Benjamin Franklin Did Not Make New Year’s Resolutions

Pretend it’s the 1700s and you run into Benjamin Franklin at a cheesesteak restaurant in Philly.

“Benjamin, my man,” you say. “Happy New Year! Make any resolutions for 1757?”

“No,” Benjamin Franklin says, taking a bite of his cheesesteak. “Homey don’t play dat.”

He leaves a hundred dollar bill in the tip jar, pats you on the back, and walks out the door. Through the restaurant’s front windows, you see him toss the rest of his sandwich to a seagull. The bird catches it midair.

Ben Franklin didn’t make New Year’s resolutions because Ben Franklin didn’t need New Year’s resolutions. His entire life was a resolution.

When he was 20 years old, Benjamin realized if he ever wanted to make a Founding Father out of himself, he’d have to step his game up.

“It’d be dope to invent important things,” a young Benjamin thought. “I want to invent fire departments and libraries and post offices and other good things. Maybe glasses and wood stoves, too. I bet I could figure out how electricity works. I bet I could be the president of Pennsylvania. I bet I help America gain its mo-fuckin independence, for God’s sake.”

He slept on it for a night.

“Yeah. I’mma do every single one of those tings.”

So he did. But like I said, he knew his game needed improvement. He sat down and wrote a list of the virtues he thought would make him a better man.

“I want to be more industrious and resolved, but less smelly and slutty. Also, cheaper and quieter.”

His list virtues included: temperance, silence, order, resolution, frugality, industry, sincerity, justice, moderation, cleanliness, tranquility, chastity, and humility.

That’s 13 in total, which was auspicious as hell because:

  1. The OG USA had 13 colonies, so that’s nice
  2. 13 goes into 52 a clean 4 times, so that’s math

And thus Benjamin had his plan. In a series of four 13-week cycles throughout a year, he would spend a week focusing on each of his virtues. At the end of each day, he’d reflect on how he’d done did. I think he had a crew of playas doing the same thing too, and they’d all meet up to discuss their progress every now and again. Benjamin claimed to have never fully perfected his virtues, but we can agree the dude probably came pretty damn close.

I know Alexander Hamilton’s the hottest Founding Father around right now, but Ben’s always been my man. Having played him in a fourth-grade production about time-traveling revolutionaries, I feel extra connected to the dude. And so for the past two years, I’ve been doing as Ben would—working on my own list of 13 virtues.

I’m not telling you all my virtues, because they’re personal and intimate and I might not even know who da fuq you is. I can, however, share a few.

Change

Last fall, I cut 8 to 10 inches of hair off my head. I wrote a whole blog post about how much I hated it. Here’s a fun fact: I didn’t actually hate the haircut—in fact, it looked way better than my long witchly locks ever did—I just hated that it was a change. I am terrified of change.

I don’t really want to get too deep into it (it requires more self-introspection than I am capable of), but some smart psychologists, James and Elizabeth Bugental, talk about it in their article, “A Fate Worse Than Dying, The Fear of Change.” This is what they say:

“When one feels that identity and the known world are in danger of being swept away, it is truly terrifying. The price of preserving the familiar meaning world and one’s place in it may be literal and physical death.”

See—I’m afraid change will beget death. But most changes don’t, and it’s not like anyone can avoid death anyway. So, we might as well have good haircuts in the meantime.

Presence

For me, presence simply means: DON’T CHECK YOUR EMAIL AND SOCIAL MEDIA AND THE WEATHER SO EFFING MUCH.

I still do, but maybe 1% less than I used to.

Environment

I try to recycle more and drive less. Mostly because, from what I understand, Earth will be uninhabitable pretty soon, and that will be bad for all of us.


Those are the only ones I feel like sharing. But I do have 13 of them, and I do try to focus on one per week. Sometimes I forget, and sometimes I remember but don’t bother thinking about it. But no matter what, it’s been a useful exercise, if only because it makes me feel like Benjamin Franklin.

If you were planning on making a resolution, maybe try this instead. Or don’t. Remember, the world might be uninhabitable pretty soon, so it won’t matter.

Happy 2017!

Harry Potter and the Cursed Child: Issues

Warning: This contains many, many spoilers. Every one of them.

Second Warning: This goes pretty in-depth into the Harry Potter world and the majority of you probably won’t be interested

This morning, a man stopped at a red light behind me took out his cell phone and took a picture of the back of my car.

“He could have been taking a selfie, you idiot” says the millions of h8rs alive and well on the internet, including me.

You’re right, he could have. But I’m pretty sure it was a picture of my car because I SAW IT WITH MY OWN EYES, ALL RIGHT?

Even though my ‘05 Pontiac is extremely attractive, people never used to take pictures of it. But then I adorned its beautiful backside with a Hogwarts alumni sticker, and people started to take pictures of it.

My '05 Vibe

My ’05 Vibe

We all know I did not go to Hogwarts, because it doesn’t exist. Even if it did exist, I’m a muggle, and that shit ain’t for muggles. And even if I weren’t a muggle and I did go to Hogwarts, then I wouldn’t be advertising the fact. (Because I absolutely would have been sorted into Hufflepuff and no one brags about being in gotdamn Hufflepuff.)

So if I did not go to Hogwarts, but I do have a Hogwarts sticker on my car, then I must like Harry Potter a lot. And in fact I do. I like Harry Potter so much that I pre-ordered the new HP play, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child. I have since read it and would like to review it here, for a couple of reasons. (Here come the spoilers. Enemies of the heir, beware.)

  1. None of my friends have read it, at least that I know of, and I really need to discuss it.
  2. Lately (and most of my life) I’ve been bad at thinking critically/forming opinions on my own, and I don’t want to read other reviews to tell me what to think about it.
  3. It was chock-full of bull and I need to express my feelings.

Here’s the basic plot: Harry’s middle child—named ALBUS SEVERUS, FOR GOD’S SAKE—goes to Hogwarts and gets sorted into Slytherin and makes friends with Draco’s kid, Scorpius. Then Amos Diggory who’s mad old and is about to die decides imminent death would be a good time to bring his long-dead son back to life, Cedric. You know, the *spare* that was kilt during the Triwizard Tournament by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named a.k.a. the Dark Lord a.k.a. Tom Marvolo Riddle a.k.a Tommy R a.k.a. the baddest motherfucker alive/dead, Voldemort.

Amos has this niece Delphi who’s 20-something and meets Albus at his house and is clumsy, maybe? Then Albus and Harry fight cause Harry’s kind of a dick dad, Albus leaves for school, finds out there’s still a Time-Turner (all were destroyed during the “Battle of the Department of Mysteries”), tells Scorpius—his bff/potential love interest—that they got to go back in time and save Cedric. They do, they change things in the past, things in the future get messed up, turns out Delphi is not Amos’s niece but instead Voldemort’s daughter he had with Bellatrix Lestrange (they got their freak on at some point during the Battle of Hogwarts), Delphi tries to kill everyone, Harry prevails, etc.

Where I Take Issue

Albus in Slytherin

Why the eff did he get sorted into Slytherin? First, he’s Potter-Weasley. Second, he WANTED Gryffindor. The sorting hat’s really gonna be that cold? To deny a little first year the house he desperately wanted? I call hippogriff shit. Sorting hat is reasonable as fuck and li’l Albus, despite his bitchassness, is no Slytherin.

Albus + Scorpius

Good lord, the theme of friendship throughout this whole play was more vomit-inducing than a bag of puking pastilles (yo I killed it on that one). Albus and Scorpius hug one thousand times and are ALWAYS real shy and nervous about it. They constantly tell each other they’re best friends, cry when they’re separated, talk about how badly they need each other, and get jealous when they make other friends. They are full-on in love. And of course that’s cool and 100 and everything, EXCEPT they’re not actually in love. I thought for sure they were gonna be bf/bf, but instead Albus likes Delphi-spawn-of-Voldemort and Scorpius likes Ron and Hermione’s girl, Rose.

It ain’t fair. Albus and Scorpius are, without a doubt, totally in love. Dumbledore was closeted his whole life, can’t these sweet young boys at least have a chance?

How They Use “Dumbledore” Instead of God

“Thank Dumbledore.” “Oh my Dumbledore.” Really really lame and lazy.

When I was 10 I met a girl with a fake Irish accent at a playground. Asked her what her favorite TV show was, she said “Ireland.” She fell off the monkey bars and shouted “Oh my God!” and then followed it with “Oh my Ireland!” That little weirdo was 1000 times more convincing.

Time-Turners

So this play claims all the Time-Turners got destroyed during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. That was back in Harry’s fifth year when he got punked hardcore by Voldemort and then made Sirius die, remember? Well seems like ever after that, they decided Time-Turners were the work of the devil, they never made them again, and only bad people held on to the precious few that remained. Fast forward a couple decades later—Harry finds one, gives it to Hermione (the Minister of Magic, of course). She keeps it hidden with magic and stuff cause it’s muy peligroso.

So the entire premise kind of rests on the notion that going back in time is dangerous. True, I respect that—I’ve seen Back to the Future, I’m no dum dum. But are Time-Turners really that dangerous? When Hermione was a third year, she was allowed to have one just cause she was a hella nerd and wanted to take more classes. Back then, children could have them, and now they’re instruments of the dark arts? Nuh-uh, don’t buy it.

Cedric’s Response to Humiliation

When Albus and Scorpius go back in time, they want to get Cedric out of the Triwizard Tournament so that he won’t get murdered by Voldemort after the last event. Geniuses they are, they figure the best way to knock him out of the running is to embarrass him. Well, those assholes do embarrass him. He gets so embarrassed that he becomes evil and pledges allegiance to Voldemort. As a result, Voldemort (somehow) lives and everything’s awful in the future.

Cedric was a humble, athletic, charming babe. One tiny embarrassment and he turns into a Death Eater? DOUBT IT. Let’s be real. If Cedric got embarrassed at the Triwizard Tournament he would’ve hoofed it back to the Hufflepuff common room, downed a couple butterbeers, knocked boots with Cho for a few hours, fallen asleep, and forgotten about the whole thing by morning.

Delphi’s Existence

This the big one. First, I cannot accept that she exists. Second, even if I could accept it, I couldn’t accept that she’s a successful dark wizard.

Let’s focus on the first part. Delphi is supposed to be Voldemort’s heir. At some point during the Battle of Hogwarts, Voldemort decided it’d be a good time to put a baby in Bellatrix. Funny it took him that long to come up with the idea, right? I mean, damn, it’s a much easier way of continuing a legacy than his first attempt, Horcruxes. You’d think the most powerful wizard of all time, clever as he was, would have thought about the simplicity of baby-making before SPLITTING HIS SOUL INTO SEVEN PIECES AND HIDING THEM INSIDE OF CAVES AND SNAKES AND SHIT.

There’s no way Voldemort would have a kid. He was evil as hell, he wouldn’t fux with no baby. He wouldn’t fux with nobody. Imagine Voldemort with an erection. You can’t. Dude probably didn’t even have a wiener. Voldemort’s the type of monster that’s got no nose, no soul, and no wiener. He’s not a person. He can’t do person things, and sex is part of being a person.

Besides that, playa was like 1,000 years old at the Battle of Hogwarts. J/K, he was like 70 or 71, and Bellatrix was like 47. I’m supposed to believe a 70-year-old wizard can knock up a 47-year-old witch on a single go-round? Well, I don’t. I don’t believe it. No sorcery in the world is strong enough for that.

LASTLY, let’s say it happened (for argument only, because it definitely did not happen). Bellatrix would have spent her entire pregnancy in Azkaban. Then what happens? Delphi claimed she slid under the radar and didn’t have to go to Hogwarts. Um, how? How can an orphan baby slide under the radar? You on the books since birth, ya fool. EVERYBODY WOULD KNOW ABOUT YOU, DELPHI YOU DUMB MOTHERFUNKER.

Maybe everybody wouldn’t know she was Voldemort’s bastard baby, but they’d know her mother was an evil sociopath and the ministry would be watching her move since the day she was born. But no, no one knows about her. She gets taken in by Death Eaters who are mean to her despite her A1 heritage, she doesn’t go to school, and still somehow becomes a powerful wizard who loves and respects the Dark Lord. How would she even know Voldemort’s her father? Did she get to visit Azkaban and chat with her moms? Who was the dementor on duty that night, CAUSE HE BLEW IT.

One More Comment
JK Rowling, I’m sorry to hate so hard. I still loved being back in your world. If I ever get a chance to see the play, I will write a review about how wonderful it surely is.

A tragic tale of self-employment

I started working for myself this past March. Despite the abysmal pay and lack of traditional employer benefits, it’s the flyest gig ever. I may not get health insurance or paid vacation days, but my boss sure is understanding. She’s like Ja Rule’s dream girl, a certified down ass bitch. Because she’s myself, and I treat me like my number one.

I am at once the best employer and best employee that ever existed. The synergy between me and myself is outrageous. We are so, so synergetic. That means we’ve synchronized our energies. (We’ve also synchronized our cycles—a convenient side effect of being the same lady.)

For instance, let’s say I want to take a long lunch break. Maybe I want to go on a half-hour bike ride to the rock gym, climb a while, go to Wendy’s for a baked potato and a frosty, and bike the half hour back to the office. My boss is 100% cool with it, because she also wants me to spend the majority of the workday playing and eating.

Or perhaps I want to take a little rest on the office couch and cruise Craigslist for kayaks and kittens—two things I have no intention of actually buying.* My boss encourages it! She too enjoys perusing the catalog of kayaks and kittens available along the Eastern seaboard.

Our company is the best employer in the country. Dogs are allowed, pajama casual dress is worn, and snack breaks are mandated every seven minutes.

IMG_5647

All right, that’s enough. You get it. I LIKE WORKING FOR MESELF.

I gots a little office in the downstairs of the Weight Watchers center where my mom works. It’s huge and cement and empty, but my space is cordoned off with a bunch of hanged-up sheer curtains. It’s kind of like being inside of a shower all the time. I have a couch and a mini-fridge and a desk Curtis bought me for Christmas where I do freelance work.

I don’t have any coworkers—a sad reality of working for yourself, since coworkers are good—but I at least have my mom upstairs. She’s even better than a coworker because she grew me and gave birth to me and is thus required to love me unconditionally and sometimes buy me lunch and drive me to work.

If I walk outside through my downstairs exit, my mom’s office windows are right above mine. Now that the weather’s nice, I’ll sometimes go outside to peel oranges. If I feel like having a chat, all I have to do is chuck a couple of orange peels at my mom’s window and wait for her to open up. She gets pissed but only because she thinks it’s a bird flying into the glass. And boy, nothing gets my mom madder than a bird’s death. That’s one of my most vivid memories as a child—my mom losing it whenever a bird flew into her car’s windshield.

“GODDAMMIT BIRD SHIT I KILLED YOU GODDAMMIT MOTHERFUCKER I DIDN’T MEAN TO BASTARD ASS UNLCEFUCKER GODDAMMIT TO HELL.”

She likes birds.

Anyway, two weeks ago I went outside and felt like having a chat. I didn’t have any orange peels but I needed something to throw at my mom’s window. They always use pebbles in the movies but that seems dangerous. The only thing my mom hates worse than an innocent bird’s death is the prospect of getting showered with shards of broken glass because a rock smashed through her office window. So in lieu of rocks, I decided to throw pieces of mulch.

This may be news to you, as it was to me, but individual pieces of mulch are hella hard to throw. It’s almost impossible. They’re not at all aerodynamic and they don’t have enough heft for heaving purposes. They suck. It’s like trying to throw, I don’t know, a single corn husk. A wadded piece of dry toilet paper. The top to a tube of chapstick. Anything light and stupid, you name it.

So I threw pieces of mulch at her window and none of them would reach. They’d get really close but they’d never quite make it. I could have given up—could have walked 100 feet and just gone to her office, or I could have called or texted or emailed her—but I didn’t want to. I wanted to throw a piece of goddamn mulch at her window and have a chat.

IMG_5844

I tried a million different ways. Overhand, underhand, super forceful, less forceful (in case the force was too much and was actually slowing down the mulch’s velocity—logic that makes no sense to anyone except me). I tried curving it left, curving it right. It’d come within inches of her window but would never reach. (Know that this was all done in sight of many, many motorists—the Weight Watchers building is on the corner of a busy intersection.)

After four minutes of trying every mulch-throwing technique I could think of, I still wasn’t ready to give up. I picked up a new piece of mulch and gave it my most powerful hurl yet. So powerful I probably would have thrown out my shoulder had I not instead violently twisted my ankle and crashed to the ground in a cloud of dirt and mulch.

I sprained my ankle and, worst of all, the mulch didn’t even make it to the window.

There are two lessons to be learned from this:

  1. If you want to get a person’s attention by throwing something at their window, DO NOT USE MULCH. It simply don’t work. Go for orange peels or, if you’re brave, a pebble. An apple core or banana would likely work too.
  2. If I ever offer you a job, do not take it. I am a stupid boss.

P.S. My mom did hear pieces of mulch hitting below the window, I’ve just desensitized her to it. I consider this my most shameful accomplishment.

P.P.S. I went outside to get a picture of the mulch for this post and couldn’t resist throwing a piece at the window again. I got it on the first try.

*I did buy a kayak. I couldn’t help myself, and I don’t even like kayaking that much.

 

 

I went to a summer camp for models

I once tried to be a model.

Here is me, trying to be a model.

Here’s me, trying to be a model.

It’s kind of a shameful thing to admit. If I had actually become a model, that’d be one thing—not shameful a-tall. But since I did not become one, and instead failed fully in its pursuit, that’s another thing.

Even if you didn’t know, now you know. I’m telling you because I wrote about it for a website called xoJane. You can read it here. Or, if you’d prefer, you can read a less-censored version below.

In 2007 a mofo approached me in a mall in Florida and asked if I’d consider being a model. His name was Keith. (I used “Kevin” for xoJane because that’s a sneaky trick of the journalism trade. I used a pseudonym for myself too, another sneaky trick.) Keith looked like a mouse if mice were amphibious and untrustworthy. He scouted for Elite, the same agency America’s Next Top Model winners used to sign with.

I met with some Elite people, they told me I was too chunk, so I lost some weight and went to a camp for models in New York City that summer.

Here is a list to describe that experience.

  • They brought us to a burger restaurant to prove that models were allowed to eat but then ONLY SERVED SLIDERS. Funk outta here with sliders, what’s a girl like me supposed to do with a slider?! I was the only one that went back for thirds which means I ate approximately one-eighth of a traditional hamburglar.
  • They made me do yoga for the first time in my life and they filmed it. I’ve dedicated the past three years to learning how to bend over and touch my toes with straight legs, to give you an idea of how flexible I am not.
  • Karlie Kloss gave us a runway walking demonstration. I felt like an old, ugly behemoth next to that nilla wafer. For real she waify as hell, I don’t reckon humans are even meant to be that waiflike. Hold on I just Googled it and waif actually means a homeless, helpless person. Isn’t waifiness supposed to be an enviable lady trait? What the heck. I like homes and being helped both.
  • A nutritionist came in and told us to drink lukewarm water in the morning cause it gets shit moving. She weren’t all that genuine a person but I’ll be damned if she didn’t preach gospel. Try drinking 16 oz lukewarm water in the A.M. and tell me that don’t get your pooptubes straight crackin.
  • I had a test photo shoot and they put me in eyebrows and a dress and hurt me real bad. Had to kneel on a wooden floor for about an hour. My knees weren’t meant for kneeling, that’s just not what they do.
  • I walked around Central Park with 10-15 other girls while we all wore teeny tiny T-shirts. There’s no use in pretending I wasn’t the biggest of the bunch because I was. THAT SHIRT BARELY COVERED MY STICK-OUT RIB. Barely but.
  • I starved myself in preparation for my test photo shoot (Keith made me) and after it was done I ate: 1) One full chicken 2) One pound of shoestring fries 3) A molten chocolate lava cake. I didn’t realize we weren’t getting our Kardinal Offishall measurements done until the next morning. Kardinal Offishall is a rapper who had a hit with Akon but I just used his name in place of the word “official.” Measurements are body measurements for boobs and butts etc., which Elite agents live and ride and die by.
  • That next morning (after photo shoot + full chicken, before measurements), I was still on a rampage and demanded my first donut in months. The sprinkled donut I got was garbage and my saint of a sister went back and returned it for me not because I was a diva but because I couldn’t face the Dunkin Donuts employee. NYC DD employees are Steve Austin, so stone cold.

I gave up on the modeling career because my bones were too big. A lady named Karen knocked on my right hip and said “Nah ain’t gonna work, we prefer the type of hips that make childbirth more painful and difficult.” I said “That’s wassup” and now I’m not a model.

Also, if I’m keeping it real, I look like a tired cadaver in most photos and I’m prematurely wrinkled and overall I don’t have that charming/likable/outgoing a personality. These traits do not befit a model.

It took me nearly 10 years to share this story. (That means I’m 27 now, which means my birthday has come and gone. Please leave your wishes of good birthday fortune in the comments section below).

 

Coffee sucks

Coffee tastes bad.

It does, doesn’t it? Objectively, coffee tastes like strongly brewed poop water. No one’s ever tried coffee for the first time and shouted, “This is a fine, delicious beverage! Pour me another!”

Or maybe they have, but their taste buds got put on upside down and inside out and they’re not complete, functional humans who could have ever survived in nature. No disrespect to em but they the dum-dums who would’ve eaten the rotting, festering flesh of some beast, washed it down with a handful of poison berries, burped, sharted, and died. Cause clever folks know not to fuxs with bitter.

Humans have trained themselves to accept some bitter food. In coffee’s case, we drink it because it’s nice and cozy and full of a mostly harmless—though still fun and energizing—drug. Those are objectively good things that excuse its foul taste. My mom can’t distinguish between the smells of coffee, dog food, and poop, and yet she drinks a cup o josé every morning.

Tiny baby iced coffee from New Zealand that cost $5 dollars.

Tiny baby iced coffee from New Zealand that cost $5 dollars.

That’s all. Don’t pretend coffee tastes good. You love it, I get it. With enough milk and sugar and ice, I like it lots too. But it’s gross as shit. Please acknowledge that.

SEASICK OR NAH

I’ve never been seasick or carsick. Never in my whole life. Not a once.

Impressive, ain’t it? It’s probably my favorite thing about myself. That and my four intact wisdom teeth. And how small my feet are in proportion to my height. Oh, I also like my feet’s high arches. And that they’re orange—that’s cool, too. Damn, I guess I like my feet pretty good.

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I even like them in Tevas

Other than my mouth full of wisdom teeth and my small, orange feet, my ability to not get motion sick is my favorite thing about myself. I can read in cars as they speed along winding roads and I can happily fall asleep on a cruise ship as it rocks back and forth.

So, earlier this month when Alastair and I crossed the Cook Strait by ferry—from the South Island of New Zealand to the North Island—and our departure got delayed due to rough seas, I was excited. I’ve heard lots of horror stories about vomiting ferry passengers, and I wanted my own. I wanted to test my stomach’s limits.

And it was the perfect storm for testing my stomach’s limits. Not only would I be crossing tumultuous waters on a ferry, but I’d also eaten a lot of food that day. (We’d stayed at a bed and breakfast the night before, and they fed us like queens and kings. If you ever go to a place called Kaikoura, I highly recommend the Nikau Lodge.)

Below is a list of the things I ate. I remember it perfectly because all I think about, ever, is food. (Food and also my feet. Did I mention I can pick things up with my toes? I just finished petting a cat with them, actually. Holy moly they some good ass feet.)

I encourage just skimming this list, as it’s long and boring and basically a grocery list for a family of four.

  • Banana
  • Peach
  • Fresh plum
  • Stewed plum
  • Yogurt
  • Granola
  • Tea
  • Orange juice
  • Toast with scrambled eggs
  • Potato hash thing
  • Bacon
  • Half a tomato fried in butter
  • Mushrooms fried in butter
  • Large chicken sandwich with miscellaneous vegetables
  • Candy
  • Macaroon
  • ¼ bag of chili sauce flavored chips
  • Half a PB&J sammy
  • Large hunk of cheddar cheese that had not been refrigerated for a while

Sounds grotesque, listed out like that. I should consider eating less.

NEVERDALESS, when we boarded the ferry, I knew it would be the true test of my gut’s durability. During the three hour journey, I kept a log of my nausea. Here ‘tis.

9:01 p.m.
Finally on the ferry. I ain’t worried bout nothin.

Nausea scale: 1 out of 10, only because I ate old cheese.

9:17 p.m.
A gross man just chose the couch next to me, took his shoes off, and kicked up his sour-cream-and-onion flavored feet directly next to my head. A minute after that, I heard the thud of a baby’s head as she fell on the ground. Had to get up and go to the bathroom, just so I wouldn’t hear her wails, and everything I touched there was wet.

I could very well throw up tonight.

4 out of 10, eff.

9:20 p.m.
Had to get up again and find the deck for some fresh air. Saw someone eating a corndog.

5 out of 10.

9:25 p.m.
On the deck. There are smokers out here and, uh, the seas is churning.

5 out of 10.

9:40 p.m.
Back at the couch and my head hurts. Both Alastair and Mr. Stanky Feet are asleep. Finna lie down despite the one million stains on this couch.

5.5 out of 10.

9:56 p.m.
Put my headphones in and chose Trey Songz’s “Gotta Make It.” I can’t stop thinking about the eggs I had for breakfast, in a bad way. All right, truly going to try to sleep.

6 out of 10.

10:02 p.m.
I’m making myself sick with this log, thinking too much about smells and noises. Motion of the ocean is actually fly, I feel like I’m skiing! Stomach hurts though.

5 out of 10

10:11 p.m.
Had to turn up my music. Far too much coughing around these parts.

5 out of 10.

11:19 p.m.
I slept! But woke up to a chorus of babies coughing and confident men laughing. Terrible alarm clock, but otherwise I feel fine.

4 out of 10.

11:23 p.m.
This coughing baby sounds like it’s going to throw up.

5 out of 10.

11:24 p.m.
Aw, remember that time Coogan threw up in the car because he ate too many blueberries? You weren’t there but he told you about it several times. Vomiting babies aren’t so bad.

4 out of 10.

11:39 p.m.
Back to the bathroom. Smells like Fritos and bunny pee, which is redundant because they have the exact same odor.

5 out of 10.

11:44 p.m.
We’re almost to Wellington and the seas have calmed down. I miss the rough seas, they were more fun. The worst part of this whole trip has been my inability to put my hands down the front of my pants (for sleeping comfort).

3 out of 10.

11:53 p.m.
I’m gonna put my hands down my pants. I’ll keep them up high, but I’ll never see these people again anyway and plus where else does one keep her hands when recumbent?!?

1 out of 10.

12:14 p.m.
Back in the car, on dry land. I’m snacking on sour worms and savory crackers and my gut is strong as ever.

0 out of 10, hell yee-haw.

p.s. THE ANSWER IS NAH.