Being me is hard.

You see, the problem with being me, is that I constantly have to deal with the repercussions of the dumb decisions I make. Now, if I were one of my friends, I *would* look like a drooling idiot by association with the awkward girl. And sometimes, I would even have to arrive at social situations, knowing that BKflamebroiled was in tow and she brought her 78%-chance-of-doing-something-that-will-socially-scar-both-of-us-for-three-days. But if you’re my friend, you don’t have to arrive with me all the time. Sometimes, when your cool friends answer your text messages, you arrive without me. However, I *always* have to arrive with BKflamebroiled and her 78% chance of rain.

BKflamebroiled, your fashion decisions are effecting all of us. Please control yourself.

For instance: I can’t walk into the kitchen right now. If I were not me I would cook myself bacon to get over my hang over. But, sadly, I am me, and and when I walk into the kitchen I will encounter the set of pots I left dirty last night after my three course drunk meal I cooked. I don’t cook sober. Ever. I eat cereal and yoghurt. But, when drunk, I eat serious meals that involve cooking and preparation. So if I were some one else I could go about my day like a normal person. But because I’m me I have to publicly own up to whatever mess I left there (yes, I truly did cook that much while drunk. I know.) And if my sense of self-hatred weren’t bad enough, while looking for burger pics (above) I saw some bacon, it suddenly flashed back to me that I ate bacon *raw* last night. I’m a *vegetarian* (not anymore, I guess) and I bought that bacon for a party I’m throwing. Now I have to buy more. And I ate bacon. And it was raw (????) Why did I eat it raw?? I had a pot that was already warm>!

How nice it would have been to wake up and nurse my hangover like a normal person….

orrrr….. take the time that I bled all over my professor’s office. If I were not me, I would not have had the nervous (and gross) habit that involves picking at a skin tab on top of my left pointer finger. Instead, I would have wow-ed my professor with my extensive knowledge of the german language and ability to use said language to convey complex thoughts (ha, I wish.) Buuuut of course, I do have this habit, and the side effect of being me, is that the professor will not remember the things I want to say but the gaping wound that magically appeared in the middle of office hours on top of my finger. (It was super strange, I’m just gonna go ahead and say it)

What’s worse. My class is on the relationship between pictures and words in literature. This prof studies cartoons–this makes him smart and badass. So naturally, being an american I thought it would be cool to show him things like, rage comics, and the entire meme trend that’s running over the internet. Here is the translated interaction that followed: (I decided to smooth over the rambling, mistake-riddled sentences that I actually said because it’s already hard enough being me)

BKdumdum: Ah yes, if this interests you, respectable and intelligent person with whom I am currently conversing, then perhaps you should take a brief and intellectual look into the so-called memebase

PROFintelligence: yeah, sure, website?

BKdumdum: indeed.

this pops up:

PROFintelligence: is the good bra an idiom or something?

BKdumdum: no. no.

then I started bleeding. profusely. and I wish I could simply arrive at class. and not have to arrive with me. and all my baggage. and blood.

I can’t write about how embarrassing it is anymore. eh.

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