Of Vampire Lungs


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We all know that vampires don’t need to breathe to live, yet in every movie and TV show I’ve ever seen they’re breathing. Sometimes even heavily. Which begs the question, why? I mean, I know that they are played by humans and it’d be irrational to force someone to hold their breath the entire scene – but still.

Is it a muscle memory thing?

That could make sense, like when you’re used to taking the same route to work everyday so you accidentally make a wrong turn when headed somewhere different. And breathing is something that you do from day 1 second 1 – so I could see how you would do that habitually even if it wasn’t necessary.

Is it to blend in or even feel human?

It’s possible. I mean, if someone was not breathing I’d hope that I’d be savvy enough to notice. Although most vampires don’t have souls, so they would shudder at the thought of feeling human. But perhaps they would force some air in and out to blend amongst prey.

To speak?

This is the most likely, have you ever tried to talk with no air in your lungs – it’s pretty much impossible. So unless they want to run around mute, they’d have to breathe in order to speak.

Although since their hearts don’t beat it’s not that farfetched of an idea to think that their lungs wouldn’t be able to expand. But if they do expand, they probably just push the air right back out without taking any of the nutrients that our human bodies would process. But then I ask, why the seemingly random bodily functions? Their lungs can apparently expand, but their hearts don’t beat. They sleep, but I’ve never heard of a vampire going to the bathroom. And if they eat food, what then? Can their dead bodies digest anything besides blood? And since their hearts don’t beat what makes the blood flow through their veins? Does the intake of new blood move around the old blood or does it just sit stagnant in their bodies? However they start to get weak if they don’t drink, which implies that somehow their bodies feed off the blood for energy. Or perhaps blood is like water, and they start to crumble if they get thirsty because of dehydration.

And if you start comparing classic to modern vampires, well that gets even more complicated ….

Of How to Handle a Wrong Number

Wrong Number - All That

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I feel your pain. It’s not your fault your new phone number was someone else’s old number. You’re sick of getting all these phone calls for Jeffery WhatsHisName. You just wanna be loved. You long hear that beautiful ringtone, pick it up, say hello, and be invited to go to the bar with your bestie. But you can’t have this, thanks some dude named Jeffery and all of his damn friends, family members, and appointments. It’s frustrating I know, but it’ll be okay. Eventually the world will figure out that you are not who they are seeking.  Give it a little bit of time and ALL your phone calls will be for you.

That’s just how things work (#CommonSense).

There are many things I just have little patience for: people going under the speed limit, crocs, action movies, abruptly cancelling plans, velvet. Even so, what tests my calm demeanor the most is pointless jackassery. If someone’s gonna be a jerk to me, I should at least have done something to deserve it.

Here’s how NOT to speak to someone who calls you seeking someone else:

  1. Letting out the world’s longest sigh and stating, “Ugh, wrong number,” with a hint of teenage angst in your voice. I can see you rolling your eyes through the phone.
  2. Simply hanging up. Rude, I’m just gonna assume the call got dropped and try again. You’re just making yourself more pissed off.
  3. Yelling. Clearly this is the fifth time this has happened to you today. Not my fault.
  4. Telling me, “Tell your friend to have people stop calling this number.” I greatly dislike when strangers give me orders. And even with the world’s largest Facebook post, not everyone will get the message.

Here’s how to speak to someone who calls you seeking someone else:

  1. Some form of this conversation should go down:
    • “You got the wrong number.”
    • “Oh, sorry.”
    • “No worries, bye.”
    • “Bye.”

Is being polite, then saying goodbye to a stranger, really too much to ask?

Of New Chapters

Belle - Beauty and the Beast

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That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.” – John Green, Looking for Alaska.

Routine is nice, but it’s a wee bit on the boring side. Lately it feels like I’ve been meandering aimlessly – when I could have been frolicking gleefully.

Everyday I bitch about waking up, I hate waking up, almost as much as I hate getting ready for bed. Though nothing is worse than getting ready for bed. I’d rather be forced to play team sports or do yoga – both activities I suck at, and have zero desire to participate in.

Then I do your basics: shower, make coffee, grab breakfast on the go, tailgate the assholes who refuse to drive the speed limit, scurry into the office, and get everything set up before my bosses arrive.

Next up, I work. I truly enjoy my job, I do, so I don’t mind working – but still, routine.

Lastly, I go home and hang out with the roommates. And then one, if not all, of these scenarios will play out:

  1. We spend at least an hour trying to figure out what to make for dinner.
  2. We talk about dance (or actually dance).
  3. We talk about failed attempts at romance.
  4. We watch a movie.




I’m starting to get thirsty for something new and exciting – a Great Perhaps, you could say.

I need to step outside my comfort zone. Meet strangers. Try new activities. To stop talking and actually do something. However, I require someone else to hold me accountable thanks to my minuscule self-motivation skills.

Cause you see, I’m great at talking about what I want to do, but I rarely actually do anything outside of my routine.

I’ve always wanted to:

  • Perform burlesque.
  • Write freelance articles for a sub-pop culture magazine or literary journal.
  • Write a novel.
  • Start a vlog.
  • Successfully ask out a stranger.
  • Learn to hula hoop dance.
  • Sew an outfit that doesn’t look homemade.
  • Get proper DJ equipment and mix my own tracks.

Alas, here I sit. Doing nothing.

I talk to the same lovely people everyday. Eat the same foods. Do the same activities. And succeed at hiding myself away in my cozy little corner, where everything is safe, and I never have to deal with anything uncomfortable or intimidating.

Of Supper Time

Michelle Tanner - Full House

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I truly loathe being the only person eating in a room. Especially, when everyone else has recently finished eating and I showed up just in time for washing dishes. I can just feel eyes burning down on me. I know that they aren’t thinking anything awful – but jeez is it ever uncomfortable.

My family has a tendency to start supper without me. I’m not talking the normal 6 pm dinner that, in theory, most people take part in on a daily basis. I mean supper supper. A Midwestern supper full of Norwegians, to be specific.

Supper starts on average around 3 pm – definitely not much later than 4 pm. The whole family (grandparents, uncles, and all), sit down at a table full of hot dish, some form of meat, potatoes, lefse if we’re lucky, and of course, Jello. Personally, orange fluff Jello is my favorite. I’ve never cared much for the plain strawberry Jello with marshmallows on top that my brothers always voted for. Anyways …

Even though we all live in the Pacific Northwest now, those traditions still reign true when it’s time to eat with the ENTIRE family.

But here’s the issue. I work basically every stinking day of the week. So I don’t get home until 5 pm. Thus, when it’s time for a good ole fashion supper, I get home just when Grandpa finishes his last bite. And because they are VERY Norwegian, they keep offering me food until I say yes.

It’s impossible to not eat when surrounded by a bunch of Norwegian’s who are convinced your hungry. You have to say yes to something or Grandma will ask you every thirty seconds if you want food or drink. Once you say yes, they quite eagerly prepare your plate. Set it in front of you. And stare at you until the plate is finished.

Always awkward.

Of Pretty Friends


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I’ve always said, “I don’t have ugly friends. Well, I had one once, and it didn’t end well”.

Most people find this flattering or humorous. After all, I certainly don’t mean any malice towards my fellow humans.  But every now and then, someone reacts with a bitch-are-you-serious stare. Or instantly launches into a verbal judgment of me – assuming shallowness and other unpleasant personality traits.

Okay, I get it, you are easily offended and wish that everyone was treated with love at all times  – and in an ideal world, everyone is. I respect that. But here’s my question, dear person who jumps down my throat, do you find your friends ugly?

Honestly, it’s a fun reverse, because no one ever says no. And I would hope not.

It’s not about being shallow or only caring about how you and your posse appear to the masses. You should find your friends beautiful. Granted some might be more physically striking than others. Or soul-wise more stunning. But ultimately, unless you’re one of those people that surround yourself with others you think of as ugly to make yourself feel good – your friends are most likely attractive.

And there’s nothing wrong with that.

Of “Drive Safe”

Road Sign.

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There are certain phrases we all say. Words that function like muscle memory. That are spoken without our brain having any choice in the discussion. So we say them, someone else says the appropriate words in response, and we continue on our way.

The phrase that I’ve been noticing the most, as of late, is drive safe.

“Alright, I’ll see ya later.”

“Bye, drive safe.”

“Okay, bye!”

Why do we say that? Do we honestly think that if we don’t tell them to drive safe that something horrid is going to happen to them? That they’ll be driving along and they’ll think to themselves, I wonder what would happen if I turned the steering wheel really fast – oh wait, I’m supposed to drive safe. That’s not very safe. Thanks friend.

The words are merely a filler, in the way that we ask acquaintances how they’re doing expecting to hear the response, “I’m fine.” Sometimes words are just that, things we say because it’s the cultural norm, it’s expected, and we don’t even realize we do it. So I’ve started saying different words:

“Alright, I’ll see ya later.”

“Bye, drive safe.”

“Damn, I was gonna drive ninety and backwards.”


“Alright, I’ll see ya later.”

“Bye, drive dangerously!”

“Haha …… okay?”

I always get an awkward chuckle in response, suddenly, I’m seen as incredibly witty. And for what? Breaking our prescribed script. Changing up the normal conversation. If we all switched around our dialogue then one day simply saying, “Okay, bye,” would be seen as bizarre.

But what I find the most fascinating is that my changed words have become my script – it’s an inescapable cycle of habit.

Road Sign Swerve

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Of Embracing Flaws

Zooey Deschanel

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Flaws are beautiful. Flaws make people interesting and diverse. Too often we try to cover up our imperfections in an attempt to please the masses. And no matter how many times we hear about how being yourself is the best thing in the world, the cover ups continue. It seems that the world refuses to digest the message.

Personally, I love flaws, and I’ve embraced mine with warm and fuzzy feelings. For you see, accepted flaws become quirks – and quirks are endearing. I’m stubborn, clumsy, vain, shallow, dorky, bitchy, and apathetic. My flaws are a big part of my personality, and my choice to live life wearing them on my sleeve makes me a rather candid and entertaining individual, or at least I like to think so.

  • My stubbornness might mean that I won’t let you help me open a jar, but it also means that I will finish what I start.
  • My clumsiness is funny to me, in fact, my family often competes over who had the better clumsy moment that week – it’s apparently a family quirk.
  • My vanity comes from refusing to ever look like I’ve given up, I want to look and feel put-together. I believe in dressing up for life, not just for special occasions.
  • My shallowness means that I like pretty things, this doesn’t mean that everyone has to be supermodels, but everyone can look beautiful if they would believe it or try.
  • My dorky side allows me to take a vacation from the “real world” and watch whale videos on YouTube, obsess over the work of Joss Whedon, bust out a graphic novel, fail to play Zelda, or research the realm of pop culture with pride.
  • My bitchiness doesn’t make me mean, it makes me say what I think. I’m sarcastic, and don’t always consider the necessary filter.
  • My apathy is quite possibly the biggest flaw that I adore. I simply don’t care about a lot of things. If we were talking and you insulted me, I would probably assume you were just being sarcastic and not even realize. Blissful apathy is the life I lead.

My flaws stopped being flaws when I realized the value in them. I like walking around and knowing that I don’t blend in with the masses. I’m not flawed, I’m quirky. And quirks are endearing and wonderful.  Also, I think it’s fair to say that being quirky was a big part of what made Zooey Deschanel famous, so I can’t be the first person to have embraced this mentality.

Of Flexibility

Yoga on the Beach

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Stretching is arguably the worst activity in the world, I loathe it fiercely.

I’ll never be flexible. Even as an awkward nine-year-old ballerina I wasn’t able to touch my toes, and I still can’t. Well, I could, if I wanted to be in severe and uncomfortable pain – but only for a moment.

When I was younger someone told me that if I slept sitting up and leaned forward over crossed legs (criss cross applesauce style) that I would wake up flexible – I believed them. Several nights I tried this technique, but for some mysterious reason I could never fall asleep like that. So I gave up.

A few years later I tried to do an eighties work out video with Sister that focused on stretching techniques and promised flexibility. The video basically had us bob up and down from the waist in various positions. I remember thinking that this would work. But alas, it failed.

People always say, “You just need to stretch every day, then you’ll be flexible.” Yeah, I tried that and it’s a steaming pile of lies. I even took yoga for a quarter, I still wasn’t able to bend over at the waist and comfortably touch my toes. On a side note, I got a C in yoga, which is truly pathetic.

I wish I was flexible. It’d be lovely to be able to twist my body into a pretzel and not cry out in agony. I’m sure if I was diligent I could reach a point where I could almost touch my toes with my legs straight in front of me. But as I said, I truly hate stretching.

I’ve accepted my fate as the not-so-bendy Sarah.

Of Nipples and Pasties

Nude Girl With Coffee Cup

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I’ll never understand the logic behind artsy nude photos. I’m not talking pornographic photos where the girl is flashing her privates for the world to see. I mean the classier photos, often found in magazines, that you might find of celebrities or high-end models. The pictures showcase their figure and sexuality with soft tones as well as suggestive posing. Often the artsy photos are beautiful and tasteful. But they are not fully naked, they are nude, there’s a difference. Apparently.

Here’s the part that baffles me – they can show everything, literally everything, as long as they cover the nipples and crotch. And therein lies the difference. Naked equals full frontal. Nude equals full frontal plus pasties or hand/prop placement over the naughty parts of the body. Why is the nipple the culprit? I don’t understand how that makes the photo more appropriate. After all, we don’t hide man nipples from the public eye.

Is it to protect young innocent eyes? Cause I’m fairly certain that just seeing a naked figure is equally as effective as seeing a nipple. I doubt anyone is completely turned off by a woman until she shows her nipples and crotch, and then suddenly – BAM! – she’s sexy as Hell. Human’s aren’t robots, we don’t work that way. The imagination is a powerful tool.

Obviously I’m not an art expert, but I do find the modesty in nude photos ridiculous.

Of Coins


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My name is Sarah, and I’m not a penny hater.

People hate coins. Copper crap. Silver shit. Gold garbage – all nicknames given to our money. Ultimately, a lot of people who I know try to avoid coins by paying in exact change or leaving excess coinage in a tip jar. Most of the folks that I come across loathe coins because they way down their wallet. It’s too heavy, they say. My pocket/purse gets too bulky, they whine. But very few complain because of the reality that it costs more to make a penny than a penny is worth. The poor dears simply find coins inconvenient.

Even though I know that John Green (from the video above is right). I still don’t hate coins. Sorry John. As far as I’m concerned until pennies become discontinued I will happily keep them. Because it’s still money! That’s something I’ve never understood, coins are still money yet people think of them like they’re gravel.

Coins are often treated like the free coffee available at rest areas along the freeway, whereas a bill is an espresso – but guess what? It’s still coffee, and sometimes, you need that free coffee so you don’t fall asleep and swerve off the road.

I’ve had people hand me their change of 98 cents because they can’t tolerate circular money. I’ve seen several customers reject their 75 cent change. I know a lot of people who keep coins in large jars and decorate with them instead of investing. Recently I took all the change that I’ve acquired over the past few months (mostly pennies), rolled it up, and deposited $26 worth of coins at the bank. And guess what? They accepted it! It’s true that pennies aren’t cost efficient in terms of their creation, but I was able to fill up on gas with them, for that I’m grateful.

So yeah, I don’t hate quarters, nickels, and dimes – not even pennies.

Maybe I will when I’m no longer a starving recent college grad and can afford to whine over a heavy purse. I’d rather complain over the politics behind creating coins in the first place, that is, if I were to join Team Coins Suck. But I’m still too poor to properly care about the issue. So for now, if digging through a pile of coins is what allows me to buy my vanilla latte in the morning, so be it.

Coin Jar

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