designer diploma.

i’m going out on a limb here and putting your high school english composition and/or elementary writing skills to the test with something i am calling a simile/analogy combo. 

a diploma from mercer is like a pair of designer shoes. 

ok, maybe designer shoes is a bit of a stretch, but mercer is at least similar to a pair of overpriced marginally well-known brand name shoes in a pricey boutique. you see, a mercer diploma, similar to the friends hanging out in my closet, and on my floor, in my car, and in my purse, is all about the label. sure, mercer is no yale or harvard; it’s not a vanderbilt, hell, it’s not even an emory, but the fact remains that what mercer lacks in credentials, football players, and enrollment statistics it makes up for in that sneaky little designer price tag. and, just like those crafty boutiques, high end department stores and online shops, mercer offers their own personal brand of coupons and free shipping cunningly masked as these things they call scholarships. you honestly don’t even have to be that smart (personal experience) and this school will literally throw money at you. so, you’ve given into the scam, combined several coupons and decide to make mercer your home for the next four (five if you’re lucky, six if you’re ridiculous, and seven if you’re me) years. what do you expect to get out of this? if mercer is anything like a pair of overpriced designer shoes, which duh i’ve said like ten times i think it is, you can expect plenty of pain, regret, general discomfort, recognition of poor decision making skills, barefootedness, falling, and possible bodily harm. the pain comes when you realize you’re expected to go to class while hungover to listen to some loser pontificate over matters of “epic importance” (no thank you, if you want to learn something take dr. macke). the regret surfaces when you find out that even after your 21st birthday you can’t legally drink in your (on campus) place of residence and that your body can and will be considered a “container” and while intoxicated is not allowed on campus either. the general discomfort occurs when you see the ragamuffins which are now your “classmates”. the recognition of poor decision making skills comes after the aforementioned realizations and at the point which you understand that you will spend the next ten years of your life paying off your college loans/receive angry scowls from papa bear concerning how much of his hard earned money went to your damn designer degree. the barefootedness, falling, and bodily injury are more personal interjections which reflect the level of intoxication necessary to deal with the above list of general complaints. and hey, guess what? most hobos wouldn't know a manolo from a steve madden if you hit them in the face with it. 

there is hope in all this, kiddos. for those discerning enough to know the difference there is a huge distinction between your cute jessica simpson platforms (georgia state) and a pair of ($1200) christian louboutins (mercer). let’s just hope that your potential employer didn’t get their pumps at tj maxx and that you know how to rock the shit out of that designer diploma. 

did i take it too far with the shoe analogy?

i'm gonna betch slap you shetbag!

personal space.

hey lady, i don’t mean to be rude (lies), but if you don’t back the hell away from me, immediately, i’m going to have a panic attack and be forced to kick you in the virginia. 

i don’t know what has caused the sudden uprise in people crowding around and touching me while in public, but it’s starting to make me feel like a psycho. i’m not sure if i’ve started emitting “stand on top of me, breathe on me, and if it’s not too much trouble go ahead and touch me, stranger” pheromones or something, but i can’t seem to shop, eat, or buy groceries without randars invading my personal space. as a general rule of thumb, i would prefer if all strangers stayed as far away from me as humanly possible (unless said stranger is of the tall, dark, and handsome variety and meets the criteria mentioned in the “boyfriend application”, in which case i would prefer that aforementioned individual actually stands as close to me as humanly possible while shucking out hundred dollar bills in the general direction of the nearest pair of shoes). recently, i was shopping, looking at accessories, when a lady came up behind me, reached around my body, mexi-hold style, and starting checking out a pair of fugly feather earrings somewhere around my bellybutton region. really bitch? you can’t wait 37 seconds for me to decide that these earrings are gross as shit and move? you want my body? i get it, woman; everybody loves me, but you are a stranger. everyone knows that strangers don’t wash their hands after using the potty. or how about at the grocery store when i am trying to check out and you ram me with your basket and then literally breathe down my neck while i’m trying to pay? are you trying to steal the pin on my debit card (i can assure you, if there is money in my account it won’t be there for long), you wanna go halfsies on a bunch of bananas or are you hoping to get to second base in publix? whichever way, hate to break it to you, i’m not interested (see above for “unless stranger is of the tall dark and handsome variety...”). although i’ve found that looking at the invasive individual and simply saying, “is this real life?” works quite well, i am forced to consider more drastic alternatives as you people just can’t get enough of my lovely lady lumps. although i’ve been told that holding ones arms straight out to the sides and spinning in a large circle not only clears an area in width approximately equal to your own height of any bystanders who may be too close, but also defines clear personal space parameters, i believe there is a more effective solution to this common problem. the next time i go out, i’m taping a sign to my back that reads: “massive, explosive diarrhea. please stay back”. i’ve learned that poop is always the best way out of uncomfortable or unwelcome social situations (thanks, bronwyn/lindsey). 

in conclusion, unless you are a bestie or a sexy man please stay away from me and my kitty cat as we are no more fond of strangers touching us than we are of heinous footwear. 

if you're close enough to know whether or not i'm fresh, you're too damn close.

of course, i can't talk about personal space without my good friend luuuuuuuda!