I’m not one of those people that says guys and girls can never be friends, but I do think that every once in a while there arises a moment of uncomfortable one-sided romance. At these times, my natural reaction is a genius ploy of blind panic and an attempt to correct this imbalance by being twice the amount of “normal friend” to their abnormal. In theory this means it all evens out. In practice it means I act completely absurd. How unusual…


Case Study #One:

The situation–

Saying goodbye, but for some reason he won’t leave and instead gazes deeply into my eyes.

My response–

Upon assessing the linger and entering my initial stage of panic, I punched him in the shoulder. (I’ve seen this done in movies to a very desirable hey-ole-buddy-ole-pal effect.) Following this up with a slightly off-timed and manically cheerful, “Well, see you around!” I then backed away slowly, avoiding eye contact.


Resembling to the advice I’ve been given for encounters with wild animals, this tactic seemed fairly successful. The arm punch was weird though.


Case Study #Two:

The situation–

Saying goodbye (hm this seems to be a dangerous time). Hug is strangely cheek-squeezy. Ie. I’ve never had my cheeks pressed so hard to someone else’s cheeks in my life. (This makes me suspicious.) Then pulling back, he cups his hands around my face and says, “Look at you. You are so beautiful.”

My response–

Feeling awkward, I scramble to prove that this is something normal friends do. Reasoning that if I can do it to him without being romantic, it will reverse-logic prove that we are totally chillin in an equally friend-like relationship, I take his face in my hands and say, “Look at you, you are so beautiful.”


This did not help the awkwardness of the situation.


Final results of the study:

Upon reflection, quickly extracting oneself from the situation seems to be the best technique. Out-weirding the weird did not go over so well.


Does anybody has further case studies or escape tactics to report? Science for the good of friendships everywhere…

My last weekend in New York my two ballerina girl friends and I went clubbing. Here is my stream of consciousness from this experience. I feel like many girls will be able to relate…


Is it really dark in here or is everyone black?

Well I think that one guy is Indian.

Shimmy through the crowd, try not to shove anyone or get the awkward backend of a grind.

Alright we’ve staked our dance-space claim. Three white girls in a corner. Fringe property is not ideal generally, but we’ll make it work. Besides, I appreciate the extra space to move. Also we are near the DJ which seems cool to me.

Bustin a move, bustin a move, throw my hands up, sexy hands, doing things with my hips, dancin, dancin.

Oh shit that girl just made props/respect hand signals at Heather! Girl’s got skills erybody gonna recognize.

Dancin, dancin, dancin some more.

Omg the photographer just was like “Oh no, girl” and started dancing with Heather. I am so jealous. She is literally making guys stop doing their jobs to come dance with her. Dayummmmm.

I wonder if any guys are gonna dance with me? Probably not, because I’m ugly. Also my braids are on top of my head. Guys don’t get that.

But I might as well scope out the place.

Dance and twirl, dance and twirl. Looking sexy and 360 view.

A guy just said/club-shouted at me we’re killin it. Ballerinas know what’s up.

I guy wants to dance with me! I feel validated.

But really why? I look like Heidi that  just got off work and then tried to do that day-to-night transition I read so much about in magazines but got horridly confused mid transformation and went Daisy-Duke. I have braids like a swedish milkmaid and have gotten hot enough to resort to tying my button down shirt into a crop top. In no normal situation would I approve of this look.

He just asked me if I was foreign… This explains a lot.

Ok hips side to side.

Ok hips circle.

Holy shit is the DJ really wearing a floral tank top? Wtf has our society come to? It’s like the consumerism machine has tricked him into thinking he’s a hipster because he bought that stupid ironic floral shirt, but really that just makes him more a part of the machine. What a damn fool.

Ug I’m bored. I’m glad I feel validated in my man-attracting abilities, but I’m ready to be an independent woman again.

A single lady, if you will.

I just want to dance and be free. Now I’m stuck with this dude upon my back who only knows two moves. Plus it’s not like I can syncopate my dance moves or play with the musicality at all. Homie can’t follow that.

Hips side to side.

Hips circle.

I am excellent at pretending I know all these songs. There are basically two formulas: 1)Put your hands up when the song says put your hands up. 2)Jump and act excited when everybody else jumps and acts excited.

Why is he squeezing my belly? It’s not even squeezing, it’s like a flat-handed paw. Is this respectful groping? Or is it a tummy check…?

I wonder what it’s like to be a guy. I mean we can’t see them so we make up hand signals for our girlfriends to tell us if they’re ugly or hot or if we want to be extracted. But they really can’t see us much better. I wonder if they’re hand signaling between each other too? Maybe there’s a whole hand signaling world going on in the club that we don’t know about.

Probably not, boys aren’t that smart.

Well they can see the backs of our heads, so I guess that’s something. Plus they’re the ones on the prowl, so presumably they got a good look at us before they made their move.

Hey! I actually know this song! I am revived from my philosophical reverie of paired-dancing boredom!

Wait. I don’t want my renewed enthusiasm for dancing to be misinterpreted as enthusiasm for this dude or extra sluttiness. Ack, quandary!

I just want to be free! How do I escape the confines of this monotonous dance prison without insulting the dude? For some reason politeness matters to me. Even though I have never met this guy and he is rubbing all over me. This is kind of an ironic social situation.

Ok I could jump from him to go dance with my girl friend. Then it’s like, “Hey I just wanna dance with my friend now,” not, “I am rejecting you.” The problem is I don’t particularly like grinding up on girls. It’s not that I have anything against lesbians, but I do not happen to be one, so I do not enjoy this activity. Well I will dance slightly closer to her and maybe he will get the idea.

She says he’s hot. What ho? I really cannot see this dude. But for some reason I now have slightly more tolerance for dancing with him. I am aware this says something fucked up about me.

He club-shouted his name to me. Obviously I have no idea what he said.

I club-shouted my name back. Are we supposed to have a conversation now? This is ridiculous.

Aha Heather wants to get air. Opportunity for escape!

Shimmy back through the crowd. Hold hands or else we might lose someone to the void.

Freedom and fresh, cool night air! Despite all my griping about the lack of artistic dance-freedom, that was really quite fun:)

People of the world (we’ll be optimistic with that “world” part),

I am not proud of what I am about to show you, but some things are too funny not to see the light of day. When I returned home, I knew I had some comedic gold stashed away- I’ve kept every diary I’ve ever written, and I’ve written faithfully from a very young age. Now I went and unearthed these treasures, but I had forgotten (more likely repressed) what a horrifyingly idiotic child I was. What is about to follow are the multi-lingual (though by no means correct), shallow, ramblings of a fool. Ie. the precursor to me now. Not even a pretty little fool- I was like a greasy walking Abercrombie advertisement.

Please do not judge me too harshly. Ohhh but I know there’s no help for it. Judge away, but at least have a good laugh while you’re at it.


Allo mon Ami!

U R my new diary. Or shall I say tu a ma nouvelle diary. Today school went as usual. I got a 15.5/15 on my roman gravestone. Muchos more than I expected. Flabby Babby (Ms. Babb) still wildly CraZ. At brunch I found out Ariel is having a Halloween party and got myself invited. Vair, vair, disappointing that I was not already on the list since I have been eating w/ Ariel 4 atleast a month and a ½ . They still could just have put my name on the list and not really invite me. Hopefully not. Anyway. At lunch everything went as usual. Waterfight, Austen throwing soda on Taylor, Shelly gushing over Austen. I 2 happen 2 like Austen, but always considerate I put my friend first and will keep my pash 4 Austen 2 myself. After school I walked 2 the library and got Wuthering Heights and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Then I came back 2 school and walked Angela home w/ Shelly, Taylor, and Jack. Then I got my Vball uniform out and changed. I was still feeling tres malade avec pencil shaving sore throat as we got ready 4 our game against Kennedy. To make matters worse I was in the game 4 a total of 3 serves. Make account, none of them mine. When my mom talked to asshole (Shae)(coach) about it he said, “Which one is she?” Oh tres amusant our coach. He wasn’t joking. We still won ourgame and a few Kennedy Parents said we were better than Jordan. When I came home parents yelled at me about Babb, then I ate soup and had a little cry. When I started homework mom brought in cookies and we all made up. I finee devoir and took a shower. Then I finished my book, Away Laughing on a Fast Camel. Now that was tres amusant. Then I got my backpack ready for school 2morrow and put on eye shadow. Now 2 work out my plan on how not to be a ditz in PE and attract Austen. Now, according 2 my studies, boys like you when you don’t like them. So here ees ma plan:

1)   Ignore Austen unless spoken 2

2)   Work hard at football

3)   Open mouth little or none unless unwanted gabble comes out

4)   Be awesome at game.

Now hopefully this will work. Let me memorize it then eat it. Just kidding! Hahahah. Not. Hahhahaha. Not. Hahahahahha.

-An example of the gabble that comes out in PE.

Note to self. Add- get better laugh. Now somewhere between cackle and singing moose.

Bon Nuit!

Ali Lake

So that’s what I was like as a 12 year old.. Let’s just appreciate that one moment where I did something on the verge of being intelligent by checking out Wuthering Heights and Hunchback. On the other hand I must note that the book I had actually read, Away Laughing on a Fast Camel, is one of the trashiest pre-teen novels there is, which is where I got most of my idiotic/half french diction from. We must ask, why was I putting on eyeshadow at the end of the night? Also, why is this master plan the same basic outline for my boy entrancing strategy 9 years later?

Well I know you all are wondering how this master plan of mine turned out…

Chere Diary,

C’est 11h28, almost time for nuit nuit. Much time has past since last entery. I have tried my plan- here are the results-

  • Ignore Austin- Check. Have not been spoken to; easy peasy.
  • Work hard at football- Check. I must say I tried, and I am a mastermind. I came up with some ingenious plays!
  • Open mouth less- Check. gabble has decreased, time to work on saying inteligent stuff now.
  • Be awesome at game- err… as awesome as I can get.

New Goals:

  • Be kind to others (kindness is always beautiful) (right?)
  • Say normal, funny, things to friends.
  • Talk to Austen once this month
  • Keep up the awesomeness

Sounds okay 4 now!

Bon Nuit!

Ali Lake

Well it’s good to know my heart was in the right place with that whole ‘Be kind to others’ stuff… Hey and talking to the boy I liked once a month- that was daring.

Ok I must end with an excerpt from the next entry, which is mostly boring.  I spend a great amount of time analyzing whether my gym teacher is a pervert. My suspicions being founded on the fact that he said he’d love to see me “perform” (quotes from my 12 year old self). According to mini me, “There’s something a little “off” w/ him. I’m being very attentive so this doesn’t lead to sexual abuse.” (It doesn’t.)

But that’s not the highlight, this is: I recount our lunchtime activities-

“We all had fun, Shelly read us a scene from her new, incredibly dirty, book. My personely favorite quote, ‘Fuck me now.'”

Ah, youth.


I’ve had some brilliant partners in crime, but by far the best has been my high school best friend, Alexandra. First of all, we had the same name and a sweet rhyme to go along with it. Nothing could stop us, we executed pink sparkly ninja attacks and baccalaureate dinners alike with the flare and style belonging to no one else. However, on this night we met our match. And our match was a mountain lion.

Alex and I are adventurous spirits, and we got it in our mind that on this fine Friday night we wanted to go on a night hike. However, we wanted some company for general rapist defense, and we had an idea of where to get it. We knew from our friend Big Dog that he and a bunch of the bros were hanging out at a house having some sort of boy sports get together. Sounded stupid. We weren’t particularly friends with these bros, in fact there were several of them that I called by names I’d made up (Heyyy Kremlin), because I couldn’t remember their Indian names. But we had had some amiable encounters on the quad, plus her sorta boyfriend was in that crowd, and we were definitely friends with Big Dog. So we, being very confident girls, decided to round them up for our night hike.

Through some texting sleuthery we found out where they were and drove to the house. Because I had a sense of propriety about my ambushes, I opted to climb over the fence and surprise them from the backyard, while Alex more demurely waited out front. They were not very surprised by my sneaky snake tactics, however. More like, “Wtf are you doing here? Whatever. (Derderder I’m a boy.)”

Once I let my accomplice in through the front, we evaluated the situation from inside the boy lair (predecessor to the man cave). Fifteen bros, big TV playing sports, nerf guns, and pizza. This could be difficult.

Nonetheless, we are wily coyotes. You think the wife’s domination over her husband starts when they’re married? No, we women have been training at this art from a very young age. With some coaxing, cajoling, and manliness-shaming, we gradually got all fifteen boys to agree to a night hike. They expressed some fears about encountering a mountain lion, but we assured them they were just being lil pussies. We herded them out of the house and headed out in a six car caravan into the night. Alex and I felt quite accomplished.

Now our caravan was some clumsy, and driving through the hills we got a bit lost. Eventually we pulled into a dead end street where there was an empty lot, and for some reason, this was where we decided to start our hike. Alex and I crawled out of the car, ready to go, but through the general milling and unloading of all these boys, we spotted something strange. All the boys were going into their trunks and getting out… baseball bats and tennis rackets? Puzzled, I shouted across at one of them, “what the hell is that for?”

This question was answered by several outcries of “No mountain lion’s gonna eat me!”, “Ima fight them,”etc. etc., and ‘manly’ grunting noises slash general chest beating activities. Alex and I looked to each other and then gleefully laughed at them. “You guys are babies,” we informed them. “No mountain lion is going to attack a group of seventeen people.” But we let them have their rattles. Off we went into the darkness, hiking past the realtor’s sign into the hills, while the boys brandished their tennis rackets at the night.

Now I was hiking at the very front, because apparently I was the very bravest. Alex was a bit hung back with her sorta boyfriend, and the rest of the lot spread between us. Fairly soon we came to a fork in our… path is not the word for it, because we were certainly off-roading it, but well it was a fork in our path of least resistance. We could go up a hill to the left, or down a hill to the right. Pausing here, one of the boys asked me which way we should go. I jogged off to the left to see what lay beyond the top of the hill. Well, looking down from the top of the hill I saw eyes looking up right back at me. Lots of eyes. Eyes glowing quietly in the light of the moon, eyes belonging to a pack of coyotes. I imagined this wouldn’t go over so well with our expedition.

“Mm looks like nothing much, we’d best go the other way,” I quickly called back and scrambled down to intercept any other potential scouts. “Yep, to the right is better.”

They followed without question. To the right we tromped along happily for a fair while. But gradually the ground softened and then gave way to thick mud. It was darker here too. We were edging in among the trees, and ahead was the blackest yet. I wasn’t carrying a flashlight, but I still headed the pack. I stopped and felt a bit on edge. “Will you come up here and point your flashlight at the ground for me?” I asked one of the boys. I heard him picking his way through the mud behind me. I stared ahead, trying to make out anything with my eyes. The boys behind got closer. I took a tentative step, then one more. The light lit my feet, then


Holy shit. I turned around quick as lightning and sprinted through the mud, through the mass of boys behind me, leaving them in my dust (or mud spatters, more likely), though they were hardly far behind me. The roar rang in our ears and the our feet beat the ground like our hearts beat against our chests. We ran like a stampede, all seventeen of us, to get the fuck out of there. It was thoughtless, mindless, running. Out, out, out. Back, back, back. Nothing pursued us but our breathless gasps of the cold night air, and we finally slowed down to regroup.

I wasn’t crazy. “Did you all hear that?” we each asked each other. Most of us agreed it was a roar, one bro thought it might have been a horse.

I’ve never heard anything like it. A deep, ferocious, rumble like thunder, growling shout of a predator, warning. One we certain as fuck heeded. The night hike was over. The boys swung their bats and rackets, fending off our memories of the roar as we excitedly made it the rest of the way to our cars. I, personally, was unhappily preoccupied with contemplating whether any of them would have actually been able to fight the mountain lion if it had attacked me. Back to the comforting den of pizza and light, not mountain lions and darkness, we went. Alex and I were forced to make proper repentance, taking back all we had made fun of their fear of mountain lions and weapons of defense.

The next Monday I took a lot of shit at school for that night hike. Still, what an epic adventure. We didn’t have much desire for night hikes after that, but it was for sure the source of many amusing illustrations passed in class between me and Alex, depicting us and our motley crew facing down the mountain lion.

Ah, youth;)

My creativity is endless. Colleges, listen up: I’ve invented your next great merchandise moneymaker.

Wankie Hankie

They didn’t think anything because they’re complete dullards. I hate when my ingenuity goes unappreciated.

Further proof in the superiority of my invention, and it will be much better for the environment.


When I go home on break, things always get interesting.


Jesus is a hot, shirtless artist, painting in the Arts and Warehouse District. Let me tell you people, he looks just like in The Bible. And by that I mean The Bible TV Miniseries.


Except, thank goodness, he has shaved off his scruff and trimmed his hair a bit. Still, his golden locks flow in the wind, shimmering in the sunlight (further proof it was Jesus- he was indoors). And his abs? Ohhhhh, Jesus has a six-pack.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I made a great impression on Jesus.

Sarah and I were walking, checking out the district, when we started to pass some windows. I glanced over, and with the reflexes of true woman (Cats have nothing on us. If you’ve ever seen a PMSing chick spot chocolate, or a bridesmaid snatch a bouquet out of the air, you know the kind of superior reflexes I’m talking about.), I shouted to Sarah, “Hot guy!”.  At this point I was full prairie-dog-sounding-the-snake-alarm: eyes narrowed in on my subject, nose senting the wind (Jesus didn’t smell like anything, but that makes sense- the only cologne he needs is holy water), even my hands were up prairie-style, holding onto the window ledge.


Jesus was painting a wall. I’m not really sure what he was painting, because in all honesty everything around his shirtless torso was obscured in a sort of haze. Must have been his halo.

At first he was profile to us, but then he turned to face us with his full sexy Jesus glory.

I was like,


“Hallelujah! My Savior commeth!”

Then he was like,


music-notes-104711 I can see clearly now, the rain is goneeeee 

I wish. Right, sorry, I got a little carried away in the prairie dog image search results…

What really happened then was I dropped to the ground, pulling Sarah with me. Crouched on the sidewalk, we looked up to realize the window was open at the top. Jesus probably heard all the very un-saintly things I was saying about him. And poor Sarah didn’t even see his front. As we scuttle-crab-crawled away, I tried to explain how on TV Jesus was played by a Portuguese telenovela star, and the casting was perfect, but the reference was lost on her.


Diogo Morgado

hot jesusJesus doesn’t grocery shop. We forgot to factor in that he has an unlimited supply of wine, bread, and fish.

Still, doesn’t he need some chocolate?

Ever since the infamous pederasty text, I’ve realized the power of using ugly, naked men to get what I want. Now you may think, wait, don’t you mean the power of beautiful, naked women? Nope. Sex sells, but ugly has the power to make people go, “Oh God, don’t show me any more!”, and in their distraction, submit to your will. It’s not exactly scare tactics- it’s Ugly Tactics.

Turns out it’s more effective when you don’t point out that you are using them, and the success you’re having. Then your ugly-recipients tend to get a little pissy. But the use of ugly tactics is an art I’m in the process of refining. I think it shows much promise.



You’ll notice that the picture of Kate Upton was totally useless in getting the boys to do what I wanted. I really think magazine editors need to take notice. Ugly is a powerful force.

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