A car ride with strangers

In the age of information and technology, it seems that we’ve all become a little too comfortable with being strangers. No matter how many people we follow on Instagram, Twitter, people we add on Snapchat, we still somehow manage to not really know anyone at all. I, for one, am really good at being a complete stranger to everyone; but that’s not the point of this post today. I’m not here to stand on a soapbox and talk about how we need to make more of an effort to “connect” with other humans (whatever the fuck that really means anyway). No. I’m talking about myself and my lack of ability to truly connect with anyone these days.

I know, I know. You’re all tired of me treating this blog like my therapy sessions, but here’s the thing: I don’t fucking care what you think. If you’re reading this, you’re here for a reason so sit down and listen up. I’m talking about my inexplicable inability to tell people literally anything about me. Sure, I may seem like an open book, I mean I talk a lot, but I never really say anything of substance. I was sitting in the car with my friends the other day and was telling them about my family and it just dawned on me that these girls don’t know me at all. They don’t know about my depression, the “voices” in my head that haunt me every so often, the gruesome details of the trauma I’ve experienced, or my true passions/wants in life. Never once have they truly questioned why I am the way I am, or why I make the decisions I do.

“Is that my own fault?” I sit here, questioning every relationship I’ve ever made now. Am I the one who retreats into herself and shuts the door? Or do I make the conscious decisions in my relationships to put an artificial wall up that, sometimes, I feel may not even be there? All these thoughts swirling around in my head on make it harder to concentrate on everything else. Why is it that I let these thoughts consume me? Aren’t I the one who made myself out to be like this?

My point in all of this is, at what point are people no longer strangers? When is someone truly considered your friend? Am I just more selective than others? I can tell you one thing, I’m no “best friend whore,” where I tell all my friends they’re my “best” friend or anything like that. I am willing to admit that I am more selective on that front than a lot of other girls my age are. Is friendship when people know the depths of your soul or is that spot just reserved for soul mates? Sitting here, writing these things out makes it hard for me to come to terms with the fact that this is who I am. An empty shell of a human being. An insult I hurl around so often. It’s funny that a lot of my friends have their degrees in psychology, yet none of them have been able to realize this about me. Believe you me, the irony is not lost on me.

To wrap it all up, I guess I’m just trying to say that we should all take a moment and analyze our relationships with one another. Take a moment and look introspectively at how you approach friendships, people, strangers, loved ones, etc. Take a moment so you don’t have a crushing realization of the mess you’ve made of yourself at 22. Trust me, it’ll be worth it.



“She pierced what?” And other such concerns

Yes, you read the title correctly. I did in fact puncture holes into my skin with needles, it was awesome. Some brief background information of the story will be helpful to your understanding of my logic in this chain of events. I will relay it to you now:

  • I had wanted my nips pierced for at least four years at this point. Roughly since the beginning of my freshman year of college.
  • As my previous posts would lead you to believe, yes, I am horribly impulsive, indecisive, and in a very weird/bad place right now.
  • I’m still confused by all of it.

Our story begins in the first week of June. It was a Friday I think. I can’t remember, but whatever, it’s not important. I had called Rose Gold’s tattoo and piercing the day before after having done extensive research about their piercer. A couple of my friends from school had gone there for various piercings and tattoos so I knew that it was clean and reliable; which covers all my bases. I could care less if someone was sweet or kind. Let’s be honest, I’m no peach so I don’t expect everyone else in the world to be.

Anyway, back on track, I had brought my best friend for moral support (aka hold my hand so I can squeeze yours to cushion the pain), we picked some jewelry and were ready to go. Before I could actually go through the whole procedure the piercer had to take me back into the piercing room (idk its technical name but I guess that’s what we’ll call it) to inspect my tatas and ensure that they were A-OK to be sliced. After his cold hands prodded my boobs for what felt like a goddamn year, he went and gave me the ‘go-ahead’ and I was sent back out into the lobby wherein my bff had already selected the jewelry. Rose gold barbells did you expect anything less? Those next five minutes of waiting are what I anticipate hell feels like. Literally just sitting there thinking “I know I’ll be fine but what if, by some freak accident, he misses my nipple and stabs me and I slowly bleed to death, tits out in the middle of San Francisco?” 

Needless to say that did not actually happen. I am fine. My tits are in very fine condition.

The next 15 minutes were a sheer whirlwind of deep breathing and searing pain. The piercer man told me to disrobe from the waist up. I did so begrudgingly and as slowly as possible with my back turned to everyone. If you know me at all, you know that I don’t just get naked around my friends. Nor do I expose  my knees for everyone (I’ve noticed a trend of people getting freaky when my knees are out and I am Not a fan.) After all that drama went down in my head this mans says “I need to mark where the piercings will go.”

Oh my god, great, this skinny ass white man has to stare intensely at my nipples again with a marker in his hands. 

I, like most people, am not a fan of any part of my anatomy being scrutinized for more than 22 seconds at a time. I don’t particularly enjoy this mans mustache all over my tits at 11 am on a Friday while the sun’s still up, ya feel me?

This moment literally felt like it went on forever. He even looked up at me at one point (such a weird platonic angle, like I’m still creeped out by it) and goes, “I’m really anal about piercing placement.” Like, sir, I appreciate that, I really do, but imma need you to hurry the fuck up so that I can just get this over with ya feel me?  Shortly after this awko-taco moment he gets it together and has me lie down on this medical-looking table.

I’m not kidding when I say that this pain was the most intense yet strangely euphoric thing I have ever felt in my life. Piercer man told me to lie down and then “would get the needle in place.” Like, okay?? What does that even mean?? Anyway, that’s besides the point now. However, he gave me the most awkward cue ever. He was like, “deep breath in and that’s when I know to start.” Let me just tell y’all that was the MOST pressure I have ever felt in my life. It was like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. It also meant that I couldn’t take a deep breath without him being like “Ok this is it, I’m gonna stab your tits now.” Just way too much pressure.

But it happened and it was intense. It also didn’t hurt after? Just like soreness and I def thought it would feel like I was just pierced and had an open wound but nah, it was a dull pain.

Now we fast forward to a week later: I can’t go running because my boobs have two gaping holes in them and somehow this causes me to lose some sort of my identity? I’m really not sure how to explain this because I actually am not a runner. Like, yeah I run but not every single day and I’m no marathoner so this is really concerning actually.

After this severe existential crisis I literally went back and had him remove my piercings. There goes my $500 down the drain and my 4+ years of wanting nipple rings. I’m just super confused as to this whole thing went down but at least it was a good story?

IDK man, live and let live I guess.


What Has Happened Here?

Last time I left you was a low point that I wasn’t sure I could crawl out of. In fact, I’m still clawing my way back up; hopefully I’ve made some progress. I doubt it. My grandmother died and I’ve thought about calling her every other day since then. *Queue Jojo’s Too Little Too Late in the background*

I got my nipples pierced, then promptly took out the piercings two weeks later. That’s another discussion for another day, but all I know is that I have wanted it done for four years and instantaneously regretted every dollar I spent on it (600 to be exact). I’ve taken an LSAT course that I thought would prepare for a test that would determine my future. Spoiler alert: it really has not.

My best friend/cousin moved to France to start her journey at art school and it’s slowly crushing me. We FaceTime nearly every day, but I still feel an empty space in my gut because she’s so far from me. Today I even broke down talking to her because I just feel like I’m not enough.

I have an averagely good GPA (3.47), barely any extracurriculars, I’ve kept a steady part time job (but really how good does that even look on a resumé). My major wasn’t impressive, my LSAT practice scores are depressingly low, and I just feel like I’ve got no drive to do anything. She told me I don’t give myself enough credit, but the truth is I really don’t deserve any.

I’m not a stellar student, I don’t have a life or career lined up. I don’t want to be somebody’s mother or wife even though that’s all I’m qualified to be these days. Yesterday at work (lol, like my job is even a real thing), I impulsively bought $320.00 shoes. Stuart Weitzman’s to be exact. I love them and I’m so glad I have them because they are totally me, but do I need them? Do I have the monetary funds for them? The answer is a hard no. Hell-to-the-fuck-no. Yet here we are, typing with the shoes on my feet as we speak. Maybe I thought they would bring me joy and inspire me to somehow make more money? All I know is that I feel instant regret but simultaneously love them all at once. It’s great but still an awful feeling. A moral conundrum if you will.

The truth is, I don’t know what I want and I don’t have the passion to work hard enough for anything. I miss my best friend more than anything but I can’t let her know for fear of interfering in her new adventure. That just would not be fair to her whatsoever.

My goal in writing this all down today is hopefully to bring some clarity to myself. To allow myself to sort out my thoughts in all of this. Still nothing has come to me. I exercise 3-4 days a week in the hopes that it will settle me, still nothing. I get more and more worried every damn day that I’m going to become reliant on my parents and some medication to pull me out of the pit that has been the last five years.

Anywho. Whatevah.

The Apology I Was Never Able To Give You

Dear Nana,

I’m sorry for just about everything. You were a light in this world that feels a lot dimmer now that you’re gone.

I’m sorry I didn’t text you back all those times I should have. You just wanted to talk to me and I acted like I just didn’t have time.

I’m sorry I wasn’t more grateful for all the ways you spoiled me. Not just materially, but with unconditional love that I didn’t realize was so tangible.

I’m sorry I ever thought you were the slightest bit annoying. I’m a cold hearted, jaded woman and it should never have been taken out on you.

I’m sorry I didn’t call more. I thought my time was worth more. I was wrong, it wasn’t, and it never will be.

I’m sorry for all this and more that will come to me after I post this. I’m hoping you feel at peace and that you can see all the good things that I do. I hope you watch me fail and pick myself up again (this is me also selfishly hoping I’m able to pick myself up). I hope you’re looking at my dad and smiling about what a wonderful person he is to everyone he meets.

I’m sorry you had to sit there and watch us all cry, knowing what you do now.

Most of all, I’m sorry for selfishly sitting here, stewing in regret. I miss you so much, and it took me so long to have these realizations about the truly wonderful gift you were to me. You’ll never be replaced. I hope you know that.

I have high hopes for you, nan. Wherever you may be right now.

I hope you’re able to run free without pain. I hope you feel every amazing emotion to the fullest extent. Letting tears stream down your face, and the laughs roll until you ache. I hope you can talk to your family and feel at home right now. I’m sure they loved watching all the fun things you did.

I hope that you know I mean every word of this. I’m sorry. I love you.IMG_1957.JPG

Now What?

“What do I fill out on customs forms now under ‘occupation?'” This is the question that has been replaying in my mind for the last week and a half, at least.

“Funemployed,” my best friend said jokingly. Only it wasn’t a joke. This is really how things are.

I guess it’s different when your major in college set you up for a job; like elementary education or engineering, or maybe even advertising and communications. That just wasn’t in the cards for me.

I went into college with such a plan that if I sat there and told you, you’d laugh right in my face. So I guess that’s just what I’ll do because, let’s all be honest here, I’ve got so much time I might as well just tell you all the sordid details.

Five years ago I applied to 11 universities as an international studies major; I was determined to be the next Hillary Clinton and be the best damn Secretary of State that the United States had ever seen. I was to study abroad in Spain spring semester of my junior year in Barcelona. I thought I would find a boyfriend that would ask to marry me after college and we would just rule the high social class of America hand in hand.

Now, as those five years have passed, I changed my major four times (international studies to elementary education to communications, then finally to spanish), switched schools and moved across the country. Weirdly enough, the school switch was the best thing I could have done for myself.  Living at home, working part time, spending all my time in the library cleared my head of garbage humans and a toxic lifestyle I was living. Thinking about it now, I hate the person I was four years ago. A walking dumpster fire is how I would describe myself at the age of 18.

Now all of this is not to say that I am the perfect human now with such high morals and my life incredibly put together. If I were to say that, I would be lying to your faces, and we all know that this is not the time nor the place to be doing that. Basically what I’m getting at here is that I’ve come a long way in the past four years and I’m damn proud of it I guess. Like, maybe if I were thinner and way more social this would be less of an existential crisis. I can’t quite put a finger on it but,

I just feel so empty.

Like I should be doing something. ANYTHING. Like I should be sitting in the library typing away on my computer (still doing that, FYI. Just at home in my underwear on my bed). It’s this emptiness that consumes you slowly so you don’t even know how to stop it, or what’s going on, until it’s done.

Now this is all such a melodramatic way to look at it, but I have to say that I’m not really exaggerating. I’m genuinely just not comprehending what’s happening to my life. I now have the sudden urge to go out and get Shwasty-Pants-McGee™ every night of the week with my friends, whereas before you literally couldn’t drag me out of my house unless I was at class or work. I feel the sudden need to be in a successful relationship even though I know I’d be so unhappy (I digress, that is another post for another day).

“So why do I continue to do this to myself?” Why do I continue to sit here like a lazy arsehole and watch my life pass me by.





That time I genuinely thought I was about to die

Ok so let me preface this and say that it was the middle of finals week and I was hella stressed. I was also on my period. The trifecta of a shite week, if you will.

Being a 21 year old female that doesn’t enjoy bloody underwear, I obviously use tampons to soak up the inevitable crime scene that would have been my cute underwear. Up to this point, I haven’t had any issues with the use of tampons as a method of stopping my uterine lining from oozing out of my pants onto the bus seats. However, I had been seeing a lot of stuff about a resurgence in TSS cases and girls forgetting tampons in their bodies and whatnot. I feel like I should also disclose that I am a closeted hypochondriac, so I think I’m dying a lot but I don’t actually tell anyone about it until after when I’m sure that I’ll probably survive the event.

Not to give too much information of anything, but I’m really paranoid about losing tampons inside of me so I make sure that the string is visible every time I look. On this day, however, it was not.

I had just gotten out of the shower, put in a new feminine hygiene product, and proceeded to sit on my bed and watch instagram makeup videos for the next hour until I inevitably had to get ready at the last second. As the universe would have it, the last second rolled around, and I went to go put on underwear and the string was nowhere to be found. Nowhere. 

Now the freaking out started to commence.

I sat there panicking for a good five minutes having an internal screaming match with myself about whether or not I had actually inserted said tampon. As you’ll come to find out, I had inserted said tampon upon exiting the shower and it was indeed lost inside my platinum vagine. As the internal screaming match came to a close, I realized that I should probably prepare my mother for the fact that I was most likely going to die from TSS.

“MOM? MOM? CAN YOU COME UPSTAIRS?!” I was practically shouting at this point; freaking out because I was fully convinced that I was actually going to die.

“She’s in the bathroom, do you need help with something?”My dad responded. Fighting through the over dramatic tears welling up in my eyes I managed to squeak out, “No. I really just need my mom to come up here.” I couldn’t very well tell my father that I lost a tampon up my hoo-ha, now could I? No one, except the 20+ year old females of today actually know how a vagina works so he probs would have thought I was slutting around or some dumb shit like that.

My mom finally made her slow way up the stairs and sauntered into my room like I was causing her some kind of inconvenience, “Are you okay? Your father said you were freaking out.” She was looking at me like I was crazy, and tbh I def looked it, too. Red faced, teary eyed, adrenaline pumping. In all honesty, it probably looked like I snorted some cocaine or something.

“It’s not funny so don’t laugh at me” *jumps up and down* “I’m just like-I just don’t”

-“Isabella so help me God if you don’t tell me-”

“I LOST A TAMPON IN MY VAGINA AND I CAN’T FIND IT.” I swear to the heavens above this woman never laughed harder in her life. My mother, in the midst of me thinking I was going to get Toxic Shock Syndrome, have a leg amputated, and fucking die, doubled over with laughter. Her response was kind of iconic:

“People shove fists up there, Isabella. There’s only so far it can go.”

That’s it? That’s all you’ve got for me mom? Dig around in your platinum vagine to try and find the dried up tampon that could possibly be giving me blood poisoning?

“Mother, I don’t think you’re really getting what I’m telling you.” She leaned in as I paused doing that sarcastic head movement urging me to finish the thought, “I lost a tampon up there and I can’t find it. I’m going to get blood poisoning and die!!!” I was basically levitating and shouting at her holding my towel around my body trying not to flash anyone.

“Either you can dig it out, or I can. Take your pick.”

Take your pick? That’s all my mother had to offer me? Dig it out???

And that’s what I did. I spent the next two hours of my life doing some questionable google searches only to find that all the ‘experts’ suggested that I go to the ER and have it SURGICALLY-FUCKING-REMOVED from my vaginal cavity to avoid dying. A good 30 minutes pass and I finally think I’ve found it. “YES!” Just as I was beginning to feel relief that I wasn’t about to die, MY BODY SUCKS THE TAMPON UP EVEN FURTHER. How is this even possible?!

Now it was war. Me against death. I was determined to win and not let this be the thing that my mother would make fun of me about until I genuinely died.

I had previously read on one of the websites that jumping up and down and wiggling might loosen the death weapon, but I had one better: a pull-up bar.  I hooked the damn thing to the doorframe between the basement and garage and hung there like a limp noodle wiggling my lower half in the hopes of a dislodge, again, to no avail.

UGH. I was really going to die.

That’s it. I’ll just accept my fate. Plan my funeral. Text my friends my goodbyes. Time to die. 

Somehow after all of this, I marched my ass back up into my bathroom, put on my big girl panties (not really, because it’s a lil hard to reach up your vagina whilst wearing underwear) and pull it out.

It was the most traumatic seven minutes of my life with wayyyyyy more of my own fingers up my vagina than ever necessary but….


Moral of the story is just get a diva cup, it can’t get lost.


The First Circle of Hell

So recently I was in Peru on a school immersion trip. I had been there once before, but only to the real toursity places (i.e. Cusco, Lima, Machu Picchu) so anywhere else in the country felt like a whole other world to me. During my stay in the city of Tacna, our group took a weekend trip to a little town called Tarata in the Andes mountains. Whilst there our professor had told us about these hot springs that she was soooo obsessed with. She claimed they were freaking magic (tbh I’m a pretty big believer in magic so I was eating this shit up.) Prior to these reaching these hot springs she gave us a slight disclaimer that any longer than 20 minutes spent in this water could make you throw up or pass out. WTF. Ok, now that we’re past that and the hour long mountainside car ride to this place is over, it’s time for mama to get her relaxation on. JUST KIDDING.

We pull down this unpaved road that was so bumpy if you didn’t have a seat belt on you might have died. Getting past that, we pull up and the sun is dangerously low. I really didn’t know why our professor was making such a big deal about being there during daylight hours but I figured that out real quick. Anyway, so we pull up to this staircase going down, for what seems like forever. Walking down, we realize no one got any eucalyptus leaves. None of us even know what a damn eucalyptus leaf looks like but the our professor (Natalie. Her name is Natalie) is insistent that we get these leaves. So Molly leaves on a quest through the damn forest to get these leaves out of a tree and comes back with straight branches of eucalyptus leaves for each of us. Ok, that’s fine, I’ll just sit here holding a branch like a koala. JK AGAIN, these branches are poisonous to ingest and harmful to your skin if you rub them on yourself. So now I’m thinking to myself, “why the fuck do we even need these damn trees in these baths with us if they’re fucking poisonous????” Whatever. Moving on.

So Natalie comes back explaining that the main outdoor spring is drained for the day but the little private baths are open if that’s what we want to do. Well obviously we said yes because we’re not morons and we don’t feel like getting back in the car on that treacherous road. OH, I forgot to mention the random group (6 dudes) of army men that walked up to these hot springs and decided to share one private bath. You do you, boys. We then split ourselves into three groups: Natalie and her GBF Chris, Molly, Sydney, and Michelle, and Danielle and myself (based on whether or not we wanted to be scalded by this mountain water, and Danielle and I were not about that life.) So we split off into our groups and go into these rooms. LET ME TELL YOU these rooms are like little mini murder houses. Dark, gray tiled, a bench for stuff, and 4 stairs down into this ominous looking bathtub with two huge water faucets that would fill the tub, and a random soap dish. We were essentially taking a bath together. A glorified bath. God only knows what the army dudes were doing cramped up in their own little murder room but whatever.

When Danielle and I closed and locked the door to our murder room the light wouldn’t turn on. Is this a bloody joke?? is all that was going through my mind at the moment. So I make my way outside our murder room, still fully clothed and all and ask the girl working this joint why TF the light isn’t working and do you know what this muchacha said to me?? “Well, that’s why you come in the daytime.” OH OK, PUTA. So this majorly sets us back. We’re now taking a glorified bath in a dark murder room and if that’s not enough, the water won’t turn on. I don’t consider myself a weakling by any means but I could not get this thing to budge. Laughing, Danielle busts past me and tries to turn these damn faucets on and can’t. Joke’s on you. bitch. I told you it didn’t work! Moving on, we go and get the sassy muchacha about our little murder room conundrum and after trying (read: failing) for herself, she moves us to a different little murder room.

At this point we hadn’t changed out of our regular clothes to our bathing suits so we didn’t really realize how cold it had gotten out there. I’m telling you, the sun drops and it’s like we’re in Ant-fuckin-artica up here. Freezing your scantily clad boobies off one murder room at a time.

Now that we were finally in a “functioning” bathhouse (murder room/bathtub whatever you want to call those) we decided to change into our bathing suits and let this water scald us because at this point we had had enough of everyone’s shit. Cue Hillary Duff’s “Come Clean.”  Danielle finally got the god godforsaken water running and let me be the first to say that it was hot. Like satan came up from the depths of hell to lick your ankles. Hot water is fine, but like I said earlier, Danielle and I didn’t want to suffocate in this mountain water so we went with hot but not HOT. At some point of ankle-wading in this bathtub we decided that it was just too fucking hot for survival and I took the liberty of trying to turn on the giant cold water faucet and as would luck would have it, the water just shut off altogether. Fucking great, just as we get settled into second murder room the water cuts out and all we have is boiling ankle water. This is hardly the damn near magical experience that I had been promised.

Now we were just standing there staring at each other.

“What do we do now?” Danielle said, like she genuinely had no idead what to do. At this point we had given up any hope of enjoying these waters, it was just a matter of not freezing to death now.

“Maybe if I shove the eucalyptus branch up the faucet it will unclog it.” Quite frankly I was willing to try anything at this point. The hot ankle water had turned luke-warm and now we were slowly freezing. Danielle started tossing water from the ground onto herself to at least try and keep warm. We were still unsuccessful.

After a good three minutes of no water and constant trials of the stupid faucets we come to the realization that one of us has to leave the murder room, brave the outside, and get help. Danielle decides to be this person because I am in a bathing suit and there is no way in hell that my pale thighs are gracing the light of day. She leaves the murder room in her bikini and flip flops, makes her way next door to Sydney, Molly, ad Michelle’s bath, reaches up to the little mini window in the corner, props her hands up and says, “Help us! Hello? Helloooo? Can somebody help us?” None of those bitches responded.

She comes back freezing and fills me in that none of our fellow comrades came to help. Those bitches. Whatever, guess we’ll just sit here staring at each other in the dark until we’re all ready to leave this place (which I have now deemed the first circle of hell). The next four minutes felt like a goddamn eternity. I went slightly insane smacking the walls with the eucalyptus branches chanting to whatever god wherever hoping that they would turn the hot water back on. Danielle was still splashing water on herself, not totally sure what that was doing for her but I’m not here to stop anyone from living their lives.

In the midst of this madness, Sydney walks in.

“What in the actual hell are you doing?” She asks. Now we have to go through the whole thing again about the lack of water and the eucalyptus leaves.

“We called for help but none of you responded to us.” Danielle retorted sassily.

“OMG, you guys called us? I thought I heard something but we turned on music so I thought it was the people that worked here. Haha that’s so funny.” Funny indeed. This bitch had the audacity to turn her music up to enjoy themselves even further whilst Danielle and I suffered in the cold. Thanks so much.

Anyway, after the three of them finished laughing at Danielle and I, we just decided to share their bath and bask in the magical waters together.

The end.


I stand 

America the beautiful. America the broken. A polar opposite view of the same country held by the same person. It is possible to love and hate your country all at the same time, because if you didn’t, wouldn’t you just be ignorant?

America the beautiful.

Where rapists are coddled because they’re boys and white. Where innocent black men (and women) are killed at routine traffic stops. Where innocent police offers are killed in retaliation. Where Latino immigrants are shamed for their heritage. Where any Arabic-looking person is deemed a terrorist. Where women are blamed for their rape and killed for their right to terminate a pregnancy.

America the beautiful where everyone except the white man earns less than they’re told. America the beautiful where celebrities are deemed idiots for supporting a movement that doesn’t follow the white man’s public agenda. America the beautiful where my “defiance” is a “learned behavior” from a “liberal education.”

America the beautiful where I have had enough.

I stand with you.

I stand with the rape survivors fighting for awareness and proper punishment for their assailants.

I stand with the Black Lives Matter movement and those who fight against the institutionalized racism in America.

I stand with the undocumented immigrants who came to this country with nothing doing absolute shit jobs to escape the lives they previously lived.

I stand with women who fight for their right to be seen as human beings.

I stand with the Muslims (and non-Muslims) who must apologize for being who they are when a terrorist group attacks.

I stand with the students at Mizzou fighting for a safe space because education shouldn’t be dangerous.

I stand with all girls everywhere for their rights to be seen as rights and not privileges.

I stand with those wanting to change America. Not because the system is broken. But because a new system needs to be in place.

America the beautiful.

Fitspo: New Vegan-ings

Like most women, girls, boys, and men, I too, suffer from low self esteem in the body department. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still one of the most self-confident women I know, I just have a little trouble making myself believe that my ass is better than Beyoncé’s  (Hint: it so is not). So basically every summer I get into this super fit mindset where I go to hot yoga (hot not heated because there is literally no point in glorified stretching if you’re not sweating your love handles off, amirite?) every single day and then become a vegan for 2.5 months out of the year. I love being a vegan because it always boosts my already sky-high confidence and genuinely make me feel fantastic. The lack of red meat, over-processed sugars, gluten (re: unnecessary carbs), and hormone/antibiotic-laden dairy products really boosts your mood and desire to exercise. I’m not even kidding when I say really healthy people like being healthy because it feels like you’re high all the time. When you’re not stuffing your face with shit that’s really bad for you, you start to look and feel good. Let’s be really honest right now, who doesn’t like having the self confidence of Taylor Swift dancing at the Grammy’s and an Adriana Lima bod to match??  I also really love pairing these white mom workouts (re: Pilates Barre classes and hot yoga) with low weight lifting (easy shit you can do at the gym I don’t actually lift free weights that’s dumb and obnoxious) with running (jogging). So basically what I’m saying is that every summer I lose like 10+ lbs and when my fat ass goes back to school I become lazy and it all comes back to haunt me. Probably due to the fact that my mom doesn’t support veganism and I get so tired from work and reading dumb shit for school that I don’t want to. If you take anything away from this it’s that milk and cheese make PMS worse, red meat is full of adrenaline from slaughtered cows, carbs are bloating your face, and sugar gives you zits. Maybe this summer we can all skip the starbucks and head to pure barre together? No? OK.

Real Talk: Being 20

OK KIDS time to talk about something that literally haunts me at night. A time in you’re life where you’re not young enough to get away with anything and everything, not old enough to be a real human, and obnoxiously close to middle aged (yes, I’m saying 30 is middle aged, get over it) . Yeah yeah yeah, I know what you’re thinking, But Bella, every annoying girl with a computer and a sixth grader’s grammar skills has written about being a Millenial! Well lucky for you SOB’s I’m not writing about being a damn Millenial. I’m here to talk about my own personal feelings about being 20 years old during the age of tech startups and laxative tea hawking on instagram. To me, being 20 is horrifying. TBH I cried on my 20th birthday for 2 hours. People two years older than me are getting botox and if that isn’t frightening enough, I live on the west coast where sun damage runs rampant so basically I’m screwed. People my age are also getting engaged and married. Who the hell even does that anymore? I thought that ended in the 60s???? I am so not down for that life. Who even has the time to take a nap during the day, let alone date someone long enough to get married? I go from 18 credit hours of classes to 25+ hour work weekends (Friday-Monday) to studying for said classes and I play lacrosse (but right now we’re in the off season so I can’t really add that to my busy-ness list). The only promising thing about being 20 is knowing that you’re not alone when you cry about crow’s feet, lack of job prospects post-grad, and have better bodies than the rest of the American population. Half of the western world has a fancy instagram with enough followers to get someone to pay them $200 for stupid products that they’ll never really use. The other half is creating/working for stupid tech start ups making apps that don’t add substance to anyone’s life. Basically I’m just haunted by the fact that I’m supposed to graduate from college in a year with a degree that I have no idea what to do with in a country where school teachers are severely underpaid and old bigot-headed people aren’t dying quick enough. AMIRITE?