I was recently told to “get over myself.” Technically, the speaker didn’t know I was listening and technically it was the plural form of yourself but technically, I’m not counting anymore. Here’s what I’m saying; it was a podcast for the general public that ended with a piece of advice from the guest. And as a person with a blog of stories strictly about herself it’s only fitting that I’d assume the speaker was talking specifically to me. Right? I’m sure the speaker intended for her advice to wade in the waters of taking myself less seriously but I’m also sure if she met me splashing around, struggling to stay afloat inside my lifejacket she would feel otherwise.

Nonetheless, “get over yourself” was the best piece of advice I needed to keep writing on this dang blog. I love writing on this blog. And evidently I love writing about myself on this blog but you see the blank in posts for quite sometime and that’s mostly because I never wanted to consider myself a person of the assumption that my life entertains others enough to constitute the printed word. The lack in posts represent me trying to figure out a way to unobtrusively write about myself, you know? I failed, of course, and then some podcaster told me (specifically) to “get over myself” and I thought Right. Who am I kidding. The four people that read this blog are definitely entertained by it and on a personal front—if I love anything other than showing off, it’s talking about myself and posting pictures to prove it which is essentially showing off for this new trend in these eye-roll of self-proclaimed introverts who I’m pretty sure are just mistaking themselves with the feeling of being consistently crabby. If you’re lucky, I’ll explain what I mean by that last sentence later.

I don’t take myself seriously so I certainly don’t need to get over that aspect…in fact I should probably take myself more seriously- a topic, if you’re double lucky, I’ll rant about later too…but I do need to get over myself in believing I was made to be humble and less self-involved because as it turns out…people like what they like…and I like me…which is not humble and certainly self-involved.

What I’m telling you is- I’m coming to terms with finding myself entertained by myself and very admittedly recognizing you should not be, but it’s okay if you are, entertained with it too.

I’m pretttttyyy sure this is all just being said as a foreword so I can go ahead and talk about myself. I’m not sure that makes it less obnoxious, though.

back on my self-built pedestal: aka blogging

Well, well, well. Look who’s back, back again Eminem. It’s me, Grace. Who between my 4 readers and me…is not as slim nor as shady as I’d like to be. But, as routine around here goes, that’s besides the point. On point (other than my pop culture proficiency, baes) is New Orleans. And Louisiana. And all that jazz. Which is only a play on words because like the old tale says…I do not fit in here. Helped by the fact I know next to nothing about the jazz scene which is also the entire scene if you consider that brass bands and jazz are, to me, synonymous. I’ve let my writing follow my brain which means I’ve definitely lost you fans in a head-tilted confusion. And to think, you only wanted to hear what Louisiana is like.
Soon enough.

What was the first thing you thought of upon waking up? LOL. Prompts.

‘In the dream world, is it a bad omen when an alligator bites your dad’s foot off” was technically the first thing I thought about when I woke up. But the questions flung on. Does it help to know he was on a ski lift? Should I tell my dad about that dream? Maybe it was a crocodile. What’s the difference between a crocodile and an alligator? Should I know that? I should google that in case I should know that. [I do not google that]. But what if I did.
Remember when Albert Einstein said “The important thing is to not stop questioning. Curiosity has it’s own reason for existing.” I certainly don’t remember Albert saying that but Thursday probably does. Because like curiosity, Thursday also has its own reason for existing these days. #TBT, you guys.

Which means, if we place curiosity on a stretcher and roll its reason for existence alongside Thursday into the minds of millennials we might just reach- text conversation starters. I may not be right…but am I totally wrong? Certainly not for me who seems to text everything I “could literally just google” — as quoted by that one person never sympathetic to my subconscious desire for immediate interrelation by way of a debatably personal medium. I wonder where I read the article that discussed that? I should google it. [I do not google it].

I wish I would though. ‘What if we googled everything we wondered’ is the thought I more or less rotisseried through my mind upon waking up. I, for one, would be a much smarter human. I would know things like – the difference between a crocodile and an alligator. You could ask me what’s wrong with my car. I could share the best way to get rid of mothball smell- which I’ve lazily [not-googled-ly] concluded is to simply not use mothballs in the first place. If you don’t know what mothballs are, google them. You didn’t google them did you? But what if you did?

It’s overwhelming to think just how much knowledge we could acquire by googling everything we wonder. We use google a lot. But even more than we use google…we do not use google. Mind-blowing, eh. If we googled all of the questions we impatiently but certainly not apologetically sent in a text…well, maybe we’d all be Alberts. Albert didn’t sit around writing his friends inquiring about the solution to his physics problems (I know. He didn’t google either, blah blah blah). A response would illicit weeks which is essentially the same amount of time we exaggerate it takes when waiting for a text we thought would arrive quicker.

They say you can’t know everything but with google we can certainly try. Though, I’d have to wonder if it’s worth it? Is the potential knowledge more valuable than a connection (albeit virtual) with another human? Google can’t answer that. But maybe you can because I’m out of words.

And presumably, you don’t know if my roommate left me some coffee in the pot? Neither does google. So I send off with a text.

I didn’t know this either but Oklahoma has more to offer than Kevin Durant. The Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge. Fancy that.










Surprise; More Complaining Below.

I’ve now lived in New Orleans for a week. A total of 7 days. 168 hours if we want to sound dramatic. And 10,080 minutes if we want to be annoying. Significant life belongings still lie in my car suffocating so publicly through Maggie’s fishbowl windows. I don’t want to try and fit in today. I’m not ready to fit in. The streets are out to confuse me. The neighborhoods change every two blocks. There are potholes. And other potholes. And lights. The bad kind too. Stoplights only. Otherwise the blocks are dark. And it’s dirty. It’s confusing and it’s relentlessly tacky. All “go’s” are spelled “geaux,” even on the news channels. It’s French inspired. French isn’t tacky of course, it’s chic. But when you are not French trying to be French…you get tacky, you know? People paint their address on their garbage cans not as a helpful hint when you can’t see the address through the giant, unkept, jungle plant that I’m almost positive grows dirt and not bananas but as a protectant against the theft community. Everywhere is the same. Everywhere is quote on quote dangerous. Stay out of any neighborhood that ends in ward they say. No. Get over the ward hitch, the corner guy says. Gentrification, you guys. I go to all neighborhoods. I do. Purposely naive and unaltered by the stares that holler “girl, you must be lost.” People name drop chefs and then musicians. Two forums where my expertise lies low in fast food chains and contemporary country. So, I guess I don’t fit in. But on the outside you can’t tell. Someone told me I looked cool. I wish that went straight to my head. In any other circumstance I assure you it certainly would. But it only reached the furrow in my brow; I was pissed. Someone here thought I looked cool? I must look tacky. I’m being petty, aren’t I? I want everyone here to know I’m not like them. I’m not one of them. Not because of the complaining above but because I miss home. The humid air gets to me. It’s sweaty during the day and seeps cold into my bones at night. I’m being mean. I’m being ignorant to the effects of Katrina. I don’t care. I don’t want to fit in yet. I’m not ready. The library I intend to make mine doesn’t feel right and the Home Depot certainly doesn’t either. How could it? It doesn’t sell hot dogs on the weekends (they don’t want linger-ers…even though New Orleans in itself is one giant linger). And the attendant asks if you are ready for Mardi Gras. I hardly know what Mardi Gras is. There’s a naked baby hiding in a giant donut involved. I know that. I also know the giant donut doesn’t taste like a donut. I guess I know there are parades as prevalent as the potholes which I’ll go to because there will be people on stilts and one has to wonder if their strides are large enough to avoid these potholes littering the parades. Maybe, I only want my mom. I’m 24 and I want my mom. I also want someone to bring me coffee. I hate making my own coffee. That’s my only requirement for a boy. He has to make my coffee in the morning. I do not want to meet a boy here. But I’ve found New Orleans has one thing in common with Minnesota- everyone has grand ideas in setting you up. The boys here are grungy. So, he can’t be grungy and he has to make me coffee. And he has to back into his parking spaces which will help show he is not grungy. And it also helps people not want to set you up anymore. But that’s neither here nor there, I’m only being mean. I don’t even know who these kids are through their dirty T-shirts and newsies caps. That was descriptive not mean. Feel free to laugh at the newsies caps though. I always do. I’m rambling on because I’m not ready to succumb to the quintessential Buzzfeed list- ending a complaining spree with “but in the end I’d want it no other way” or some stupid crap like that. In the end, I want Home Depot to sell some goddamn hot dogs on the weekends and maybe then I’ll get over the potholes. See you when I see ya.

(For the record. I will like it here, eventually. It takes time, you know?)

Drooling Human all the Same.

I’m like most girls in that I’d like to think I’m not like most girls when come standing, I’m exactly like most girls. I have had no qualms with this understanding. I’ve liked being a girl since my first crush at 15 and until recently I’ve felt proud that I really am like most girls. It’s been said we rule and don’t drool, after all. Except that I drool every night. Just as I thought, I’m so fortuitously different.


I yelled down the loft to my friend Mitch asking if he’d mind if I wore the pants I showed off in my latest instagram.
“I don’t know what pants you’re talking about.”
“What the heck, Mitch. You ‘liked’ the picture.” After all, I was asking for his sake. Strangers often think we are dating based solely on the girl-to-boy ratio of our very existence and I didn’t want him to feel embarrassed strolling through a Polo-drenched neighborhood of Dallas next to a girl who could probably fit the aforementioned pastel population in her black, pleather, harem pants. There’s dressing for yourself you guys, but there is also thinking about your friends.
“I really don’t pay attention to your outfit that much. I ‘like’ your instas to support you being you.” [Aww.]
I did not come down in the Kanye West inspired pants only because they made me look like Justin Bieber. I debuted in pants I made myself, inspired by the architectural genius of Rosie Assoulin. I adore them and no one will change my mind. Underneath these wide-leg bottoms I wore a gift from God whom also responds to the name Lucy. Black, calf-hair platforms, made in Italy but that’s no matter, had I spotted them in Goodwill they would walk equally intended.
Mitch laughed, said nice pants, and we were on our way to the most intimidating dungeon anyone might encounter- girls.

Girl numero uno said “I love your pants.” To which the second clarified “that was a ‘Mean Girls’ quote.” Referring to the scene where Regina George gushes about Caty’s bracelet only to deem it fugly (if you will) behind her back. Yada, ya.
Later, the Regina George inspiree…asked to see my shoes. Raving, she said “Those are so cool. Can I take a picture?” Duh. I let her. Mitch received a snapchat of the picture with the title “what the fuck.” To which I’ll say- what the heck!
Girl number three (rather, girl I’ve known only two hours) took it upon herself to grab my boobs and comment “oouuo, you have huge boobs” highlighting something I will forever feel uncomfortable about but can’t feel comfortable feeling uncomfortable about without fear of retaliation from who else, other girls… “Shut up. You love your boobs.” Oh, yes, I forgot. I do love my boobs which is why I’m showing them off in this XXL men’s button down (and even if I were in a fecking bra, it still wouldn’t be okay you nimrod). La, ti, da. Moving on.
I’m hovered by Mitch and the boys because, well, the above. I look across the room and see the boob grabber going through my purse. Pulling out my phone and then my journal shrieking through laughter “IS THIS A JOURNAL??” like it was the most appalling thing she had ever seen.

I guess typing it out it doesn’t seem as mean as the glaze coating my eyes felt.* Story telling has never been my thing. But feeling sensitively deflated when the outfit I choose to wear is ridiculed out of ignorance has never been my thing either. It was mean though. And there was no reason to be mean.

*(Don’t worry, the tears never spilled over and I’m pretty sure my eyes look bluer than they actually are when they have a tear glaze. WINNER).


Remember above when I said, until recently I’ve been proud of being a girl? Well, now I don’t know. And not only because of the paradigm above. But because of what followed as well. It turns out, I’m just like them. Later I could be found flinging myself to the top of an imaginary hierarchy by looking down on their one-two-three uniform of riding boots, leggings, and chiffon button-down. Basic bitches. I justified feeling okay because they had never heard of Superga. I “got over” the situation because they had no style. No style of their own at least. My style is not good (YET!! people, yet) but at least I’m swinging, I thought. All the while, here I sit…in the same dungeon, uplifting myself by shaming these girls’ choice of clothes instead of their appalling actions.

I don’t understand how girls, myself included, haven’t figured out how to support each other. I don’t understand how we haven’t figured out how to be nice. To get to know each other as individuals. To react how friends react when we make a questionable style choice- you do you [i.e Mitchy above]. And move on. We all want to believe we aren’t like every other girl but there is no environment for that to be possible. We ridicule each other for being different and we ridicule each other for being the same. Personally, I assumed I was immune to such ridicule. And that’s when I lost control of my confidence. Because it turns out…I’m just a drooling human who is not immune, nor better, and devastatingly but fortuitously the same.

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