Tell me where to live?

I always thought of myself as a suburban girl. I pictured living near my extended family, owning a used car, never changing my voter registration to anywhere besides Ohio, wearing sweatpants to Olive Garden. Honestly, I don't look down on that choice at all, and it's entirely possible that I'll find myself happily living between a llama farm and a Cracker Barrel in my forties. I was a suburban girl, and I'll probably be a suburban woman. Buuuuut, at least for my take-chances-because-you're-in-your-twenties decade, I think I'm ready to hook some Mace on my keychain and call myself a city mouse.

So like... how do you do that? Or more importantly, where?

I've spent the last year compiling a mile-long list of US cities I could see myself living in, which ranges from the financially ambitious (LA and NYC) to the easy (Orlando and Indianapolis) to the new and exciting (San Francisco and DC) to the hippy (Portland and Denver) to the idk-I-mean-I-like-country-music (Nashville and Charlotte). I'm not writing off any possibilities, and the second that otherwise unappealing Minneapolis calls to offer me a cool job or great place to live, I'm there. But, after much consideration and eager prodding from friends, I think I've narrowed it down to three Big Scary Options. Maybe none of these will be realistic for a year or two, but it's fun to daydream, you know? Here's the rundown.

Los Angeles Pros:

• Sunshine all year/no snow
• Healthy atmosphere, easy to eat well
• The beach! Nature! Green stuff!
• SO many of my friends live there or plan on moving there
• Potential for entertainment jobs/creative environment
• Cool stuff to do/entertainment
• Proximity to other West Coast cities

Los Angeles Cons:

• Expensive rent
• Need a car, need to park that car, need to insure that car
• Feeling comparatively frumpy and Midwestern
• Difficult and expensive to make plane trips home
• Very competitive work-wise
• No autumn leaves

New York City Pros:

• Potential for in-office writing jobs
• Don't need a car
• Fairly easy to visit home
• Cool stuff to do/entertainment/ability to stalk SNL cast
• Seasons similar to home
• Proximity to other East Coast cities

New York City Cons:

• Very expensive and small living space
• Gray, may have to go out of my way to be around trees
• Maybe this is unfair, but a lot of my experiences with New York have left me sensing a certain elitism from people in the city, which turns me off and makes me feel judged
• Snow that you have to walk through

Chicago Pros:

• Midwestern feel (ability to wear sweatpants to an Olive Garden if you MUST)
• Easy to get home to my family
• Don't need a car
• Potential for in-office writing jobs
• Cool stuff to do/entertainment/ability to obsess over Second City

Chicago Cons:

• Cold, rainy, snowy, windy/not enough sunshine
• I hardly know anybody there
• Farther away from East Coast cities

Uh... what do you think? I'm half tempted just to put it up to a vote. TELL ME WHERE I BELONG, STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET! Write-ins are also accepted, so long as you don't say "my house" or "Detroit." This isn't a problem I need to solve immediately, but it's pretty fun to fantasize about it. I don't have a clue where home will be nine months from now! Maybe my parents' house. Maybe under a bridge. Maybe in a mansion with Daddy Warbucks. Maybe Jason Mraz will finally answer my emails and carry me over his hippy shoulder all the way to his avocado orchard. Who knows? I don't have a clue, and for the first time in my life, I think that's awesome.

P.S. You guys were HILARIOUS with your responses to my little complain-about-your-exes game. I read every comment (94 at the time that I'm writing this!) and I honestly cannot pick a favorite. Honorable mentions go out to Sarah (MVP song: "I Wish I Hadn't Kissed You After I Beat You in Air Hockey"), Comelygrace (MVP song: "Why did you think I would want you to hollow out a tree in the woods and make a boat for me"), and a presumably different Sarah (MVP song: "Obscure Haiku [Don't Get That Tattoo]"). Cheers and appreciation and high-fives to you all.

Songs for Boyfriends Past

Today, while struggling more than any able-bodied adult human ever should to make a clay pot for my art class, I overheard an intriguing conversation. As water splashed off my pottery wheel, covering my arms in a layer of gray mud, two competent art students nearby discussed the new album one of them (presumably a singer-songwriter) is recording. "All the song titles," she told her friend, "are things I've always wanted to tell my old boyfriends." I was fascinated, in the way people who spend too much time on twitter and tumblr are always fascinated by the love lives of strangers, but didn't want to eavesdrop too much. The musician went on to list the track names for her friend, and I forced myself not to listen... but I did make out two of them: "I'm Completely Over It" and "Shut Up Already." Nice.

I tried to disguise my smile as a twisted-face look of concentration, and in taking my mind momentarily off the slippery monstrosity before me, I flattened my pot into a lopsided disaster. It was okay, though, because my brain had moved on to better things. If I were to write songs for all my former significant others, what would I call them? After some thought, I came up with the following:

NOW! That's What I Call Irritating (Volume 1)
1. I'll Never Stop Hating Your Oasis CD
2. Ugh
3. We're Very Impressed By Your Atheism (Talk About Something Else)
4. Making Out During That '70s Show
5. Bored! at the DnD Game
6. Is There a Subreddit That Can Teach You Social Skills?
7. I Think My Dad Hates You
8. I Told You That In Confidence (Don't Repeat It At This Party)
9. Your New Piercing
10. My Dad Definitely Hates You
11. Let's Just Watch Wishbone and Eat Chips
12. Ugh (reprise)

So what would yours be? This game doesn't discriminate against those who rock their singlehood-- you can make a track list for former crushes or flings or celebrity obsessions, too. If you want to play along, leave a comment with your list of song titles, and maybe I'll announce my favorite entry next time? All applicants win the invisible prize of my eternal love. And seventy invisible cookies.

Okay, I have to go scrub hunks of dry clay off my legs. (Is it supposed to burn?) I hope you guys have a lovely evening!


P.S. I posted a new video on Sunday. It's ridiculous.

Twenty-One-Ing

I'm reclining on a hideous-in-a-cool-way vintage couch that once lived in my late (incredible, inspiring) grandpa's work office, watching the sun set over the 1800s red brick architecture of my university campus, huffing the glorious fumes of a baking batch of cookies, whose recipe I just created on a whim. My roommate is off somewhere, allowing me to guiltlessly lounge pantsless and let my favorite Julia Nunes album play without headphones. I think you know, but just for the record, I only like you for your large hands...

This is one of those pretty moments that remind me of just how important pretty moments are. When I'm fifty years old and I think "college," my mind will probably go to that one professor who really believed in my poetry, the tornado that forced my nineteenth birthday party into a windowless hallway with a group of strangers and half a cake, waiting in the same line for the same late-night burrito every drunken weekend. Chances are, I won't commit a lot of this to memory-- the sipping tea, the listening to myself typing, the ignoring a sink of dirty dishes, the messy bun on top my head. I won't remember this pair of brown sandals, about which there is nothing at all special or extraordinary, but who took my feet for long walks around Chicago and out to karaoke with my best friend and shopping with my mom for the first time that I insisted I purchase all my own clothes. I won't always remember twenty-one with the kind of reverence I currently feel it deserves. I won't be able to conjure up this feeling of being equal parts confident and insecure about my body, equal parts excited and terrified about future job possibilities, equal parts comfortable in the world and anxious as hell. I won't remember how it feels like a victory every time I get through a phone call with a doctor's office without stumbling over my words like a little kid, or how it feels to have someone refer to you as "that woman over there" and realize they don't mean "woman" as a condescending compliment, but a genuine descriptor. I won't remember that little sinking in my stomach when it occurred to me that blue nail polish looks kind of silly on me now, or how I actually hold my breath every time I check my bank statement, or how eating a grocery store doughnut in a parking lot no longer sounds like an awesome idea. This state of twenty-one-ness that makes up my entire life right now will be gone and virtually forgotten as soon as the next stage starts... so this evening, I'm making an effort to soak it up.

I hope you guys have a lovely night! I'm off now to fill myself with banana-oatmeal-dark-chocolate-graham-cracker cookies and throw another filthy bowl on top my pyramid of neglected dishes. I should probably feel guilty about it, but who has time for that? I have a lot more twenty-one-ing to do before bed.


P.S. I posted a new video yesterday! This week's Answerly video (my series of advice for college students) is up as well.

Peeving

This is my last semester of college. Like, ever. By December, I'll have a degree, a real life, and a heart attack. What do graduates do? When does their year start? When is their summer? Do they ever buy five-subject notebooks? Do they still eat a whole package of Oreos in one sitting?

To commemorate my career as a writing student, I thought I might start posting some of my more entertaining* class assignments. I'm currently taking a course on the personal essay-- talking about yourself, trying not to sound obsessed with yourself, being obsessed with yourself-- you know, essentially this blog. For our first assignment, a short essay about one or more of our pet peeves, I was too bored to be honest, so I decided to write it from a slightly exaggerated, not-exactly-real version of myself. It's not a masterpiece, but it was fun. I hope you enjoy.

At this point, my biggest pet peeve is a little too big to fall under “pet” status. This peeve is more like an overweight son in his mid-twenties who won’t move out of your basement and get a job. This peeve has been nagging me to some degree my entire life, and it just gets uglier and heavier and peevier as the days go by. People tell me, “Get over it! It’s a fact of life! Junk food makes you fat!” I tell people, “Yes, and that pisses me off.” 

The thing is, I understand why unhinging your jaw like a pelican and cramming a dozen mini cupcakes down your throat would, in theory, make you gain weight. We’re decedents of chimpanzees who spend most of their afternoons gnawing fruit and trying to crack nuts open. Anything that strays too far from naked grazing on an open meadow is bound to be unhealthy. But shouldn’t evolution have solved this problem? Shouldn’t evolution have looked around, noticed that I spend my afternoons sprawled on my crumb-covered bed, elevating my chin just high enough to see my computer screen? Science really ought to have abolished calories by now. If I were science, I’d be like, “Wow, humans invented onion rings? That’s freaking incredible. We should get our shit together and let them eat onion rings. Free of charge. Go forth, my children.” 

But my peeve isn’t quite that simple. I’m almost able to accept the conditions: If you want to look good, you can’t be happy. This has been proven so many times, by so many blonde celebrities holding Starbucks cups on their way out of rehab, that nobody with the E! channel needs me to elaborate further. My second-biggest peeve emerges when someone inevitably tries to defy this law. For every two McDonald’s patrons this country has to offer, there is at least one vegan surfer who takes B12 supplements and does yoga on purpose. I really don’t know which is worse. On the one hand, all the leading causes of death in the US involve eating yourself into a blob. On the other hand, screw vegans. (I can say that. I am one. Because I hate myself.) 

I just want to let you know, chick wearing a handmade sweater made of organic yarn, that everybody hates you. Not for real, but symbolically. We see you picking at your cup of spinach, staring straight ahead with a dead-in-the-eyes smile as you attempt to gnash raw leaves between your molars, and you remind us that we’re Jolly Rancher-ing ourselves into a downward spiral. It’s your prerogative to eat granola, but at least have the common decency not to do it in front of me! 

Above all, though, I’m peeved with myself. These ten pounds that I lose and gain and lose again, every three months like clockwork, keep me constantly yo-yoing between worlds. I have duel citizenship in Fatass Town and Pretentious Pseudo-Nutritionist Who Says Shit Like “Holistic” City. I’ve been that person at the party whose enthusiastic cry of “Let’s make more brownies!” is greeted with silence and shrugs, and I’ve also been that person holding out a Mason jar and crooning, “Do you want some of my quinoa? I can never finish it.” Get with the program, past self! Your brownies make everyone feel like shit, and your quinoa tastes like it. But until I get a grip on reality (never), I will remain militant against all other eaters worldwide. You with the cheeseburger? You’re pissing me off. You with the agave nectar? You’re pissing me off. I guess what I’m getting at-- after all the “Can I see a dessert menu?” is said and after all the Pilates is done-- is that food stresses me out.

So yeah, that's basically how I'm using my multi-thousand-dollar education. If you're not completely sick of me yet, I posted a video on my second channel a few days ago, and I have a new hayleyghooover video coming out tonight. I hope you all have a lovely day! See you soon, guys.


*Keep in mind that "entertaining" is a relative term, and that these essays are pretty much only entertaining in comparison to 10-page papers about what the color green means in The Great Gatsby.

Pits and Parkas

Depression is the shittiest shit monster made of shit. It makes me write sentences like that one. It makes me write nothing else, at all, for days. The only natural cure for this feeling-- where it's like you've fallen into an extremely deep pit, and any attempt to crawl out just jostles more dirt into your face-- is to do your best to ignore that face-dirt, power through, and pull yourself out. That's what this melodramatic analogy is for. If I don't write a little bit of nonsense, I'll continue not writing anything at all. So get out of my way, face-dirt! I've got a blog to update!

I hate nothing more (short of, like, the supervolcano) than being a massive downer. I get my energy from being around positive people, I feel like one of my strengths is maintaining a certain level of optimism during debates, I genuinely enjoy the musical stylings of Ke$ha. It kind of disturbs me that a catchphrase of my generation is "I hate everybody," and when I'm in that place where I'm more happy than not-- more grateful than disappointed-- I find it difficult to be around people who disagree. Because of all this, it's mega hard for me to answer "How are you doing?" with anything other than "Good!" I don't want to be the sad one. I don't want to be that introspective emo chick in the coffee shop, wearing enough eyeliner that you can see her misery drip down her face. I don't want to be a drain or a bother or an Eeyore or a supervolcano. I just wish the energy and excitement for life that I definitely do have... came out of me with less effort. Maybe a better analogy than the pit of dirt would be a parka? Or something? It's me under the coat, completely alive, completely normal, but it's zipped up too tightly for me to get it off, and I can't get any work done because I'm sweating to death under the weight of this totally unnecessary layer. I can talk about all the stuff I have to get done, but I can't actually move.

I have just pages of video ideas on my desk right now, and I haven't been able to post anything for over a month. The creativity isn't an issue, but the creativity might as well not exist without the followthrough. I've found myself sitting still, doing nothing at all besides glancing half-heartedly at my twitter feed, saying out loud, "Today. You're filming that today. You're finishing those edits in half an hour. Twenty minutes. Now. You're writing that paper, you're going for that run, you're calling that friend. Get up!" And I just can't. The parka's too tight, the pit's too deep, whatever. It's the absolute shittiest feeling in the world.

I guess it's a step in the right direction, though, to be able to write this feeling down. It's taking longer than it ought to, yeah, and I'll be embarrassed and flighty if anyone in my day-to-day life tries to talk to me about it, of course, but at least I'm getting something finished. I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable or sad, guys. But, as always, I'm so, so, so entirely thankful that you're here to listen. I hope you have a lovely day, and that any pits or parkas you're aquatinted with don't get a good grip on you.

P.S. If depressed, I do not recommend clicking that link about the supervolcano. It was a bad decision to include that one. Just watch today's Answerly video about bagels instead. Or listen to Ke$ha.

Not a girl, not yet a non-disaster

Want to hear something completely insane? I'll be twenty-two years old in one month, a college graduate in four, a potential non-Ohioan soon thereafter. Want to hear my worldly, grown up, cosmopolitan response to all of it? Holy shit.

Evidence that I'm a woman:

• I can put on earrings without looking for the holes in a mirror.
• I can give you a to-the-hundred estimate of what's in my checking account at any given time.
• I don't feel any desire to buy vending machine candy bars.
• I keep my keys on a hook and my jewelry in a box.
• I keep track of appointments on a calendar.
• I get really excited by Target's kitchen supply section.
• All my coats have a matching pair of gloves in their front pockets.
• I rarely eat anything containing neon food coloring.

Reasons I'm a kid:

• I think jeans belong on the floor. (Anyone who claims it's convenient to fold them over slippery hangers or stack of them where they'll never be seen is pretentious/lying.)
• I don't keep bank deposit slips in my glove compartment.
• Regarding makeup, I haven't yet found a balance between Completely Bare and Crack Whore.
• Sometimes I let empty toilet paper rolls collect into a cardboard tube graveyard instead of just throwing them away.
• I still buy $4 magazines even though I know they're brainwashing and catalogueish and wasteful and satanic and all that.
• I can't make eye contact with the condom/pregnancy test/any-tube-with-the-word-"vaginal"-on-it aisle.
• I recently made my mother convince me there wasn't a murderer in my house.
• I'm, like, really pumped that they're making new Sailor Moon episodes.

I don't have the slightest idea how one is supposed to handle this transition. Ingest illegal substances? Get a mom haircut? Listen to the second track of every Broadway musical recording, wherein the protagonist invariably sings about how something's coming and they've gotta find their purpose and their corner of the sky and their one song glory? I don't know. I don't know. So I'm taking baby steps. Today, I clean out my childhood bedroom.

It's amazing how this room-- which used to be my only sanctuary of semi-privacy, where I could be my absolute self-- is suddenly a hot pink memorial to some kid who doesn't exist anymore. This polkadot rug that everyone said was ugly but I swore represented my unique style? It's ugly. The books that once changed my life are suddenly "cute." I can't decipher the metaphors in old journaled poems, I can't comprehend why something as hideous as this lamp would dare to exist, I can't remember what led me to attempt a "mural" on my closet wall. This room is a time capsule, a museum exhibit... a complete mess.

First task: eliminate any and all clothing that rings even the tiniest bit pubescent. I keep catching myself mulling over sweaters and being all, "Oh, this is still good! I got it during my freshman year of high school! That was only... seven years ago." Nope. Goodbye, tank tops with broken lace. Ciao, good-intentioned tops that look pretty on hangers but don't cover my boobs. I'm forcing myself to toss anything emblazoned with an embroidered seagull or designed for someone awaiting her first period. Discharging all Abercrombie products, pronto.

Sigh. The thing is, I'm getting pretty good at not being a child, but I'm still awful at being an adult. What are women supposed to wear? Like, khakis? I know the applique sweater vests don't come until later, and I think I'm supposed to own a lot of sparkly things for going to bars, but that's as close as I've come to figuring it out. I'll let you know if I wake up tomorrow with an insatiable desire to purchase control-top pantyhose. Until then, it's back to Britney Spearsing for me. I'm not a girl, not yet a woman, and not anywhere near done de-Hollister-izing my bedroom floor. See you guys soon!

Less Than Three Update & Stuff & Ponies

Your entries to my little makeshift writing contest were an absolute delight, guys. I pulled up your comments and blogs on my phone and rewarded myself for staying awake in class by reading them under the desk. We'll have to do this again sometime, yes? It feels silly to pick a winner, since that wasn't really the point, but I'm gonna have to go with EJ on this one. Just beautiful and affecting and good. Cheers and confetti and pinatas for everybody!

I've been in Crazy Work Mode for the last few days. It's all video filming and Less Than Three editing and homework and throwing things in fits of frustration. Still, I can't help but feel lucky or blessed or what-have-you that I get the opportunity to do what I love, and that I have the health and financial situation and support that I need in order for these kinds of projects be possible. I'm stressed, but it's the kind of stress I'm really grateful to have, you know? I'm trying to make more of an effort to spread my work out evenly and spend time enjoying it. As we speak, I'm writing this on my sunshiney balcony with a bottle of sun tea slowly changing color beside me, listening to the new Jason Mraz album, stretching my neck. Right on cue, Jason just sang the perfect summary of what I'm going for: "I'm letting go of the thoughts that do not make me strong." Me too, bud.

Oh hey, while we're (sort of) on the topic of The Book-- I've had a few people ask for an update about the project, probably because we've had a hard time coming up with some sort of central place for news about it, between mine and Kristina's million youtube channels and blogs and twitters and et cetera. At this point, we've been in contact with-- and received confirmation from-- all of the finalists. If you submitted a story and haven't heard from us personally about it, your story hasn't made it on to the next round to be considered for the official book. It is 100% yours again, so feel free to put it on your own blog or submit it to another publication, or even save it for if Kristina and I ever host a similar contest. Narrowing down the near thousand submissions was one of the most challenging hunks of work I've ever finished. Frankly, I was amazed by the talent and heart in each and every entry. If you participated, thank you so much for putting yourself out there, taking risks, and allowing us to read your work. This community is pretty much a constant ass-kicking awesome-fest. Thank you, guys.

On that note, my video files just finished rendering, so I'm about to jump into ferocious editing mode. If you missed it, I posted a new HGH video on Thursday (in which I wear a bikini and obscene amounts of eyeliner) and a new Answerly video yesterday, complete with tips for surviving final exams! I hope you all have a lovely morning/afternoon/evening/middle-of-the-night-when-you-should-be-sleeping-but-let's-face-it-you-probably-won't-because-tumblr-and-youtube-exist. I'll see you soon!


P.S. THERE WERE NO PONIES. FALSE ADVERTISEMENT. I AM A SNEAKY BASTARD.