“No. No! No way, Violet. You can’t. We don’t have time. You always do this.”
“Oh come on babe,” she snuggles her face into my chest, and glances up curling her lips while flashing irresistible green puppy eyes, “It will only be five minutes.”
“It is never JUST five minutes. That is the bigge — ” before I could finish she had already pranced across the room.
Within a moment, the bathroom door slams shut, and I can hear the water pelting down.
“Too late,” I mutter to myself.
I lay sprawled out on my belly when suddenly, I feel…
Sounds of rock music echo through the hallways, and infiltrate my office.
Balling my fists, I mutter to myself, “How many times have I told her to turn down that God-awful music?”
I slam down my newspaper, jump out of my chair, and storm towards her room.
I fling the door open. I shout, “Roxy!”
Shielding herself with a blanket she shrieks, “Dad! I am not decent. Can you knock?”
As blood courses to my cheeks, I turn my back.
“Roxy we discussed this. …
Harsh fumes from burnt snickerdoodle cookies engulfed the living room, but the fighting had finally stopped.
As I fight for fresh air in the smoky room, I stretch out my legs, cover myself in a fuzzy blanket, and slouch prostrate onto the living room couch.
Finally, a moment of peace.
The shouting picks up again.
The voices grow louder and louder.
Their bellowing voices shake the entire house.
Are you kidding me!
I tear off my blanket, launch myself onto my feet, and march towards the confrontation.
I have to play peacemaker before they rip…
I want to rip my fucking hair out!
A vanilla candle illuminates the beige walls of my bathroom as I stand on my furry blue bathmat lost in my own reflection.
I peer into my dark brown eyes. They glare back at me. Taunting me.
I look away and gaze at the stapled brown Sally’s beauty bag resting on top of the dirty marble sink.
I shift my focus back onto the mirror and examine myself.
Mirror mirror on the wall… why why why did I have to be cursed with this disgusting ratty orange hair?
For over 3 million Americans including myself, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) is a crippling and chronic mental illness that wreaks havoc on our personal, professional, and private lives.
Notably, according to the National Institute of Mental Health, those suffering with OCD are plagued with uncontrollable thoughts, known as obsessions which differ depending on the individual, but often consist of a fixation on cleanliness, recurring fears of tragedy, and chronic doubt.
Essentially, when suffering from OCD, your brain is constantly fixated on an impending never-ending apocalypse.
Even worse, those suffering from OCD feel the irresistible compulsion to engage in compensatory behaviors…
As a guy who has successfully contracted syphilis twice, and pubic lice (crabs) once, it is evident, and in no way hyperbole, to say that I sleep around.
Sadly, many of you blokes reading today might go your entire life without receiving a single STD diagnosis.
To help you improve your chances, I have concocted an all-encompassing list to help your sad sorry self improve your chances with the ladies.
You are welcome in advance.
Often times, the absurd and harmful myth that girls prefer a well-groomed man is spread around.
This is unequivocally false.
Girls always prefer a man…
92% of American girls will own a Barbie Doll during the course of their childhood (Dockterman).
Yet, none of these girls will ever fit the toxic body standards set by Barbie.
Here is insight into how the progressive origins of Barbie spun into a body shaming butchering of young girls’ confidence, and whether the damage is irrevocable.
Although Barbie is widely known for invoking toxic body standards, Barbie was initially intended to be a symbol of feminine empowerment.
During the foundational years of Barbie, the creator of Barbie, and the first C.E.O. of Mattell Toy Co., Ruth Handler openly declared…
Alongside designing outfits for Jackie Kennedy, being a pioneer of American fashion, amassing hundreds of millions of dollars, being an outspoken gay icon, and permanently changing the world of fashion, Halston lived his life in a rockstar manner (Minahan).
He frequently spent nights snorting mounds of cocaine while partying at the infamous Studio 54 in New York, had an entourage of 20 models known as the “Halstonettes” constantly surrounding him, hosted Gatsby-esc parties in the West Village of New York, and regularly enlisted male prostitutes (Tcheng).
Sadly, the fun ended and things took a turn for the worst as Halston…
In each of our lives, we will ask, and will inevitably be perplexed by one question: what happens when we die?
For hundreds of thousands of years, every intelligent civilization has derived a theory attempting to answer this question. Every civilization has also failed to deliver irrefutable concrete evidence to support their own theory.
However, I am here to inform you that this question is much simpler than it seems. Now, at this point I guarantee you are questioning my credentials, and my expertise on this subject.
I have none.
God has not come down from the Heavens to give…
I remember clutching a knife behind my green and pink pastel Lily Pulitzer sundress as I stormed up to the office of my daughter’s high school chemistry teacher, Mr. Weinstein.
I remember not being able to even look at the slimy bastard. So instead, I glared at the poster of the periodic table hanging behind his head.
I remember his panicked face, when he pleaded, “You don’t have the full story. Teenage girls are emotional. She came onto me.”
I remember thrusting forward and plunging my knife through his chest.
Again… Again… And… Again…
I remember his warm blood splattering…
Trying to make you feel something.