## Wednesday, July 16, 2014

 Friends and I working hard in high school math class.

Lately, I've read a bunch of lists on Buzzfeed and the Clymb about things you think about while you're on a run, and they're probably true for most people. But there is something they all fail to mention that I spend doing at least two thirds of a run, no matter the distance: Math.

As my feet hit the pavement and my heart works my butt off (literally), my brain maths all the math it can math.

I calculate distances and time and miles per hour. I calculate the number of houses I've passed and what my average house per minute is. I take educated estimates on how many trees are in a forest taking into account acreage of its area and average tree trunk sizes and distance between trees and other absolute absurdities. I look at my watch. And then I try to speed up and calculate my time and miles per hour all over again.

I calculate calories and heart rates and what percentage I've finished of my run. Dang, that's a lot better than having to positive-think my raging heart through to the end of a jog.

I'm a distractonaut. I live for the exploration of distractions. I lay in my bed and thoughts unravel. Plans for my life and death unfold,  bills and loans to be payed pile up on the hall table of my mind, and the to-dos of weeks and months to come lay their heads onto the pillow next to me. At my desk, it's a fight to make sure I keep my keyboard-tapping fingers on the task at hand. It's a challenge to not be constantly thinking a million miles a minute about anything and everything that's happening outside the refrigerator I like to call my office.

On a run, though, I ignore all that garbage. And I just math.

If you hate math, this probably sounds repulsive to you, but god, thinking about math is so much better than running each step at a time and thinking about the next step and the next and the next.

Even for an insane extrovert like me, solitude is where I find my sanity. Find your math and run with it.

## Friday, July 11, 2014

### People Observation/No More of That: Musical Snobbery

 photo courtesy of The Verge.

This blogpost is inspired by a post a good friend of mine named Eric put on Facebook a couple days ago reading this:
"Helplessness Blues is a great album by the Fleet Foxes. So late to the game."
First of all, Helplessness Blues is amazing. Eric, I'm so glad you found such a wonderful album. So many feels.

Second of all, I know you didn't mean it in this way, but IT ISN'T A GAME!

There is something empowering about being unique, the first, or one of the few in the realm of knowledge. It makes you feel special, I understand. This stupid thing that happens in fandom that I have dubbed Musical Snobbery, however, has got to stop.

I've explored a lot of genres. I like to sing music and play music and dance to music on a morningly, afternooningly (that's a word..) and nightly basis. With the exception of country music sap songs because those are awful, I like music that grabs my heart straight out of my chest and gives it a good smackin'. I like music that leaves my heart alone, but instead yanks at my brain and tickles my curiosity HQ. I like lyrics that mean something. I like lyrics that mean nothing. I'm a classically-trained Soprano with a secret love for a little bit of screamo. (I guess it isn't a secret love once you put it on your blog.) I can recognize a Strokes' bass line from three houses away. I can shout Bruce Springsteen lyrics at the top of my lungs and only mess up on the parts that he's mumbling his face off and I've never understood.  Just like most of you, I, too, had an emo phase. And going to college in Appalachia turned me into a lover of anything with a banjo. I'm lookin' at you, Steve Martin.

In high school, I took advantage of the surprisingly awesome bands that would come through Columbus (thanks for being a good stop-through town CBUS!), and -- without any actual expenses -- I spent every last dime that I earned at my minimum wage job on the relatively cheap basement shows. Possibly like you, I have memories of talking to bands after shows and accidentally elbowing middle school girls in the face for being the worst crowd members in the history of rock.

While 90s music envelopes the brilliant nostalgia of early Generation Y, I find the early 2000s to be a musical dark age.  I thank heaven for things like Myspace, which would eventually lead the way for new and creative musicians to gain followings without having to sign to a major record label.  I love the things that are happening currently in the music world (for the most part). (Sidenote: It isn't a coincidence that the 90s and now are both musical eras of awesome as pop culture cycles every 20 years... but that's another blogpost for another time).

Alas, here we are. With so much music being home-brewed and accessible to fans all over the world every day, I can see how a subculture of music snobs could emerge. In every kind of category and hobby and subculture of anything you've ever seen or heard or smelled, there's always some group of snobs trying to make it exclusive. (It's all somewhat preschoolesque in a Neener-neener-neener-I-know-something-you-don't-know kind of way).

But what kind of true fan of a band would want to hide the music they enjoy?

I have friends from college who stopped liking Mumford once everybody knew who they were. Why wouldn't you celebrate their success? Why would you not want something you love to live on?

A true fan of a band would want to support the band and share it with people, not keep its supposed awesomeness to him or herself. Hide it under a bushel, no; blast it in your car with the windows down and scream it at the top of your lungs.

Take these non-musical, yet also applicable references: I love Bob's Burgers. I need everyone else in the world to love Bob's because without their according fandom, Bob's will get cancelled. (See: Arrested Development.) My love for the Columbus Blue Jackets represents a similar situation. I've loved the Blue Jackets since their Inaugural season in 2000. No true fan would get upset that a bunch of bandwagoners are hoppin' on after this year's playoff run. More fans leads to more tickets, jerseys and other random crap with a CBJ logo on it, which leads to more money, better players, and thus, a better team. As Paul Brown used to say, "There's always room on the bandwagon."

Don't let the hipsters fool you. Music is meant to be enjoyed regardless of how obscure it is. Classics are meant to be heard. And thank God for it too. Cheers to all of those times I was recommended a great song or band, and double Cheers to the times they have led to friendships and experiences and, a lot of times, easing some pretty harsh pains.

Which takes me right back to Helplessness Blues:
I was raised up believing I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see
And now after some thinking,
I'd say I'd rather be A functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me
The music game is not a game. It's an awesome collective of fandom and shared experiences that were meant to be shared. You are a functioning cog in some great machinery of amazing sounds and lyrics and beats serving something far beyond a little music ego.

My message to hipsters: Revel in the obscurity of the songs that you find. Enjoy that strange sound that tickles your ears in a way you've never heard. And then, when you've downloaded it (probably illegally) and played it on repeat for ten or twenty times straight, share the crap out of it. Good music is meant to be heard.

## Tuesday, July 8, 2014

### Lessons from Lucy

 Lucy and me the day we met.
I hate those phone calls.

The ones you get where you can tell the minute you pick up that there is bad news to be delivered. The extra hesitancy that lingers on the other line; It is endless.

This weekend I had to say goodbye to my sweet dog Lucy. She was relaxing in the living room smiling those dog-breath riddled teeth one second and the next she was gone.

Lucy was an incredible dog.
Lucy taught me how to love others unconditionally, to forgive, to not care so much about the little things, and to cherish every second that you have with your people.

What if we loved like our dogs? What if we really decided to be the people that our dogs saw in us? What would that look like?

When nobody is ever mean to you, there is no understanding of such a concept.
When humans are hurt by others, they build walls, they stop trusting others, they turn bitter and sometimes get angry or violent. The same is true with dogs no question, except their ability to rehabilitate after abuse is a lesson for us all. When a dog has been hurt, accepting love begins to come easy. It's like they know that love is exactly what they need.

Nobody was ever mean to Lu. She was brought home as a furry ball of squish and she didn't go a day in her life treated badly. Sometimes we came home late to feed her dinner, and sometimes she couldn't hold herself anymore and had to defecate on the carpet in the dining room. (Of course, then she'd put her tail between her legs in shame, as if it was her fault that we left her in the house too long.) And don't get me wrong, I'm not watering down the pain that associates with holding your bowels for too long. 'Tis is a pain no one should have to go through, It does, however, bring home the point that Lucy lived an incredibly loved life.) Can you image your life if no one ever hurt your feelings? A life where no one ever stole all the good sharp crayons from the box or laughed at you the first time you tried to work out in the weight room or told you that you needed to lose some weight or said that you just weren't good enough for this or that?

A little girl once told Lucy she was fat, and asked me if I fed her hot dogs, but Lucy had a limited English vocabulary so her getting bullied by a chubby girl on a ferry to Kelley's Island doesn't count.

As a result, the concept of "mean" was foreign to her. She had no understanding of what it meant to treat someone badly.

Such a life is pretty impossible for humans. Babies are brats. And adults are babies. And there are cynical butt holes that are going to be rude, and selfish and irrational. But that doesn't mean we can't try. We can welcome our people with the joy that a dog brings us when we enter the room (even if we've only been gone for twenty minutes). We can treat each other like we've never been hurt, like "mean" is a foreign concept.

Who cares what you look like?
Lucy was born with a defect that required a surgery and left a crooked scar on top of her head. She was completely ignorant of her abnormality her entire life. She was 75% fur, and this would sometimes lead others to mistake her fur for fat.

Lucy didn't care. Because Lucy didn't know. She didn't sit in front of the computer looking at less fluffy dogs. She didn't research surgeries to remove the scar tissue and straighten out her crooked face. How would a dog be able to even understand the idiotic concept where we all strive for perfect bodies? So why should we?

Cherish every second you have with your people.

There is no joy in the world like coming home to a happy dog who is indubitably enthusiastic at your arrival. You could have had the world's worst day. People could have told you that you were an idiot four million times, but when you walked in that door and there was someone there crying with joy at your mere getting home, all of a sudden you don't feel like an idiot anymore.

I had to pack my bags and leave for college at the end of every summer to a dog that would cry. She knew I was leaving and she cried.  It made me cry too. Every time.

I hope to greet the people I love with a bit of that genuine excitement. I hope to cherish the minutes I get to spend with the people that I love.

----
As a believer who's questioned every bit of a God's existence on a weekly basis, friendships like mine and Lucy's have served as a witness for me to keep faith in a Father with a heart so big it rivals Lucy's. As a believer, I hope to love others like she did, helping others try to understand what it means to believe in a higher power who represents love.

I'm not sure I'll ever meet a person with as big of a heart as my sweet Lucy. But I know if I approach the world with even a sliver of the love she did, I am set.

Lucy, I will miss you so much. Thank you for teaching me how to appreciate everything, to love unconditionally, and that sometimes you have no other choice in life than to just poop on the carpet.

## Tuesday, May 27, 2014

### My toxic relationship with ranch dressing.

My friend Lucas refers to celery as "Ranch Spoons."

Which is clever, but ranch sucks.

It's time I've come clean. I have a bitter rivalry with ranch dressing.

Ranch was invented by Satan himself to help carry out his Obesity Agenda.

Do you remember salad shakers? They were this cool thing McDonald's had for a while, where you got a salad in a cup with a bubble lid. After dumping your ranch dressing in and shaking it up, you'd have yourself a nice lil' cup'o'salad covered in the worst thing that ever happened to salad: incredibly
unhealthy dressing.

I got a salad shaker when they were around, and, like many times as a little kid, I immediately ran around outside and upset my stomach and puked it up.

The next time I ate ranch was in the seventh grade. I was an obnoxious little thing. I stormed into the cafeteria one day and threw my friend Kerry's binder onto the table in some dramatic rampage of attention-seeking, only to have it land onto a puddle of ranch that had spilled on the table. It splashed onto my face and got all over Kerry's binder. She played it cool. She shoved the ranch-covered binder about six inches from my nose and said, "lick it!" Obviously, she was kidding. But obviously, I was a ridiculous human being. I licked it all up. When I realized the ranch had been left from the eighth grader's lunch the period before, I immediately ran to the bathroom and threw it all up.

I still can't eat ranch.

When people I'm with choose ranch as their salad dressing, I cringe.

I find the way that ranch sits on a salad to be one of the grossest things.

It just sits there, a goopy glob staring at you.

Trying to eat vegetables is a good thing. Some people don't like vegetables. I get it. But it isn't even breaking even. It's breaking under. And I understand that it's okay to eat unhealthy things in moderation, but if you're going to let yourself splurge on the calories, why would you splurge with your salad? Donuts, fries and a Coke every now and then is splurging. Putting ranch dressing on your salad is not splurging.

 gag.
Americans' obsession with ranch dressing has got to stop.

Hidden Valley should not be allowed to sell their product as "kids are finally eating vegetables!" Frankly, I'm glad this valley they speak of is hidden, because all of the children there are probably chubby. Ranch is giving veggies a bad rep. Vegetables are good. Broccoli is little trees and there is nothing more appealing to children then eating little trees.

The minute we started smothering vegetables in milk fat was the minute we gave kids the idea vegetables were only good if they were smothered in milk fat.

The culinary world is finally pioneering some incredibly creative and delicious salad dressings. The world of vinaigrettes is a beautiful world that blows Hidden Valley and all of its chubby kids out of the water. You can make them at home. They practically mix themselves. They make even the bitterest of romaines an absolute marvel.

And when it comes to dips, ranch has got to be the lamest. There are so many different kinds of brilliant dips for anything you think you currently "enjoy" with ranch. Hummus was the best thing that has ever happened to carrots. If you're going unhealthy, eat spinach and artichoke dip or buffalo chicken dip.

It's time we stopped this culinary inadequacy and stood together to defeat the ranch agenda. We can join as one and collectively choose to teach our children that vegetables can be eaten without being smothered in milk fat. We can come together and make it known that the nutrient-packed salads that make our bodies so happy deserve a better dressing!

Ranch sucks.

 The good kind of ranch.

## Thursday, May 15, 2014

### No more of that: Phones at the dinner table

There doesn't need to be a discussion for this. I'm sick of sitting at the dinner table having a conversation with people while they sit on their phones.

We don't need some stupid "everybody put your phones in the middle and the first one to grab their phone pays" thing either. Just don't use your phone at the dinner table. It isn't that hard. Keep it in your pocket or your purse and enjoy your real life.

The iPad parenting that is sweeping restaurant tables across the country has got to stop. It is lazy parenting and it is absolutely ridiculous. Your child needs to know how to sit and have a conversation with older people. The family dinners I had growing up are a memory I cherish. In fact, I could argue most of my people skills have been acquired during family dinners. Parents who allow their children to sit in the corner of an Applebee's booth with their headphones in and their iPad on are robbing their kids of an incredible experience.

## Monday, April 28, 2014

### More of this: Doing something about it.

I'm starting a new weekly segment on here I'm calling "More of This, No More of That" where I rant and rave about two completely unrelated things that have been on my mind. I have a lot of things that bring me frustration. I have a lot of things that bring me joy. Here's my opportunity to tell you about them.

More of This: Doing something about it

The United States doesn't have an official language, but if we did, it would be complaining. We love complaining, and most of the time not doing anything to help the situation, just sit around and complain. I think it's okay to complain if you're in an unfair situation, but it's better when you're complaining turns to action.

I was inspired by a friend of mine, Ashley Beatty-Smith, a graduate student at Ohio University who realized the need for new programs for student-parents at the University when she found herself not getting the kind of care and help she and her family felt they needed and definitely deserved. Ashley created an organization called PrOUd Parents on Campus and they have made incredible strides for student-parents for years to come.

I spoke with Ashley and asked if I could share her story. Here are her words:

#### The problem

"During the summer of 2012, I learned that the only family-friendly housing, The Wolfe Street Apartments were scheduled for demolition. After viewing between 15-20 different apartments and houses, we settled for an apartment that we would later learn would not fit our needs; numerous middle-of-the-night fire alarms, car alarms, all-night partying, busted beer bottles, and even the neighbors urinating down from their balcony. We chose to sign a lease to move for the third time in three years. (We have since moved, and once again have signed a lease to move for the 4th time in 4 years).

During the time of our second move, I was turned away for childcare at three different care facilities, including the OU Child Development Center. The CDC listed us at 63 on the waiting list; however, my supervisor’s daughter, who is several months younger than my own daughter, was offered a spot from the waiting list at only 5 months old. Now at 19 months old, we are still buried on the waiting list with no time frame for when we can expect care.

Many of these factors exhausted me; I felt let down by the university I cared for so much.

#### Realizing something needed to be done

The turning point for me was the moment I felt bullied by my peers in a campus dining hall with my daughter. I accepted an invitation from friends to the Nelson Dining Hall, and many of my “fellow bobcats” stared, pointed fingers, and took to Twitter to express their feelings about a baby in the dining hall. The tweets said, “Would it be rude of me to ask to borrow this girl in the dining hall’s baby for the white trash party tonight?” and “Okay teen mom parading your baby around Nelson, you’ve officially made us all uncomfortable. #awkward.”

I felt alienated for the first time on the campus I had been proud to call home for nearly 4 years.
I started speaking with fellow classmates I had met who also had children. Their stories were the same: no housing, no childcare, and reluctance in taking their child on campus. I realized that something had to be done, not only for myself, but for all of us living under the same circumstances. I felt that we deserved equal access to resources necessary for our success.

I first approached Dr. Jenny Hall-Jones, the Dean of Students, and Dr. Susanne Dietzel, the director of the Women’s Center. Next, I approached Dr. Ryan Lombardi, Vice President for Student Affairs. Additionally, I reached out to The Post asking for their coverage of the issues.

My goal was to raise awareness, and finally administration was aware of the issue and the community was able to engage in dialogue about this invisible, but significant, population. Around this time I was graduating and starting my graduate program in College Student Personnel, working as an academic advisor in the Allen Student Help Center.

Through my advising work I started meeting at least one or two student-parents per week who shared many of the same struggles. I started connecting them to one another, forming an unofficial support community. With the help of a fellow student-parent, I co-founded PrOUd Parents on Campus to have an official avenue of support for these students.

I became so entrenched in each of their stories. While their struggles were all so different, the need was the same- some type of resource not offered by the university. I put together a list of these needs and started meeting regularly with Dr. Lombardi.

Because of his support, the university has chosen a more inclusive healthcare policy that will include additional prenatal coverage; the university is actively seeking a family housing replacement; we are building a resource website including information on healthcare, housing, childcare, and support groups; we are implementing a poster campaign to combat the negative culture; and we are beginning work on a medical/parental withdrawal policy inclusive to both support partners during the birth of a child.

#### Visualizing Real Change

I have felt more fulfilled by this work than anything I have done previously. I remind myself that although my time as a student here is limited with graduation just a year away, these policy changes will positively impact other students for generations to come. There are freshman students in my support group who will likely see change prior to their time ending here. And that is what keeps me going. After becoming a parent, finishing their education becomes more important than ever for these students. So it is my hope that these positive changes will empower them to continue on to the finish line."

--

I am so encouraged by people like Ashley who have the guts to actually do something about the real mess they found themselves dealing with. It takes nothing to complain, but it takes a lot of work, courage and heart to actually get up and do something about the problems we face.

## Friday, April 18, 2014

### No More of That: Posting about the weather

In a perfect world, there would be no more posting about the weather.

Why? Because it's boring. It makes you seem boring. You're not boring. You eat sushi! You Instagram sunsets! You, who has a family and a cute dog and really great hair, are not boring.

So follow the rule that's been around forever: Don't talk about the weather.

And apply this rule to social media.

If it's raining outside, all it takes is someone with a mere one of the five (or six) senses to figure this out. ONE OUT OF FIVE.

I get that people aren't observant. It confuses me, but I get it. And I'm trying to grasp that not everyone remembers everything everyone said, was wearing, was with, walked by and coffee shop they frequent in a five mile radius. I get that people aren't psychotically observant like yours truly.

But the weather is so obvious

Why do we have to post the obvious? Why does anyone care?

I understand that it's nice to get on Facebook and see that other people just like you got soaked in the rain storm this afternoon. I get that you now have a knee-jerk reaction to tweet "OMG ANOTHER DAY OF COLD?!" the minute you pull up AccuWeather on your iPhone.

I get that people like to make clever little posts about the weather.

But what bothers me is usually they are not clever.

Humor is based on real, meaningful observations. Things are funny because they're true. They're also funny because they hold the kind of truths you've never had pointed out to you before. Humor comes from being surprised. All comedians are doing in standup is calling out truths you've never noticed, but that are so true you chuckle at yourself. Posting some snarky little ditty on the fact that it's April and it's snowing is freaking trite

On the matter of it's April and it's snowing: IT. ALWAYS. SNOWS. IN. APRIL.

Every. year.

Sometimes it gets cold in the Spring. That's what Spring does. Spring is the 22-year-old of the four seasons, always trying to figure out what the hell it's doing with itself.

"Three snows after the forsythia bloom" is an old wives tale, but it's almost always accurate

Snow in April does not make your state have the KOOKIEST and MOST unpredictable weather. Knock it off. That's a competition only somewhere in Tornado Alley or tsunami territory or somewhere arctic is going to win. Columbus, Ohio in all of its temperate, four-season-having splendor, is among some of the mildest, least kooky climates in the world.

Look, I think it's kind of cute how, no matter how young or old, if a person steps outside to find flakes falling onto their nose, they inevitably have to state the obvious, "it's snowing!" It's cute! And if all of your friends live in Cleveland and you're in sunny Colorado on a beautiful day, and you're into being a ginormous ass hole, I guess it makes sense to gloatingly tweet that it's a beautiful day.

There are always cool observations about the weather. This year, parts of Ohio got just the right bit of wind and snow and cold. Snow rollers developed and my friend Julia posted a great picture of her mom trying to steal one from a park to take home. THAT kind of post is a weather one worth reading.

Post about the fact that you went on a run and saw and smelled fresh-cut spring grass for the first time since September.

Post about the sweet older gentleman who you saw hold his umbrella over his precious wife to keep her dry in the rain.

Post about the giant hole that windstorm left in your parent's living room roof and how surprisingly overjoyed they were because that meant insurance would be getting them the new roof they'd actually been needing for years.

But for the love of sunshine, don't just post that it's raining.

## Sunday, April 13, 2014

### 6 Things I'll cry about on the spot

This post is inspired by an adorable girl I knew in college named Jessica who posted on Facebook a couple days ago about how sad she gets when she thinks about all the dogs who don't have homes. I read that post and immediately started crying. Not kidding. I'm holding back tears right now. It just isn't fair. They just want homes. They want nothing more than to love you unconditionally and teach you about being an optimist who a, love to eat and doesn't care if they get a big gut and b, love to chase squirrels and doesn't care if they never catch one. Oh God, now I'm crying.

I've never been a big cryer, at least not in the arms-to-the-heavens PRAISE JESUS mega-church let-there-be-light revival cryer sense.

I have a friend who hears a good song and can be filled with a spirit that manifests itself in 138 tablespoons of salty tears. She looks so cool and I am so jealous. SHE LOOKS SO COOL, but I've never been like that at all. I've always been the person who awkwardly sits next to the sobber, patting her on the back saying super-creative and wisdom-filled robotic things like, "there, there" and "don't cry."

I can count the number of people who've seen me cry on my ten fingers. I just don't like people seeing me cry. I'm an ugly crier.

This means, that when I do cry, it's out of nowhere and catches people by surprise. I've always wished I could explain it to people so they can better prepare for possible impending sob fests, but my crying muscle is a completely arbitrary and involuntary character of its own. My tears have cute little tiny raindrop-shaped brains of their own, but this is my attempt to try and explain what I've learned might trigger their appearance.

1. I've already mentioned this, but anything about dogs that don't have homes gets me every time.

My boyfriend and I were outside of Target a few weeks ago and they had shelter dogs to play with. I played with them so long the volunteers thought I was about to buy them all. We then realized that we had to go into Target to get the one thing we came in for  (plus the other \$65 to spend on other cute things we didn't need) so we headed passed Target's big red balls and into the dollar spot. My boyfriend was about ten yards in front of me when he turned around to see me crying uncontrollably screaming "THEY JUST WANT A HOME!!" We had to leave the store.

The worst part is that while my boyfriend was telling the story to my parents later that night, I was in the other room crying to myself.

2. Onions

I once cut up four ten pound bags of onions into bits for thanksgiving stuffing in our church kitchen to take to the food pantry downtown. I chose this task because I'm an arrogant ass hole and I had been bragging about how onions never make me cry.

The onion particles hit my nose like the truck that delivered them to the grocery store. I didn't stop gagging and crying for hours. It was a horrible experience. I couldn't even serve the stuffing at the soup kitchen.

To this day, even the thought of that experience makes me gag-cry (which everyone knows is the worst kind of cry).

I'm a sucker for a loving dad. I love living in an era where Dads aren't just called to be breadwinners who sit in the living room with a Scotch after a day at the office. Dads are finally allowed to display the mushy love they've always felt for their sons and daughters publicly and it's wonderful. If I see a dad holding his daughter on his shoulders for the Princess Parade at Disney World, I start crying. I saw a dad pick up a little kokopelli stuffed doll for his kid at the Phoenix Airport last week and almost melted.

My dad has done a lot for me and we have a great relationship. He's totally awesome. But so is my mom. In fact, my mom is the one to blame for most of the reasons I cry. What isn't rational is that moms always do this kind of stuff. I just won't turn into a giant puddle on the floor when I see them do it. It's like it's just expected of them. But they should get the credit they deserve too.  It totally isn't fair and I'm really sorry that I don't cry when a mom gives her kid a hug. I really am sorry.

4. When people go out of their way.

I cried on my 21st birthday.

I was in the middle of an attempt at following the gluten free fad and hadn't eaten cake in a good week (SO HARD, OMG). We were about to go enjoy ourselves at some of Athens, Ohio's finest establishments when my roommate brought out a big chocolate gluten-free cake with adorable decorations and candles and everything. I immediately started crying.
 Here I am crying with Santa as my best friend Sarah presents my gluten free cake. I would also like to highlight my friend Brian laughing at me.
4. StoryCorps

Since 2003, people have been recording almost 45,000 stories and emotions associated with real, human lives via StoryCorps. StoryCorps is an incredible project.  The stories they feature are those of normal people. People who have been through the craziest garbage together sit down behind a microphone and they talk about it. I first heard about the Corps on NPR's Morning Edition a couple years ago and I haven't heard one yet that hasn't made me cry. There is an incredibly brilliant beauty in people sitting down and having honest, meaningful conversations.  They're just real people having real conversations about their connections and what brought them in.

If you feel like restoring your hope in humanity, here's this week's. This is the story of Collin Smith, 23, and Ernest Greene, 72. Smith was in a car accident his sophomore year of high school that left him a quadriplegic. Greene was a member of the Smiths' church and decided he was going to help him however he could. Ernest Greene became Collin Smith's helper. He did everything he could for Smith. And when Smith wanted to go to college, Greene went with him. They graduated in 2013.

People sometimes confuse my blonde hair and bubbly personality for me being a total doofus. I have spent enough time philosophizing and weighing pros and cons.  I've decided that world is already shitty enough. It's a great thing to be able to not make it suck less. My bubbly personality is the product of a lot of DECIDING to not be a grumpy downer all the time. (i.e., Less Squidward. More Spongebob.)

Reading about stories of other people who've also decided to not be selfish buttheads all the time makes me cry. There are some really amazing real-life human beings in the real, actual planet Earth world. I love reading about the incredible things that people do for one another. No fictional movie or book or television show will ever be able to capture the beautiful things that people do for each other, things we do for no further reason than the need to love and be loved.

5. A Wholesome, Happy Ending

It doesn't matter how long the story is. If I've just finished the Harry Potter series or if I've just watched this thirty second Subaru commercial. I feel for the characters and I start wailing.

I don't cry during sad parts of movies or books...or commercials. Because the world is already shitty without having to watch a movie. When something happy happens, I'm in tears because I'm just overwhelmed with a surprising joy. That's what having a good cry is all about.

Three Examples: