Please let me walk your dog

A notification appeared on my cell phone.

“Looks like Jessica gave you a tip!”.

I’m stunned. I open my dog walker app and find proof in dollar signs.

My bachelor degree is so useful I was able to land two jobs. My second one is now as a dog walker. This works for me as I enjoy all things fluffy (except for that thing growing under my sink).

I was still riding high off of a particularly good walk with a Labrador named Sam. Little did I know my dog walking app was glitching in my pocket.

When I accepted a walk with Archie, an Australian Shepard mix, I left about 15 minutes before the walk was supposed to start. The app claimed his home was less than a mile away.

On the way, my phone began to get warm and the app experienced what the customer service line called an outage. I called it the worst thing to happen to my very short career as a dog walker.

This was a timeline of the events that followed:

9:59 am: Hi Jessica, it’s your dog walker! I am so sorry but my app told me it would take only 11 minutes, but now it’s saying it will take 30 minutes. I will be late, but I hope you’ll still let me take your pup on his walk!

10:02 am: After walking around in circles my blue dot could give me no direction and I panicked. I’m in a Lyft now. Again, my apologies.

10:05 am: Or at least I think I’m in a Lyft, it was a black car who nodded when I asked if it was here for me. Please report to the police if I don’t arrive in 10 minutes (which I will because I’m going to be still on time). Please let me walk your dog.

10:07 am: I’m not even wearing a seat belt because I’m so ready to jump out of the car and walk your dog. And I’m usually really big into safety. I used to be bullied for always wearing a seatbelt on the way home from church. Not that safety isn’t cool. Your dog will be safe in my hands.

10:09 am: I can’t wait to meet Archie! I’m sure he’s a good boy. I’m usually a good girl.

10:10 am: Please ignore that last message

10:12 am: I’m downstairs! Please let me in! I’m already warmed up for our walk. I’ve got a nice sweat going.

* One hour later *

11:12 am: I’ve been pacing back and forth outside of your building. My app won’t let me end the walk. I think Archie is getting confused.

11: 14 am: It keeps saying I have one more minute on the walk. Time flys when you’re having fun (which Archie and I certainly had) but this minute is not ticking by.

11:16 am: I’m just going to give your dog back.

11:18 am: Please don’t rate my service.

Yet, here I am days later and I receive five stars and a tip. Thanks, Archie! Sorry for all the heavy breathing.

 

What to wear when you run out of underwear

I haven’t worn underwear in almost two weeks.

This is not necessarily a personal choice. After recently moving to New York City, I realize I simply do not have enough quarters in my life to successfully use a laundromat.

The apartment complex I live in has a laundry room that requires a refillable card. I would love a card of my own, but I haven’t been able to track down the Laundry Fairy who gives out this precious device.

Many emails to the landlord, the building managers, and the laundry gods, I am still without fresh underwear. There is only so many thongs, briefs and diapers a girl can own.

It has certainly made wardrobe choices difficult. As I type I’m currently in a ridiculous creation of clothing in order to hide my genitalia.

Therefore, it is fitting to provide a list of underwearless outfits just in time for New York Fashion Week (#NYFW).

  1. Day Clubbing
    • Why wait until your night out to bust out a skin-tight skirt to make sure you really tape your legs together? This look also doubles as a hip abductor exercise in your free time. Pair this with Keegles and your pelvic region will thank you. (And hopefully, repay you in underwear.)
  2. Boyfriend Boxers
    • Heard of boyfriend jeans? Well instead of paying 60 bucks for ill-fitted pants, just sneak into a man of your choice’s drawers *wiggles eyebrows*. My personal favorite is the boxer brief as they also work for volleyball practice. (If you’re into that exercise stuff.)
  3. Long dresses
    • Relate to the freedom of the Scots in their kilts and stride proudly on a hot summer day. If you feel like Little House on the Prairie or a member of a cult in a Lifetime movie you’ve gone too far*.
  4. Non-denim pants
    • For those risk takers out there, you can experience full commando with a cold zipper pressed up against your hoo-ha (yes, that’s a medical term for vagina). I strongly advise against skinny jeans as underwear was apparently made to protect our flowers from being crushed by denim. But if you can find softer fabric and a looser fit, tread lightly and go for it.
  5. Jumpsuits
    • Inside a jumpsuit, you are completely sealed to the point that you will have to fully undress to use the bathroom. Try not to make eye contact through the bathroom stalls. Coworkers just want to wash their hands, not experience a moment with you that they will remember even when you bring doughnuts to the morning meeting. I’m sorry, Karen, I thought sprinkles could fix this**.

Editor’s Note:

*At all costs avoid skirts, dresses or long shirts that don’t go past your knees. Find something cute that can blow in the wind without recreating a Marylin Monroe moment with less iconic photography and more public indecency arrests. #airitout

** She is really sorry, Karen, let it go.

 

People keep telling me I’m going to cry on the subway and it’s vaguely threatening

Wow, I have been so bad at not hitting the shiny little publish button, and keeping these gems to myself. Please proceed. 

Everyone warned me I would cry on the subway, I took it a step forward and walked around the city cursing at the sidewalk like I had turrets. Then I got lost and blamed the universe for my problems.

I forgot my phone, which usually isn’t the worst thing in the world, but apparently, unless you carry around maps the size of your mother’s linens then you will need Google Maps. (Or Apple Maps if you want to be told to drive into a river.)

Related image

I was meeting a friend at The Wing, a women and non-binary people coworking space. If I had my phone I would’ve taken many photos. But then I wouldn’t have this darling story for your viewing pleasure.

I realized I didn’t have my phone when I stepped off the subway. I was meeting my friend ten minutes from then and couldn’t turn around. I rushed into the nearest coffee shop to steal their WiFi because luckily I had my laptop.

I thought I was a genius, I thought I had hacked the system of forgetting your phone at home. I was deeply proud of this and scorned all of the articles about millennials and their lack of #streetsmarts.

I tried to memorize the map on my laptop before closing it and running down the street. I vastly underestimated how hidden offices can be, tucked away between retail spaces. Construction crews lingered in the sidewalk. I continued to walk up and down to no avail.

This is when the cursing began. Close to tears I sucked it in and used it as fuel for my rage. Strangers gave me a wide berth on the crosswalk as I spoke loudly of my horrible turn of events as if someone would stop and ask if I needed help.

I was lost and sweaty and in a business skirt.

After many runs back and forth to steal WiFi from unsuspecting business owners, I found the entrance. It really was a utopia. Mainly because no one gave a shit that I simply couldn’t have worn enough deodorant to mask my defeat. I stank. All was good again as I sipped water from my personal carafe only an hour late. Not bad.

***

Except, that wasn’t the end of this tale! I managed to get lost ON THE WAY HOME! Because it wasn’t my home, it was one of the many AirBnBs we were crashing at while awaiting board approval for our apartment. Therefore I didn’t remember the address and used landmarks to retrace my steps like I was on the Oregon Trail, with less disease and more WiFi hotspots.

I still didn’t cry though. However, this shame is probably deeply embedded in my skin and will appear in the form of a mole 20 years from now.

The End.

Partying? On a Sunday? The scandal of it all

I haven’t posted in a while because I’m forgetful like a parrot with amnesia, and I’m just telling the same story about crackers until someone puts a blanket over my cage. True story. I wrote this little nugget a weekend after arriving in NYC. I guess I should wait until a Sunday to post it but then I’ll forget again. *Insert parrot noise* Please continue. 

Last night I was invited to a rooftop party. Someone I barely knew invited me to someone I definitely didn’t know’s birthday party.

When I got there I felt like a total dweeb because everyone was salsa dancing like a total pro. I’m not kidding. Half of the invitees were dancers.

When I dance I look like a chicken pecking, just a lot of neck movement back and forth to the beat. If the rest of my body gets involved it’s more aggressive arm movements. My feet tend to stay in the same place.

The party was both magical and intimidating and a woman yelled at me about touching her chair (which I will hold as a grudge for the rest of my days).

Oh, you want to hear about the mean woman and her chair? Let me tell you.

So salsa dancing takes up a lot of space and the dance floor was tiny so I moved a chair an inch, not for me, but for the dancers! I was trying to be helpful! I’m incredibly defensive!

This woman looks at me and says, “Don’t touch the chair.” I smile back at her waiting for her deadpan to break and we’d laugh together, become best friends and braid each other’s hair. No. It wasn’t like that.

Her boyfriend then got involved.

“Yeah, don’t touch the chair. I reserved that chair.”

I am standing there grinning like a madman hoping they will laugh soon because this is a very specific and ridiculous moment. But they continued to stare at me until I moved away from the chair with a look of both “I hate you” and “you’re boring me”.

Did I let it ruin my night?

Of course, I did! Who gets up in arms about a chair! For the rest of the night, I purposely moved around the room to avoid them until they left. Then I went and touched the chair. Because I’m five, apparently.

On a more positive note, the people there were incredibly interesting. The woman who invited us talked about her travels, how she had two different racecar driver friends, how she sips tequila and scotch, she loves a good cigar, and she casually took up tango and salsa dancing later in her life.

Also, she only parties Sunday to Wednesday night because that’s when the locals come out. Who parties on a Sunday? My worldview was flipped.

I am overwhelmed by the coolness level of these people. I hope some of it rubs off on me because right now I’m experiencing serious imposter syndrome.

I just packed up my things and moved to the city on a whim. I’m having a hard time feeling like I deserve to be here.

I guess whether I deserve to be here or not, I’m here and I might as well make the most of it.

Apparently making the most of it means making a hit list for angry chair keepers.

P.S. I might be taking up salsa dancing lessons. Baby steps?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

 

A month ago I decided I wanted to transition this blog into an online magazine. The GAF team is still working very hard towards that goal, but in the meantime, I missed having a platform where I can write.

So I’m back and in a new city. Again. I just moved to NYC! It all happened very quickly and wasn’t planned at all. Essentially I got a remote job and Nick landed a contract for six months and we just took off.

While we were in the process of getting an apartment we hopped around AirBnB’s and hotels. When we reached out to our first host she messaged me back with an ominous warning of “It’s a fourth-floor walk up… can you handle that?”.

I took it as a challenge. Mostly because I forgot “walk up” is a fancy New York way of saying “a shit ton of stairs and no elevator even if you beg the gods halfway up”.

So I arrived with five bags of luggage, two backpacks and a look of determination on my face. The driver, Sean, who unknowingly was acting as a cheaper version of a moving company kindly asked if I wanted help with the bags. Poor man. Poor, poor, guy. It was awful.

Apparently, the apartment building had “high ceilings” so each floor had incredibly steep stairs with at least 30 to a bazillion steps. No exaggeration.

Sean looked like he wanted to run back to the safety of his car. The host probably wanted to close the door in my face.

Then we began the climb with 50-pound bags in the position of our choosing. Sean went for a “head-carrying” position similar to women balancing jugs of water, except with more cursing because he was from Queens.

I hoisted the bags on my hip and essentially dragged it sideways. The host made lots of noises as she watched me ruin her wood stairs.

When we made it to the top I thanked the NYC apartment gods that I wasn’t going to have to deal with those bags for at least two weeks. But alas, the gods had their own plan.

The host walked me through her apartment, she was a designer and it was decorated so meticulously I was afraid to touch anything. Sharp objects everywhere, vintage glassware, white bed linen, etc. Everything breakable or stainable.

“And if you drop even water on the couch it has to be professionally cleaned for $400.”

I audibly gulped and hugged my arms around myself to crush the clutz in me. Within the few minutes there I only managed to gather a few bruises on my shins from bumping into artsy furniture.

Later that night Nick sat down on the couch with a beer. I screamed like I had witnessed a murder.

He lept up and looked around himself as if maybe there was a dead animal he hadn’t seen while lounging around.

“No drinking on the couch. Don’t eat, breath or look at that couch. That couch is only an art installation from now on.”

We agreed and settled into the new place for our first week in the city. But then that fateful Friday, the rain came.

We had just finished dinner and I went to the bathroom. When I closed the door behind me I began to hear the rain. As if it was raining inside. I pulled at the door but it was jammed. I yanked and yanked at the door to no avail. The heavy trickling continued on the other side. It felt like I was in the bathroom at the Rainforest Cafe.

I yelled for Nick and when he released me I was greeted with an indoor shower. The roof was leaking profusely. We gathered all the pots and pans but it was no use. The place was soaked.

The water soaked into the walls and eventually a wall of mirrors, so artfully placed, came crashing down. I’m a superstitious person so I began to count the years of bad luck that surrounded our feet.

Our host came into the apartment to assess the damage. She looked at me with despair and all I could say was,”At least no water landed on the couch!”

We are now in a new location.

Announcements and changes and updates, oh my

I haven’t posted this week yet because there has been a lot of decision making with GAF’s amazing tiny team to reach our full potential. These decisions will eventually lead to some major changes.

I’m just going to list them out because then they’re less scary and easier to swallow:

Girls Aren’t Funny is transitioning to an online magazine

I started this as a blog a little over two months ago while I was traveling. It was my dream for it to become a submission-based blog, but I soon recognized this won’t work. As a personal blog, it makes it difficult for those who want to submit to fit into a brand that is literally all about me. It is important to me this becomes a platform for funny women and am so excited for this shift in format.

Think The New Yorker’s Humor section meets The Onion meets feminists meets my parents for their blessing meets something new and sparkly (but with fewer sparkles)

We are still brainstorming how Girls Aren’t Funny will look and feel, but I guarantee if you’ve been following along with me on here you will enjoy the relaunch of GAF. It’ll be a whole lot more of this from many other women.

We are currently crafting submission guidelines but reach out anyways

As always, if you are interested in showcasing your work on a platform dedicated to hilarious ladies then please use our email gaf.submissions@gmail.com or reach out through our contact form. We are looking for personal essays, satirical articles, fiction, nonfiction, cartoons, however you want to express your sense of humor. Write about the female experience, don’t write about it. Write about politics, or don’t. Write about sexual escapades, write about your long wait til marriage, write about being asexual. I literally wrote an essay about a door at Starbucks that created a coffee traffic jam.

If you are an illustrator please reach out to us

We have a great photographer on our team, but we’d like to explore the possibility of adding an illustrator to our mix to create creative featured images for the essay and articles. If you are interested in the position, the contact page is your friend.

If you are interested at all in joining GAF’s master team

We are a small team trying to birth a major project. If our work interests you and you think you have some special skill or superpower we NEED you. If you do not identify as a woman that is more than OK. We already have a boy on our team that ripped up the metaphorical ‘no boys allowed’ sign so that’s the end of that. Contact page, contact page, contact page!

News on the podcast

For those of you who have been following my random updates about this illusive podcast. Big news! As a team, we decided to grow the podcast as a separate project. We are now officially the ‘Not Your Typical Feminist Podcast’ podcast. Our web developer is busy at work building the new website as well as recreating Girls Aren’t Funny. This was decided because the goal of GAF and NYTFP overlap, but are still different. NYTFP will focus on inclusion in the feminist space. GAF still holds the mission of dismantling the stigma that girls aren’t funny. So many acronyms!

Lots of love to all of you who are here

I’m so grateful for every single person who took the time to read my blog. Of course, I will still be contributing to Girls Aren’t Funny in its future form, but it will obviously be different. No more casual posts about my itchy nipples (we’ll see). I will continue to post in this blog until we are ready to roll over officially. There will be a warning before things launch.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU! 

 That is all.

Itchy titty

My featured image couldn’t be a picture of my nipple. It just couldn’t. I’m sorry. So I give you a picture of kitties instead, because it rhymes with titties.

This week has been a week of growth. I went to a networking event for Girls Aren’t Funny and confirmed a cohost for our podcast.

But I don’t want to talk to you about growth. I want to talk to you about my damn mosquito bites.

I don’t know what kind of hell I’m living in where it is both 110 degrees AND there’s mosquitos. Are these mosquitos hyped up on post-apocalyptic fever? (I recognize that sentence made no sense, I am just too damn itchy to care).

Today is different. Today, one mosquito went too far.

I have a giant bug bite on my nipple. Yes, I’m about to go into detail about my nipple because I need your sympathy, not your judgement.

No bug should be anywhere near my nipple. Only lovers, handsy doctors and babies should have access to my nipples.

Well, not all babies. Just a few. Like my future babies if I was to have babies.

That is a whole other conversation that I don’t have to dive into, Mom!

#defensive #freethenipples

This morning, my lover, Nicholas, walked in on me in the bathroom slapping my boob around in the attempt to numb it.

#sexy #donttrythisathome

I then started to worry about cancer because in elementary school there was this myth that if you get hit in the boob too hard it gives you cancer.

So I started to research cancer.

Then I started yelling, “I need cream!”. For no apparent reason.

Then I thought, “What if this isn’t a bug bite and I’m growing a third nipple?”

I went back to researching and found an article titled, 18 Surprising Third Nipple Statistics. This intrigued me as I didn’t know there were that many nipple statistics, let alone 18 unpredictable ones.

Here are a couple ones that stood out to me:

  1. 27.2 million Americans are believed to have an extra nipple somewhere on their body – so get looking!
  2. There are no specific guidelines for taking care of extra nipples – we’ll have to make our own, starting with cream.
  3. No two nipples look alike – so that third nipple will be just as special
  4. A third nipple will naturally secrete oils that help to fight bacteria – I read this as “secret” oils which made me excited with the possibilities for my possibly very special third nipple that has a community of people who could overrun the essential oils industry with our secret secreting

So there you have it. Excuse me while I go roll around the bathroom floor.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

Just call me bossassbitch

Thanks to Jennifer Lawrence, I have a job! Hence why I tried to recreate an image of her on the red carpet. #tribute (Woah, I accidentally made a Hunger Games reference. Wouldn’t be the first time. )

Soon I will be taking my fancy writing skills to work with small business owners to create their content. My best friend’s older sister owns an agency and one of her clients requested a writer who is both professional but also has some spunk. The client literally asked for a Jennifer Lawrence (a tall order) and she thought of me! Oh, the honor!

Thanks, Jen! You’ll never know your part in me landing this great job. Or your part in inspiring many of my haircuts. I’m still iffy on the bangs though. Don’t worry, Jen, we’ll talk about that later.

The best part: It’s all online. That reminds me, I need to go buy some new PJs for work. (Get it? Because I would normally need to buy business clothes?) Oh my gosh, I am too pumped. #digitalnative (Another Hunger Games reference if you squint).

Also, I wish I was a love child between Jennifer Lawrence and Emma Stone. Except it would be too weird because I’m incredibly attracted to both of them.

love child

Also, I have way too much time on my hands and decided to put together proof that I may be the love child of these beloved actresses. I don’t think I’ve done anything so creepy in my life. Thank god I have a job now, amirite?

Triple Threat.png

Side note: While I research for the Girls Aren’t Funny podcast I have been reading a lot of feminist literature. A lot of badass women out there covering some rage-inducing social phenomenon. Fun stuff!

I think I may start a GAF book club soon. At the very least I’ll be posting what I’ve been reading and the thoughts/emotions/bodily fluids that come with it.

I just finished Not That Bad: Dispatches from Rape Culture, a collection of essays edited and introduced by Roxane Gay, and let me tell you it was an emotional rollercoaster making my way to the last page.

More on that soon.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

My brain is a bad landlord

When I was nine I moved to Texas. At school I was immediately embraced by everyone and the popularity was overwhelming.

I’m kidding. I was bullied. Relatable right?

Mistakenly I had befriended a very popular girl with very loyal/territorial friends who weren’t happy that we were spending so much time together.

At recess, each of her friends (single file) approached me and told me they hated me. Kids are so sweet.

Out of all the mean girls, there was, of course, the leader. Her name was Talon, as in a claw, especially one belonging to a bird of prey. Suitable, huh?

Well, one day as my dad and I passed the ol’ pigskin around (a football for those who don’t know… or at least I think that’s what it means… what if I’ve been wrong all these years and ol’ pigskin actually meant something horrid and not very vegan). He asked me how school was going and I told him about The Claw.

To this day I remember what he said. He said, “Don’t let anyone rent space in your head. You’re only giving them power over you”.

I remember this because it was so damn annoying. What bullied nine-year-old wants to hear that she is part of the problem?

But I took the advice and moved on. I made friends and learned a few jokes to distract bullies with, similar to throwing meat in the opposite direction and running. With less running. And not enough meat, frankly.

I’m still struggling with this though. Not bullies. That would be uncomfortable for two reasons.

  1. Why am I still attending recess as a grown woman?
  2. I recently took a self-defense class and I’m way too eager to use the moves

I’m struggling with not letting people rent space in my head. People say something harmless or purposely mean and I chew it over for days!

I’ve held grudges for years. Then I think about how that can’t be good for my skin long term, or my digestive system short term and then it makes me even angrier. The cycle is vicious.

I realized, my brain has just been a terrible landlord. It’s letting the tenants paint the walls a horrendous yellow and bringing in oversized dogs without a pet deposit.

This metaphor is getting lengthy.

I guess what I’m trying to say is enough is enough. Get the hell out of my head!

I figured I’d start where I always have when I’m facing anything scary. (Besides burying myself in rom-coms). Logic my way back.

Does it make sense that the librarian hates you because you’re a repeat offender of overdue books?

Possibly, librarians aren’t portrayed in movies as having a positive attitude. They like to shush people.

Has a real librarian ever shushed you?

No, they’ve asked me nicely to not walk them through the plot of the entire Twilight Saga.

You need to let that go.

Deal.

Hey, it’s a start.

Xoxo,

Funny Girl

Oh, public school…

After graduating with my BA, I have thought about the possibility of going back to school, but something has always held me back.

I have a weird history with teachers. Maybe if I put them down on paper you will see what I mean. I will not highlight all of them. That would take an entire book and crush my soul.

The first teacher I had when I moved to Texas was my third-grade teacher, Mrs. Barret, who I referred to as the Evil Carrot because I was nine and only had rhyming skills to hurt people’s feelings with. She would threaten to beat us with planks of wood she kept in her supply cabinet. That is all.

My attempt to learn Spanish was soon crushed with my freshmen year teacher. When I walked into class the first day I tried to explain that my schedule had been moved around and I was new to her class. She stared back and said, “It’s assigned seating”.

I again explained how my name wasn’t on the list and she told me to sit in a corner. I sat criss-cross-applesauce until she noticed me during her lecture and yelled at me to take an assigned seat based on the chart. I would then start the explanation all over again. By the next class, I knew well enough to just pick a seat.

Throughout the year she would randomly teach us French as if she had forgotten what class we were taking. She would also scream and hide under her desk while playing Shakira music videos. There was also the problem of her counting backward from ten to make the voices go away.

The next year we were told she had left teaching. Part of me worried for her, either way, it definitely made second-year Spanish quite difficult.

My sophomore World History teacher used a walking cane and threatened to beat anyone with it who referred to it as a “pimp stick”. Apparently, this was a touchy subject for him as he was incredibly worried someone would assume he enslaved young women for sex. A lot of his lectures had nothing to do with world history and everything to do with the life of a pimp.

A boy I had a crush on told me I had beautiful eyes, but the moment was ruined when my history teacher interrupted the moment to explain to him that a woman would prefer to be told, “You have cow eyes”. Have you seen the eyes of the cow? Beautiful. At 15 I wasn’t exactly sure how I felt about my self-esteem that day.

My sophomore year I had two Chemistry teachers. The first semester the teacher decided to start the class by proving something about having a decent amount of budget for the STEM department. He demonstrated this by throwing glass test tubes across the classroom and watching them shatter.

A boy with a glass eye (from a similar incident) cringed with each toss, worried he would lose his other eye. We covered him with our textbooks and cardigans like good peers.

He continued to walk us through the procedures in case any of us spilled toxic chemicals on ourselves during a lab experiment.

“Take off all of your clothes and stand under this showerhead,” he said. “Don’t worry I will be here to hold up this blanket so no one will see you naked.”

He unrolled the blanket to reveal a giant hole cut from the middle.

“I’ll fix that! We have the budget for it!”

The second semester was a woman who was very insecure about her relationship with her girlfriend. I don’t blame her. Texas is a harsh place. However one day she came in with brownies and exclaimed that if we didn’t eat them then we hate bisexual people. The brownies felt hostile but tasted pretty damn good. That’s when I became a fan of bisexual brownies.

My physics teacher in Texas claimed to be Commanche but was just a white guy who grew out his hair. He told us how his dad used to beat him and never taught us physics because it was too important to teach us about life. I still don’t know what I learned from him, except the concept of cultural appropriation.

My second semester of junior year I was living in Arizona and had an equally interesting physics teacher. He was clearly on steroids and threw stools across the classroom in rage when he wasn’t participating in Iron Mans.

My government class was only one semester and our teacher made us draw our notes and then graded us on our artistic abilities rather than the content itself. You would think he was a very calm soul, but once made a girl with diabetes scrub each desk after class because she had to eat a snack. Great guy.

The other semester was economics, the teacher of which made us invest in stocks, and encouraged us to cheat on our tests. He would turn his chair around to face the whiteboard and tell us to take out our individual internets (our cell phones). There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

My senior year of high school I took a dual credit English class taught within the high school. I clarify this because my teacher forced us to refer to him as a professor when he clearly was not. On the first day of class, he made us watch him slowly eat a grape and described it as orgasmic. I learned so much.

When I finally started college my first year I took a political science class. On the first day, there was a slideshow playing photos of a teenage girl. The professor started class explaining that the girl in the photos was his daughter. And she was murdered two months prior. We then spent the rest of the class watching news clips.

I fell in love with creative writing and had a wonderful creative writing professor. When I googled her name I found out she was a disgraced journalist because she made up people for her columns. I guess you could say she found her place in fiction. I still love her.

As part of my degree, I had to take an internship class. As part of the curriculum, we had to attend a lecture held by a self-published author. He was the Boom-Boom guy, some form of an inspirational speaker. All I remember is someone in the audience answering one of his questions and then screaming as a t-shirt was thrown at her face while he yelled, “YOU’VE JUST GRADUATED FROM BOOM-BOOM UNIVERSITY!”. Poor girl.

And last, but not least, I received a mentor as part of a school organization I was a part of. He was a nice guy, but completely and totally sexist. Almost all of his sentences started with “You girls always…”. You know, the way people liked to be lumped together?

Anyways I had to invite a guest speaker to my professional program and I thought he’d be good to invite. He was an odd guy, but he worked in the industry. Bad mistake.

Immediately he started yelling at my peers to stand up and give him their elevator speech. No one knew what he wanted and one girl started panicking. After we calmed her down I escorted him out.

AND THESE WERE JUST THE HIGHLIGHTS! Every year my whole life I have had the strangest people teach me the basics. I wish I could say I wouldn’t change it for the world… but a shiny private school might’ve been nice.

Maybe fewer threats and more learning. That should be their tagline! Did anyone else have weird teachers? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?