Owning your weirdness is probably the coolest thing someone can do.
I love words, I love stringing them together in phrases (duh, I’m a writer), and I love learning new ones. I wish we had more of them. Specifically, I wish I had a succinct word for certain feelings
Have you ever put eyeliner on your ear? Probably not, I would wager. Maybe you’ve done it by accident, when you were attempting to perfect the flick on a particularly daunting winged eyeliner endeavor and your brush wandered off track, or if you let your baby cousins play with your makeup and they didn’t really get that the kohl pencil wasn’t actually meant to trace the outline of your earlobe.
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Talking about the graphic details of sex can be award enough – getting down and dirty and discussing the bodily fluids that come out when a person ejaculates? It’s downright comfortable, and something that a lot of people don’t really discuss. Talking about semen usually garners this simple reaction: “Ewww!” But if you’re a girl who has had sexual contact with dudes, chances are, you’ve had your fair share of experience with semen. If that’s the case, you already know that semen can be a messy and sticky situation, and is a big star in a lot of embarrassing sex stories.
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I’m not a big animal person. I mean, they’re can be cute to look at, but I’m not all that enthusiastic about interacting with them. I never grew up with pets, I’ve never lived on a farm, and I don’t really care for zoos. I love a cute puppy video and a pic of an elephant just like anybody else with a heart, but I have some chill.
With all that said, I totally had a crush on Simba from The Lion King as a kid.
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Look up “blow-job” in the dictionary, and you might feel frustrated with the explanation. “Blow job: (noun) an act of fellatio.” Thanks for nothing, Merriam-Webster. Why don’t sex-ed classes teach us how to “give a blow job?” Okay, fine, I guess they can’t teach us how to do sex stuff in school (that would also be so awkward), but how the heck are we supposed to know what we’re doing down there?! Even the name itself is confusing. Are you supposed to be blowing? Is there a “right” and a “wrong” way to do this? What if your knees start to hurt? Going down on a dude can be downright confusing, whether you’re an oral sex virgin or you’ve done it a few times.
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Kissing. It’s what’s for dinner! Just kidding. That is #actually a slogan from an ad campaign for beef from 1993 that still exists today and, in many ways, has become one of our most enduring memes. But, in any case, for once I am not here today to talk about the meme-ification of bovine awareness campaigns! I am here to talk about the ol’ tonsil hockey AKA makin’ out AKA K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
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When I was in seventh grade, my best friend at the time decided that she wanted to change her name. At thirteen, she figured that she’d had enough of her original name, which was Denver, and decided that she wanted everyone to call her “Ulle” (pronounced “OO–lee”) as a tribute to a man named Jan Ullrich, a German cyclist on whom she had a bit of a crush. Though she couldn’t legally change her name (being a minor and all that), her dedication to convincing all of us that Ulle really was her name certainly was admirable–she requested that all teachers call her Ulle, wrote the name at the top of her papers, and feigned deafness whenever someone called her “Denver.” After a while, the name stuck (As W.C. Fields once said, “It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to.”)
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Like most people my age, I have what, by many definitions, could probably be considered an unhealthy relationship with my cell phone. I keep it tethered at a scary-close range to my body at all times–either clamped in my tight, clammy grip or placed in an easily-grabbable place in my purse if I’m trying to be “polite”–and go through brief-but-palpable spasms of anxiety if it is not easily accessible to me for about, say, five minutes. It is a real problem, not only because of this borderline-addictive behavior, but because it implies that, if/when the time for me to have children ever comes, I will most likely be one of those “Leash Moms” who maintains a firm hold on her children by keeping them on those leashes disguised as backpacks.
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Having sex. Getting down and dirty. Doing the deed. Making love. There are a hundred ways to say it, and a million ways to do it. As long as you’re both consenting individuals, there’s really no “wrong” way to have sex… even though it doesn’t always feel like you’re doing it “right.” Whether you’re doing it for the first time ever, with a new partner, with your bae, inside, outside, upside down, it’s not going to be the same experience twice. That’s the thing about sex - it doesn’t always make sense.
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What is school if not a place for your mind to just…wander? I mean, sure, technically you are there to “learn” and “get an education” and “get into college” so you can become a “responsible adult,” but really, at a certain point, there’s only so much you can do in that regard. For most people, it only takes about eleven minutes to get distracted, after all, so if you’re in a forty-five minute-long class, that gives you at least four times for your mind to create some sort of diversion for itself. Plus, there’s the fact that school, since it’s basically a petri dish of awkward human interaction, offers a lot in the way of entertaining interruptions–like, you’ve got your requisite friend drama, crushes on your classmates, and (though we don’t endorse this) potential crushes on teachers.
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At this point, I think we can all agree that, for most of us, the line between being online and offline has basically become more or less impossible to distinguish. Where once there was a clear divide between ”URL” and “IRL,” there is now nothing, really, that creates a barrier between the two–for most people, everything that happens in real life is basically just curation. You know, trying to figure out how to make what’s happening in your actuallife a means of becoming 100% popping in your online life–Snapchatting everything, Insta-ing all of your brunches in the hopes that, one day, you might become a veritable Viral Meme (don’t believe me? Just ask Damn Daniel).
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Emergency contraception like Plan-B can prevent an unwanted pregnancy up to 72 hours after having unprotected sex or dealing with a condom malfunction. It’s even more easily accessible to teens now than ever before, which is great! So… does that mean that all those myths about pouring Sprite up your cooch after having unprotected sex to avoid pregnancy are going to finally start dying off? One can only hope.
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