one day [soon-ish], I’ll move out of my parents house and stop going to dinners called “One Night In Spain!” where there are four courses of Spanish foods, five different Spanish wines, and flamenco dancers & getting really drunk, forgetting how I got into bed, waking up at five a.m.—still drunk—and having to sober up faster than any human possibly has so that I could drive to work and semi-function today.

One day, I’ll stop doing all of those things. Unfortunately, until that day actually rolls around, I’ll just say that I think everyone should move back in with their parents after college.

"We have to cut them down!" she snapped at me when I walked into her backyard with my mouth agape, asking what in the actual shit she thought she was doing. "When we get them, they're too slick on the bottom so we have to slice a layer of the sole off -- it helps us stick to the mats better."

I won't sit here and act like I grew up in an underprivileged home. If there was something either my brother or I wanted as kids, at one point or another, we got it. It was never right away -- mostly birthdays or Christmas or if we just happened to have saved what little money we were ever given. However, we were always taught to cherish the things we were fortunate enough to have; treat our things with care and never forget that there were those who were less fortunate than we were. You know, all of the things you're supposed to hear as children growing up in the Bible Belt of midwestern America.

The day I walked in Shelby's* backyard and saw her with a pair of brand new Asics and a knife in her hand, cutting the soles down I thought I was going to have a heart attack. Sure, part of it was my aforementioned, deep seeded notion of "love the shit your'e lucky enough to have", but --if we're being honest--most of it stemmed from the fact that I wanted those shoes.

I'm positive everyone has seen the movie A Christmas Story &, therefore, knows of young Ralphie's love for a Red Rider BB gun. This is going to sound pathetic and probably show how materialistic I can sometimes/most of the time be, but I was to those shoes what Raphie was to that fucking gun.

That's the only way I can explain it -- I wanted those shoes. I wanted them on my feet. I wanted them in my life. Looking back at it now, the only real reason I can come up with is that--in the third grad--I went to try out for the cheerleading squad, but the night before (of fucking course), I broke my wrist. Which meant I, technically, wasn't allowed to be a snot nosed cheerleader (I'd like to point out that, even though I broke my wrist and couldn't try out then, it was--technically--my own fault that I never tried out in jr. high & high school when this want really began to fester). Which meant I couldn't have the shoes. Which meant I thought my entire life was over.

It was a bizarre want; I could feel it burning inside of me whenever Shelby and her tumbling terrorists would walk by me in the hallways, their chiseled down Asics sneering at me--showing me what I couldn't have. There were days when I thought about how easy it would have been: I could just...take the shoes, right? Surely, they could just get another pair. I mean, of course, I wouldn't be able to wear them to school, which would defeat the entire purpose of wanting/be able to flaunt them. But, this notion of stealing them and just having them seemed so beautiful and perfect and how could it ever go wrong?

However, I am and will forever be the kind of person who see everything that could go wrong before something happens. So I never stole the shoes. Mostly because it was so fucking insane and I remember writing in my diary with the flamingo on it about it, going back and reading it and realizing what a freak of nature I was being.

I'm sure, had I really ever thought of asking my mom for anything besides Titanic on VHS, a Furby, & a basketball goal for our driveway, I could have asked for the shoes. But I never did. And I lived my entire life without a pair of classic cheerleading Asics. Which is okay.

However, I've gotta tell ya, the other night I was watching the Olympics and, for some reason, I thought about the shoes and my love/yearning for the simple white kicks with my choice of colored stripes and--all of a sudden--the want was back. Upon Googling them, I learned that they are, in fact, discontinued. In their place are a newer, much more modern cheer shoe.

And it made me so fucking pissed off that I asked for a fucking Furby instead of those goddamn shoes.

*this is her real name

Me: How do you know, though? Like, I guess I am always baffled by that because 1. I've yet to have that type of successful relationship where you're just like "Okay, you are who I want to wake up to for the rest of my life." & 2. I'm too afraid of people getting bored with each other. It happens! People get bored and they find people who won't bore them anymore.

I want to start this off by saying that 1. I wish I had laid all of this out so it looked nicer, but I’ve had the worst day and got kind of lazy (sorry) & 2. I spared everyone of the 8 (Yes. Eight) tampons I found floating at the bottom of this 13” purse. So! Here we go!

I almost never change purses. Ya know how there are some women who will change purses with every outfit? I’m not one of them! I find a purse I like, and—for a lengthy period of time—I stick with it. Until I find another one I like. I don’t change purses on the daily. It just doesn’t happen.

On my person at [almost] all times, you’ll find:

My Cambridge Satchel Co. bag that I bought on impulse with my girlfriend Holly and probably paid too much for. But it’s leather! And it’ll last forever! Justification! Plus, it makes me seem more obnoxious than I already am by announcing to the world what my initials are. Anyone want my social next?

Crumpled receipts from a car wash & a large McDonald’s Diet Coke. Usually, there are tons of these floating around/littering my bag, but I cleaned it out over the weekend because I want men to think I’m not a hoarder.

Bobby pins. If you ever (and I mean ever) need to find me, follow the undoubtedly long trail of bobby pins. I’m at the end of it.

Earrings that feel too heavy for my ears, a Banana Republic faux pearl bracelet that I’ve worn so much it’s tarnishing, and a Banana Republic disco ball bracelet that I’ve worn so much I’ve now had to superglue all of the balls to it. Fashionista, at your service.

Pepper spray. In pink. The owner of the company I work for gave this to all of the office employees last summer after there was a “spike in crime in the area”. I’ve never used it, but I live and work in shitty areas so, even though it basically looks like the dumbest thing, at least I have it, I guess. Also, thank the Lord that I’m not the type of girl to carry on her keys in a little leather pouch and twirl it around my fingers at the bar like I’m out there looking for a person to breathe incorrectly in my direction. I saw girls in college do that (seriously — in Stillwater, Oklahoma? Are y’all serious!?) and always made fun of them. Bitches and their safety habits.

The Moleskine journal & pens that I keep telling myself I’m going to be better about writing in every day. Tonight I wrote an entry that was comprised of two sentences: “I went to a baseball game tonight, where I accidentally knocked over a cup of beer onto the ground and saw a man actually scoff, glare at me, and then get paper napkins to wipe it from the concrete. It was BudLight & I was doing you a favor.”

My Betsy Johnson sunglasses that I got from Groupon (hahahahahahahahahah) and my favorite/most used tube of chapstick that probably has two more good uses left in it. Can’t quit you, Baby Lips.

A sticky note of a grocery list from two weeks ago that reads: “Cheese. 2 boxes cat litter” Hi, I’m here for the party & sex.

Tickets from tonights Phillies/Brewers game, my ticket from Ted (ugh), & my ticket from The Dark Knight Rises. Also a hair tie. Never leave anywhere without a hair tie.

A mirror I accidentally stole from The Body Shop after I didn’t realize it had fallen into one of my shopping bags off of the counter. I know that sounds like an unbelievable story! But it happened!

Baby control or, as I like to refer to them, my daily candy.

A $10 off coupon for Dick’s Sporting Goods that I’ll probably never use.

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The lipstick/lipgloss/mascara smorgasbord that I once dropped in a toilet at a bar. I keep them all in this little Clinique pouch (not pictured, obv) and that once fell in the toilet with all of these things in it. Therefore, whenever someone asks me for one of these items, I give it to them to use, wait for them to apply it, and tell them it’s been in the toilet. Because I’m an awful person

My Kate Spade wallet that my dad got for me for Valentines Day :’) Nothing snarky about this. Love my dad.

I'd also like you guys to know this beats that time I found half of a salad floating at the bottom of my purse. Undressed, thankfully.

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