Post Grad Prima Donna

Recent college graduate attempting to navigate adult life and change the world one bad outfit at a time.

[kgarrison90]

To The Baddest Betch

I’ve been struggling to figure out how to pay tribute to my lifetime idol, Joan Rivers. A fashion icon, comedian, and all around entertainer. I have no idea how I could ever do her justice as a mere Tumbler writer with eight followrs, but if she taught me anything, it’s that women comedians have more substance than they give themselves credit for.

Now, I don’t consider myself a “comedian” per say because I really don’t think I’m funny, just honest. But there’s a difference between telling the truth and telling jokes and sometimes not. But that’s where I have found my happy medium because of Ms. Rivers. She taught me to push the boundaries, tell the truth, and twist it all with a little bit of humor.

When I think about it, I have dozens on dozens of stories, both incriminating and probably mostly made up, but regardless, they’re stories that I would, one day like to tell with as much fervor as she would. I would also like to attempt to condemn anyone that had just as many bad college hookups and/or outfits as I did. I know you're out there because I was there, bitches. The 2010s were a confusing time.

I really like to hate on people for their terrible outfits. Did you bring the neck choker back? I caught it. Double denim? There are only a few ways to do it right. This is a short paragraph because crop tops: no. If I can see your butt cheeks: die. And if the two are combined with a flannel and combat boots, I won’t say anything. Because just stop.

I dress myself everyday with the intent that Joan would place me in the “best” column of the fashion police, but I know homegirl takes risks and I would probably end up on the “worst” list more often than not. But that’s what I love about her. No agenda and nothing expected. Just a good outfit. My icon, my idol, and everything. I would like to be some day. Rest in couture, Joan.

[kgarrison90]

So Nice To Meet You... So Nice.

For the past year and a half I have been testing the waters of the “adult” dating pool. I never thought it would be a particularly enjoyable experience, but I also never expected to be able to compare so many bad dates to girls I encountered during sorority rush.

Being in a sorority taught me countless life lessons, like always have a hair tie close by whenever I go out or the fact that wearing cute underwear is more important than you would think. But I never thought I would be able to, or even have to, maneuver through a pool of awkward dates by utilizing recruitment tactics. Said strategies are proving to be truly invaluable. For example:

1. The Mute: while we are, for the most part, relatively sure this individual can in fact use words, they simply don’t. For whatever reason this person maintains a conversation as well as an alpaca. Maybe worse. In sorority girls I typically chalk this up to that they want to be anywhere but here. In a date, pretty much the same thing, but either way, you’re boring me and are BFE (better fit elsewhere) because I ran out of conversation topics at “So, you have hair… Tell me about it!”

2. The Over-Enthused: please, back up before you’re actually sitting on top of me. A little enthusiasm goes a long way and too much makes me want to seek out your barista and request that they switch you to decaf. It’s terrifying, really. No one can be that interested about what I eat for my meals every day or where I was my hair.

3. The Legacy: either you’ve hooked up with someone they know or vice versa, you both know what’s up so there’s no need to make it more awkward than it already probably is. Similarly, I’m aware 12 of your sisters and both your grandmas, and oh don’t forget your mom, was a member. We know. No need to drop it like it’s hot into our conversation every five seconds. I would rather talk to my date about how his bestie was terrible in bed, since he won’t stop asking.

4. The Jesus Freak: saving yourself for marriage? This won’t work out. This also goes for the science lover; We really have nothing to talk about… Cookie?

5. The Extreme Partier: while I’m not opposed to a good party, there are times to discuss those parties and there are times that it really isn’t necessary. Or welcome. Recruitment being one if them and a first date is another. Whether male or female prospective recruit, I really don’t need to hear about all of your social and emotional endeavors. Congratulations on your two story beer bong or triple-one-night-stand; it’s nothing we haven’t seen or topped before. But regardless, slow your roll. I don’t need you puking on my moderately priced shoes on the “First Night Out”.

Really no follow up is necessary.

[kgarrison90]

Rumor Has It

In my 21(+3) years of experience I've come to realize that rumors are almost always untrue. I also believe that anyone that takes an extraordinary amount of stock in them is a fucking idiot. I've reached this level of cognizance through the trials and tribulations of not necessarily myself, until recently, but by merely observing the shitshow that transpires after a bomb drops. Seriously though, watching people gossip and spread rumors is like watching an epic game of "telephone". You know, that game that people play and totally demolish the original sentence? Only, it's not so much fun and games anymore when you realize that it actually impacts people's lives. Yes, I care about something other than shoes and alcohol.

Not to say that I'm not guilty of any sort of scandal distribution, because I am. I think it's human nature to take interest in other people's lives. But at what point does it become petty and glib and actually begin to reflect poorly on you instead of the person about which you're echoing information about? Pretty damn fast.

Roughly two years ago, because a friend made an innocent, drunken joke, not even including my name, two girls decided that it was their business to let everyone on my college campus know that I was pregnant. All who knows me knows that I would do just about anything to not have children so their malicious tidings were entirely inaccurate. Looking back at the events that transpired I have come to understand that people probably decide to disseminate slander are more than likely unfulfilled by their own lives, which gives me more solace than any apology ever could.  Also I have thicker skin than most people, like alligator skin boots thick, so I usually chalk every mean word said about me up to "suck it".

My accusations seem harsh, I know. Especially for someone that doesn't ever deny publicizing priveleged information that so-and-so divulged to so-and-so in confidence. But when I look at it more closesly and dissect it until my brain turns to (hopefully couture) mush, I just really hope these people have a subscription to Netflix or a really satisfying vibrator to help them pass the time with something other than the lives of people who are probably prettier than them. I do love hearing new things about me, though, so keep it coming if necessary.

[kgarrison90]

Dumbass MD

In recent years I have realized something that I'm pretty sure I've known since I was roughly eight years old. I am a hypochondriac. I've always known this deep down and joked about it from time to time, but I haven't actually grasped the gravity of my situation until two nights ago.

It all started God knows when, but for the purpose of my prose, we'll say it started in middle school. I really honestly think it sparked when I was diagnosed with a double ear infection. From that day on I proceeded to rack up my family's insurance bills by visiting the doctor at least once a month to clean my ears. Like literally who does that? If someone is paying you to clean your ears every four weeks you should at least be injecting fucking gold into their eardrums at the end of every session. That came to a quick halt, when Jim realized what I was up to.

But at the same time I wouldn't have been diagnosed with said ear infections without my BFFAE Webbmd. Well that and the severe bronchitis (thanks mom, for thinking I was lying to get out of a family trip).

Upon my discovery of WebMD I am fairly positive that something in my brain clicked that I was diseased, at all times. Since my ear infection, I have been self diagnosed with a brain tumor, kidney failure and several cases of melanoma (if you've seen the translucency of my skin you would totally understand). But this post was inspired by something very recent and Grey's Anatomy influenced.

Two nights ago I was awoken to an indescribable pain in my chest. Now, given my history of dramatics you can only guess that my first stop was to WebMD. Basically I sat in bed for an hour convincing myself I was having a heart attack. At 23. Looking back at it, I just can't... But in the moment it became a struggle between life and my very fake death. I gave myself a panic attack so between that and the chest pain, I was "having a heart attack". My current self wants to punch my past self in the face. Regardless of any actual distress, my deranged mind was telling my that within a matter of hours, I was probably going to perish.

I was lying in my bed thinking of all of the things hidden in my room that I had to throw away. I mean, if I was going to have a heart atack at 23, my parents didn't need to know all of my dirty little secrets... that was for my children to discover when I died at 110 years old (you're welcome future children, I will never die). So as I was mentally rounding up all of my infidelities, I realized I should probably wake up my dad to have him take me to the nearest Emergency Room where Patrick Dempsey would operate and I would make a miraculous recovery. 

That was when I bitch-slapped myself into reality. It was six in the morning and I had convinced myself to stay awake or die. Die in the most unrealistic sense of the word because really, that was not going to happen because as it turns out, I had a strained sternum, one of the least life threatening ailments a human being can have. While it hurts like a mother fucker, it absolutely is not to  be of any concern.

Essentially, I both blame and praise WebMD. I'm pretty much a psycho that believes Ebola is a relevant disease to my lifestyle and who knows how I might actually die, but for the time being I understand that a heart attack might be a little out there. At the same time, I've since looked up the consequences of a hangnail... I acknowledge I'm a WebMD addict and Hypochondriac and I can't stop.

[kgarrison90]

Queen of the Drunk Tank

You know how people say that there’s at least one friend in your group that everyone hates and if you don’t know who that is then it’s probably you? I do too. And I feel very similarly when it comes to drinking. If you’re in a room of people, at a bar, drinking with your cats or wherever you find yourself at the bottom of a bottle and if you can’t pin point who’s the drunkest, I have bad news: It’s you.

I’ve reached this bright light at the other side of the drunk tank after far too many nights (and a lot of days) of waking up without any clue of what happened between after dinner and before I woke up face down in a Crunchwrap Supreme. It’s a sad truth but everyone has been this person at least once. Unless you don’t drink… in which case, I’m sorry. But regardless, we’ve all had that experience. I myself am guilty of being this person at least 37 times. For what reason? I have no fucking clue. Maybe it was the $1.50 vodka crans at Ladies Night at the Corner Club or because I have zero self control (as stated in a previous post). But I also attribute my excessive drinking to my extreme narcissism. I literally think I can out-drink anyone anywhere at anytime. This is false. I can hold my own, but, when drinking, I think that I can go shot for shot Sir Jameson himself. This is also the reason I don’t remember anything about the 2011 Super Bowl. Really… Like, who even played? Don’t tell me, I want to be surprised when I find out.

To avoid being “that person” I’ve come up with several steps that I myself have never actually followed but hope that someone somewhere does so that I don’t have to deal with your bullshit…

1. Don’t buy yourself an entire half gallon of Kamchatka to prefunk with; you will either try to finish it and black out before actually going out, or finish it (congrats?) and go to the hospital. Either way, you lose. 2. Never pretend you’re tough enough to chase your shots with beer. No one is and you will throw up at some point and I can’t personally think of anyone that wants to see that. 3. When I, as the instigator, tell you we should get “6 for 3” margaritas, save yourself. 4. Nothing good ever came from drinking Jameson and waters. Ever. 5. If you run out of beer, substituting vodka or any other hard alcohol for your power hour is never a good idea. 6. If the name of your drink has an alliteration, the word “panties”, or “adios”, you’re done. 7. Century hours: great in theory, not so great in execution. 8. “Puke and rally” shouldn’t be a thing. It should never be a thing. You need to go home. 9. Also, stay with your buddy. The buddy system is a tried and true program. At best, they’ll put you in a cab home, at worst, there will be two “drunkest people”. Win. 10. Pizza.

Then comes the issue of black out texting: the big brother to drunk texting. But that’s for another time.

[kgarrison90]

My Tortured Past

Since graduating, I’ve noticed more and more that people are overly interested in my love life. Apparently I’ve reached the age that when I tell someone I’m single, it is met with the semi-head tilt and that sympathetic look of “don’t worry, you still have time”. I know. I’m fucking 23, leave me alone.

Now, I’m not inherently good at being in a relationship in the first place so that could potentially be why people around me are getting worried that I’ll wind up living above my friends’ garages with my bottles of vodka and collection of animals. But they just seem like a full on nightmare as evidenced by my terrifying experiences. And, by observing my friends and their current or most recent relationships, it got me thinking even more about my own. I don’t like to call them relationships, though; I like to call them catastrophic disasters.

I’m fairly certain that all of my boyfriends have been either a result of me being completely blacked out the entire time or in total denial. I like to think it’s the latter, but if you know my drinking habits, you’ll know for a fact it’s the former.

My romantic life started back in the third grade with, let’s call him Jared, and we spoke a total of six times. Considering we didn’t have enough interaction to break up with one another, I probably owe him a long overdue apology for cheating on him so many times. Oops. Middle school came with a long string of random boyfriends, whom I spoke to less than Jared, probably because I was afraid to open my mouth out of fear that someone would find out that I had braces. And was really awkward.

High school got a little less awkward and a lot more interesting. The aftermath of my first actual relationship (we spoke at least 15 times) is something I like to compare to the eruption at Pompeii or Hiroshima. Unfortunately it didn’t end once but continued to start up and abruptly shut down more times than a car on which I’m learning to drive stick shift, which just hasn't been good for anyone. Towards the end of my adolescence I discovered my power of manipulation which would prove to be the downfall and probably the eventual mental unhinging of all of my college boyfriends.

All of my failed love conquests have led me to finally grasp the concept that I’ll probably end up alone. This is because all of my boyfriends have been either overly douchey or such a little bitch that I should have put a rhinestone collar on them and put them in my tote bag.

This all isn’t to say that I’m not at fault for any of my endeavors’ combustion. I’m a nightmare. I become totally codependent and even more demanding than I already was. If I want cheesecake at 2 am, you bet your sweet ass, as my boyfriend, you’re driving to Shari’s to get me an entire cheesecake which I will absolutely not be sharing with you. Then you will be blamed two years later when I’m in the middle of my aforementioned weight gain (see "The Struggle"). Then I will justify being a total diva by blaming you for being a pushover. No matter what, you will lose. Sorry.

All of this leads me to believe that I’m not made to be in a relationship other than the one I’m in with myself, shopping, and Philly cheesesteaks, and the worst part is, I don’t think I’m upset about that.

[kgarrison90]

The Struggle

With my impending unemployment looming in the shadows, I recently decided the least I could do to show any sort of self improvement would be to start working out again. For you to fully grasp the the severity of my motionless life I should take you back a few years... To freshman year. "The Year That I Stopped Moving", is what I like to call it. While I didn't gain the weight immediately, my inescapable "sophomore 35" was lurking in the not-so-distant future and it was definitely worse than the "freshman fifteen" in every possible way. This was due in part to the fact that my beer intake increased and also that my gym frequency decreased. Discovering Taco Bell also did not improve my situation. My weight gain was only emphasized by the fact that, like a small dog, at 5'2", when I gained five pounds it's more like I gained 15. So when you think about it I probably should have waddled my way back to the gym much sooner. Now you might be thinking "good for you, turning your shit around". And I would probably think that too if I didn't know the end of this story. Basically my logic behind working out is that if I exercise for X amount of time, I can eat triple the amount of calories that I burn. Really?! What sense would that ever make ever? But for some reason it seems like the most legitimate decision I have ever made when I gorge myself on Chipotle immediately after my excessive sweating ceases. I'm also 100% convinced that the "minutes" that gauge one's workout time on a machine is exponentially longer than a normal world's minute. Like a normal minute is quantified by 60 seconds, but I'm pretty sure one single minute on an elliptical is more like 85 seconds. This realization has, unfortunately for my thighs, begun to sway my interest away from these means of cardio. This still doesn't give me the right to consume so much food in one sitting that it seems more like a contest than a simple meal. But do I care? I mean, I really probably should. The struggle between my extensive love of food and my desire to be skinny again is a tough one. Essentially, I have less self control than Lindsey Lohan at an open bar. To soon? Go team.

[kgarrison90]

Post Grad Problems

I thought that it would only be fitting for my very first post to be about my most recent dilemma. Now, I don't know if it was the impending "that time of the month", or a serious quarter life crisis that caused me to make the most impulsive decision of my life, but regardless of the reason, it happened anyways. It all started about a week ago when I was scouring the Pinterest boards, as per my usual lunch break routine, when I came across a quote. It was one of those quotes that aren't really that profound but they are strategically placed over a picture of a sunset or breaching Orca whales or something so they seem deeper. But I digress; the quote in question was something like "If it doesn't challenge you, it doesn't change you". Again, I'm not entirely sure why this quote in particular resonated so deeply with me. It was probably the Orcas. Nevertheless it struck me. It struck me so hard, like a two-by-four to the back of the head, that I marched right in to my boss (actually my assistant mananger, I have a problem with authority) and quit my job. Ok, I didn't actually quit my job. But I did give my two weeks notice. Ok three weeks notice. I marched out of work that night feeling so empowered and so overly proud of myself that I'm pretty positive my head grew three sizes that day. You might now be thinking "oh wow she probably found an awesome job at some awesome fashion company". You would be wrong. As of March 15 I will be utterly unemployed. 

Since realizing this little glitch in my seemingly "wise" plan, I have been trolling the internet for jobs all across the continental U.S. I even have considered moving overseas to teach children english. But then I realized a major flaw in my plan I hate children and I hate flying. So that idea was promptly squashed. So alas, I find myself in a sort of post-grad limbo. Like Dante's Inferno status limbo. Scary, right? If you disagree then you're probably the person that wants to live on a beach on some remote island where you can live off of coconuts and not shower for a month. I am not that person. I have far too many shoes for that. 

So here I am, at the birth place of my "blog", since that's like the thing now. Only unfortunately I'll probably only remember to post anything if I think of something really witty while brushing my teeth or something hysterical happens in my unemployment. Cheers.