To thine own selfie be true

I'm spending a few days in D.C. on a writer's retreat (aka getting laid JK Mom), and I've come to realize - through all of the moving history and patriotism I've experienced here - that our greatest historians are Asian teen girls taking selfies.

Seriously, I've been sitting in this Starbucks for over an hour and this girl has taken approximately 45 selfies of herself drinking coffee. Right now, her camera is set on repeat and she is changing poses every five seconds. She's really struggling with a hair choice. I want to recommend she wrap it behind her neck to one shoulder, but she seems set on making this bobbypin work.

Oh, now we've moved on to a braid. This will be cute. OH MY GOD, she has a light pink clip-in hair extension. We've just taken it to a new level.

In all seriousness, this girl taking selfies has reminded me of something very important.

I spend a lot of time stressing. I just ended a phone conversation with my mom about student loans, my debit card being stolen, and potentially being fired from my job. You know it's bad when you're one week from 25 and still calling your mom to say, "FIX THIS!" But then I turned to my right and this girl reminded me that the rest of the world (aside from Mom, maybe) doesn't care about how much money we have or how much stress we're under. They don't see any of that.

But they do see your selfies, so you'd better take a good one. And they will like it. Or they'll hate it.

Or have no opinions, which is really the worst result of all.

So take a page from the Asian girls and give a smile. Throw a peace sign. Don't let the world see you sweat.

Double click to heart me,

TJB: Making It

oh my god i think i was an escort

We never made it to the frat.

I once went on a Valentine's Day date in exchange for a handle of vodka. Oh, to be 18 again. I remember
ordering a salad, because I thought that's what you were supposed to eat on dates (and because I have always been a skinnybitch). I left hungry, but more disappointingly, I left without vodka in hand. Three days later, I trekked through a snowstorm to pick up my payment. Smirnoff. Apparently, I was a cheap date. 

That handel created one of the most notorious nights of my college career.

That was probably one of my best Valentine's Days. In fact, in elementary school, I threw up 4 years in a row on Valentine's Day. I'll never forget projectile vomiting grilled cheese and noodle soup in the principal's office. Fourth grade. In fifth grade, I was lucky enough to puke before I left the house, missing my "girlfriend's" mom picking us up for an off-campus lunch date. To be fair, I thought she would grow up to be a lesbian anyway. 

Senior year of high school, I broke up with my boyfriend the week before Valentine's Day because I was afraid he was going to outdo me. The next day, my best friend brought me a bag full of gifts he had planned to surprise me with throughout the day, ending in an invitation to his school's Spring Fling. At least I was right. He would have outdone me. 

Junior year of college, my friends and I tried to attend a Cupid party at the Jewish fraternity after recreating aforementioned "Handle Night" from paragraph one. I woke up asleep on my friend who was Jewish, but not in the fraternity. So I guess I kind of completed the mission.  

I did have one Valentine's Day worth smiling about. I received a heart shaped box full of 50+ McDonald's BBQ sauces the guy had collected for a month. We broke up the next week because surprises gave me anxiety. He now lives with his boyfriend in Portland in a very chic apartment. He's incredibly happy. I'm incredibly happy for him. SO happy for him. Just...so happy. 

So, what am I doing this year? 

I decided to plan a trip to our nation's capitol to see a boy I fell for at a bar. I will meet his entire family and give him the cheesiest, most thoughtful gift a genius writer like me could think of without drinking myself into a stupor of inadequacy. I will risk everything I have to tell him how head-over-heels I feel in the hopes that he will be stupid enough to match me in said risk of diving head first into what is hopefully the deep end. 

And I will blog bout it.

And he will probably think I'm crazy because I did. 

And maybe I am. 

But luckily, he might be crazier. 

There will be vodka. 

And as long as I don't projectile vomit, this will be far from the worst. 

Tradition,

TJB: Making It