This is 20

Today I enter the crusade that is my early 20s. Before I reached this milestone, I imagined my 20s to be a glamorous adult adventure where I suddenly starting drinking mimosas and understanding taxes. 

But according to like 6 million Thought Catalog articles and the lady who waxes my eyebrows at Benefit, your early 20s really suck.

Benefit Brow Specialist: "I would never go back to like 21. It was awful, my boyfriend lost like 6 teeth playing intramural hockey and everything was so confusing".

(Slightly overweight Norshore mom trying on Hoola bronzer chimes in with something irrelevant about her first unsuccessful marriage)

Benefit Brow Specialist: " You just have no idea who you are or what you want, so nothing seems to go right. I would totally relive 26, that's when I really started getting my shit together and got a real apartment."

I'm sorry, edgy brow specialist with an arty tattoo of a bleeding dove on your left wrist, but I refuse to believe that things are about to get worse for me. I'm going to ignore your comment about "a real apartment" (and just assume you were living in a Depression-era Kit Kitteredge attic room), and focus on the fact you're telling me my life is about to go down the toilet.

Are you telling me 19 is my highpoint? Seriously? Recently, I have eaten a patty melt at 10 a.m. and lost two separate Northface jackets at two separate dive bars. The only person who texts me regularly is my Grandma Cyndi. And most of these texts are either pictures she takes of herself, or about the fact she believes tequila has hallucinogenic effects when you sip it in the moonlight.

I'll tell you my highpoint. My highpoint was when I was six. My sixth birthday was my golden birthday, and I was so adorable I could've been one of those stuck- up kids on Out of the Box.

My birthday was Western themed. I wore little red cowgirl boots, a flirty jean vest, and a devilish smile. My mom transformed our garage into my favorite restaurant at the time, a refined Joliet staple named Texas Roadhouse.  My mom rented a dance floor, barrels of peanuts for us to crack open on the floor, and ponies for us to ride.

Yes, there were PONIES at my golden birthday party. I turned six years old, danced to Cotton Eye Joe, and rode a magnificent spotted pony.  I was showered with presents and everyone in St. Paul the Apostle's first grade class wanted to be my bathroom buddy for weeks afterwards. I think can pinpoint this party as the moment I officially became a bad bitch.

 ^Me dressed as a character from Django Unchained

I'm determined that this is what my 20s will bring me. I'm not going to be some weird Hannah Horvath character with misshapen boobs and an all-ramen diet.  I am going to climb out of this current pit of despair, and turn into this six-year-old diva once again. I'm going to grow up, figure out how to send something via UPS, and ride off into the sunset wearing a jean vest atop a magnificent spotted pony.

Da Homiez Part Dos

Back by popular (or just one annoying Swiss girl's) demand,  I am going to verbally abuse my friends for everyone on the Interweb to see. If you're offended, just know I'm not even sorry.

I'll switch things around this time and do more guys than girls. See, this blog takes such unexpected twists and turns! Next week I'll be making info graphics about foreign policy!

Okay now ladies (Tyga voice)..

Tits
I have grown close to Tits this year, too close. She lives right next door to me and my paper thin walls are allowing me a pathetic amount of insight to her life. She is the only college student I've ever met who FaceTimes  her father every single day and gets in arguments with him via email about not buying her Justin Bieber tickets. She demands perfection from everyone and everything, whether its an innocent cab driver or foreign waiter at Clarke's. This classic New Yorker will argue with them, whisper about them, and then dangerously under- tip them. She went to Jewish school, where she played on what I can only assume was the worst basketball team in existence ever in America and where they didn't celebrate Halloween (also known as child abuse). Some would see Tits as a straight-laced perfectionist, but I see her for what she really is, a wild child. Famous for getting kosher wine drunk and saying inappropriate things, this girl can wop like no other.With the confidence to hit a crush party dressed as a Dominatrix or just not hit crush party at all, Tits will verbally assault everyone at the Keg and steal another sorority's cab. She can be seen wandering around bars dressed in a full winter coat, hat, and matching gloves.

Here are some classic Tits quotes I've been collecting:
 "I was basically the Jewish Regina George." 
"You can't legally own kitten heels unless your a mom and they're Manolos."
"Sorry, I don't own any earrings that aren't pearls or some form of diamonds."
"One of our bat mitzvahs was at 40/40 and Jay-Z came. The girl's dad like owned Rocca Wear, but we all knew he was secretly in the Russian mafia."

Judy
Judy and Tits go together like two schizophrenics in an insane asylum, since they both have mild rage strokes when someone sits on their sheets. She's Egyptian but is from Switzerland, so of course she's painfully cooler than everyone I've ever come in contact with ever. Her clothes are all completely covered in spikes, which makes hugging her a dangerous Indiana Jones- style adventure. If there was an international spokesperson for cheese and Ciabatta rolls, it would be Judy. Nothing brings her more unadulterated joy than unique combinations of butter, American cheese, and croissants. I honestly think Cheesie's brings her more raw emotion than the birth of her first born child will. We have also started our own musical group, a Beyonce tribute band entitled "Joliet's Finest and Swiss Chocolate." We currently cannot decide what will blow up first, this band's cover of "Love on Top" or the all-immigrant magazine we're publishing exclusively for immigrant parents of Rogers Park. She can be seen either sneaking into Elder or  crying like Elmo with her mouth wide open on any given street corner in downtown Evanston.

I think this Judy quote just speaks for itself:
"No, seriously guys. I've dated gypsies before and it sucks."

Now manfriends...

West 
 If I had to pick one male who has consistently been there for me throughout my college experience, it would be West. He's volunteered to be my date on my last birthday, allowed me to order about six Long Islands on his credit card, and then dragged me home in my tiara after the night took a turn for the vomit. However, West has more emotions in his pinky finger than I have in my whole body. This boy goes from zero to love in about 2 shots. If I had a dollar for every text he's sent me past 2 a.m. professing his love for a girl he just met at the Keg, I would have enough money to pay him back for those Long Islands. We found each other in a hopeless place last year (Bobb-McCulloch), where he was known to "spit dat study game" in the McLounge and had a Haley Joel Osment-like sixth sense for walking into my room at the exact moment I take my top off. If you're lucky enough to go with him to formal, he might just vomit all over you and make you carry him up two flights of stairs.

Molly
One of my first manfriends here NU, Molly is one unique guy. A world-renowned professional eater, if you chose to date him he will make you accompany him to Burger King sober at 1 a.m. Molly loves high school girls, but not more than he loves Chick-Fil-A. If given the choice between free Chick-n Minis for life or an intimate relationship with a Victoria's Secret model, he would debate it for awhile, but ultimately decide on the chicken. Surprisingly, this Michael Phelps diet does not lead to an increase in his calf size. I once left him alone in my room for five minutes, and then walked in on him doing calf raises. Despite those adorable toothpicks, Molly still manages to charm the ladies. Most guys see a hot girl and whisper to their friends how they could have all the intercourse with them, but Molly takes a different approach. He's known for seeing an attractive female and saying "I would wife that up."  This is a refreshing change of pace from most sex-crazed 20 year old boys. Finally, a man who sees a nice rack and immediately thinks of starting a joint checking account. 

^ I'm probably going to have to buy Molly waffle fries to make up for the calves comment

Katie-
I have often half-joked that this blog has only one loyal reader, and that reader is Katie. Katie is the only man I know who openly admits to having this blog bookmarked on his computer. This is probably because we are one in the same. Known for being a constant fixture at the Keg/Deuce, Katie knows how to have a good time. I have seen this boy go to the Keg, make-out with a random female, and then triumphantly pass out face-first in plate of nachos. On his birthday, he forced us all to storm the Keg on a desolate night. Like a true romantic, Katie believes the Keg is only adorable when Taylor Swift remixes are playing. So like the weekend warrior he is, he took to the pole screaming "Play Taylor Swift! Make it Cute! Play Taylor Swift!". He ended this night in the cutest way possible, by ripping his green polo down the middle like a tiny Hulk and then attempting to make out with his male roommate.
But this not an unusual occurrence, because Katie is the undisputed king of the make-out. Katie is one smooth operator, one minute your aimlessly wandering around the party, the next you're somehow backed against a wall with Katie's hands/tongue on your face. I could use my iPhone photos to make a very tasteful scrapbook entitled "Katie Accosting Random Chicks with His Mouth." But its all in good fun, and it's a place we've all been. An actual statistic: 57% of the Northwestern population was rejected from Ivy League schools but accepted by Katie's mouth. The reason he gets away with this is because it's impossible to get mad at Katie. With eyes like Zooey Deschanel, he will pout like a golden retriever until you forgive him. Not to mention he's pretty good friend. He'll text you Emojii hearts at 3 a.m., or stand with you in the corner of the Deuce to reassure you that you won't end up a spinster with only a vegetable garden and an Etsy legging shop. Whether he's wrapped in a blanket fighting back tears because his sad excuse for a football team blew a huge lead (Go Bears), or when he's just cuddling you in the Triple,  it's clear Katie is truly the one who makes it cute. 

My Quarter

Friends, family and frenemies, I know you get sick of hearing me say this, but next quarter is going to be my quarter. I know I say this every quarter, in fact if someone wanted to do a perfect Emma  impression they could just say "Next quarter is going to be my quarter" while pretending to study Spanish and drinking a skinny vanilla latte.

I know I sound like little oprhan Annie over here, but this time it's for real. My sun will come out tomorrow and it's gonna be awesome. Here's why:

Reasons Why Winter Quarter 2013 Was Not My Quarter

- I am taking Journalism 301, and it has destroyed the meager bits of soul I had left after the Journalism 201 series.  I have to wake up every Monday and Wednesday at an ungodly hour to get on the L by 9 a.m. That's right, I have to take the mode of transportation normally reserved for hobos and people attempting suicide. I spend the majority of my week on the Howard L platform fighting back bitter tears and dreaming of a breakfast I just didn't have time for. If I could just sit down on the Red Line one day and have it not smell like urine, that would be fantastic. Also, I would really love if the train I got on was mildly operational/ didn't sit at the Davis stop for 15 minutes because of "signal clearnace" or "attempted suicide".

But I digress, Journalism 301 is a special kind of torture in January through March. I am forced to trudge around Rogers Park harassing innocent citizens in below 0 temperatures. If this class doesn't make me lose all faith in humanity, I still might lose all my fingers to frostbite. Not to mention we are only supposed to be covering/ interviewing the immigrant population of Rogers Park.
Two fun facts about the immigrant population of Rogers Park:

1) Many of them do not speak any form of American/ British English. Making interviews on my tiny inoperable Kodak camera (which everyone thinks is a 2006 flip phone) very strenuous.
2) Some of these immigrants are undocumented, meaning they do NOT want your low-quality cell phone camera in their face because they think you are going to deport them. 

Actual quote from a 301 interview:
 Man: " I have a green card, I have it. You just don't need to see it. I'm legal". 


Sir, I have an Evanston Athletic Club membership card, and you don't need to see it because I literally never use it. Just don't kidnap me, speak into this 1980s style audio recorder, and help me get the mediocre grade I deserve. 

- 30 Rock just ended and I am not in a good place. This show-within-a -show has been the highlight of my week for the past 7 years, and it is also my best source material for witty tweets. Liz Lemon taught me it's okay to transition your pajamas into day wear, and that it's cool for girls to like Star Wars. It's okay to like yourself more than any dude, and you really should live every week like it's Shark Week.

-The only person who has agreed to go out with me on Valentine's Day is Adam, the back bartender at The Deuce. This artfully symbolizes my recent downward spiral in all aspects of life.

-I am desperately searching for a journalism internship somewhere in the continental U.S. I'm sure employers pick up my cover letters, and immediately drop them because they actually reek of desperation. Between the weak jokes about my social life, and the sentence that says "I will work at literally any publication you are willing to offer me.", they probably think I am a mentally unstable magazine hoarder with six dirty Shih- Tzus named after "Game of Thrones" characters.



Reasons Spring Quarter 2013 Is Going to Be My Quarter

- I am going to take the easiest schedule known to man. I'm talking Theatre for Non-Majors, some hippie Sociology, some comm class about Harry Potter, and a sex class that will probably make me uncomfortable.  I will also be done with Spanish next quarter, so no more class on Fridays. That means I will no longer have to recite the conjugations of "ser" while holding back vomit and regretting the decisions of last night.

- I feel like my new favorite show, "The Following" will really hit a stride in the spring. If not, there will at least be another ice pick murder. If there is not another ice pick stabbing, Kevin Bacon will still be there. My happiness is in direct correlation with the amount of Kevin Bacon I view per week.

- The actor who played Cato in the first "Hunger Games" film will transfer from USC, fall madly in love with me due to my rapier wit, and enter into my ideal relationship. This means we only talk via Facebook chat, he never meets my family, but he only makes out with me in social settings. He also sees movies with me whenever it's convenient, and lets me use his apartment (and cable) for my annual unnecessarily elaborate Oscars party. We also go to Chipotle alot.

-I am going to land an amazing marketing internship at Lucasfilm in California. I will wow my fellow interns and employers alike, and eventually be granted the honor of meeting Mr. Lucas himself. He will be amused with my quirky charm, and then take me under his wing. We will then enter into a mentor/mentee relationship (think Lemon/Donaghy), and he will name me his successor. Stars Wars Episodes VII- IX will be written, directed, and produced by me. I'm not ruling out a tasteful cameo, but I'm also not making any promises.

- Finally, spring quarter means Derby.  It is time for the best weekend of the year, when my frenemies and I road trip to the cultural wasteland of Kentucky for the most pointless 2 minutes in sports. We travel over seven hours, and odds are most of us will not even see a physical horse.  But it's all about the experience. It's about looking the Angel of Death in face at a truck stop Popeyes. It's dancing until you pass out on a pile of ice bags, or until someone drags you under a make-shift tent. It's about listening to only Cinema, random dubstep, Beautiful Soul, and more random dubstep for upwards of 7 hours. It's mostly about #bus2updates. And according to the website, it's 87 days, 2 hours, and 46 minutes away.

^I have negative idea who these people are.

Roses Are Red

In all of my years, I have never watched/ been enticed by "The Bachelor". I think I watched one episode when I was in about the 6th grade with my best friend, where someone gave someone else a painting of a white tiger and there may have been some amateur guitar playing.

However, when I got into this godforsaken sorority "The Bachelor' entered my life. I was forced into a room with 16 girls in pajama pants screaming about something called a Fantasy Suite.And now I cannot stop. I can feel my IQ and self esteem lowering every time I watch, but I need to know who gets the goddamn rose.

I was introduced to the show with a season that was "The Bachlorette" and it was Emily's season. Soon after watching the first episode, I realized the show was formulated for the criminally insane. Emily was a life-size Polly Pocket and was about as much fun as dysentery. She was beautiful, but so dull you desperately wanted her to develop a pills addiction just to make her a little more two-dimensional. I guess her attempt at depth was the fact that her husband died tragically while parachuting or speed skating or something equally as ridiculous. She also named her daughter Ricki, because I guess she's always wanted her child to drop out of an online university and work at a Sonic. Also, I'm going to say the thing you're not allowed to say. For coming out of a smokeshow like Emily, Ricki is a pretty unfortunate looking. If you told me she was one of Honey Boo Boo's lost sisters, I would not be alarmed.

That entire champagne -filled season was ridiculous. Between an alleged venture capitalist showing up in a helicopter (to only be promptly dumped for a calling a human toddler exactly what she is, baggage) and Alejandro the mushroom farmer pretending like this was going to go his way, every episode was a new layer of shitshow. Not to mention, we were forced watch Chris (aka Pointy-Faced-Anus- Mouth) talk through practically closed lips about his "connection" with Emily week after week. I have honestly said more eloquent things about my connection with Buffalo Wild Wings.

This season ended with the sweet victory of Jef With One "F". Yes, we are supposed to believe that smokeshow Emily chose to spend the rest of her life with a Chloe purse- obsessed Hobbit who styles his hair like a bicurious cockatiel. This is also the man she chose to help raise her slightly overweight child. And we're all really surprised this fairy tale didn't work out.

This season is already looking more than promising. In extreme close-ups, Sean resembles a friendly cartoon dinosaur. From far away, he looks like a Southern Ken doll and takes his shirt off way more than humanely necessary. This is the one part of the show I think ABC is doing a wonderful job with. I would suggest all future dates take place at a waterpark or steam room.

There is also a girl on this season with one arm. ABC takes diversity to a new level, and finds the sexiest handicapped person in the continental U.S. Of course, ABC isn't all class. Anytime this lovely one- armed lady is on a date, the cameraman decides to shoot an extreme close-up of her nub and cut to that shot instead of her face while she speaks. If you tuned into the episode too late, you could be convinced Sean was dating a faceless arm nub.  ABC also felt the most appropriate one-on-one date for the one- armed girl was scaling a pylon and free-falling 30 stories.

ABC has really tried to be politically correct this time around. Instead of casting ethnic girls and cutting them all first round, they are clearly forcing Sean (a hardcore blonde Southerner) to carry them through a few rounds. As long as they can act pretty white and still be considered a working professional, Sean will throw them in a group date for the next few episodes. And passing yourself off as a career woman is pretty simple in "The Bachelor" world, seeing as how half the women are "Jumbotron operators", "professional organizers", or knitting therapists.

I'm just hoping Sean spices things up this season. After his prank on Desiree proved to be comedic gold, I say he keeps going. Maybe next time he's forced to attend a private concert with a single mom who looks like a horse, he can just fake his own death.

I also fully doubt any of these anorexic substitute teachers are actually "only here for Sean". See you fake bitches (and Karsten) at the rose ceremony.


*This blog post was inspired by Karsten, the New York sociopath who got me addicted to this garbage.  She is the only person I know who genuinely could be cast on the Bachelor. She would be the ambiguously ethnic investment banker who physically abuses the other contestants and talks about her high school a lot.

**This was also inspired by Marianna Cooper who helped me discover that Desiree talks like a dog magically transformed into a skinny human. (ei. "I like steak", "I like walks", "Let's swim"..)

A Very Nugget Christmas

A very merry collection of Christmas quotes/ pearls of wisdom from my pre-pubecent cousins. I recorded these while fighting suicidal thoughts and playing Hello Kitty makeover.

Me: " Nice suit, you look so dapper."
Jesse: "I'm not Dasher! I'm Prancer! Prancer!"

Jesse: "A headband is a game, it's called headband."
Me: " Is this a real game?"
Jesse: "It's a real game. I mean, I'm making it up, but it's real now." 

"The point of this suit is to always be prepared. To always be prepared with pretzel sticks and cool moves." - Jamie

[Regarding a Christmas Eve play that we are both being forced to do] "I'm seven and I have better things to do, aren't you like 20??? You should have, like, a real job." - Jamie 

[Upon opening an iPod case before receiving an iPod] "If I don't get an iPod pretty soon, this is going to be really dumb." - Cale

"Now that I have my iPod, I'm going to get my own app. I'm going to make all my own apps so I can save my iTunes gift card money." -Cale

"This game is called 'Fat Princesses'.  There's a curse in the forest and it made all the princesses fat and I, the knight, have to save them. Which doesn't make any sense, because why do I want to marry a fat princess???" -Cale

^Landon is still actively choosing not to speak,  so I took a quote from his dad instead.

"He makes me never want to have sex again. This thing is the consequence of sex. Don't make the mistakes I did.  Sometimes he drools in my mouth, and I want to vomit." - Uncle Chad

"The true meaning of Christmas is when Santa comes and brings me swim goggles. And when he brings Kathen nothing." -Ella

"You see the big box! Someone got Emma a boyfriend for Christmas!" -Ella


And finally...

" I didn't get coal from Santa.  Santa doesn't even watches me. I got a Tinkerbell umbrella instead." -Kathen

"Mirror Mirror on Emma's wall, who's the fairest of them all?" 

[Puts her ear up to my vanity mirror] 

"It's me! It's me because I'm wearing a Christmas dress and you're in an ugly sweater." - Kathen

"I have two boyfriends, Grant and Brandon. But only Brandon knows I'm his girlfriend. I didn't tell Grant yet."- Kathen

"You're the ugliest grandkid Emma." - Kathen

Ho Ho Holiday Horror

Late November. For most well adjusted adults, it means happy preparations for visiting home and enjoying the holiday festivities. However for me and my brother, November invokes graphic, WWII PTSD flashbacks. I begin profusely sweating at the sight of early holiday decor, and I hyperventilate when I see the Starbucks holiday cups.  This is because, for me and Luke, mid- November means only one unholy thing. We are going to have to take the Christmas card. 

For all intensive purposes, my mom is a normal, benevolent human being. Besides letting me watch "Will and Grace" a little too early and doing half my brother's homework to this day, she's also a pretty good parent. But for a few days in November , this all changed.

My mom is a werewolf and the Christmas card is her full moon. For some reason, she thought the world awaited our family's card and critiqued it like the fall issue of Vogue.  This woman will force me and my brother outside into near arctic conditions, bury us in a foot of fake snow, and scream at us to look filled with holiday cheer.  Although this process should take a mere 20 minutes, it does not.

I popped out of the womb being extremely photogenic. If it wasn't for my complete lack of height, cleavage, or all around facial beauty, I could be a Victoria's Secret model. My brother, on the other hand, cannot smile without looking like an obese dog who just pooped on your carpet.

In the 1990s me and my brother were at our most adorable, so my sociopathic /perfectionist mother felt the need to show the world via holiday stationary. This means that, in the 90s, my mom would take about 6 rolls of film, drive to get them developed, and end up with 200 pictures of my brother looking like he had just soiled himself.

This is why every Christmas card shoot took no less than a week, and why wreaths and red sweaters now make me lose all color in my face. My mind flashes to my mother, holding a giant camera and tossing cotton balls at our faces, screaming at Luke to "show his goddamn teeth".  Luke and I are sweating profusely in our vintage holiday overcoats, grasping hands and praying to an unmerciful God for salvation.

The whole time I'm trying to hold my perfect pose, so I can go play the Sims. Eventually, I punch my brother in the crotch out of frustration and run into my closet to hide from the bloodbath that will occur when my mom locates me.

The Christmas card is my personal Vietnam, Vietnam but with itchy, matching sweaters.  Here is a collection of some of Cindi Tyler's finest holiday classics.*  I think you'll all agree they were worth the hysteria, emotional scarring, and nose bleeds.

 ^ For this ridiculously staged masterpiece, we take you back to the early 1920s. A simpler time, where young boys dressed like Amelia Earhart and young girls dressed like little brown turds in berets. Who was she fooling with this one??? It is clearly October, we are clearly standing on a piece of white felt, and if you look behind the mailbox you can CLEARLY see leaves on the ground. Also, if I remember correctly, these Depression- era outfits were purchased at a flea market and smelled like newsprint and polio.

^ NONE OF THIS IS REAL SNOW. MY MOTHER PURCHASED INDUSTRIAL- SIZED PACKETS OF FAKE SNOW TO STAGE A FAKE SLEDDING ADVENTURE. Not to mention we are wearing ugliest sweaters known to man, I'm honestly surprised they even made two of them. Also, my brother looks completely constipated. He looks as if he is trying to enjoy this sledding adventure, but can't because he's currently undergoing out- patient surgery.

  

^ My mom had a thing for sibling photo shoots with slight undertones of incest. There is an infamous picture hanging in our hallway of me and my brother (ages 2 and 5) kissing on the lips. Why child services wasn't called at that point, I'll never know. This weirdly sexual, vintage- themed card featured me and my brother under the mistletoe. Why a brother and sister are under the mistletoe in the first place IS A COMPLETE MYSTERY.  In my mother's defense this creative theme was probably just a way to keep my brother from doing his creepy, murderous clown smile. These vintage hats were also a flea market purchase, and I'm pretty confident an elderly man died in the one Luke's wearing. 

^ From incest to Catholicism, the world's most secular family takes a turn for the religious. Was our camera direction to seductively pet the baby Jesus? Why is the ceramic camel so prominent in the shot? Why do I have the haircut/ the Talbots apparel of a soccer mom in the 5th grade? My mom just got lazy with this one, it's clearly mid- November and she didn't even attempt to pour Q-tip fuzz all over us. Not to mention my brother looks like the lovechild of one of the designers from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" and Matt Bomer.

^ Just to prove child abuse doesn't end when the victims hit puberty, we have this fine piece of work. In a fit of artistic rage, Cindi made my poor father transport the giant wreath that decorates our garage, and hang it on bungee cords in our foyer.  At this point I am in high school. I am a high school student, wearing a matching his-and-hers plaid scarf, standing inside a giant wreath.

My brother looks like he either just underwent a liver transplant or is auditioning to play Eddie on a re-boot of "The Munsters".  My mom demanded she curl my hair, which gave me the look of an elderly prostitute (along with a few curling iron burns, that were allegedly accidental)

Please keep in mind, these are all winning shots. These glamorous portraits hit the presses and were sent out to the world. Nothing says Christmas like eternal Tyler family shame.

*Although ALL these pictures suggest COMPLETELY otherwise, my brother is a masculine, heterosexual young gent.

Emma Does Midtermz

I just got all my midterm grades back and, surprisingly , I did pretty well. I know that was not the case for all you NU nerdlets, so I thought I would post my studying process so you can learn from my success. Did I mention how awesome I am?

My first midterm was Stats. Me taking a stats midterm is literally the equivalent of a sitcom character doing the gag where they try to be two places at once (This happened a lot in Hannah Montana). I have faked my way through approximately 8 years of math. Once we hit long division, I realized that this shit was not my style. I also stopped taking math at Algebra II, the pope has actually declared it a religious miracle that I graduated high school/got into Northwestern/can function in society without acting like Forrest Gump.

As someone who still adds on their fingers, this stats midterm terrified me. I got my enginerd cheerleader friend to tutor me, I studied in the middle of my house in a lax pinnie and no bra until my eyes bled, and I eventually began thinking of ways to make a human centipede Halloween costume. I stayed up all night and paced in my bathroom for 20 minutes loudly singing "When Will My Life Begin" from the award- winning "Tangled" soundtrack.

I then went into the midterm and produced the mathematical equivalent of projectile vomiting on the test and handing that masterpiece in. 

I then indulged in a sleep- deprived mental breakdown. I wandered around downtown Evanston for 30 minutes while crying Kim Kardashian style on the phone to my mom. Just picture a crying girl in a tear-stained, over-sized fraternity sweatshirt yelling about her deceased grandfather being disappointed in her because she doesn't understand regression lines and wandering through your local Starbucks.

I then went home, dropped the class, and fell asleep holding a bagel.

For the rest of my midterms, I really needed to buckle down. I went to the library and applied some of those "study skills" that St. Paul the Apostle tried desperately to teach me when all I wanted to do was be 10 and play M.A.S.H.

I set up shop in a cubicle in the ultimate pit of human suffering that is Main Library. I opened my Spanish books and got out my computer to listen to translations. After about half an hour, I had two tabs opened on my computer, a YouTube video titled "Top 25 Most Romantic Disney Moments" and an article called "Best Cat Memes of 2012". 

I then ate a granola bar to stay focused. And by stay focused, I mean staying alert while I searched the Internet for photos of Paul Ryan shirtless and insider info on the new Star Wars film.

I had both my soc midterm and Spanish midterm on the same day. You would think the day of these two important exams I would really get in the proverbial zone. I instead watched videos of Boo the Dog wiggling his ears and nibbled on hummus until it was time to take the exams.

My Russian Lit midterm was the next day. Unfortunately, this was the day before Halloween. So clearly, I sat in the library watching Glee Rocky Horror on my laptop and thinking about all the pumpkin flavored things I would eat the next day.

If Sparknotes did not exist, I would currently be the world's sassiest T.J. Maxx employee. 

I went back to my room, where I put on a dramatic play to the unwilling audience of my two roommates. This critically acclaimed one woman show was entitled, "I Think I'm Going to Fail Russian Lit Even Though I Won't , I Just Really Want Pumpkin Bread and Need to Be Dramatic About Everything." 

After this freakout, I managed to squeeze in some last minute studying. And by studying, I mean I made extensive dinner reservations for my family's Disney World spring break trip. This proved more difficult than expected, as the restaurants needed to suitable for Kathen. It is nearly impossible to find a restaurant covered in glitter that also doesn't allow fat people inside.

I woke up the next morning, took the test, and did fine. I then inhaled a pumpkin spice latte and a slice of pumpkin bread.

There are two main points you should gain from post: 1) There's no way I should've been accepted to Northwestern.  2) I should probably hire a life coach/ become heavily medicated.