This is going to be very controversial.

Friendsgiving doesn’t make any sense and is dumb.

Wait! Before you get all upset here’s the truth.

I don’t mean that Friendsgiving, as an event, doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never attended one but by the looks of all the pictures in my Instagram feed, Friendsgiving, as an event, makes plenty of sense. A bunch of friends gather to eat good food and drink good drinks together. That sounds logical enough.

What doesn’t make sense is its awful name. Friendsgiving. You know what that name implies? THAT YOU’RE GIVING YOUR FRIENDS AWAY. On Thanksgiving, you give thanks; on Friendsgiving, you give friends. What the heck you doing that for? Pass them over here. I’ll take your poor friends, you monsters.

That’s it. I don’t like the word Friendsgiving. But have a happy Thanksgiving!

Me and my medium-length hair

You know how, at the start of each new America’s Next Top Model cycle, all the contestants get makeovers? Usually involving the chopping and bleaching of hair? Here’s a wonderful blog someone wrote about the best and worst ANTM makeovers, in case you need a reminder.

During the makeover episode, one of the girls—or more than one, depending on the cycle—always flips out. They scream about how much they hate their makeovers, crying over how stupid and ugly they look. I always had zero sympathy for those scene-causing B-holes.

“Look at that trick ass,” I’d yell at the TV. “All mad just cause her hair looks different. Small price to pay for the chance to be the next Adrienne Curry or CariDee English. Bitching about her hair when she could be marrying Peter Brady or getting paid to talk about her moderate to severe plaque psoriasis. It’s just hair! Shake my damn head.”

Today, I’d like to apologize to those girls. I lopped 8-10 inches of hair off my own head and now I get it. I, too, am a scene-causing B-hole.


On the left, I look like a long-haired witch. On the right, I look like a short-haired witch. We all know witches supposed to have long hair. Also, my teeth are not that little in person. They’re just overwhelmed by my gums when I smile.

I didn’t want to cut my hair. I take that back. I did want to trim off some of it—maybe five inches, tops—but I felt like I had to cut enough to donate. I’ve had long hair my whole life and I’ve never donated any of it before. I felt overdue for some good deeding, and painlessly cutting strands of dead cells off my head seemed like an easy enough entrance into the world of generosity. I was wrong.

Ashly, my hair stylist, didn’t push me. When I walked into the salon that Friday evening, already defeated, she told me, “Dummy, you don’t have to cut your hair if you don’t want to.” I said I know, but I should. She said, “You should, your hair is disgusting.” She is my sister’s best friend and I hadn’t cut my hair in a year, so she’s allowed to say things like that.

She measured my hair, accounting for layers, and sectioned it into three braids. She looked at me for one final confirmation, I nodded, and she made the first snip. Then the second. I reached back, ran my fingers through what was left of my hair, and gasped the most sincere gasp of my life. It was so short.

I know it’s not that heinous, and that if I ever took the time to style it, it’d look good (shout-out to Ashly). Still, I ain’t a fan. As someone who’s now had both long and medium-length hair, I can say medium-length hair is for the birds.

No disrespect to anyone who has medium-length hair. Not trying to knock you, I just think it’s garbage. Garbage on me, prolly looks fly on you.

Why I hate my medium-length hair.

1. My hair is the color and consistency of a straw broom. It’s much more comfortable having that straw broom gently sweeping across my lower back than having it stab me in my raw, sensitive back of the neck. FYI, I know the back of the neck is called a nape. I was gonna just write nape, but that somehow sounds a li’l freaky when paired with “raw, sensitive.”

2. My hair used to be long enough to tie itself into a bun, no hair elastics required. Do you know how useful that is? It saved me tens and tens of cents in annual hair elastic costs. Hair elastics suck.

Quickly, as a sidebar: Why are hair elastics so terrible? They are the simplest yet least reliable products in the world. They’re too tight when they’re new, and then immediately leap to too loose. And then they break, leaving you and your unbound hair in a bind. There’s maybe a day in a hair elastic’s short, shitty life that it’s actually any good. You know hair elastic manufacturers could easily improve them, but why would they? Because then people wouldn’t buy enough of them to pad hair elastic tycoons’ already fat wallets. I know this sounds like a dramatic rant, but when you go through as many hair elastics as I do, it would start feeling hella dramatic to you, too.

You hair elastic tycoons belong in prison. GOODY, WHAT’S GOOD?

3. It poofs like a mofo. My hair has always been flat and limp and very prone to static. Now it’s poofy and limp and prone to static. Maybe that’s not necessarily worse, but it sure is a change. And change is for nickels, better for dimes/I’d count ‘em all out, but I ain’t have the time. (That’s a rhyme I made up to express my dislike of non-money change.)

4. Medium-length hair whacks me all out of proportion. My long hair used to ground my moon face and my stretched-out, pear-and-pickle-shaped body. Now my short hair frames my moon face and throws my pears and pickles all off balance.





Having said all that, it’s actually a nice haircut. Plus, I’m sure my chopped off hairs will find a good home on a good head. Maybe it’s growing on me.

Day-by-day, millimeter by millimeter.

(That means it’s growing on me literally—you know, getting longer. It is not growing on me figuratively. Still hate it.)


Becoming the office weirdo

When I started my new job, I made a real concerted effort to not be the office weirdo. Truly, I consciously decided to not do things that normal, polite people also do not do. I didn’t want to beg for food, or drop down and do push-ups whenever I got a free minute, or tell people when I go poop. I wanted to keep my head down, do my work, and get my paycheck.

I’ve been doing well. During the day I eat only my own lunch and my own snacks and my own $900 worth of hardboiled eggs and Raisinettes from the cafeteria. I’ve only ever tried doing one push-up—but it was on my standup desk and when it almost toppled over, it reinforced my vow to not do that type o shit. I poop four times a day and—while everyone must suspect something’s up, especially when I leave immediately after stinking up our 10-foot shared workspace with, u kno, a cloud of diarrhea air—I’ve yet to tell a single person about my bathroom schedule.

I’m normal now. I’m courteous and hygienic from the hours of 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. From 4 p.m. to 8 a.m., though, I remain a goddamned monster. And unfortunately, sometimes there’s overlap between hours.

I don’t clean my water bottle that much. It only ever has water in it—and since water is what I’d use to clean it—I figure it’s pretty much a wash. I do notice that it sometimes/always has a rusty film on the inside. To counter that, I bought a darker colored Nalgene. Problem solved, son. It’s still hella scummy, but peoples can’t tell. Bugs can, though. Bugs can tell very well.

This past Monday, I got to my job around 8:15 in the morning. I sat down at my desk, pulled my water bottle out of my backpack, and took a pull of sweet, scummy H2O. I set down the bottle, leaving the cap unscrewed, and logged onto my computer. Then I picked up the bottle to take another sip, and that’s when I saw it. A little ringworm-looking-ass-bug* coiled on the inside of my water bottle cap.

Kind of looks like I'm balancing a severed finger tip

Kind of looks like I’m balancing a severed fingertip on my thumb, doesn’t it?

I gagged. Bugs don’t normally gross me out, but this bug was way up in my personal space. Plus, DUDE WAS A WORM!!!! WORMS THE TYPE OF MOFOS THAT KILL BITCHES!!!! WHAT IF I’D ALREADY SWALLOWED ALL OF HIS BRETHREN?!?! I plucked him off the bottle to get a better look. He looked dead as hell, so I left him on my pointer finger while I quickly Googled:

water worms
those worms that eat your stomach
those worms that kill bitches

I thought I was onto something with that last search when I looked at my finger and the homeboy Wormy was fully unfurled. I muffled a scream in the middle of my silent, open office. I didn’t know what this worm was capable of. He could have burrowed into a hangnail crevice and eaten my bones before I even had time to flick him off.

I couldn’t flick him off, though, because what if he was a real bad bug and I did eat some of his family members? I’d need to know what type of evil I was fuxxin wit. Or what if he was a perfectly decent bug, minding his own business, and I was going to flick him into oblivion, effectively murdering a nice ass worm in cold blood? My solution was to run to kitchen and grab a paper towel. That way we could both chill safely while I Googled whether or not my stomach was going to get eaten from the inside out.

On my way to the kitchen, I walked past my boss on her way in. She asked me how I was, I said a shaky “I’m aiight,” and then ran to the sink. I got Wormy into a paper towel and brought him back to my desk. My boss was looking at me real confused like and said, “You look like you bout to cry.”

“Yeah gurl, look at this. YOU SEEN THIS? I had a worm in my water bottle, peep it.”

“Oh, shit.” (She didn’t really swear, but she might as well have.) “I would die. You got to take that to the doctor. First let’s take some video real quick.”

The doctor! I’ve only been at my job for a few months and had forgotten that we have a free walk-in clinic onsite. My boss and I took a few videos and then I folded up the paper towel and brought it down to the clinic. I walked through the doors, saw two receptionists sitting behind a counter, and slapped the paper towel in front of them.

“Hi, nice to meet y’all. Um, I found a worm in my water bottle. Here it is.” One of the receptionists gasped. A third lady, who I think was a nurse, appeared. “I don’t really clean my water bottle that much… but, you know, sometimes I do. I’m afraid I swallowed this worm’s people. I’m tryna find out if that’s a problem or … just a bit of extra protein in my system.”

The receptionist who didn’t gasp unfolded the paper towel to examine it.

“This isn’t a worm,” she said. “See, this bug’s got antenna plus all types of little legs. It’s a centipede, I think. A centipede-like bug.”

I exhaled. “Word? I saw those antenna, totally forgot worms don’t have those things. Same goes for the legs. I dumb. You think I’m OK then?”

The nurse answered. “Well, let’s put him in a specimen jar so we can show David, then we can tell you for sure.” I don’t know who David is, but I assume he’s an entomologist they’re cool with. The receptionist grabbed a specimen cup.

“Come here, little buddy.” She struggled a few seconds to get him in the cup, then said, “Uh-oh. I lost him.” She dropped him on the desk or the floor or down her sleeve, we never found out. He was gone.

“Well,” the nurse said. “You’re probably fine, but let us know if you have any abdominal issues. Cramping, upset stomach, nausea, diarrhea, anything like that.”

I said I would, thanked her, and returned to my desk.

Once again, I am the office weirdo. I’ve now been ordered, by a medical professional, to tell people about my poop.

*I know ringworm isn’t actually a worm.**

**At least I know that now.

Many of you won’t like this

Dear President Obama,

I got a favor to ask of you. Give me a day off from work every month when my lady ish starts. Please.

I know. You’re going to face a lot of opposition when you go to pass this into law. Cronies, congressmen, everyone. Lot of people gonna hate on this. Please just hear me out.

But first, don’t worry. I won’t get too graphic. I know it’s tough for you and your fellow males to reconcile the messy reality of menstruation with your expectations of women. I promise, no blood talk.

(Just kidding, mofo. Of course There Will Be Blood. I’ll try to keep it to a minimum, though.)

Periods suck. With them come cramps, nausea, backaches, sore boobs, diarrhea, bloating, fatigue, trouble sleeping, headaches, acne, constipation, and more. Lot of times, I get cold sores and sore throats. It’s like having a cold and a flu concurrently, but worse because it happens every month. Oh and don’t forget, there’s also that blood-seeping-from-vagina business, too.

Does that gross you out? Get over it, ya baby. You wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for periods! Not a damn one of us would. So while I get that it’s a little narsty, it’s also something 50% of us deal with on the regular. Ladies have to pull blood-soaked tampons out of their bodies — usually with dark, congealed masses of uterus clung to them. We have to actually physically handle them. You should be able to handle just hearing about it.

(Hahahaha. “Masses of uterus.” So sorry. Swear to keep my promise about not getting too graphic from here on out.)

Anyway, as you might imagine, it’s hard to go to work when you feel that terrible. I can only speak from my experience, but the first day of my period is hella painful. I pop Advil like Tic Tacs and still it feels like a professional rock climber is using my womb as a stress ball. It’s not debilitating, but it sure is unpleasant. I’m sure it’s much worse for some people and much better for others. Don’t matter. We should all get a day off. We should all, at least, get the opportunity to get a day off.

Lot of people are going to disagree with that. Haters are going to say things like:


“Periods aren’t that bad. There are worse pains in the world.”

“Women do not need special treatment.”

“This justifies unequal pay between genders.”

When you get that kind of feedback, I’ve got some canned responses you can use.

“Ew yourself, you damn lady sheep.”

“You’re right — there are worse pains in the world. Still, it’s better to not have diarrhea thirteen times at the office.”

“Women absolutely need special treatment. They are special as hell. They have wombs, which though excellent for baby purposes, are not excellent for much else.”

“Wrong. Women would get more days off than men, but it’s because their bodies can grow humans. Can a man’s body grow humans? No? Men’s bodies don’t spend a week every month of every fertile year of their life painfully shedding uterine lining? Ah, guess equal pay is still fair, then.”

Here is my official proposal, Mr. President: You give lady workers 10 extra sick days a year, or something. I’m saying 10 instead of 12 because surely at least a couple periods are going to start on weekends, or maybe some aren’t as severe as others and don’t require time off at all. I don’t know. I know some people are going to take advantage of it — taking menstrual leave when they aren’t menstruating — so I’m trying to make it as fair as possible. It’s a little complicated.

In truth, it’s a lot complicated — lot of logistics that’ll have to be figured out. You know, pregnant ladies who don’t have periods, menopausal ladies who don’t have periods, ladies who just don’t have periods at all, ladies who really do have debilitating periods, etc. I don’t know what to do about all that. You and your friends can figure that out though, I imagine. Y’all smart.

Anyway, cool. Thanks for reading. If you could have this passed and signed into law in about 28 days, I’d appreciate it.


I know that was a little weird and gross. I don’t care. Periods drive me crazy. Actually — it’s not periods that drive me crazy. I’ve already said they suck, but I’ve accepted them as necessary, unavoidable, and — ultimately — helpful for baby-growing. What drives me crazy is that everyone thinks they’re so embarrassing. Something to hide.

Why! I want to sing from the rooftops when I’m on my period! I want everyone to know — particularly dudes — that I’m bleeding, and that it hurts like a mofo, and that I need a goddamn heating pad and a bed.

I’m worried people reading this will think I’m saying women are the weaker sex — that we’re delicate and can’t work because of our periods. That’s not at all what I’m arguing. I’m arguing that a lot of women are guaranteed to feel shitty at least once a month strictly because of the nature of their anatomy, and yet we still get the same amount of sick days as men. How is that fair?

My male coworker took a sick day last week because, according to him, he was “burping a lot.” The following day I got my period and, within the first two hours at work, pooped five times. And I didn’t take a sick day because there’s a chance — next month or the month after — I’m going to poop six times and need that sick day more. Or I’m going to get a stomach bug, or a respiratory infection, or some other illness and need the sick day then.

Ain’t that some shit?! I should be able to say to my boss, without embarrassment, “Yo, I’m menstruating up a storm over here. I’mma go home.” But I can’t, because that’s rude. She’s a lady, even, and it’s still rude. What kind of misanthropic ass society is ashamed and disgusted by something so crucial to its continued existence? That’s like being appalled by sex. Or by boobs.


Anyway, as you might have guessed, this wasn’t that serious a proposal. I’m not totally sure menstrual leave would work, but it’s good to think about. (They have it in Asia, FYI.) What we need more, probably, is open acknowledgement and acceptance that women get periods and it’s OK to feel like garbage.

I thought I had Alzheimer’s Disease

My friend Dori got married a couple weeks ago. I’m not one to use phrases like “beautiful ceremony,” but it was a beautiful ceremony. Dori looked like a beaming beach dream, and so did her groom, and so did everyone there. The sun set and the blue moon rose, and we drank and danced and celebrated yung luv. It was wonderful.

You never would have known, not even an hour before that beautiful ceremony, I was crying. It happened while I was applying makeup, in front of my mom and Curtis.

See if you can guess what made me cry.

A. The wonder of yung luv.
B. The looks of pride/joy on Dori’s parents’ faces.
C. My mom disowned me and Curtis dumped me, simultaneously.
D. I thought I had Alzheimer’s.
E. I picked the wart on my nose and it hurt a lot.

If you chose D, congratulations! You’re clearly very bright/good at picking up on context clues (like the title of this post). If you chose B or E, you get partial credit. Parental pride/joy on wedding days and nose warts also make me cry.

Why did I think I had Alzheimer’s?

As I got ready for Dori’s beautiful ceremony, my mom, Curtis, and I started talking about the time my dog pooped in front of the trainer at obedience school. Excuse me—the two times he pooped in front of the trainer at obedience school. We talk about this more often than we should, and as a result, I have a fairly good grasp of how it went down. Also I was present for both occasions so, again, I grasp it fairly good.

The first time, Dizzy sneakily pooped next to a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy. I blamed it on the puppy. The second time, Dizzy pooped in the middle of the floor, in front of everyone, even though I’d stayed outside in the cold for 20 minutes before class trying to get him to go. For both poopcidents, I remember feeling ashamed and lonely. Ashamed because my dog’s a goddamn poop bandit sociopath, lonely because I was in dog school by myself and had no friends nor family to commiserate with.

Except, while putting on makeup for Dori’s wedding, I learned I wasn’t alone. My mom claimed she was also there when Dizzy pooped in class. 

Jackée, courtesy of


“No way, Jackée. You never came to dog class with me.”

“Yes I did,” said my mom.

“I remember that. That she went,” said Curtis.

“Y’ALL TRIFLIN. If you was there, tell me about it. Where’d it happen?”

“In that room!” my mom said. “That big room, with walls. See. I remember it exactly.”

“HA! You just described every big room in America, YOU FOOL! Are you having another Janet Jackson moment?” 

My mom chuckled and shook her head. The chuckle and head-shake of someone who knows she’s right. “No, Allie. I really went with you. I saw my old horse friends, remember?”

“I don’t remember. You lying, you wrong. Momma, I love you, but you losing it. Go ahead, name a dog that was there.”

“That Bernese Mountain Dog! The puppy!”

That’s when I welled up. Your girl started crying real instantaneous-like. My mom proved it—she did go to class with me, and I didn’t remember. I decided then that I had Alzheimer’s.

I know, that’s terrible and kind of self-indulgent, and also annoying and ridiculous. I’m 26 and I forgot one thing—that doesn’t mean I have Alzheimer’s. But it wasn’t the only thing I’d forgotten. A couple weeks before the wedding, I’d also found a T-shirt in my bed and I didn’t know how it got there.

It was far more mysterious than it sounds, I promise. I had slept in the bed all night and the T-shirt wasn’t there, and it wasn’t there when I woke up, but it was there after I showered and went back to my room to change. And, beyond its mysterious appearance, I had a very clear memory of seeing it—and leaving it—in my dresser the day before.

So, there was dog training class and the T-shirt—two checks for Alzheimer’s. Plus, my paternal grandmother had Alzheimer’s and my maternal grandmother had dementia. I’m not entirely sure how genetics work, but I know it has something to do with getting what your momma (and poppa, and their mommas and poppas) give you.

My grandmothers were in their 80s when they were diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and dementia, but young people can get it, too. Anne Hathaway had early on-set Alzheimers in Love and Other Drugs, remember? You probably do remember, because you don’t have Alzheimer’s.*

Fortunately, it turns out I don’t have Alzheimer’s either. One of Dori’s other bridesmaids is a physician’s assistant—I asked her if I had Alzheimer’s, and she said no, so now I don’t have it. Also, my mom admitted that, while she did come to dog class with me once (and I can kind of remember it), she wasn’t present for Dizzy’s poopcidents. I’m also happy to report that nothing mysterious has shown up in my bed lately—just some some dog doo on my sheets yesterday morning, but that was from the poop stuck on the fur around Dizzy’s B-hole. MOM I KNOW YOU WASN’T THERE FOR THAT. I HAD TO DEAL WITH THAT SHIT ON MY OWN.

*I really hope you don’t have Alzheimer’s, and I hope one day soon that no one has Alzheimer’s. If you hope that too, and you feel like donating to the Alzheimer’s Association, you can do that here.

Buying Bicycles

Note: This blog contains some DRAMA and HYSTERIA.

A year ago, my friend Sarah let me borrow her mountain bike. I only rode it for three to five minutes, but during those three to five minutes I popped wheelies, skidded out, and learned that a mountain biking life was the life for me. When the three to five minutes were up, I gave Sarah her bike back, shook her hand, and vowed to buy one of my own.

I spent the next two weeks researching bikes and telling everyone I met that I was going to get one. Truly everyone. When my work computer broke and an I.T. man—a man I’d never spoken to before—came to fix it, I asked him about mountain bikes.

“I.T. people like doing fun activities, right?” I asked. “You ever done the fun activity of mountain biking before? I did it for a few minutes the other day. I’m into it.”

The I.T. man had mountain biked before, and he endorsed it as a fun activity, too. Ready to commit, I went to a bike shop the next day and tested out a couple. The day after, I forced Curtis to come with me to the bike shop to check out my favorite—a Haro with 27-inch wheels. Day after that, I forced my friend Josh—a biking sort of man—to go and check it out. Day after that, I made my purchase.

The bike shop people were damn fine at what they did, and they upsold the eff out of me. When I first started thinking about getting a bike, I looked at bikes on Craigslist listed for $200 or less. By the time the bike shop people were done with me, I had dropped more than half a G on one. Yet like the tires on my expensive ass new mountain bike, I was pumped up. Pumped up, at least, until the bike shop people made me sign a waiver.

“All right, we just need you to read this, initial here, here, and here, sign here, and you’ll be all set,” a bike shop person said.

“Pass it heah now,” I said, taking the waiver from him and beginning to read it over. “Let’s see … ‘When you fall down, it’s not our fault.’ I could fall down on this thing, you say?” I asked the bike man. “I do not care for falling.”

I kept reading. “‘We recommend you wear a helmet, so you don’t hurt your head when you fall down.’ Again with the falling! Bike man, are you saying that I will fall while biking down mountains on this mountain bike?”

He nodded. The rest of the waiver read much of the same way: You are going to get hurt, and we are not responsible. I’d already paid for the bike, so I sighed, signed the waiver, and wheeled it out. It was the most immediate case of buyer’s remorse I’ve ever had. I instantly regretted my purchase and hated the bike.

Still, I knew I had to give it a chance. (Actually, I called the bike shop and asked about their return policy. When I learned they didn’t have one, I was forced to give it a chance.) I took the bike to some trails near my house. It was a little bit fun, but mostly it was tiring and scary. Later that day, I listed it on Craigslist.

I found a buyer in Massachusetts. We did a trade—$400 and his older mountain bike for my new Haro. I figured it was a good deal, and I’d still have a mountain bike. Remember, I told everyone about it. It’d be embarrassing to admit defeat that quickly. It took at least a month or two more for that—to admit defeat


Remember just a few moments ago when I told you about mountain biking on the trails near my house? And how it was a little bit fun, but mostly it was tiring and scary? Well, with the mountain bike I got from the Craigslist man, I decided to give trail riding another chance. Seemed like a good way to get exercise for myself and for my dog, Dizzy.

On October 26, 2014, I took Dizzy to those trails. I let him off his leash and rode my bike alongside. We faced adversity. I texted the story of this adversity to my friend the same evening it happened. I’m going to include those texts here, so the raw emotion is as strong as it was that October day.


The day

Screen Shot 2015-08-08 at 3.29.30 PM Screen Shot 2015-08-08 at 3.29.42 PM


I’ve since sold the second mountain bike, too.

(But I just bought another one for one million dollars because I CAN’T HELP MYSELF.)

Employed again #IDGT

A couple years ago, I made a Facebook page for this blog. It required me to write a short description, so—after four hundred and seven attempts—I settled on, “My favorite hobby is listening to rap lyrics and figuring out how to apply them to my life.” Look, here’s a screenshot of it.

I didn't need that "" shout-out in there.

That “” shout-out in there is unnecessary. Sorry.

That short Facebook description wasn’t at all relevant to my blog… UNTIL NOW. NOW I WILL SHARE THE RAP LYRICS THAT DEFINE MY LIFE.

“I got no passion. I got no patience. And I hate waiting. Ho get your ass in here and let’s ride.” Jay-Z – Big Pimpin’

This was my motto back when I used to take the school bus a lot. I could have ridden with my sister, but she always had the heat too high and the punk rock too loud. Also, she was always late to school. Also, she made me ride in the backseat of her two-door VW Beetle, even though I’m 75% torso and the front seat was empty. Curved Beetle roofs and 6-foot-tall torsos ain’t friends.

“You gon’ make them eggs cheesy with them grits or nah?” Ty Dolla $ign – Or Nah

This one works with my life because I still live with my parents, and I often ask my dad to make me omelets. He’s against putting cheese on western omelets, for some astonishing reason, and we once had a falling out over it.

“I’m spoiled, and I don’t like to work that hard.” Petey Pablo – Freek-A-Leek

This one works because I’m spoiled and I don’t like to work that hard.

Lately, I’ve been really into a song called “I Don’t Get Tired (#IDGT)” by Kevin Gates.

In it, Kevin raps, “Get it get fly. I got six jobs, I don’t get tired.”

Last month, I wrote about my fun unemployment. I am no longer funly unemployed. Now I have a full-time job and two, maybe three part-time jobs. One of those part-time jobs is being a longshoreman. I’m not 100% positive what longshoremen do, but I know my dad’s one and he once squished off the tip of a finger while on the job. I played softball for a week in first grade and then quit because I wasn’t allowed to wear shorts and it was hot out. I will probably find it very hard to be a longshoreman.


(That’s a joke though. I get so tired.)