Thursday, December 31, 2009

A History of Break-Ups

"They had a really bad break-up."

Oh, did they. Well that's just too bad because most people have good break-ups, don't they? I know I have! I know ALL of my break-ups have just went wonderfully. They have been really, really GOOD. I feel so sorry that someone else's break-up was "bad" because that just sucks when a break-up doesn't go as well as planned, DOESN'T IT. Doesn't. That. Just. Suck.

COME ON. I can't be the only one here who has heard someone say they had a "bad" break-up. Silly me, thinking all this time that ALL break-ups were "bad," when really, this whole time, people have apparently been having good ones! And that a bad one is worth pointing out since it's such a rare, rare occasion! Oh, how naive I have been, thinking that being a dumper or a dumpee is always going to be a bad thing, that nothing about that situation can be seen as "good." I have got to stop looking at the glass half-empty and start reanalyzing the break-ups I have been through and find the good in them! Because you can find the good in anything! Isn't. That. RIGHT.

James Jones-2003

Being the preteen bitch that I was (seriously. bitch scale. 1 to 10. I was a 10. AND A HALF.), I decided that the best time to break up with my boyfriend would be on the field trip we had all been looking forward to for the past month to...the rollerskating rink! “Yes,” I thought, “yes, I shall be a decent person and break up with him to his face. I’m not going to do the petty, cowardly shit and do it in a note. I’m 13 now and am mature enough to be able to look someone in the eye and end it.” So, being the little saint that I thought I was being, I awkwardly skate on over to him and tell him I just want to be friends. I was trying to do a good thing, really. Sure, he was standing with all 6 of his guy friends and they were all looking at me while I publicly announced that I was dumping his ass, but I did it to his face, didn’t I? That was a good thing! It was decent! And mature! And then, did I linger there? Did I stand there waiting for him to cry? To beg for me back? No! I didn’t even wait for a response! I skated on off, bobbing my head back and forth to “Stacey’s Mom.” (She's got it goin’ on, ya know.) That was a good thing I did! I was doing him a favor! And then a good friend of mine had the decency to skate up next to me and say (in the most dramatic way possible):

“Natasha...the necklace.”

I looked down. The necklace he had given me that I had oh-so-religiously worn every single day was still dangling from my neck.


And you know, everything was dandy as fuck until I took that thing off. And then I cried. But crying is a good thing! It lets it all out! Helps you to get over it! I have finally realized what a good break-up that was!

Ken Woods-2006

Ken and I had been dating for a week. It was one of those things that took forever to finally happen, and when it did everyone knew it was coming. And when I say everyone knew it was coming, I mean as soon as he asked me to be his girlfriend, about 7 of our friends emerged out of nowhere shouting, “GO KEN! YOU FINALLY DID IT!” I’m not exaggerating. Hugs were given. Cheeks were blushing. (Okay, so they were just my cheeks that were blushing but it’s still cheeks since I have two of them, making it plural.) If my life were a musical we would have all started dancing and bursting into song.

“Locker love! Locker love!

They fell in love at his locker!

Locker love! Locker love!

Now he’ll try the shocker!”

But this could never be a musical. Because only a week later he dumped me, and musicals don’t believe in things “not going your way.”

“Do you think we’d be better off as friends?”


“Don’t you think so?”

“Um no.”




“Are you breaking up with me right now?”

“Well do you think we should just be friends?”



“Do you?”


“So you’re breaking up with me?”

“Do you think we should break up?”

“No. I don’t.”

“You don’t?”


“So you don’t want to just be friends?”

“Do you?”


“Then you are breaking up with me.”

"Am I?"

"Yes, Ken. You are."

“I’m sorry.”

“Goodbye, Ken.”

What has been deemed as The Most Ridiculous Conversation Of My Entire Life ended with me walking into class and publicly announcing to everyone that I had just been dumped. I know that’s not the norm, but that was the first time I had been dumped in my life and I was pretty fucking pissed about it.


After that class I ran into him in the hallway.

“Natasha, I’m really sorry. Please give me another chance. I don’t want to break up.”

I don’t know what caused him to change his mind in a matter of 55 minutes, but I believe in second chances and so I gave it another shot.

Only to be dumped a week later. In a voicemail.

But this was a good thing! Because at least in a voicemail he can’t see my reaction! He can’t see me throw shit at the walls or cry or whatever it is people do when they’re told they’re not wanted anymore! Alas! The way to break up IS in a voicemail! And all this time I was thinking that wasn’t civil...when it’s really quite, quite good!

Jack Stevens-2006

I had a huge TEST that day, and what did he do? What did he do as he walked me to the class I was about to take a huge TEST in? He held me hand, that’s what he did. He held my hand-

and he dumped me.

Guys of the world, do not, under any circumstances, hold your girlfriend’s hand as you break up with her. Because one, her hands will start sweating; two, she’ll desperately not want to let go, which could very likely make for an incredibly awkward situation; and three, IT’S FUCKED UP ON SO MANY DIFFERENT LEVELS.

Not to mention the fact that I had a huge test to attend to immediately after that.

A test I ended up making a 17 on.

A test I took that marked the first moment in my life I had ever cried in public.

A test I took next to a girl who discreetly handed me a tissue every 4 minutes.

But this was a good thing! How convenient was it that the girl sitting right beside me had tissues! It was fate! It was meant to be! That's right, I was meant to be dumped that day! Yeah! THAT'S what it is! Yeah! I WILL keep telling myself that! The best thing was she was more than willing to give me the lot of those tissues! And not the cheap kind that hurt your nose, I’m talkin' the good kind! I’m talkin' the Kleenex kind!

(Why the fuck she had that many tissues, I’ll never know. But I will forever be thankful for them.)

Michael Fey-2009

"Hey, can you take me to the pawn shop today?"

"No, I'm at play rehearsal right now."


After being ever-so-rudely hung up on, I decided to send a text to put that guy right where he belonged.

Don't hang up on me.

To which he responded:

Fuck you I'm done.

And that was it. After 2 years of dating.

But that was a good thing! Because who even likes going to the pawn shop?! They're ugly and creepy and boring and I absolutely hate them! I'd rather be dumped any day than have to go to a fucking pawn shop, making the end of this relationship a what? A good THING!

And so now I have finally been able to see the good in what I have always thought were bad break-ups. Foolish me, they weren’t bad at all! Not a bit! Not a tad! Not a smidge! I wish I could break up with people all the time! I wish I could date someone JUST so I can be dumped! Because oh, how good it can go! How splendid! How wonderful! How joyous and grand and happy and great and COMPLETELY FUCKED UP. (but in a good way, of course!)

Sunday, December 27, 2009

Killing Me Softly With His Giggle

"Hehe. Hehe."

I could hear the giggling.

"Hehe. Hehe. Hehehe..."

I could hear it from right behind me.

"He. Hehehehe. He."

It was the giggle of a man, this I knew.


Enough was enough.

The suspense was killing me. Killing me softly with his giggle. I had to know what could possibly cause a grown man to giggle like that. So I turn around. I look at The Giggler. The Giggler looks at me. I maintain eye contact with The Giggler. The Giggler maintains eye contact with me. I didn't say anything to The Giggler. The Giggler didn't say anything to me. I continue to stare directly at The Giggler. The Giggler continues to giggle.

I continue walking.

"Hehe. He. Hehehehehe."

The Giggler was following me. Giggling. Giggling right behind me. I turn around once more.

The Giggler is still looking at me. And he was---




Still giggling.

Looking directly at me.

And giggling as he did so.


I knew going to a chinese buffet on Christmas Eve is not necessarily the normal thing to do. But it's my family's tradition. Christmas not only entails stockings and presents, but crab legs, as well.

And oh, how I love those crab legs.

But the truth is, holidays were not created to eat crab legs. Or, although contrary to popular belief, being giggled at by abnormally large men. Holidays are about love...and family...and Martin Luther King's birthday...and giving...(and taking)...and fights. Yes. Fights.

Honestly holidays were really just created to start fights. It's a fact of life. Someone always feels left out from the bunch (prepare yourself for the run-on sentence to come): they didn't get as many presents so they feel less loved so really they're not loved at all because if we all loved them we'd spend more money on them than we did on the dog but we do love the dog we love the dog quite a bit and that's why we bought him 7 pig ears but if you complain about the dog getting more gifts than you did you get called ungrateful for what you did get and you're not thankful for anything you take it all for granted blah blah blee blah and really this whole time you have an excellent point. The dog should not get more presents than you, because it's a fucking DOG, but what can you do about it without sounding spoiled? Nothing, that's what. So you just sit there in a bad mood. Which puts someone else in a bad mood because they're wondering why you're in such a bad mood, and then someone else sees the two of you both in bad moods and then they start asking why everyone is in a bad mood when they are now actually in a bad mood themselves but are being too moody to realize it. Wah wah fuckin' wah. It's all about bitching. Bitch about this; bitch about that, and bitching leads to someone saying, 'Hey, you're bitching. It's annoying,' which leads to The Bitcher trying to defend themselves which leads to what? To fighting, that's what.

What bothers me most is that anyone can easily become The One Who Ruined Christmas in a matter of seconds. I'm talking seconds here, people. Not 60 seconds. Not sloppy seconds. Just seconds. And not just Christmas, either. You could turn out to be The One Who Ruined Easter, for example, or The One Who Ruined Halloween, perhaps, or maybe even The One Who Ruined Every Holiday For Ten Years In A Row; it doesn't matter. Holidays have become an excuse to say something really mean to someone just because you can get away with it. Examples?

"God your hair is ugly when you wear it like that."

"Um...that was mean..."

"Let's not argue about this, it's Christmas."

"But you just were a complete asshole."

"What is WRONG with you? You wanna fight on Christmas? Is that really want you feel like doing?"

"You JUST randomly told me---"

"You are such an ungrateful person how DARE you cause such misery on the day Jesus was born."



"You're yelling!"

"Go to your room."

"Look, I'm sorry. You're right, it's Christmas. I really am sor---"

"I don't give a shit go to your room and think about what you've done."

See? Just one conversation and you're The One Who Fucked Up Christmas Morning '09. None of this happened in my own humble abode this year. We all had a splendid time full of smiles and piles (of presents!). I'm just saying---there have been times where unnecessary fights have arose and I swear on John Travolta's life that they would have never happened if it weren't for the fact that it was a day of holi. I hope everyone can relate here and if not GOOD FOR YOU I'M GLAD YOUR FAMILY IS FUCKIN' PICTURE PERFECT WELL GUESS WHAT IT WON'T LAST.

As if any holiday would even be remembered if there wasn't at least one argument about who ate the last drumstick. As if this this particular Christmas Eve would have ever been looked back upon if I hadn't of been attacked by the raging forces of a fat man's giggles. Please. I live for this shit.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Green Eggs and Pants

It is quite sad that I could go on and on about something as simple as...pants. But I can. Because I don't like pants. The word pants in general irks me. I do, however, understand that this commonly worn article of clothing can come in handy. You could wear them here or there. You could wear them anywhere. You could wear them in a house. You could wear them with a mouse. But I do not wear them in a house. I do not wear them with a mouse. I do not like them here or there. I do not like them anywhere. Because they're pants.

The sad thing is no one seems to catch my drift here. (I'm sure no one catches any sort of drift since they're in those pants of theirs. Breezes are underrated.) Not even Right Said Fred, who were too sexy for their hat, too sexy for their car, too sexy for Milan, and of course, too sexy for their shirt; but pants? Were they too sexy for their pants? No. They don't mention being too sexy for their pants ONCE in that song and what I want to know is WELL WHY THE HELL NOT. What is so damn great about pants?

I believe that if pants had never existed, a lot of horrible things could have been prevented. Like World War I, for instance. (Honestly I don't know enough about World War I to argue my case here; that was merely the "door in the face" technique that I've been waiting to try. But honestly, who the hell does know anything about WWI? I think we all know the only world war anyone gives a shit about is the second one, but let's get back to the horrible occurrences that would have never occurred if it were not for those blasted pants.)

If pants never existed...I would never have been emotionally scarred by the visual image of Ben Stiller zipping his dick up at the age of 7.

If pants never existed...I would never have been mistaken for a boy while I was in line at the ski lift. (And YES, that was because of the pants and the pants only. There were no other features about me that were boy-like except for those fucking pants. And the fact that my hair was up in my beanie. But mainly it was the pants.)

If pants never existed...I would have won that race in 4th grade. I could've beat that William kid and I know it. I could've left him eating my dust, crying to his mommy, ego deflated! Confidence evaporated! Girlfriendless forever! But NO. I had to trip over those damn pants and fall flat on my face right before the finish line. GOD DAMN YOU, GAP KIDS.

If pants never existed...I would have never had to hear my crush at the time talk about how good Allison Murphy's ASS looked in her fucking GAUCHO pants for two months straight.

If pants never existed...I would never have been surrounded by multiple pairs of GAUCHO pants the year someone decided that giant Siamese skirts were the next big thing since parachute pants.

If pants never would have never taken a year and a half for a friend to finally decide to tell me that my favorite pair of pants were completely see-through.

If pants never existed...many people's underwear choices would have remained anonymous. As well as their buttcracks. As well as whether or not they keep their buttcracks clean.

As you can see, pants have brought no good into this world and should immediately be destroyed. All pairs. All kinds. All sizes. GONE FOREVER. Ladies, stick with the skirts, and fellas, kilts are where it's at. If Fat Bastard can pull it off, so can you. Pants just aren't my bag, baby, and they shouldn't be anybody else's, either, because:

If pants never existed...I wouldn't have thrown out all my pants 4 years ago and deeply regretted it 4 years later.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Bonjour, Bitches

Remember when I told you I was dropping out of college?

No longer true.


Which is a spectacular thing. (Going back to college, not sucking it.) And yet incredibly awkward (still talking about college here), since I definitely told a bunch of people I wasn't coming back to Chattanooga. And now, in January, I'm going to be walking around campus, going to class (that's right. GOING TO CLASS), and I'll see one of the people I gave my whole prepared-explanation to of why I'm not coming back. And then they'll be like, "Natasha? I thought you said you weren't coming back!" and then I'll have to have yet another prepared reason as to why I completely LIED a month ago.

(Of course I didn't lie. I really wasn't going to go back. It was final. It was decided. There was screaming. There was yelling. "THIS IS WAR, NATASHA" was stated somewhere at sometime amidst all of this chaos, which is a pretty serious statement, if I do say so myself. And on top of all that, every single possession I lived with for an entire 5 months is piled up in my car, which is going to be a BITCH to lug back up to my third-story dorm that lacks an elevator and it really would have been much easier if I had known I was going back in the first place. GOD DAMMIT.)

And it won't stop there with running into random people who thought they'd never see me again. I'll see another, and another, and another, and really I didn't tell ANYONE I wasn't coming back. Not one. Except the maintenance men. And it's probably because of them I didn't tell anyone I was leaving. Because I'm really not into people giving me pity looks and wasting their advice about how to succeed on someone who doesn't give a fuck.

(No, it's not because of the maintenance men. I wasn't going to tell anyone, anyway. Goodbyes are the most awkward things on the planet and I will do anything to avoid them. Because they are sad. But I'm not going to cry about it. And what if someone else is crying about it? Then I look like a big giant asshole who doesn't give a fuck because I didn't cry first and I didn't cry once the other person started crying and blah blah blah didn't we get all our crying out when we were babies? Was that really not enough? LOOK. I just don't like crying in public. Because then I'll need a tissue. And where the hell can you find free tissues in public?)

But then I blogged about it. And now people know. And now I am forced to blog about me going back to college, which is GREAT! But not the most interesting thing to write about, since I'm not even back yet. Really I'm just writing this because a friend of mine saw someone I knew the other day and told me she was talking about me to a group of people who I don't even know.


Okay. FIRST of all. I didn't "flunk" out. You wanna know my grades? Really? Is that what this has come down to? Well too fucking bad because I really don't give a shit because I'm pretty sure "flunking" out of college means at least ONE 'F' and how many F's did I have? ZERO. Suck on that, bitches. (Let's just say there were no vowels amongst my grades and half of my grades put together could also be interpreted as a bra size for a very large woman.)

SECOND of all. Who the FUCK cares about whether or not I'm getting an education? I've spent the last 13 years of my life getting an education and if I decide to take a little fucking break then good for me. I'm really sorry the most interesting thing you and your friends have to talk about is Natasha Ferrier's college GRADES. I mean good god people. I know I'm interesting and all but COME ON. Go see a movie or something.

THIRD of all. I'm going back after all so who's the liar now, bitch?

You may be wondering how I went from definitely NOT being able to go back to, hey! I'm goin' back! Yay! Well. To be honest I don't really know. Okay I do know but it's not that interesting. Basically my parents weren't going to send me back because they thought I was a lazy bum and all I was going to do was dick around next semester, lose the Hope scholarship, waste them a lot of precious money, and come back as some kind of drug addict. But I have convinced them that heroin is not my cup of tea and that I'm more than ready to spank those books right on their ass and ask them who's their daddy.

(I'M their daddy.)

I'm completely ecstatic about getting to finish the year. Sure, the closest friends I made there aren't going back; sure I'll have yet another PAIR of new roommates, who will most likely SUCK ASS; sure I left the place a mess when I left and most likely have a lovely chit-chat with my RD awaiting me; sure I'm going back to a bathroom that has a tendency to lock people inside of it (which by the way is the worst possible thing that could happen when the 6 people you're with are all intoxicated, and they're trying to break into a bathroom to get you out, and they're laughing, and they're falling over, and you're sitting in the tub curled up in a ball trying to wait patiently for everyone to focus on the fucking doorknob and quit asking each other where the rest of the alcohol is); BUT. Despite all of that, I'm going back. And it's looking promising. It's looking very promising. No friends means no distractions which means no dicking around which means lots of studying which means good grades which means great grades which means fantastic grades which means happy parents which means no grounding Natasha over the summer. And THAT matters most of all.

It really is quite ridiculous how dramatic this whole situation was initially, and how now poof! It's all evaporated and I'm going back to college as if there was never a time in my life where I was sleeping on benches. Goodbye, bench days! Adios, soup kitchen! Hello, UTC! Hola, college life! And of course, bonjour, bitches. I'm back.