#iwokeuplikethis: my experience with No Makeup January

On January 6**, the dreaded first day back from winter break, I sleepily reached for my make-up bag. And then I thought, really? Why am I doing this? Why don't I have the confidence to just BE ME?! And do you know what I did? I put my make-up bag back in my purse, where I decided it would stay shut for the REST OF THE MONTH. I looked in the mirror and thought, goddamn, is that really me? Well, good enough! My dark circles are just part of my story! The lines around my eyes? Indicative of a well-lived life full of laughter! I locked unlined, un-mascara-ed eyes with that woman in the mirror and gave her a wink. We are perfect, my slightly pale lips mouthed. I blew myself a kiss right there on Fairfax County Parkway.

**On January 5, I got my eyebrows tinted. I did this because I look like an expressionless Nordic rodent if I don't. You know how when someone is playing the White Rabbit in a play, they cover their eyebrows in white face paint? Remember that movie we watched in AP Bio about the hairless albino guy? I once described my eyebrows in a Facebook status as "Twin daughters that will only ever disappoint me." Seriously. According to tvtropes.org, having no brows "throws a character into Uncanny Valley, which can create an ethereal or alien experience." Well I don't want my face to SCARE anyone! Especially children! I did what I had to! If you were me, you'd do it too! Right? Right?! Oh god. My self-esteem is so low. At least with tinting, I can cry myself to sleep without getting eyebrow pencil all over my pillow.

Part 3: The WOOFing story

Great news! Part three of my blog series actually ended up getting published. You can read it here.

You know what I am likely to do more of as a mom? Fuggin BLOG AT YOU. So I'm hoping to do more of that. Minus the #sponsoredcontent. But we'll see. If Tide cuts me a big check, I might just have to show you, step by step, how I can remove even the TOUGHEST poop stains.

Things I won't do anymore part 2: Craigslist gigs and missed connections

"My name is Marissa, I am 26, and on a scale from 1-10, I am a 7 of ticklishness."

This was an actual email that I sent to a stranger from Craigslist. It was almost winter break of a particularly busy year, and I was starting to feel that emptiness and dread that I usually feel approaching breaks. I figured I’d try something new, so I went to Craigslist and searched “gigs.” Paid, unpaid: it didn’t matter. What I needed was something to eat up my free time.

And that’s how I ended up sending an email to a stranger offering to pay me $15 to be tickled for 45 minutes for their documentary.

It was around the time I saw the movie Craigslist Joe, so part of me was believing in the usefulness of humanity on the internet. I was hoping that by accepting random gigs, I might get to try out something new, like Reiki, or get something for free, like a haircut while I’m sleeping. (Just kidding. But that was a popular gig offer at the time.) I just wanted to be a part of something. To participate. To contribute.

Ultimately, after my experiences with the site, I felt like Joe was either using a whole different Craigslist than I was, or the documentary was entirely staged.

Sadly (depending how you look at it), the tickling thing didn’t end up panning out. That one was actually on me--the more I told my boyfriend (now husband) about it, the more he insisted that it didn’t exactly sound like a safe activity. But it was through George Mason University, I said! It was for science! But when we looked at it further, we realized it gave an address of a building near George Mason, not actually affiliated with the university in any way. And besides, Jake reminded me, didn’t I despise being tickled? Wasn’t there a time recently where he tickled me until I couldn’t breathe and started crying?

Okay, he had a point.

But other than the tickling one, there were several gigs that just completely fell through for one reason or another. These things included:

Voicing over a nature documentary--I actually sent audio clips of myself to audition for narrating someone’s film on poison dart frogs. I guess, despite what I might have thought, no one can take me seriously when I say the words: “Deep in the rainforests of South America lies a creature with a dark secret.”

“Alternative/Goth girl” modeling--I attached a photo of myself before Goth/Industrial Night, where my friend and I successfully infiltrated a highly exclusive gathering of goths in a basement on Charlottesville’s downtown mall. We thought that goths, of all people, would have decent radars for posers. Well, not these goths--at the end of the night, a chick in black leather with a dyed white mohawk told us that it was “very cool” that we came out to the event and that she really hoped she’d be seeing more of us in the future. We ran all the way to the trolley stop screaming, “We got hit on by a real goth!” I don’t know if we’d ever felt more impressed with ourselves. Anyway, needless to say, this stranger on the internet had better goth-dar than a real goth at a goth party. They never responded to my embarrassing email.

Rap video girl--This is one of my greatest regrets. I found a posting from a local rapper named AP (I think, because he regarded many of his lyrics as fairly intellectual, like an AP class?) He wanted some video girls for his new banger,  “Party Hard.” It was a hard 180 from his previous woke single, “Please Stop the Abuse.” I wanted to be in his video (out of boredom, not out of appreciation for his sick flow), but I had a scheduling conflict. I told him about it, and he said it would be okay even if I came for ten minutes, and for whatever reason, this was the point where I got sketched out. In retrospect, I really should have gone for ten minutes to see what it was all about. What was the worst that could have happened? AP turning me away because he’d already filled the role of Token White Girl Dancing Awkwardly? 

The very serious student film--I got further with this one than most, because I actually met the person putting it together and went to a community center in Alexandria to audition for it. It was called “Two Lives,” and it was about two teenagers--one seeking an abortion, and one willing to do anything for her baby. The parts that I read seemed pretty much like garbage from a dialogue-writing and believability standpoint--as the angsty teen girl who doesn’t want to be pregnant, I had to say “No. God no!” multiple times to the kid who knocked me up at a party, and then there was a part where my babydaddy was pushing drugs in the parking lot of Mom’s Organic Market. So thug! I definitely didn’t get the part, partially because I was like 9 years too old and partially because I totally sucked and forgot all my lines. Looking at the final product, I have gained respect for the project -- there’s a bit of a twist ending that at the very least makes things interesting.

There were way more failed attempts than that (33 total by my count in the gmail archives), but those are the most interesting ones. 

So why did so few things pan out, after all of those emails? Why is it so hard for a person with so little to give to make a meaningful connection with someone who has so little to gain? Why was it that every single time, it wasn’t exactly the right gig for me or I wasn’t exactly the right girl for the gig? How can someone be so picky when they have virtually nothing to offer?

Maybe Craigslist is a place for dreamers...people who have a dream and want to get it validated but have no ambition of ever following through with that dream. This would account for the many emails I exchanged with people who claimed they were “just getting started, not sure what direction the project’s going to take.” Or maybe Craigslist, as unprestigious as it seems, is more like the slushpile at The New Yorker than we estimate. Idealists who, if everything is just right, can move forward with their vision.

So did anything ever work out for me in my quest to participate in something? Well, there was one thing: a music video shoot for a local pop punk band. After I got over the initial awkwardness of one of the band members saying “Oh! You’re the girl who responded to our Craigslist ad!” by drinking a sizable percentage of the beer they brought, it was a really memorable, fun experience. 

That’s all I ever wanted, Craigslist!

Things I Probably Won’t Do Anymore: Part 1

My daughter is due in nine days. I usually try to avoid saying “nine days” in the same way I avoid talking about my neighbors who live “three doors down,” because I will inevitably just go into a lazy rendition of “Story of a Girl”...but maybe I’m the only person here who remembers the group who did that song.

I was born nine days early, but it’s looking like my daughter won’t be. So in the meantime while I wait, I thought I would start to reflect on some of the things that I probably won’t really do anymore. At first I was sad to think about how much less free time I’ll have. However, upon further examination of the ways I’ve spent breaks from work and school, I’ve come to a new conclusion: I spend my free time doing a lot of dumb shit.

In this series that I hope to write, I’ll reflect on numerous solo activities that I’ve used to combat my phobia of down time: feigning an interest in organic farming, answering unsavory Craigslist ads, going to concerts that turn out to be birthday parties for someone else’s group of friends. I’m sure there are many, many, more stupid things I’ve done, but I’ll start with those topics in a three-part series.

Part 1: Going to Concerts Alone

There’s nothing wrong with going to a concert alone--in fact, I’d argue that it’s one of the best ways to go to a concert. No screaming in someone else’s ear between songs, no impossible quest to find each other after going to the bathroom, no annoying conversation about whether you should stay for the encore or flee the crowd.

Last summer, my husband was out of town and one of my favorite artists was playing at a little venue in the outskirts of East Nashville. It was for something called the 8th Annual Keoghfest, which, upon further examination, was an elaborate party held by some guy whose last name was Keogh. Were there set times for the different bands, I asked on the Facebook event page. “No!” cried Keogh himself, as if my question was an insult to his spontaneous, whimsical party.

It was at a real music venue and open to the public, so I think I might have overestimated how much this event was an actual concert. There were different bands setting up and performing, a bartender selling drinks (thank god!), a merch table for the different bands, but upon seeing the people there interact, it became quite clear that it was NOT at ALL a real concert. It was just this dude named Keogh’s birthday party. In fact, it seemed that I was the only person there who wasn’t from this group of friends who all went to MTSU together. (MTSU is like the hipster-artiste school about 45 minutes from Nashville--here in Virginia, the best thing I could compare it to would be VCU.)

So upon realizing this, the first thing I did (after ordering a large PBR and starting to drink it at a steady clip) was try to talk to people and make friends. And this is exactly where things started to go wrong.

It was the summer of 2016, maybe better known as the end of the era for fidget spinners. One of the bands was well aware of this fact and had purchased a bulk order of them. In the same way that you raise a lighter for an emotionally moving song, this band wanted everyone to spin a fidget spinner at the same time. I saw this as an opening to start a conversation with the person closest to me.

“I’m a teacher,” I said, “and these things were the bane of my existence this year.”

“Right?” he said. We talked about how stupid these things were as we spun them and stared brainlessly at the many dizzying concentric circles before us. He asked where I taught and I told him. What a coincidence! It was the same high school he’d gone to!

“When did you graduate?”

“Oh, I didn’t. It was just too weird for me--high school. I just felt like I was so above the level of everyone else around me. I finished my degree online instead.”

Pretty soon, there was a lull in the music and Kid Genius was still playing with his fidget spinner. “Weaponize autism!” he cried, mock-throwing the fidget spinner like a ninja star. Offensiveness and lack of humor aside, the people around us laughed and I thought that this meant that he was their goofy friend who was always saying random shit.

“Hey man!” he said to a guy standing near us. “How’ve you been?”

“Uh...” the guy said. “Do I know you?”

(I can’t remember his name, but let’s call him Creepy Steve. I can’t really imagine it being anything other than that, honestly.)

“Steve! Steve from MTSU!”

“Uh...have we met?”

I had to feel bad for Steve. He’d just tried to demonstrate value by showing me he had friends, and that value was totally denied. As eerie of a vibe as I was starting to get from him, this was just plain embarrassing.

Steve went to get a drink and came back with two. I got a sinking feeling as soon as I realized one of them was for me.

The night flashed before me like a Lifetime Original movie. It was late. I was a long Uber drive from my apartment. My husband was in another state. None of my friends knew where I was or when I was supposed to get back. There was no way that accepting a drink from Creepy Steve was a good idea...no matter how badly I needed said drink.

“Oh, no thanks, dude,” I said. “I’m trying to pace myself.”

Steve shrugged and gave the drink away to the guy who had just denied being his friend, who looked confused but readily accepted it.

Now I had someone to talk to, but it was becoming painfully clear that he was just as out of the loop of this group of people as I was. Not only that--something was just off about him. Between songs, I tried to do a hard reset on the night by going to the bathroom and coming back and standing very far from where I originally stood.

But by the end of the next song, he’d found me again.

“There you are!” he said, as if he were in a horror movie. This was not going to end well. He kept talking to me and sharing charming little anecdotes about himself. Here was a picture of his dog. He just loved taking photos with a Nikon. Here was his Instagram address. Could he get mine?

The next band picked up the pace, and as people were jumping around, I took the opportunity to jump right out the back door. Out back was a fenced in area that reminded me of going outside at a frat party...for some type of performing arts fraternity. There were lots of tattooed, pierced, purple-haired people smoking cigarettes and talking dramatically to each other.

They looked more like the people I wanted to talk to, but I didn’t have any kind of in. This was like a college reunion for them, and they were all catching up and talking shit and reminiscing about the good old days in Murfreesboro. I looked back at the door and I saw Creepy Steve making his way outside, looking everywhere for someone, presumably me.

I had a couple of options, but the one that made the most sense at the time was to hide.

Over along the far side of the wall, not illuminated by any light except the tips of their important-looking cigarettes, two girls with thick glasses and indie-girl bangs were having a hushed conversation.

I squatted beside them in the dark and whispered, “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt. I’m just trying to hide from someone.”

They were intrigued.

“Who are you trying to hide from?” they asked.

I gave a general description of his appearance and demeanor.

One of them perked up. “Oh no,” she said. “Creepy Steve?” (Like I said, I’m not positive his name was Steve, but she definitely said “Creepy” before whatever it was--Creepy Steve, Creepy Dave...something like that.)

I remembered his name on Instagram and pulled up his page. I showed her a dramatic headshot that he had taken of himself.

“Oh yeah, that’s him!” she cried. Her friend couldn’t quite remember.

“You know! The kid that I made the meme about! And everyone said I was so mean. But this is exactly what he does! He can’t keep doing this and expect to get away with it!”

She went on to tell me the story with this guy. He didn’t even go to MTSU, he was just a random townie that lived in a house with some people they knew. He would just kind of linger in situations, like this one time where they were all on a porch talking, and every person there assumed that he was someone else’s friend when really, he was just a random stranger who knew no one. (Ironically, kind of like me at this birthday party.) There was another story where their friends across the street were having a yard sale, and then had to leave to go somewhere. When he thought no one was looking, he tried to get into this house of people he barely knew, as seen from across the street. He was harmless, the girl assured me, but everything she told me about him was vaguely unsettling.

He wasn’t friends with the people he lived with, just a random guy splitting the rent. The other guys were all in bands and would have basement shows at their house, and Creepy Steve would just use it as an opportunity to try to meet girls who didn’t want to meet him.

The meme, which everyone thought she was so cruel and heartless for, was a cutout picture of his face. In that all-white meme font, it said above his head: Have house show. Below his head: Acquire friends. “People have killed themselves for less,” one of her friends had insisted. She just shook her head. “I don’t care. He needs to know he’s creepy.”

So apparently in picking someone to talk to, I’d picked the exact wrong person to talk to, an infamous creep who just sort of showed up places and aggressively tried to make friends with people, especially lonely girls.

I thanked the girl and let her get back to her conversation. I went back inside and hung out in the back of the room until my band went on. I made conversation with Keogh’s dad, a cool senior citizen who probably should have been the person I picked to talk to in the first place.

When the concert ended, the college friends started playing their favorite inside-joke songs. Among them was Kesha’s “Blow.” One of the friends got down on the floor and did a hilarious, jerky dance on his back. By the way everyone laughed, you could tell it was apparently a party favorite. Then Creepy Steve got down on the floor and did the exact same thing. It was surreal to watch--like when a toddler sees his big brother do something for laughs, and then copies that exact thing. I honestly felt bad for this kid, but I also never wanted to see him again.

He found me and offered me a ride home, but I told him my Uber was on the way. When I got in, I looked out the window to make sure he wasn’t following me. It was 3 AM and for East Nashville standards, things were pretty quiet on my ride home. My Uber driver and I talked about Alkaline Trio and an upcoming Emo Karaoke night and I was reminded that about 95 percent of the time in Nashville, making conversation with strangers is a good thing. I just have a knack for picking exactly the wrong strangers that other 5 percent of the time.

on Tom Petty's "Good Girl" and female friendship

As I am just entering motherhood and my thirties, I have to say my search criteria for a good girlfriend has narrowed quite a bit. By summer, I will have a daughter, and significantly less free time. That being the case, I’m not looking to waste my time with people who don’t truly make me happy.

My husband and I just moved from Nashville back to our hometown of the DC suburbs. It may sound ideal--moving home, picking back up where we left off, with a baby on the way. But in some ways it’s the loneliest set of circumstances in the world. Here we are, back where we started. Old friends had moved on to lives without us. New friends are hard to make. It isn’t exactly easy to put yourself out there when you’re pregnant, you can’t drink, and everyone assumes a lot of boring, lame things about you.

But if I could befriend anyone, if I could somehow advertise myself on a friend-making site without getting solicitations for threesomes, I’ll tell you who I’m not looking for:

I’m not looking for a “Good Girl.”

Good Girls first appeared in my life the way a lot of other mysterious phenomena did--through a song. Good Girls, as described by Tom Petty, enjoyed the most generic swath of things: Elvis. Horses. America. Jesus.

Part of me felt there had to be something more. If you rearranged the letters, did they spell out some kind of sexual deviance he was actually after? If you played the song backwards, did it explain how good girls were actually kind of a snooze-fest, and no one wanted to date them, not even Tom Petty, apparently, as he goes on to state that he doesn’t even miss her, and seems to say without regret that he broke her heart?

I felt sorry for the good girl, but I couldn’t necessarily relate to her.

To me, the song is kind of a sequel to Billy Joel’s “Only The Good Die Young.” The oh-so-cleverly named Virginia listened to the fatalistic plea for her to ditch her Catholic faith in favor of Billy Joel’s penis, and she went ahead and said no. In chapter two, the world is moving on from her. The bad boys are standing in the shadows. The good girls are home with broken hearts.

Chapter three is her eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s with her mama (yet another unique thing she loves), watching a bad movie, going to Youth Group the next day, finding a nice boy who will wait til marriage, then having like 42 kids together and quitting her career. Not really the makings of a hit song, in my opinion.

Don’t get me wrong. It isn’t someone who could be on the reality TV series Bad Girls Club that I’m seeking. I don’t want someone whose life could in any way be compared to a natural disaster, someone to suck me into their drama.

I just want someone with a few enemies.

Enemies are an important part of life. Having an enemy shows that there is some aspect of you that is controversial. If you love things like Elvis and horses, no one can really disagree with you. But at the same time, there are no nuances to interests that generic. No one can truly bond over something like that. It’s like saying you like the beach in hopes of uncovering some kind of miraculous common interest with someone.

The best friends I’ve ever had are ones who have made serious mistakes in their past. They are reformed heartless bitches who are now somewhat back on the straight and narrow. They are currently kind, empathetic creatures, but there’s also some guy out there who has considered running them over with his car, or at the very least has smashed up belongings of hers--her DVD collection, her Nintendo 64.

I want a girlfriend who knows that there are people out there who talk about her behind her back. As women, we can’t make everyone happy, and furthermore, we shouldn’t. If we did, not only would we put our happiness on the line--we’d put our personhood on the line, too.

No one is talking shit about Good Girls. Not so much because of their innocence, but more because there isn’t a ton to say. Tom Petty could only get one verse in about her before even he had to move on.

I want a girlfriend who might be out to dinner with me and then say all of a sudden, “Oh shit, we need to leave,” because they see someone connected with their old life who’ll eternally hate them. We’ll throw money down on the table and stumble out, drunk on laughter and shame, and find refuge somewhere in the parking lot where we can sit down and mock the social media of whoever that person just was. She’ll explain why they will eternally see her as some ice queen, and I’ll laugh and know she’s my kind.

a drive down route 50

Jake: That furniture store JUST opened and now they’re doing 70 percent off?

Me: Oh. It’s this song again.

Jake: Look. They even have the guy out there with a sign. If you need a guy out there with a sign, I don’t trust your business model.

Me: It makes me uncomfortable when she says she can show me incredible things.

Jake: Oh my god. They’re putting in another mattress store?

Me: You can read him like a magazine because that’s the only thing you know how to read.

Jake: There must be fifty mattress stores within a ten mile radius of our house. More than pho places.

Me: Make the bad guys good for a weekend? What the hell is THAT supposed to mean?

Jake: Buying a mattress is like buying a car. They list prices that are like four times what anyone would ever possibly pay so they can cross them out and lower them four times. They try to make you feel like you’re getting a good deal--but you know you’re not.

Me: Is that supposed to be attractive? A nightmare dressed like a daydream? If a girl I liked told me she was a nightmare dressed like a daydream, I’d run the other way.

Jake: How many times is that Indian place going to change its name?

Me: There. That’s the only line that I think rings true in the entire song. Boys only want love if it’s torture.

Jake: Have I ever told you about my unofficial ranking of local frozen yogurt places?

TTFN, middle school: a linguistic retrospective

I never really got to say goodbye to the last era of my life. Which, I’m sure, was in part due to the fact that I was actually uninvited to my own goodbye party. (That makes it sound like I did something terrible, but in reality, I just didn’t donate my five dollars at the appropriate time.)

So here is my goodbye, in the form of a short sociolinguistic dictionary. But first, let me just say: I spent five years of my life in middle school (seven, if you count when I actually went to middle school). Not by choice. Who would ever choose to do such a thing?

Just a short slice of life from my own middle school experience: I am walking down the hallway at Carl Sandburg Middle School, violin case clanking against my side, backpack with multiple textbooks weighing me down. I am wearing my favorite outfit: overall capris inspired by a Keiko from Zoom, and a yellow shirt--the only one that doesn’t show my ever-present pit stains. All of a sudden, one of the white girls from the trailer park (one who slicks her hair tight to her head with gel and wears copious amounts of dark lipliner) shakes my shoulder.

“What the fuck are you wearing?”

“Um...pardon me?”

“Yeah. You in the highwaters. What the fuck do you think you’re wearing?” She starts laughing with her friends, scary-looking dudes.

My mind begins racing. I’d heard stories about this middle school, but I never believed them. But here was my current reality: this girl was probably about to beat me up in some sort of fashion hate crime. I did what made the most sense at the time. I ran down the hallway, all the way out to the bus.

My second middle school experience was quite different. No one openly ridiculed my outfits to the point of intimidation--they weren’t allowed to! No, this time around, my students stroked my ego in hopes of a higher grade. Every year, we had the conversation where they asked, “Ms. D, what were you like in middle school?” And every year, I told them the same thing: I was a total friendless nerd. You wouldn’t have talked to me. And somehow they never believed it, when really, between my YouTube YA book trailers that I made for them and my long-winded speeches about UVA, I had obviously been a nerd the whole time.

Mistakenly presuming I was cool, the kids shared their language with me. Here are some of my favorite/least favorite words and phrases from the past five years:

Turn-up- Turn-up basically means cool, not lame, fun party, etc. I mainly remember hearing it in the context of the sentence “I hope Woodson is turn-up next year.” If the people I’ve met over the years who went to Woodson are any indication, it won’t be.

What are the odds... This is one of the strangest, dumbest games I have seen since Zap. One student asks something like, “What are the odds I hit Ms. D with a trash can after class?” And then the other kid says a number. Not a percent ratio, not one in a higher number, just a number. “Six.” Then both students count to three and say a number between one and six. “Five.” “Five.” Uh-oh! Now student one has to hit me with a trash can!

YOLO- I wish I didn’t have to discuss this word, but this sociological study would be incomplete if I neglected to mention it. This word is something you say as an excuse for doing with possible major consequences. Some say Drake coined this phrase, but I say that is giving him way too much credit. Anyway, I think the most accurate usage of this term was evident when I told my students the story about how I dove into a coat closet at age 3, accidentally hitting a sharp edge and requiring stitches. “Why’d you do it?!” one of them asked me. Another student shook his head, fed up with such a stupid question. “Because YOLO,” he said.

Lax flow/bro flow- Here is a throwback to when I taught at a private school in Maryland. I had just gotten my Real Adult Teacher haircut, one of those short wispy ones that sort of made me look like a fun mom. What I had not anticipated was that Maryland was the most enthusiastic high school lacrosse state in the country, and I had unintentionally gotten the same haircut as all of the popular boys on the lacrosse team. “Ms. D has mad lax flow!” I heard again and again.

Swag- Swag is interesting because it comes from a real word, swagger, that students have no idea is a real word ever since it was appropriated to mean basically nothing. Swag can mean cool, desirable, skilled, but it has also come to be something that people say for no reason at all, almost like “Um.” Other word parts include “swagged out,” and “swaggalicious,” but let’s just be honest, these kids don’t really know about parts of speech, so all of these words are interchangeable.

Corners- Fairfax Corner Shopping Center.

Troo, troo- This is mainly said in response to criticism or highlighted hypocrisy. For example, a student may say that working on his essay for an hour is “too hard,” and then I might point out, “Well, you play Call of Duty for about 6 hours each night, and I’m only asking you to spend 1/6th of that time on your essay.” “Aw, troo, troo.” The problem with this statement, though, is its rampant overuse. In my most challenging team taught class this year, nearly everything we said aloud was pointing out a problem or correcting behavior. One day, after about twelve students had said “Troo, troo,” my team teacher said, “That’s it! The next person who says ‘troo’ is going to be kicked out of the room!” To which we got the most predictable of responses: “Aw, false, false...”

___ is life- This grammatically confusing statement is used to identify with something that one truly likes, or to mock something, intimating that no one should like it. The most common “is life” statement I heard was, “Ball is life,” roughly meaning, “I enjoy playing basketball.” What are nouns, anyway? Verbs? Why do I even try?? Conversely, students could make fun of something, for example: “One Direction is life.” It’s all in the tone.

a little less Black Beauty, a little more Seabiscuit

Steer clear of that Katy Perry girl. She’s into some dark stuff.

In her latest love song, “Dark Horse,” Katy Perry’s message is honest: sure, you can fall for her. But just know up-front that she’s a life ruiner. She ruins people’s lives.

The beat is dark. The key is minor. The message is threatening.

“So you wanna play with magic?” she opens her chorus with, equating her vagina to preferred Friday night activity of nerds everywhere. Too much credit? I think so.

“Baby do you dare to do this?” she continues. “Cause I’m coming at you like a dark horse/ Are you ready for (ready for)/ A perfect storm (perfect storm)”

How is it that Katy’s short chorus is able to reference two different 3-star movies? She must have confused her favorite online metaphor-generator with movies tagged on IMDB as “meh.”

Ultimately, she equates a relationship with her to gang membership: “Cuz once you’re mine/ There’s no going back.”

Not only are these words holy-Jesus inducing, the delivery is frightening as well: “There’s no going back” is said in that foreboding, gangster, slowed-down manner that you’d use to hold up your local Wendy’s.

Of course, Katy Perry is not alone in this endeavor. Juicy J, three-time winner of the White People’s Choice award, comes in with some...enlightened...lyrics. He starts off strong with “She’s a beast/ I call her karma/ She’ll eat your heart out/ Like Jeffrey Dahmer.”

That was a cannibalism joke.

It only gets better: “She’s sweet as pie but if you break her heart/ She’ll turn cold as a freezer.” As a middle school teacher, I would not give credit to those similes.

But wait, there’s more: “She can be my sleeping beauty/ I’m gon put her in a coma.”

What’s a love song without a little domestic abuse? Clearly Juicy J was reading the Grimm Brothers’ version of that one.

There is no video to put all of these magical words to yet, but it’s coming soon (as in next week), and it’s apparently going to be big. Juicy J stated at the Grammy’s that it will be a “major motion picture,” which leads me to believe that he doesn't know what that means.