this series of large rooms on my college campus where all your class tests are held. I sat down at the desk, and immediately dropped my pencil over the side. It was a popular time for tests that day, because when I looked around, every other desk was full. I decided that leaning over the side of my desk to reach for my pencil would be the least disruptive, so that’s what I did. I knew it was a bad idea as soon as I felt my desk legs begin to lift off the ground, but it was kind of like a horse’s bite, once I started, it was too late to stop. My desk went horizontal within seconds, because it was too lightweight to hold me up. Right as I was preparing myself for the pain I was going to feel when my face hit the ground, I felt hands holding me up. I looked up, and it was my good friend John holding me up; keeping my face from getting carpet burn. I was so excited that he caught me, that I screamed his name in this odd high-pitched voice. We both started laughing, and looked around to see what kind of disruption we had made, and realized EVERYONE was looking (staring to be exact), but NOBODY was laughing.

Who would fall in a room full of people, and no one laugh?

I can remember walking out of the mall back home one day when I was seventeen years old, and I was consumed in answering some important text I had received. I was with my mother, and she had just got done telling me to keep my eyes up, and get off my phone. I looked back to tell her to “mind her own business,” and CLANG. I hit a pole with a sign on top really hard. It didn’t hurt, but it was very loud. Immediately all eyes were on me, a few young girls screamed, and a woman ran over to me to ask if I was alright. I was very embarrassed, and told her yes, I was fine, I just ran into a pole- I would live. Well, apparently a car was passing at the exact moment I ran into the pole, and all the bystanders thought the noise was me being hit by the car. So, everyone standing around (like 30 people) that were “witnesses,” were wide-eyed and frozen in place. You know on movies when someone is shocked while eating an ice cream cone, and the ice cream drops off the cone to the ground? Yeah, that happened. Even the driver of the car thought he had hit me, and had come to a complete stop because of the noise. All eyes on me. All I could do was grab my mother, and get out of there.

Who would run into a pole while texting, and cause a mass disturbance?

Okay, so thanks for reading through all this, I know it was longer than usual, but I just am extremely accident prone, and I had to give a few examples of the crazy things that occur in my life so you could get a good idea of why I am a walking disaster. Embarrassing.

.....still single.

Confession #3- I can eat ANYTHING and EVERYTHING.

You know, I really think I might need to get this checked out, because there is no way that one person needs to eat as much as I do. Many people opt to eat three meals during the day: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Odd, because by the time you're eating lunch, I am on my fourth meal.
I don't know if it's quite possible to be "born for eating contests," but I really think I was. I can remember in sixth grade, when after one of our cross country meets, we decided to eat at CiCi's Pizza. (For those of you who have no idea what that is- it's a pizza buffet) My coach was just trying to be hip and fun, and she suggested that we have an eating contest; a pizza eating contest. So, we all piled up our plates with pizza, and waited for her signal to begin. Now, I probably should let you know, I weighed around sixty pounds in sixth grade- I was pretty underweight most of my life. As soon as my coach told us to begin, I was at it. Most girls stopped after three, four slices of pizza. I was still going. All eyes on me.
I ate my fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, and stopped to look around. Everyone's mouth was gaping, wide open, and I was holding half of my tenth slice. I took that as: Okay, we all lost a long time ago, would you stop already? So, I did. That's when I realized I must have the largest stomach in the world. From then on, I have tried to get full, and have never been successful. I can always eat more.
I decided to repeat that pizza eating contest here, and got to 32 slices. Okay people, let me clarify, I ate 32 slices of pizza in one sitting in one and a half hours. That's only because I was in a public place. I can always eat more.
Thanksgiving is always horrific for me, because most of my extended family is older. Well, elderly. So, we will all be sitting together in one room eating our food, and they will eat three bites and stop. My sister is the same way- three bites and stop. I really need to find a family that eats more than three bites and eat with them during the holidays, because it's embarrassing to be around a family like that when you are on plate six and never want to stop. I think I need help. 
Finally, I just want you to know if you see me staring at you while you're eating, it's just because I'm trying to figure out when you're going to be full. I need to use your social cues to know when to stop.

Oh yeah, this might be a bad time to put in a plug for a hot boyfriend but, hey, I'm available. Hit me up.

Confession #2- I AM the Grammar Police.

So, in church on Sunday, the teacher threw out the all so familiar question: "Who wants to scribe for me today? Any volunteers?" There was silence for a good fifteen seconds before a boy- that we will call "Boston"- decided that he was up for the task. As he stood up, he tripped over the chair. Then, when he was passing the podium, he once again tripped over that. The whole scene was humiliating at best, and five minutes after being called upon, he finally reached the board, dry-erase marker in hand.
The first thing I thought to myself was: "Clumsy people usually aren't good at spelling. Or grammar. Or spelling or grammar."
I feel that I need to give a little background on myself: I love to spell. When I was in first grade, I read so many books that I was given a plaque for having read the most books in first grade out of any of the other kids- probably ever. I read 320 books. I still have the photograph of me with my knobby knees standing in the front of the classroom hugging my new most prized possession. I still have that plaque in some drawer at home. Then, in second grade, I signed up to participate in the spelling bee. I practiced every single day with my parents. Have you ever seen "Akeela and the Bee?" Yeah, I was Akeela, and I was perfectly self-absorbed, practiced, and ready.
However ready I might have felt that morning, never would have prepared me for how I felt approaching that podium during the actual spelling meet. I had forgotten the small factor of nerves. I was given the word: poison. I don't know what came over me, but instead of spelling it: p-o-i-s-o-n, I spelled that word: p-o-s-o-n. I spelled a word that I'm still to this day not even sure exists. Maybe it does somewhere, but that's not the point. I embarrassed myself and spelled it WRONG. I was determined to prove my worth.
So, when I was in the fourth grade, I was given another opportunity to do just that. I had practiced even harder, and even more consistently. I had my parents read me words for hours a day, and could think of nothing else than spelling. I made it through round after round with my parents proud and smiling in the audience- until there were four of us left. Four survivors from the original pool of about forty- I was in the top 10%. I heard my number called, and approached the microphone. The lights were so bright in my eyes, that I could no longer see my parents, or make out any kind of definite shape for that matter. I was calm and focused-- %#$&!! I heard the buzzer after I spelled the word "succession" wrong. I wasn't as calm as I thought I was, and rushed down off the stage crying.
This story DOES have a happy ending, just so you know. In the sixth grade, after I had conquered a little bit of my stage-fright, I made it to the final two and spelled "haughty" wrong on purpose so that I wouldn't have to further stress myself out by continuing competition. So, like the washed up speller I am, I just watch the national bee every year re-living my glory days.
Now, back to my original point: clumsy people can't spell. The scribe "Boston" was supposed to be writing all the types or genres of people that Jesus the Christ healed. The class was calling out answers like: the blind, the dumb, the lame (some snickers followed that one), and then finally the lepers. He paused on that last one. I wanted to scream: "YOU SPELL IT L-E-P-E-R-S," but I thought it best to wait and see if he could get it on his own. With much support and convincing, he spelled it out best he could. I almost passed out. I looked at the board and it said:


The blind
The dumb
The lame
The leopards

Jesus healed the leopards.
I might never go to class again.

Confession #1- I made myself blind.

So, you know those eye exams that you get to determine whether or not you need glasses? Well, I faked mine. Screwed it up just so that I could get glasses. I was in the fifth grade, and my friend had glasses that were really nice looking. They just made her look smarter when she was wearing them, and I was kind of jealous. So, I developed a devious plan that could never fail.
I began by telling my mother that I was having a hard time seeing the chalkboard while I was in class. No parent is really going to argue with their child when it is affecting their ability to learn and become a prodigy- I think she still thought at that time that I was slightly more intelligent than average for some reason (which I really wasn't). So, she scheduled an eye appointment right away. I was nervous, because I was actually slightly surprised that it didn't take more than that for me to see the eye doctor, and that my mother believed me so easily. Actually, it kind of made me feel guilty until we walked into the Doctor's office and I saw them. There were hundreds and hundreds of glasses frames (AT LEAST).
From that point on, I was hooked to the plan. I had to make this work, and I had to keep it up. So, when the optometrist took me back for my exam- my hands were shaking by the way- I kept thinking to myself that anything that he told me to read, I needed to read wrong. Of course since I had never actually been to the eye doctor before, I didn't know how involved it really is, but I was prepared for anything.
He sat me down in a soft chair and began asking me to read the letters to him as he flipped different lenses in front of my eyes. That part seriously took at least forty-five minutes. I was worn out. It all paid off though. I knew it as soon as he gave that "look" to my mother. I was in. I had succeeded. I already had a pair of bright pink frames picked out, and my dream was finally coming true. I was going to be one of the cool kids in class with glasses.
When we got to the other side of the clinic- where they sell the glasses frames- I ran over to the frames of my dreams, and rushed them over to my mother. She shook her head and led me to a drawer with about three options; only one of which was actually for girls. I was devastated, but only for a couple of minutes. Why was I sad? I was still getting glasses! So, I happily accepted the salmon-colored wire framed glasses, and hugged my mother.
A couple days later, I went to school. In glasses. Even though I had perfect vision. Now- I'm blind as a freaking bat.