Because What I Say is Mildly Interesting

A peek into what my mind wanders through

Chronicles of a Girl With Bad Skin

Warning: this blog contains unflattering pictures of the writer.  Honestly, there were times when my skin was much worse – this just shows it at stages where I even allowed it to be photographed.

I got my first pimple at summer camp when I was 9 years old.  I have not had a clear complexion since.

People who have known me through my skin trials and tribulations will comment, “your skin looks really good today!”  This is either due to the fact that it’s a rare occasion where I’m wearing makeup, or it’s “good” as in “better than usual.”

But back to the pimple in elementary school.  When I say I haven’t had a clear complexion since, what I mean is that while I was not daily plagued with severe and visible skin issues, there has not been a day that’s gone by that I haven’t had at least one pimple, let alone some other random deformities.  In middle school my pediatrician gave me a topical cream known as Benzaclin to apply to my skin every night before I went to bed, and I also partook in the standard Stridex alcohol pads–a suggestion from my mother with a note that said, “Maddie, remember to use me!”  My skin was worse than the average middle schooler, but still no cause for alarm.

High school is when things took a turn…  It didn’t help the fact that I was a swimmer, so although I made sure I had plenty of foundation, concealer, and powder on at school, when I was in the pool there was no hope.  The chlorine also acted as an irritant to my skin, making me extra dry and my pimples extra red.  And still, I stuck with the standard Stridex pads and Benzaclin.

After a swim meet in November of my sophomore year, when I looked through pictures I had taken, I was humiliated with how bad my skin was.  I had “moderate” acne, which consisted of many very tiny pimples, all across my shoulders and face.  I asked my mom about it, and she bought me a Clearasil face wash.

This could’ve been my “Before Proactiv” picture.

A few months later, after staring in the mirror and counting 70 pimples on my face, I came to my mom crying and asked if we could go to the dermatologist.  She agreed, but warned me that it likely wasn’t going to be a “quick fix.”  It was then that I began a two-year program of alternating any and every acne medicine that there was: clindamycin, minocycline, Tazorac, Differin, Adoxa, Duac, tazarotene, and I’m sure countless others that I can’t recall.  The drill was always the same: get prescribed something, come in two months later, have the dermatologist say, “Yeah, that’s not working—try this instead.”

She kept mentioning Accutane, which my mom nixed each time it was brought up.  There were too many bad stories associated with it, and too much risk.  Towards the end of my senior year, I even went on birth control as a pre-requisite to going on Accutane, only for my mom to say, “No, I’m still too nervous about Accutane—and just because you’re on birth control doesn’t mean you can go around having sex.”  The birth control (Yaz), while keeping my period regular, did nothing for my skin.

In April of my senior year of high school, I developed a cyst on my face that grew so big it had to be removed via plastic surgery, because every dermatologist refused to touch it for fear of causing major scarring.


Watch out – it’ll eat you alive.

Finally, a few months into my Freshman year of college, without my mom accompanying me to every dermatologist appointment (since now I was seeing a dermatologist in South Carolina), I started Accutane.  What resulted was slightly clearer, though extremely pale, skin, and very cracked/chapped lips.  It was much of the same when I went into the dermatologist, “Hm, that doesn’t seem to be working…  but it should be…  You’re on the highest dosage there is, so maybe just take it longer than the usual six months?”


So Pale.  So Chapped.  So sad.

Towards the end of my Accutane run, I developed blepharitis, chronic inflammation of the eyelids, which appeared to look both like a case of pink eye and as if I had a sunburn around my eyes.

After I finished my bout with the ‘tane (it’s street name), my skin was better than it was in high school, but still not clear.  I alternated through a series of various topical ointments and face washes for years to come.  For a while, my skin was “at peace” and I use quotes because, as I mentioned earlier, my skin was never quite clear.  Were there days that I went without makeup?  Absolutely, though not because I looked good without it, but rather I was just immensely lazy and wearing makeup irritates my skin.

Fast forward a few years later to July 2013, and all of a sudden my skin was angry—very angry.  It was like the previous 14 years had all been mini battles in it’s preparation for an all out war against my appearance– as if the years of less-than-usual acne was just a Trojan Horse and my skin carefully plotted it’s revenge debut.  A bizarre red rash appeared on my face, and as the days went by, it grew in both size and power.  The corners of my mouth also developed what I refer to as “joker syndrome” in which they cracked every time I opened it and became very red and irritated in the corners, causing me to look like “The Joker.”  My usual moisturizer only made it angrier, and after a tube of hydrocortisone cream, I booked an appointment with a dermatologist.  He told me I had sebhorreic dermatitis and angular cheilitis—both chronic conditions.  I spent $200 on Sumaden face wash and Desonate gel, only to have them piss of my skin more.


He prescribed my doxcycline, which for a while made everything better.  Until it made everything worse by giving my an esophageal ulcer where I was unable to eat or drink anything without tremendous pain for a week and a half.  They told me that that’s been known to happen, but that insurance companies won’t pay for the “safer” drugs unless you’ve had an adverse reaction to doxy.

So, here I am, almost a year later, where my skin regimen consists of taking Dorxy (a controlled-release doxycycline), Zinc and Vitamin B12 daily, while applying Rosadan cream to my chin, Locoid to the area around my eyes, Oxistat to the corners of my mouth, and coconut oil to the rest of my face.  And my skin is still “okay” at best.




And because this blog was riddled with pictures from my awkward years and bad skin years (and since my bad skin years were for the majority of my life overlapped, thus resulting in horrible pictures) here’s a good picture I took recently to perk up my self esteem.

Blog 9

Isn’t he cute?



PMS–a great evil

While making my oatmeal this morning, a tablespoon spilled out onto the counter.

“Dammit!” I screamed. My sweet, innocent dog looked at me with concern, and started to walk over to comfort me.

“NO!” I yelled at her, and watched her tail tuck between her legs.

I wanted to kill everyone and everything. Every person that breathed the same air as me. Every lamp that looked at me the wrong way. Each second for simply existing. I was one unstoppable ball of fury. Then I remembered what time of the month it was. My period would arrive in 5 days. I was PMSing, and no one was safe.

As an Italian and fake redhead, I have a bit of a temper already. Though I can show tremendous patience with extreme cases of stupidity and ignorance at work, often the people I love are met with zero tolerance and rudeness. Blame nature, blame nurture; whatever you want. I feel badly about it, I really do, and try to make up for it by rebounding quickly, apologizing frequently, and random acts of kindness. But during PMS time, there’s nothing I can do. No prisoners—only fatalities.

Today at work, a colleague of mine suggested I do something a certain way.

“I know what I’m doing—I’ve been doing this for months and did it at my last job for a year,” I quipped, a little louder than I had intended, but he deserved it. How dare he insult my intelligence and act so superior. Didn’t he know who I was?

I complained about this encounter to another colleague, who responded with, “Jeez, take a chill pill, Tarantolo.”

BITCH. The last thing you should ever do is tell a woman who’s PMSing to calm down. As a woman, shouldn’t she inherently know that? Am I the only decent human being left on the planet?

And I can’t stop eating chocolate. In any form. This morning, after my oatmeal, which had chocolate in it, I grabbed the remainder of the chocolate covered peanuts. And then every few minutes or so I wandered back into the kitchen to grab a handful of chocolate chips from the baking cabinet. I cursed myself for having already polished off the Nutella. It’s never enough.

The temperature around my desk has increased at least 10 degrees in response to the anger burning inside me. I worry that if anyone should speak to me, I will Hulk out and destroy everything around me.

My hormones are “THIS IS SPARTA!”-kicking my emotions at a rapid speed, and there is no comfort in my agony. But what is worse, I wonder? To be pissed off at absolutely nothing, or to be a crying goon in the face of normality? Alas, I know that that is not too far off. Soon I’ll be weeping next to that same bit of tablespoon sized spilled oatmeal. And the lamp? It will undoubtedly break my heart.

Will my newly bloated self cause rage or tears? Will I eat several pounds of chocolate because I’m sad, or is my sadness causing me to consume obscene amounts of cocoa?

Until this has passed, I apologize for PMS, which does not stand for Premenstrual Syndrome, as some of you science individuals assume, but rather, Pissy Maddie Suuuuuucks. It might be best to stay away from me during this fragile time until I return to my normal self.

God speed, everyone—I hope we can make it through this trying time and remain friends afterward.

Food: after college

Obviously my experience comes from being a retired swimmer, but I think all retired athletes can relate to this.  When you’re training 20+ hours a week, dieting is of little to no importance to you.  Sure, you’ve been told that eating all those whole grains will give you energy and ice cream will slow you down, but you’re burning 4,000 calories a day: you deserve to indulge a little bit.  Eat that entire bag of Oreos, girlfriend—you’ve earned it.

When I think back to my collegiate swimming career, two things stick out in my mind: having to wake up before 5AM, and baking parties with my best friends.  Pretty much every single one of our hangouts (that didn’t involve acting like drunk hot messes downtown) involved watching a movie, doing homework, and eating whatever someone had recently baked.  It was not an uncommon thing for three of us to finish a pan of brownies in less than 5 minutes.  It was not an uncommon thing for me to finish a pan of brownies in less than 5 minutes.  

Regardless if I am hungry or not, I cannot control myself around food.  I’m a garbage disposal.  I have eaten myself into many a food coma over this lack of self control.  I remember once in college my swim team was having a pancake breakfast, and people kept putting pancakes in front of me. So I kept eating them.  And eating them.  And eating them.  The girls making the pancakes would look and say, “Oh, Maddie is still eating, so she must still be hungry.  Let’s give her more pancakes.”  And in high school, whenever we went out to eat and there were leftovers, my friends would push the plate in front of me for me to eat.  I’ve been known to knock down 5 or 6 plates at a buffet with ease.  And when I was training 5 hours a day, this was all well and good, because I didn’t gain any weight.  I was incredibly fit and didn’t think twice about caloric intake at all.

And now I’m not a collegiate swimmer anymore.  And all I do is count calories.  Everyone told me that when I stopped swimming my appetite would decrease, but everyone LIED.  “Oh, if you’re not working out as much you won’t be as hungry,” but damn it if I don’t think about food 24/7.  The worst is when I have a dream that I’m at a buffet and I think, “I’m on a diet—I really shouldn’t be eating this,” and for some reason have the self control in dreams that I lack in real life.

See, here’s the problem that I think most retired athletes face: we want to look good and be able to eat whatever we want.  That’s not too much to ask for, right?  But now we’re working 40-60 hours a week and can’t commit to 20 hours of training if we want to keep our sanity/get enough sleep/spend time with our fiancé.  So, we diet.  And we’re miserable.

I’ve researched dieting tips—and they all suck:

  • “When you’re hungry, just drink a big glass of water and that will fill you up.”  WATER IS NOT FOOD.  If I’m craving chili cheese fries, a bottle of Dasani is not going to help.
  • “Eat several little meals throughout the day—this will keep your metabolism active and will keep you from getting hungry.”  Sure, at first glance this might seem great: “I can eat all day!  This is what I truly want!” but I think my definition of a meal differs slightly drastically from nutritionists.  A fist sized piece of chicken and steamed broccoli is not a meal—it’s just sad.
  • “Finish eating 3 hours before bedtime.”  But I’m still hungry—how am I supposed to get a good night’s sleep when my growling stomach is keeping me awake?
  • “Eat vegetables first to ensure you get enough, while also making you less hungry throughout the rest of the meal to avoid overeating foods you shouldn’t.”  Has anyone ever turned down dessert with, “Oh, no thanks.  I’m so full from all the spinach I ate.” ?

Long ago I accepted that I would not be able to diet like the average American.  Also, I didn’t want to deny myself my favorite foods, so I reasoned that I would rather sacrifice my limited free time to exercise and be able to enjoy some ice cream without hating myself.  My exercise plan now consists of: weights Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, 45 minutes to an hour of cardio 6 days a week, 300 sit-ups every day, and yoga once a week.  And, for some reason, everyone thinks that’s so impressive.  No one cared at all when I was training 4-5 hours a day, but an HOUR of cardio?  I’m the fittest person alive!  And because of this, they’re all so quick to make justifications: “Didn’t you do yoga this morning?  So why are you going for a run this afternoon?”  BECAUSE I WANT THE GLUTEN FREE CUPCAKE!  They just don’t get it.

And now, for my post-collegiate diet plan.  I’m not recommending this for everyone, because it is by no means recommended by anyone who knows anything about nutrition.  But it’s what I have to do to keep myself happy.

Monday-Friday afternoon, I am the epitome of a health nut.  I’ll snack on bags of raw spinach for snacks, eat carrots until my skin turns orange, and not eat dessert at all (mainly because I just don’t buy it—out of sight, out of mind, sort of).  But once Friday night rolls around, cheers to the freakin weekend: why, yes, I will order an appetizer, meal, dessert, and eat whatever my fiancé doesn’t finish.  And then I will go home and eat some pudding and a bowl of cereal.  And I WILL be at brunch Sunday morning, not ordering an egg white omelet.

I will never be the girl that is able to turn down dessert.  I will never look like a Victoria’s Secret Model.  But I can at least weigh close to the same I did in college.

Good luck to all you retired athletes.  May God have mercy on your thighs.

It happens to the best of us…

It’s an unavoidable fate.  We all pray for it not to happen to us, but without fail, it always does.  It’s 10:00AM—you finished your cup of coffee about 15 minutes ago.  You’re going through emails when it hits you—you have to go to the bathroom.  And you have to do it at work.

Panic starts to creep in.  You wonder if perhaps you can hold it like when you were little–you were mostly successful, having only peed your pants at school twice in all your years. After all, it’s only 7 hours until you fight rush hour traffic on the drive home—you can do it.  But damn, that coffee is really running its course.  You immediately regret ever having sipped it.  Who cares if you only had 4 hours of sleep from working late the night before and couldn’t resist the Cinnabon coffee creamer—you’d rather be a zombie than risk the humiliation of your co-workers hearing and smelling what you’ve done in the bathroom.

The panic begins to transition into that all too familiar pain in your abdomen.  You have to go—there’s no avoiding it.  You take a quick scan of your office and do a rough headcount.  Everyone seems to be at their desk, which means the bathroom should be free.  You run the risk of sharing it with someone from another business in your building, but that’s a far less scary fate than happening to catch your co-workers eye in between the cracks of the the door mid poop.  It’s now or never.

You get up from your desk and try to walk as quickly as possible to the bathroom while maintaining a casual stride so as not to arouse any suspicion.  Who, me?  I’m just stretching my legs—nothing else.  The receptionist stops you to ask how your weekend was.  You put on a painful smile while asking about her redecorating plans for her house, all the while willing the phone to ring so you can get out of there.  At the soonest pause in the conversation you leave and continue on your journey to relief.

As you open the door, you let out a sigh of relief to see that it is dark and no one else is in there.  You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, but now you can breathe easy at your newfound privacy.  You open up the stall and begin to go about your business—literally.

The bathroom main door rushes open.  Crap—you recognize those shoes.  It’s that girl you don’t like.  And now she’s going to sit next to you while you poop.  You begin to analyze all the possible solutions:

  • Wrap things up at the speed of light and escape the bathroom before she can ever notice it was you.
  • Flush repeatedly to mask any unfortunate sounds that might escape.
  • Beat that level of candy crush you’ve been stuck on—hopefully by the time you do, the bathroom will be empty and you’ll be free to slip out unnoticed.
  • Pretend as if nothing’s wrong.  Finish up at your own pace, and then if you should happen to be forced to make awkward chit chat on the sink, look her square in the eye and ask how that project she’s been working on is going.  Everyone poops—why should you be ashamed?  You’re a grown, hardworking woman. Just keep rolling, rolling, rolling on the river.
  • Not be embarrassed at all because girls don’t poop.  Ever.

In the end you acknowledge that you’re a coward and would rather avoid any encounter entirely, so you speed things along and sprint back to your desk.  Oh, me?  I’ve been here all morning diligently working—nothing to see here.

Losing Gluten

Hi, my name is Maddie, and I’m gluten intolerant.

I’ll allow you one moment to roll your judgmental eyes, and then you have to put on your sympathy face.  I’ll even admit—I used to be the girl that you could roll your eyes at when she refused beer to avoid gluten.  I hopped on the Paleo bandwagon for a few months and felt so hip with my almond flour and vegan cheeses, living the “grain free or die” fast and hard lifestyle.  That was interrupted due to an esophageal ulcer, where after 3 days of only drinking 3 Boost shakes and a few sips of water (this was literally the total amount of everything I consumed over the course of those 3 days), I threw my Paleo principles to the wind and consumed whatever my body would allow.

Fast forward two weeks later to being fully recovered (being able to eat solid food), and I decided that I would adopt my former method of dieting: eat really healthy during the week, and then go balls out on the weekend and eat everything in site.  This meant I would be  proudly pandering with Paleo (sorry—couldn’t resist the alliteration) 4 days of the week, and then eating every cheesy pastry in sight over the weekend.  Through this fail-proof method of dieting, I noticed my skin would get a really bad rash Monday-Wednesday, always in the same spots.  It was then that I had to face the hard truth: I could no longer enjoy spending time with my lifelong friend, gluten.

They say grief has five stages: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

I refused to accept that gluten would no longer be a big part of my life.  I continued to indulge in muffins, in cupcakes, pancakes—wheat flour is in everything, for crying out loud.  And then, one night, I was suddenly awoken by what felt like a wild fire on my face.  It burned and itched intensely, and when I looked in the mirror, I was horrified at the giant red splotches underneath my eyes and on my jaw.  Naturally, I reached for some lotion to soothe the beast, only to find that that made the problem worse and my face then had 10 wildfires scorching across the plain.

I was livid, and the hate burrowed itself into the depths of my soul.  I’d been a gluten advocate for years, baking up a frenzy on the weekends, stuffing my face with the free bread baskets at Italian restaurants, and now it was going to turn on me?

I had many sleepless nights wondering, “Why me?  What did I do to deserve this?”  I vowed that I would never succumb to a low-carb diet again, and Paleo was all behind me—anything for just one more piece of cake.

But, alas, I knew that I would never be able to enjoy onion rings again.  Bakeries, my former happy place, were now bitter teases and a lair for poison.  How is a girl supposed to eat her feelings when baked goods are no longer an option?

One day, after doing many hours of research on celiac disease, and learning that the only treatment is to avoid gluten, I had to accept my new disability.  But by no means am I happy with it.  Sure, there are many gluten free items readily available to consumers nowadays, but they taste like cardboard and despair.

There is no cure for celiac disease.  Maybe I’ll be able to use this loss as motivation to campaign for celiac awareness–organize 5Ks, conduct gluten-free bake sales, charity concerts, etc.  Hopefully one day we’ll find a cure to this terrible disease.

So, remember this blog the next time someone refuses a beer at a party because they can’t have gluten, apologize for their loss, and direct them to the tortilla chips.

Natural Beauty is a Load of Crap

The phrase “natural beauty” is tossed around a lot.  It’s almost used as much as, “That’s what she said.”  And obviously it’s a compliment: in a world where girls spend so much time covering up their flaws and blemishes, who wouldn’t want to be told that they’re pretty enough without it?  I usually only wear blush, and I’ve been told I’m not too hideous to look at—do I have some natural beauty tendencies of my own?

Absolutely not.  And you want to know why?  Because natural beauty is a load of crap.  I’m going to dissect the phrase and over-analyze it to the brink of extinction.  Warning: you will probably be annoyed by the end of this blog.

At the route of the phrase, “natural beauty” is used to describe a girl that looks good without makeup.  If ever my boyfriend complains about how long it takes me to get ready before going somewhere (and he really shouldn’t—like I said, I usually only wear blush), I respond with, “We can’t all be natural beauties like yourself.”  But take makeup out of the picture entirely—what is natural about the average female?

I dye my hair.  There—I said it.  When I was 12 I got highlights and then when I was 16 I started dying it on a regular basis.  I have no idea what my natural hair color even is anymore.  I think I remember my mom saying once when I was 8 that I had a slight reddish tent to my hair (my grandpa was a full on ginger), but clearly it was mostly just brown.  Plain brown.  I dye my hair a color that the majority of the population thinks is natural (I’m fair skinned with a freckled nose—classic ginger stereotype), but this clearly takes me out of the running for being a natural beauty.  And most women will inevitably end up dying their hair at some point as well.

Speaking of my fair skin: I’ve been known to fake bake.  And I’ve purchased a few self-tanners in my day as well.  Being Italian, you would expect that I’d have gorgeous, olive skin, but no—the Irish genes won that war (and denied me the red hair I’ve always wanted—fate can be a cruel, cruel mistress).  Sadly once I left college, I didn’t have the time to tan naturally or the money to tan fakely (yay, new words!).  And let’s face it: my natural skin color isn’t all too appealing.  When you can play hide and seek and blend in with the sheets, you know you’re too pale.

Continuing on the skin front: I’ve always had very bad skin.  I got my first pimple when I was 9 and haven’t had a perfect complexion since.  I’ve been on just about every skin medicine under the sun (generic and name brand) to tame the beast that is my skin.  Clearly, I’m fighting nature’s wishes.  This further inhibits me from being a natural beauty because by not wearing makeup (the definition in its most raw form), people will see just how hideous my skin really is.  And finally, when the acne started to die down, the dermatitis came out.  Big, ugly, red blotches all over my face.  I found some medicine to fix it, which led to an esophageal ulcer.  Seriously, the things I’ve been through.  Too add more trauma to this story, my skin once got so bad that I had to get plastic surgery.

Yup.  That’s right.  Obviously I’m far from being a natural beauty when I’ve had plastic surgery.  I once had a cyst on my face.  It was ugly and hideous.  To make it go away, they gave me a cortisone shot to the face, which felt like a 500 pound man wearing golf cleats smashing my face.  It came back so much worse than before that the dermatologist said, “I’m not going to touch that—you’ll need to see a plastic surgeon.”  Behold the journey that was mine to beauty (warning: don’t look—it’s gross):

This thing was so gross it was making my friend Kelsey sad.  Not really, but this was one of the few pics I allowed to be taken with the growth on my face.

And here I am 1 week after surgery, scar present.

My body does not naturally look like this.  No no, I haven’t had more plastic surgery, but I don’t think it’s necessarily natural to workout 3 hours every day.  I often wonder what my body would look like if I just ate healthy and didn’t ever get on a treadmill.  The world will never know.  And yes, I admit that this final one was a bit of a stretch.

Lastly, I also alter my body hair—plucking and shaving things isn’t necessarily natural.

I could continue, but I think I’ve made my point.  By those standards, I think natural beauties are very hard to come by.


And just so you know: the reason I typically only wear blush is because my skin has become so sensitive that it gets very hostile and painful when I wear anything more.  If it weren’t so painful, I’d be laying on foundation and bronzer every damn day.

Man Logic

There are several Memes on the internet pertaining to “women logic.”  Here are a few of my faves:

female logic funny 0 Female logic, dont even try to connect the dots (35 Photos)

female logic funny 4 Female logic, dont even try to connect the dots (35 Photos)

female logic funny 16 Female logic, dont even try to connect the dots (35 Photos)

I’m the first to admit that all women (yes, even you “sane” ones) are crazy.  Befriending and dating men is just a matter of masquerading your craziness into something useful–like making a sandwich.  I kid, I kid.  But seriously.  Ever notice how a girl seems so totally normal when you’re first dating her, but gradually the crazy comes out?  It’s only a matter of time, and the amount of craziness we show is in direct correlation by how comfortable we are with a guy, or if we just really don’t care about him at all.  In most cases, take it as a compliment.

But the purpose of this post is not to attempt to map out the labyrinth that is a woman’s mind–no one will ever understand that.  The purpose is to talk about all the crazy stuff men do, and how I personally don’t get it at all.

1.  If a guy likes a girl, he insults her

Did you ever graduate elementary school?  Or have you spent way too much time watching “Hey Arnold” ?  I remember watching “The Pickup Artist” on MTV back in the day, and the biggest tip Mystery (remember him?  Long hair and cowboy hat and totally would never get any girls ever?) gave the awkward guys was that you should take a playful gig at a girl.  Even in jest, you have to know me pretty well before I allow you to tease me at all.  If a girl is interested in you, she might let it slide, but I assure you that compliments will get you way farther than saying.  If you continuously insult me, I’ll probably catch on that you’re in to me, but be so disgusted and turned off that I’ll spend the night eating my feelings instead of with you.

2.  If a guy likes a girl, he’ll flirt with her friends

I know that in “man world” the primal instincts take over to procreate with the most appealing specimen, but do you really want to unleash that amount of craziness if the girl you’re interested in thinks you’re into her best friend?  You’re causing strain on a friendship, and making it a whole lot harder on yourself.  I would never in a million years date a guy if I thought he wanted my best friend, or that he was only interested in me because it didn’t work out with her.

3.  Cleaning is really more of a suggestion than something everyone should follow

Ask your boyfriend or guy friend when the last time he washed his sheets was.  Then proceed to find the nearest trashcan and vomit in it.  I understand that some guys won’t wash something unless it’s visibly dirty, which is fine–I definitely wear jeans more than once before I wash them.  But just because your white shirt doesn’t have a huge ketchup stain on the front doesn’t mean the armpits aren’t beginning to resemble a banana that’s past its prime.  Also, showering daily makes everyone around you happier, as is wearing deodorant.  If you’re a man then you’re out there doing manly things, and that probably involves a good amount of sweating.  Fine, embrace it, but no one likes your man musk but you.  Matthew McConaughey allegedly does not wear deodorant because he prefers his natural odor.  Have I mentioned that I’m not attracted to Matthew McConaughey at all?

4.  Clothes are stupid

I’m not asking you to have a pair of matching sneakers with every shirt in your closet–even I’m not that severe (but damn it if I had the money you better believe my shoe inventory would triple).  But you only have one pair of athletic shorts?  One pair?  As in, you wear it to the gym everyday, whenever you’re lounging around the house, and whenever it’s hot outside?  Going back to my previous cleanliness statement, that’s disgusting.  And very unpractical.  One of my best guy friends in high school only owned 6 shirts.  I could pretend I was psychic by predicting what he wore to school because I had a 16.67% (yay, math!) chance of getting it right.  At least have enough to where you can make it through a week without repeating!

5.  Money should only be spent on super nice electronics

Guys constantly give women crap about spending money on expensive shoes and handbags.  Me personally, I am all about a bargain and probably don’t buy something unless it’s on sale and super cheap to begin with.  But when women do spend a lot of money on clothes, it’s because we want to look nice for boys.  When a guy spends $400 on a phone, he’s definitely not doing it to look good for a girl–he’s doing it to make sure his fantasy team is rocking it and that he can play with it and be antisocial.  But hey, that’s just my two cents…

And I could go on and on and on but it’s getting close to my bedtime and I’m sure I have some feelings to eat or some stupid problem to cry about.  That’s what having a vagina is really all about.