A couple of the clubs on my campus were hosting a speed dating night for people who would be single and unhappy about it on Valentine's Day. I've never been to speed dating before and I thought it could really be fun. I paid no nevermind to the fact that people went there actually trying to find dates. I just went there to make friends, a detail I never actually revealed to any of my three-minute dates.
The event was held on the third floor of the Union, which was purposely unlit to "set the mood." I was the first one to arrive, so after pinning a #1 on my shirt I entered the dark, loud room where I could barely see the chair I was supposed to sit in. I could barely see the faces of any of my dates and had to strain to hear some of them. To break the ice we were given a somewhat unimaginative list of questions to ask our dates. What's your favorite book? Movie? TV show? Album? What's the best weekend you've had this semester?
Some guys were really cool about the experience, while others delved into awkward or obnoxious territory. One date that I had started off by advertising his club and how great it is to be involved in it. He was one of the club members hosting the event, acting as a fill-in date given the uneven number of guys and chicks there were. I was kind of upset that half of my dates were fill-ins. In consequence, I never got a chance to have a date with half of the guys who showed up because they actually wanted to. I could tell that one of my fill-ins batted for the other team. Another fill-in clearly wasn't interested in the event, and another told me at the end of our date that he'd have sex with me. And he started off being so friendly too.
Although I did have dates with mostly club members, I found that they were the best to talk to. One of my other dates was a real jerk, and I mean he was worse than the guy who told me he'd have sex with me. He took a seat in the chair across from me, laid back and said, "You're my last date for the night, so you should feel honored that I chose you." Cue polite laughter. "I've already answered all of the questions on that list a hundred times, so fire away or come up with your own." This guy smelled of douchebaggery. He was high on himself and acted like he had been forced into this situation. He embodied everything I hated about the guys at my old school. Realizing this, I tried everything I could to make him feel uncomfortable. Sheepishly I asked, "What underwear have you got on?" Oh how innocent I looked with my rosy cheeks and blonde hair. I bet he never expected that one to come out of my mouth. But just when I thought I'd had him he answered without hesitation. "Fruit of the loom. No one, not my roommate, not people at the gym, not myself, no one will catch me in a pair of tidey whities." Imagine that. He gloated about his underwear. How proud could this asshole be about that?
"What's the craziest thing you've ever done?" I asked.
"I did Edward 40-hands." Oh yes, so crazy. Because no one, I mean NO ONE drinks. Like, ever. Because that's just wrong. Just to show him up I told him about the mock porno I was in. And this loser thought HE was crazy. Ha! Not a chance in hell he was crazy, not compared to me. I've done things. I've seen things... And yes, that I just wrote that jokingly, but there is also a lot of truth in it. But the thing I've learned over the years is that those who brag about how wild they are, actually aren't. It's like when people tell you how much sex they have, just to cover up the fact that they're not actually getting any.
Perhaps I was going in the wrong direction with my line of questioning. This was a guy who would answer even the most embarrassing question with absolutely no shame at all. I needed to ask questions about his personal life. That was sure to make him want to get up and leave. I scanned the list I was given to pick out the right question. "What are you looking for in a girlfriend?" Judging by the squished up face he made I had succeeded in my mission. "Alright, that's way too personal. But I guess I'd have to say I don't want someone whose a shut-in. I don't want some girl who sits home at night. I need someone who goes out and experiences things, and exposes themselves to things." Because nothing says love like doing a couple of lines of cocaine, right? I'm pretty sure that's what he meant. Or doing anal. Either way, I'm not interested. I was all too happy when our date was over, because I was seriously about to kick him out of his chair.
All in all, I had a rocking time speed dating. I got to experience something new, met a prospective friend, and got to talk about Mr. Douchebag with my roommates after it was all over. Was it worth three bucks? Probably not. But it made me remember why I like being by myself.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Friday, February 8, 2013
Your Caffeine Addiction
I was up all last night, feeling like I was going to throw up because I once again ruined my stomach with an energy drink. I was wearing sea bands, drank Pepto straight from the bottle, and sat up in bed at a 45 degree angle, and still had a plastic container by my bed because I thought I was going to toss my cookies. I knew that I shouldn't have had an energy drink because there is literally nothing good in them, but I was so dead tired that I couldn't imagine myself making it through the day if I didn't. I spent all this week running around here and there, going to club meetings, running errands, going to classes, and going to the library. Sleep alone wasn't cutting it anymore so I shoved $2 into the vending machine to get a Full Throttle, and, hell, I was so ready to go!
...Until...
I got a stomach ache before a club GIM. Being the stubborn and determined young woman that I am, I swallowed two Tylenol and dragged my butt down the hill, to the union for a 2 hour long meeting. I was doing pretty well. The Tylenol was working its magic.
...But then...
I felt really woozy on the way back up the hill to my apartment. Was it just the walk? The fact that I hadn't sat down in a couple of hours? Was it because I hadn't eaten more than Cheez-its and some Toaster Strudel all day? I collapsed onto my bed, sweating, and decided to boycott homework for the night so I could get to bed early. Well that didn't happen. I was up until 2am, wanting to throw up. All because I didn't want to be tired. My caffeine addiction has started...AGAIN!
Last semester I had either an energy drink, a coffee, or a caffeinated tea in my hand multiple times a day. My stomach was always making the funny noises that stomachs make when they're trying to digest bubbles. I always had a stomach ache and I so often felt like throwing up. Energy drinks are the Devil! They're tempting, but evil. And the worst of all...
...Drum roll please...
NOS. Whatever that stands for. It literally made me think that my illnesses were acting up again. But at the same time, it made me feel so incredibly alert. It was like taking stimulants. I was running around like the fricking road runner, meep meep meep meep MEEP! But at the same time, it probably made my insides bleed. Like right now I think I have an ulcer. Not from NOS, but another energy drink. Still, energy drinks are as good for you as gasoline. So before you shove $2 into a vending machine for a cheap fix, get a coffee instead, or a caffeinated tea. Studies are starting to show that there is a possible link between coffee and not developing Alzheimers. It may give you diarrhea, but at least it's not giving you cancer, like energy drinks are probably doing. Let's face it, energy drinks are fairly new. There aren't any studies yet linking my theory to cancer developments because everyone who drinks them is in college, but I think it's a good theory. And don't forget, it's never a bad idea to get a little more sleep. If you have an 8:30 class and you have plans to smoke weed and watch Pixar movies until 5am, you should probably sleep instead. It's super embarrassing to fall asleep in class!
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Why Winter Rocks
The 24-hour snowstorm just started and I'm pumped! I know everyone hates the snow, and the ice (as do I), and the cold. People get bummed because they can't go out and party or because they have to dig their cars out or have to make the trek in the snow to class because their professor is the Devil and decided not to cancel lecture. I'll give you a few reasons to love winter that just may change your perspective in the so called "inclement weather."
1) Snow covers the dirt:
After all the leaves fall off of the trees the ground is covered in decaying matter, the trees are naked, and for whatever reason there's mud everywhere. Salt covers everyone's car and everyone's black boots. But snow covers all of it, at least for a little while, renewing nature's beauty.
2) No public nudity:
In the warmer seasons people wear, well, a whole lot less than they should. You get to see every man's hairy armpits and everyone's sore, sunburned bodies, and everyone's bare feet. People are sweating and squinting in the sun and wearing obnoxiously bright colors that hurt your eyes even more. Frequently, tourists in my town will disregard the no shirt, no shoes, no service rule, and walk into stores and restaurants with bare feet, and nothing on their bare bottom except for a very tiny swimsuit. Let us also not forget speedos, the creator of which should have been imprisoned. In the winter not only is everyone covered up, but everyone seems, well, more fashionable! Layered looks and knee-high boots are a personal favorite. I'm also a sucker for guys in sweaters. There's just something about being snuggly warm that is oh so tempting. Outerwear is also an addiction of mine. I am a coat connoisseur, indulging in wool and faux furs.
3) Snowballs
See someone nearby who you don't like? Throw a snowball at them, put your hood up, and run in the other direction!
4) Snow is a show
Like fire, snow is mesmerizing. It's so pretty and you can scarecely take your eyes off of it when it's falling. My mother told me of a vacation she took with my father when they had just gotten married. They went up to a cabin during the Superbowl weekend (neither of my parents follow sports) and just watched the snow fall. It's the most romantic thing I've ever heard, and a magical moment I want to share with the love of my life.
Also, from certain places around your campus you can look out the window and watch everyone fall on their butts when it all ices over! Cheap thrills, I know.
5) Hot cocoa. Need I say more?
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
1) Snow covers the dirt:
After all the leaves fall off of the trees the ground is covered in decaying matter, the trees are naked, and for whatever reason there's mud everywhere. Salt covers everyone's car and everyone's black boots. But snow covers all of it, at least for a little while, renewing nature's beauty.
2) No public nudity:
In the warmer seasons people wear, well, a whole lot less than they should. You get to see every man's hairy armpits and everyone's sore, sunburned bodies, and everyone's bare feet. People are sweating and squinting in the sun and wearing obnoxiously bright colors that hurt your eyes even more. Frequently, tourists in my town will disregard the no shirt, no shoes, no service rule, and walk into stores and restaurants with bare feet, and nothing on their bare bottom except for a very tiny swimsuit. Let us also not forget speedos, the creator of which should have been imprisoned. In the winter not only is everyone covered up, but everyone seems, well, more fashionable! Layered looks and knee-high boots are a personal favorite. I'm also a sucker for guys in sweaters. There's just something about being snuggly warm that is oh so tempting. Outerwear is also an addiction of mine. I am a coat connoisseur, indulging in wool and faux furs.
3) Snowballs
See someone nearby who you don't like? Throw a snowball at them, put your hood up, and run in the other direction!
4) Snow is a show
Like fire, snow is mesmerizing. It's so pretty and you can scarecely take your eyes off of it when it's falling. My mother told me of a vacation she took with my father when they had just gotten married. They went up to a cabin during the Superbowl weekend (neither of my parents follow sports) and just watched the snow fall. It's the most romantic thing I've ever heard, and a magical moment I want to share with the love of my life.
Also, from certain places around your campus you can look out the window and watch everyone fall on their butts when it all ices over! Cheap thrills, I know.
5) Hot cocoa. Need I say more?
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
The Dreaded "C" Word
Everybody knows what I'm talking about when I say the "C" word. To avoid putting anybody off, I won't spell it all out. But if you really can't figure out what I'm trying to say, I'll give you a hint. It has four letters. C***. I was probably in the ninth grade when I heard it for the first time. Me and my girlfriends were watching a lovely little movie filled with all sorts of horrid scenarios called "Welcome to the Dollhouse." I didn't know what it meant when I heard it, but judging by my girlfriend's reactions I knew it was bad.
I spent the next few months thinking that c*** was an insult equivalent to bitch, but times a thousand. Therefore, I never used it. But once I found out that it actually meant vagina, I thought, "so how is that a bad thing, then?" And still, years later, I don't understand why it is as bad a word as people think it is. Isn't it just the equivalent of p*ssy? I guess not, though. Most young women take such offense to that word that they prefer it not to even be spoken around them. They can't even fathom uttering the word themselves. I can say that I've said c*** before, as casually and comfortably as any other curse word I've said in the past. Normally people are okay with my trucker mouth, but the moment I say c*** all eyes drop to the floor.
In my lit class the other day the professor uttered the word out of context. We had to read a few particularly raunchy poems about premature ejaculations and acts of sexual reciprocation, a discussion of which no one can fathom having with his or her professor. As the professor read selected lines to dissect the word c*** came up quite a few times. I was sitting in the back row, so I could not see other people's reactions to the word, but I'm guessing the word did not sit so well with everyone. But what I found so interesting about this poem was that it was written, I believe, in the 1600s. Was it solely the context of an erotic poem that made the word acceptable? Or did it become an insult over time? I guess my question in, why is it an insulting word today? Why are women so devastated when they are called a c***? If it is truly insulting, is it not the equivalent of calling a man a d***? I've heard no, no it's worse. But why? Why is it worse to be called a female sex organ than a male sex organ? Are both not areas of pleasure and peculiarity? Perhaps my failure to be insulted by the word makes me an exception. Maybe it is everyone else who is right to find the word upsetting, and I am just being strange by not thinking so. Maybe, but I don't find many curse words insulting. Except motherf*****. Now there's a word deserving of disgust. It is coincidentally also my favorite curse word.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
I spent the next few months thinking that c*** was an insult equivalent to bitch, but times a thousand. Therefore, I never used it. But once I found out that it actually meant vagina, I thought, "so how is that a bad thing, then?" And still, years later, I don't understand why it is as bad a word as people think it is. Isn't it just the equivalent of p*ssy? I guess not, though. Most young women take such offense to that word that they prefer it not to even be spoken around them. They can't even fathom uttering the word themselves. I can say that I've said c*** before, as casually and comfortably as any other curse word I've said in the past. Normally people are okay with my trucker mouth, but the moment I say c*** all eyes drop to the floor.
In my lit class the other day the professor uttered the word out of context. We had to read a few particularly raunchy poems about premature ejaculations and acts of sexual reciprocation, a discussion of which no one can fathom having with his or her professor. As the professor read selected lines to dissect the word c*** came up quite a few times. I was sitting in the back row, so I could not see other people's reactions to the word, but I'm guessing the word did not sit so well with everyone. But what I found so interesting about this poem was that it was written, I believe, in the 1600s. Was it solely the context of an erotic poem that made the word acceptable? Or did it become an insult over time? I guess my question in, why is it an insulting word today? Why are women so devastated when they are called a c***? If it is truly insulting, is it not the equivalent of calling a man a d***? I've heard no, no it's worse. But why? Why is it worse to be called a female sex organ than a male sex organ? Are both not areas of pleasure and peculiarity? Perhaps my failure to be insulted by the word makes me an exception. Maybe it is everyone else who is right to find the word upsetting, and I am just being strange by not thinking so. Maybe, but I don't find many curse words insulting. Except motherf*****. Now there's a word deserving of disgust. It is coincidentally also my favorite curse word.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Sunday, February 3, 2013
Comparative Foundations
For years I've been trying to find the right foundation for my skin. I've been wearing makeup since the 8th grade and have tried at least ten different foundations. The ones that covered up my acne or acne scars made me break out, powders failed to provide the right amount of coverage, and many brands did not have the correct shade for my skin tone. Below is a list of just some of the foundations I've tried, their prices, my rating for them, and are in no specific order. Enjoy!
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
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| Paula Dorf Perfect Glo Foundation $45: 4 stars Though expensive, this foundation is a very light, smooth, cream foundation that is oil free and never dried out my skin. |
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| Neutrogena Healthy Skin Liquid Makeup about $12: 5 stars My top rated drug store foundation. Neutrogena makeup is probably the best makeup you can get at a drug store. None of it will feel heavy or be harmful to your skin. |
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| Neutrogena Microclear about $12: 2 stars Although this makeup was weightless and provided great coverage it dried out the parts of my skin that weren't broken out. |
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| Clinique Even Better foundation $27: 5 stars I wore this foundation for a very long time. It lightened a lot of the scarring on my face and didn't make me break out. I only switched foundations because the sales rep suggested it provided too much coverage for me. |
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| Clinique Acne Solution $27: 4 stars Again, another really great foundation by Clinique. Great for frequent breakouts, but can be a little too drying in the winter. |
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| Clinique Perfectly Real Makeup $27: 5 stars This is my current foundation that provides the most natural looking coverage I've ever gotten from makeup. What's great about all Clinique foundations is that theres a shade that matches my skin tone perfectly, which is a lot more difficult to match than you'd think. |
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| Paula Dorf Liquid foundation $42: 4 stars This is just like the first foundation on the list, but in a true liquid and not a cream. Great coverage. Don't let the price push you away. There's twice as much foundation in this bottle than what you'd get at the drug store, making it actually not too much more expensive than what you're already buying. |
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| Almay Smart Shade Makeup around $10: 1 star Covered absolutely nothing. |
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| Covergirl Clean Oil Control Makeup around $7: 2 stars Plenty of coverage, but very heavy to wear and leaves behind a very strong, unusual smell. It also did not control the oils on my face as far as I could tell. |
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| L'Oreal Paris True Match Roller around $15: 1 star This is the same formula as the regular True Match foundation. The roller does not actually enhance the look of the makeup. |
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| Revlon Photo Ready Foundation around $11: 1 star Very heavy to wear and does not look airbrushed as advertised. |
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| L'Oreal Paris True Match around $9: 1 star Despite its name I could not find a color that matched my skin tone. It comes in various shades in categories called Warm, Cool, and Neutral. I have no idea what that even means and I don't believe many women will know which category their skin fits into. I wore this makeup twice before I got the worst breakout of my life. I looked so bad that this foundation could not cover my pimples. I was so embarrassed that I would not have gone to school if I had not had a final exam. This clogs pores, makes skin oily, and is heavy to wear. |
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| Proactiv Creme Foundation around #25: 3 stars Descent amount of coverage, however there is so little foundation in one compact that it is hardly worth the buy |
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| Bare Minerals Loose Powder $27: 3 stars This balances the skin's oils, but I am not the biggest fan of powder foundations, especially loose powders. It makes a big mess. |
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Baby Making for Dummies
I lost touch with a hell of a lot of people when I graduated high school, but thanks to Facebook I have the creepy ability to check up on them whenever I get curious. What I came across was alarming. Four of my girlfriends already have children. One of my former friends is married, another engaged. Even though I'm not into the whole premarital giving birth thing, and even though I assume these girlfriends of mine had to drop out of college, I feel as though I'm behind the curve somehow.
Though I wouldn't have a baby at this point in my life, I find myself wondering why others do. Was it irresponsibility? Do they not believe in abortion? Or did they really feel like they wanted to bare and raise a child? I have conflicting views about this. I respect the courageousness of these young women to be willing to raise a child out of wedlock and sacrifice certain things in order to raise the baby. That takes guts and that takes work. While I admire their determination I feel that I'm also conflicted with their decision. At age 21 I am not ready to raise a child, since I am still learning how to take care of myself. I've also put a hell of a lot of time, money, and energy into college, and I would hate for that to be compromised in any way. When I found out some of them were pregnant I felt bad for them at first. To me it was an "oops!" moment, an unfortunate little surprise.
I'm not saying these women are bad people or bad mothers, nor would I ever wish that upon them. I am not saying that their choice was the wrong choice either. Just because their choice isn't right for me doesn't mean that it wasn't right for them. I just can't help but wonder. Most people my age are in the mindset to earn a college degree and are terrified about not having the proper qualifications to get a job. But these women have found their happiness without that. Society still frowns upon their deviancy from the norm, and I'll admit that I dont understand their choice either. But I wonder why we have such a tendency to look down upon those people? It surely can't be because we think they're lazy. Raising a baby is a lot of work. Just ask your mother. But why are these women cast in a somewhat negative light and why at the same time do I feel like I'm missing out on something? I guess I won't know until I have one of those little monkeys running around, myself. Though not just yet. I'm not exactly into that at this moment.
What age should we have children? Society says when you're married, but even early marriage has its stigmas. People tend to look down upon women who have children too young, and sympathize with women who want children but can't because they are middle aged. Society says it is appropriate to have a child once you have established a career for yourself. It is only when you are successful that you are permitted to have children, guilt free. But before then, you're only seen to have an "oops" moment.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Though I wouldn't have a baby at this point in my life, I find myself wondering why others do. Was it irresponsibility? Do they not believe in abortion? Or did they really feel like they wanted to bare and raise a child? I have conflicting views about this. I respect the courageousness of these young women to be willing to raise a child out of wedlock and sacrifice certain things in order to raise the baby. That takes guts and that takes work. While I admire their determination I feel that I'm also conflicted with their decision. At age 21 I am not ready to raise a child, since I am still learning how to take care of myself. I've also put a hell of a lot of time, money, and energy into college, and I would hate for that to be compromised in any way. When I found out some of them were pregnant I felt bad for them at first. To me it was an "oops!" moment, an unfortunate little surprise.
I'm not saying these women are bad people or bad mothers, nor would I ever wish that upon them. I am not saying that their choice was the wrong choice either. Just because their choice isn't right for me doesn't mean that it wasn't right for them. I just can't help but wonder. Most people my age are in the mindset to earn a college degree and are terrified about not having the proper qualifications to get a job. But these women have found their happiness without that. Society still frowns upon their deviancy from the norm, and I'll admit that I dont understand their choice either. But I wonder why we have such a tendency to look down upon those people? It surely can't be because we think they're lazy. Raising a baby is a lot of work. Just ask your mother. But why are these women cast in a somewhat negative light and why at the same time do I feel like I'm missing out on something? I guess I won't know until I have one of those little monkeys running around, myself. Though not just yet. I'm not exactly into that at this moment.
What age should we have children? Society says when you're married, but even early marriage has its stigmas. People tend to look down upon women who have children too young, and sympathize with women who want children but can't because they are middle aged. Society says it is appropriate to have a child once you have established a career for yourself. It is only when you are successful that you are permitted to have children, guilt free. But before then, you're only seen to have an "oops" moment.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Saturday, February 2, 2013
A Story of Everything and Nothing
Valentine's Day is coming up and I want to take the time now to talk about something I buried deep inside. It's the story of my first love. I no longer love this boy. I won't even give him a name because he doesn't deserve one. I am no better with the things that I've done for him, for love. I only pray when reading this, you as a reader will not make the same mistakes as me. This is a story about loss. About losing my faith in people, losing my mind, and ultimately losing myself. I write this story with no passion, not even of the hateful sort, because I feel nothing for him anymore. Not even hate. Not even dislike. I feel nothing.
This is a story about a boy named Q. I can't even give the real first letter of his name because giving him even that would be too painful. Q was...the most beautiful boy I had seen in high school. He was my best friend. He had a girlfriend and I understood we would not be together. For a while I was fine with receiving only friendship from him, and oh what a great friendship it was. I trusted him with everything, ever little bit of information concerning my life. When I was excited about something I told him. When I was upset he was always the one I turned to. On prom night I called him up crying and he stayed on the phone with me until 5 am. That was the first time we admitted that we liked each other. I was so sure it was only a crush that I didn't think much of it. I had only gotten my first kiss when I was 17, and after so many years of going unnoticed by guys I was somewhat used to having affections for someone who wouldn't return them.
We spent the whole summer talking. I was excited about a boy named C who I met at my college orientation. The two of them were so much alike that I knew me and C were going to be fast friends. I told Q all of this, which he didn't seem to like very much. He was concerned for me. He knew I was a virgin and he didn't want me to rush into anything with this guy. He was also afraid of losing me. He felt that C would replace him and we'd lose contact with each other. This and more we talked about. We called each other every single night that summer, getting to know more about each other, cracking jokes, and sharing things we'd never shared with another living soul. We trusted each other. That meant so much to me because I never thought I could trust anyone. Growing up, feeling like you're different than everyone else will do that to you. Everyone wants to know what you have to say only because they want to hold it against you later. But I never for an instant felt that way with Q. He made me feel safe. He made me feel normal.
Q and I were spending more and more time together. We went to a car show, along with his girlfriend, his sister, and his friend. He told me how nice I looked that night, though via text so his girlfriend would not know. I liked his girlfriend. I had met J at prom and from what little I knew of her upon meeting her I told Q how cool I thought she was. I truly did like her. What I didn't know was that she did not like me.
I drove to Q's house one afternoon, just to say hi. As he went in to hug me goodbye I felt a wave of excitement and anxiety wash over me. He was leaning in, but not to hug me. I could feel the kiss coming and was too stunned to move. At the last second he turned so the kiss turned into a mere hug. I didn't know what to feel. I was frightened by the prospect of being "the other woman" but I found myself blushing all the same. We texted about it later, but in such an oddly casual way. Later on the phone he urged me again to not be with C when I went to college. "Before I leave I was planning on..." I stopped myself to try and convince myself to not say what I was thinking. "I was planning on just walking up to you and kissing you." I couldn't even hear his breathing on the other end. I thought for a second I had blown it. I cursed myself inside, wishing I had a rewind button. It was one thing for me to share that I had a crush on him and a completely different thing to tell him I intended on acting on it. Stupid, stupid me. But before I could beat myself up too badly I heard him say, "Okay." That one word, clear as day, and just as sure. Okay.
Kissing him was one of the greatest moments of my life. It was hot out, and rainy. We sat nervously in my car, making small talk to either ease our way into the kiss or delay it, I'm not sure which. He kissed me like he missed me all his life, like we had been in love all our lives and had never known it before. I only dreamed of this moment, running my fingers through his brown hair, trailing my fingers along his damp shirt. I had never been touched before, and was terrified of it up until this point. If he had made a move to touch me I would have let him. I would have given him everything and more because I was already in love with him.
Three months went by. I went to college and things didn't work out between me and C. Not at all. We made out one time and then he ignored me, even though we had a class together. I had gone through disappointment after disappointment. Q was disappointed as well. He and J were having a lot of trouble. She got into fights with him over the slightest things and broke up with him for a few hours for what seemed like an almost daily basis. He told me it was killing him and I couldn't stand to hear that. I missed him. I didn't want him to hurt anymore.
When Thanksgiving break rolled around I could hardly contain my excitement. When I came home I found a bouquet of roses on the seat of my car. "Smile. I missed you." I cried when I read the card. It was the first bouquet I had ever gotten from a guy. I was so excited that I had to see him that night. Q drove us down to the beach, cloudy and cold though it was. He gave me his jacket and kissed me so deeply that I could have drowned in the love I felt. He broke apart for a moment to say, "I love you." Tears welled up in my eyes. "I love you too."
Things...didn't work out the way I wanted them to. Q promised he would break up with J for me, but after three weeks of waiting I told him I wouldn't wait anymore. It was tearing me up inside. I felt like his little secret who he wanted only for excitement. Whenever I asked him why he hadn't broken up with J he gave me some obscure reason. "Breaking up is a process." Or "I slipped on the ice today and hit my head really hard." I believed him at first because I needed to. But after awhile I delivered my response. "I can't wait anymore." It was meant to be an ultimatum, but he didn't see it that way and continued dating J. I could have died.
I received a lot of nasty text messages and phone calls from J. She hadn't known about me and Q but she didn't like the fact that we spoke so frequently. She even dyed her hair blonde like me, convinced that her boyfriend wanted me. I was constantly berated with hateful, hurtful things that Q did not make any motion to stop. I complained about it to him. I begged him to make her stop. All he told me to do was to let her say what she had to say and that there was nothing that he could do. His sister even did the same thing, though only once or twice.
I lost my virginity in November of 2010, grateful that I did not lose it to Q, though both of us always thought he'd be the one to take it. It was dangerous nevertheless, because now that I had entered the world of sex, there was mentally nothing holding me back from sleeping with him when our friendship strengthened again.
It was late March, 2011. He had just broken up with J (for good), though we made plans to sleep with each other before then. For the life of me I can't remember why. I just remember the pain of it, and how utterly unloved I felt the whole time. I told him how I felt and he assured me that he loved me, that it went without saying. Still, I could feel no love in any of it. I wasn't turned on at all, but I somehow knew that this was the only opportunity I had to have sex with him. I don't know how I knew. But I just did. So we had sex, painful and emotionless though it was. I couldn't even bring myself to look at his...at all. Not even a glance. I know now that I wasn't in love with him any longer, that he had hurt me too much. The reason why I wanted to have sex with him was because I was fond of the memory I had of loving him. It seems silly to not know the difference, but I didn't. Not then. That was why I wanted to date him. Maybe finally having an official, exclusive relationship would fix my feelings for him. I wasn't going to bring it up right after we had sex, so as not to scare him off. But it turns out I shouldn't have waited. Two weeks later he started dating someone else. Someone he had even told me he thought was ugly. He had started dating her right after I told him that I thought I was pregnant.
I was ashamed that I had had unprotected sex. I was on the pill, but I know from experience to expect the worst when it comes to medication being effective. I got a very, unusually light period. I had never had one so light before, even on the pill. My breasts hurt. I did not think this meant pregnancy at the time, but things started coming together in my mind. I told Q I thought I was pregnant and went out to buy a test, which was a mortifying experience on its own. I was so embarrassed that I drove 20 minutes further than my nearest pharmacy just in case I bumped into anyone I knew at my local one. I took both tests and an error occurred on both. I peed on them too much. Perfect! I was unable to deny my pregnancy to Q, which I told him. Yet he started dating a different girl anyway. He said that since I never brought up the prospect of a relationship after sex he got the hint that I didn't want one.
Q didn't have the balls to tell me about his new relationship himself. I found out over facebook, and that night drank myself completely drunk. I was on an antidepressant, another one of Q's little unwanted gifts to me, and after three shots of vodka I forgot. I only remembered when I was stinking drunk. I thought I was going to die, so I called Q to tell him goodbye. He didn't answer. I called him more times than I could remember, left more messages than I could remember, and texted him more times than I can remember, telling him all of this, and still he did not answer.
Obviously, I did not die. It was an overreaction. Instead I spent the whole next day in bed, nauseous and depressed. And for whatever reason Q and I still remained friends after that. Looking back on it I feel stupid. He gave me the biggest metaphorical slap in the face so many times and I kept giving him more chances.
One night when I was home on break, Q texted me that was having suicidal thoughts. He didn't pick up his phone when I called him, didn't answer my texts. I got in my car and drove into his town, looking all over for his car. I drove around his street, neighboring streets, his friend's house, the spot where we had sex, everywhere I could think to look before ultimately going to his house to tell his father. If anyone has a friend who expresses suicidal thinking, I would advise not doing what I did. I would advise calling the police immediately. What I did was stupid, but I knew that if I called the police and he was actually fine then his father would kill him. It's a stupid reason, but my not yet fully developed teenage mind found logic in my thinking. I told his father I was worried about him. He asked me if I thought he was suicidal, and just before I could answer he texted me saying he was at his new girlfriend's house and that everything was okay.
One day I received a message from his new girlfriend. I can't even remember what it was or via which technological devise it was. All I remember was that it was very much like the nasty remarks J had said to me time and time again. Q and I were on thin ice with each other. He had wounded me so much that it hurt to talk to him. But what could I do? He was my best friend. Our friendship ended for good October 2011. We were messaging on Skype and he sent me a youtube link for a Snow Patrol song, with a comment that said, "Our song." It wasn't our song. It was his and his new girlfriend's. I told him to never speak to me again.
I thought about talking to him for a few months after the Skype incident. It hurt not talking to him, but I knew I would hurt even more if I did. After a while I began to feel happier, more level headed, and started to think more clearly. I was such a fool. I wasted years loving him, letting some great opportunities to be happy pass me by. All I got out of it in the end was sorrow. I got complete and total joylessness for two years and he got a fiancee.
I'm older now and wiser than I was back then. Looking back on it I can remember how in love I thought I was and realized how I actually wasn't. I knew nothing about love back then. I didn't know passion. I didn't know what it was like to be a part of someone else's life, nor did I know how to let someone be part of mine. I was foolish, like most teenagers are. I try to live my life with as few regrets as possible, but Q was the biggest regret of all. I regret every moment of my time I dedicated to talking to him, spending time with him, or thinking about him. I should have never given myself to someone so underserving, and I should have never thought that I was special when I was with him. I thought that being the other woman made me special, but I was a fool to think that way. I hate what I did and feel so utterly guilty about it, even if his girlfriend was a b*tch. I went through high school feeling so undesirable, so unwanted, that I was all too quick to fall for someone. Q. My best friend. My everything and now my nothing.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
The Most Memorable Article I Have Ever Read. Stop Being Polite and Start Asserting Yourself
Betrayed by the Angel
November / December 2004http://www.utne.com/2005-01-01/betrayed-by-the-angel.aspxBy Debra Anne Davis
What happens when violence knocks and politeness answers?
MRS. W. ARRANGED US alphabetically, so I spent my entire third-grade year sitting next to a sadist named Hank C. Every day, several times a day, whenever the teacher wasn't looking, Hank would jab his pencil into my arm. He was shorter than me, and I'd look down on his straight brown hair and he'd glance up at me with a crooked smile and then he'd do it: jab jab jab.
He'd get up from his seat often to sharpen the point; I'd sit in my seat in dread, listening to the churn of the pencil sharpener in the back of the room, knowing the pencil tip would be dulled not by paper but by my skin. I'd go home with little gray circles, some with dots of red in the center, Hank's own bull's-eye, all up and down my left arm. I remember it was my left arm because I can see myself sitting next to him, wearing one of the outfits, not just a dress, but an outfit -- matching socks, hair ribbon, even underwear -- that my mother would put me in each morning. I look at him and hope maybe not this time, please no more, and he glances at me (or doesn't -- he got so good at it that after a while he could find my arm without looking) and: jab jab jab. Each time I hope he won't and each time he does.
Mostly I'd just endure. This is what is happening; there's nothing I can do about it. One day after school I decided that I couldn't take it anymore. I de-cided that I would tell the teacher the very next time he did it. Of course I'd have to wait for him to do it again first. I felt relief.
When I went to school the next day, we had a substitute teacher instead of Mrs. W. I lost some of my resolve, but not all of it. Hank seemed in better spirits than usual. He started in soon after the bell rang while we were doing workbooks. Jab jab jab. I stood and walked to the front of the room, my lime green dress brushing against the gray metal of the teacher's desk. "Hank always pokes me with the pencil," I told the stranger. My voice was much smaller than I'd hoped. I'd said it like a whisper; I'd meant to sound mad.
"You go back to your seat and tell me if he does it again," she said. And that was it. I never could work up the nerve again to walk the 15 feet to the big desk and blurt out the nature of the boy's crime: Always, he pokes me. I continued going home each day with pencil wounds.
The problem, I think, was that I simply wasn't mad at him. When I went to tell the teacher, my voice wasn't loud in a burst of righteous anger; it was demure. I didn't want to bother her. Maybe I didn't want to see Hank punished. Maybe I didn't think I deserved not to be hurt. Maybe it just didn't seem that big an aberration. Even though no one else was being poked at every day, maybe this was just my lot in life.
I'm 25 years old. I'm alone in my apartment. I hear a knock. I open the door and see a face I don't know. The man scares me, I don't know why. My first impulse is to shut the door. But I stop myself: You can't do something like that. It's rude.
I don't invite him in, but suddenly he is pushing the door and stepping inside. I don't want him to come in; he hasn't waited to be invited. I push the door to close it, but I don't push very hard; I keep remembering that it's not polite to slam a door in someone's face.
He is inside. He slams the door shut himself and pushes me against the wall. My judgment: He is very rude. I make this conscious decision: Since he is being rude, it is okay for me to be rude back. I reach for the doorknob; I want to open the door and shove him outside and then slam the door in his face, rude or not, I don't care now. But frankly, I don't push him aside with much determination. I've made the mental choice to be rude, but I haven't been able to muster the physical bluntness the act requires.
Or maybe I realize the game is lost already. He is stronger than I am, I assume, as men have always been stronger. I have no real chance of pushing him aside. No real chance of it unless I am very angry. And I'm not very angry. I'm a little bit angry.
But, despite the fact that I didn't shove with much force, he is angry with me. I know why: It's because I've been rude to him. He is insulted. I am a bit ashamed.
We fall into our roles quite easily, two people who have never met each other, two people raised in the same culture, a man and a woman. As it turns out, a rapist and his victim.
I asked my students, college freshmen, these two questions once: What did your parents teach you that you will teach your own kids? What did they teach you that you won't teach your kids?
One young woman said, "My parents always told me to be kind to everyone. I won't teach my children that. It's not always good to be kind to everyone."
She was so young, but she knew this. Why did it take me so long to learn?
Working on this stuff makes me a little crazy. Sitting at my computer typing for hours about being raped and how it made me feel and makes me feel makes me distracted, jittery -- both because I drink too much strong coffee and because writing goes beyond imagining into reliving.
I decided I needed to reread Virginia Woolf. I'd been making notes to myself for a while -- "angel" or just "Woolf" scribbled on scraps of paper on my desk and in the front pocket of my backpack, to go buy the book, the book with the angel in it. (I could feel her hovering as I typed; I know the exact color and texture of her flowing gown.)
What could be easier than to write articles and to buy Persian cats with the profits? But wait a moment. Articles have to be about something. Mine, I seem to remember, was about a novel by a famous man. And while I was writing this review, I discovered that if I were going to review books I should need to do battle with a certain phantom. And the phantom was a woman, and when I came to know her better I called her after the heroine of a famous poem, "The Angel in the House." It was she who used to come between me and my paper when I was writing reviews. It was she who bothered me and wasted my time and so tormented me that at last I killed her.
-- "Professions for Women"
Virginia Woolf (1931)
There was TV. Reruns of reruns of I Love Lucy and The Flintstones. I Dream of Jeannie. Bewitched. I can't even think of a show from my youth that had a single female character who was smart, self-confident, and respected by others. My sister and I would lie on our stomachs, heads propped on fuzzy cotton pillows with leopard-skin covers, watching, indiscriminate, mildly entertained, for hours.
Samantha was smarter than Darrin, it was obvious, but she hid her intelligence just as she hid her magical powers, powers Darrin didn't have, powers that made him angry. Samantha's mother, Endora, used her powers with confidence and even flair, but she cackled and wore flowing bright green dresses and too much makeup; she was a mother-in-law. I was supposed to learn how to be like Samantha, not like Endora, and I did.
None of this is news, of course; we can all see those sexist stereotypes quite easily now. But just because I can see, understand, and believe that something is false, that it's not right, now, doesn't mean it won't continue to be a part of me, always.
(Barbara Eden calling Larry Hagman "Master." How many times did I hear that?)
"It's big," I say. I turn my head up. I smile. Why do I say this? I ask myself, even then. Well it is big. (And, unfortunately, he will be shoving it up my ass in a few minutes.) And I want to flatter him, so he won't hurt me any more than he already plans to. I, yes, I am trying to flirt with him. I've learned about flirting and how it works and what it can do. (It can get people to like you, to do things for you, to treat you well.) It's a skill I have honed. And I'm using it now. To save my life. (And, hey, it worked! Unless of course he hadn't planned to kill me in the first place.)
He smiles down at me (I'm on my knees, naked, leaning against my own bed, my hands tied behind me, my head in his crotch) proudly.
You who come of a younger and happier generation may not have heard of her -- you may not know what I mean by the Angel in the House. I will describe her as shortly as I can. She was intensely sympathetic. She was immensely charming. She was utterly unselfish. She excelled in the difficult arts of family life. She sacrificed herself daily. If there was chicken, she took the leg; if there was a draught she sat in it -- in short she was so constituted that she never had a mind or a wish of her own, but preferred to sympathize always with the minds and wishes of others.
Back when he was pulling my jeans off, this is what happened: He kneeled behind me, reached around the waistband to the fly, and pulled until all the buttons popped open. Then he crawled back a few feet and began to pull the jeans off from the ankles -- a stupid way to try to take someone else's pants off, but I didn't say anything.
He was having a little trouble because the pants weren't slipping off as, obviously, he'd envisioned they would. He tugged and then began yanking. "Stop fighting!" he growled at me. Ooh, that pissed me off! "I'm not fighting!" I sassed back at him. And I wasn't. How dare he! Accuse me, I mean. Of fighting.
Above all -- I need not say it -- she was pure. Her purity was supposed to be her chief beauty -- her blushes, her great grace. In those days -- the last of Queen Victoria -- every house had its Angel. And when I came to write I encountered her with the very first words. The shadow of her wings fell on my page; I heard the rustling of her skirts in the room. Directly, that is to say, I took my pen in hand to review that novel by a famous man, she slipped behind me and whispered: "My dear, you are a young woman. You are writing about a book that has been written by a man. Be sympathetic; be tender; flatter; deceive; use all the arts and wiles of our sex. Never let anybody guess that you have a mind of your own. Above all, be pure."
One thing being raped did to me: It caused me to be sometimes rude to strangers. Not out of anger, though, but out of fear.
I was 25 when I was raped. I'm 35 now. This happened last week.
I was in a coffee shop, reading a textbook for a class I'm teaching. After a while, I took a little break and brought my now-empty cup back to the counter. There was a guy at the counter waiting for his drink. "What are you reading?" he asked. He had a big smile on his face, a friendly smile. He wasn't creepy; he was being friendly. I sensed these things. "It's a textbook," I answered. I was looking at the floor now, not at his face any longer.
"Oh! What class are you studying for?" he asked.
"It's a class I'm teaching," I said. Oh no.
"Where do you teach? At __________ College?"
"No," I said flatly and tried to smile a little. I felt nervous, pinned. I knew the conversation wasn't over, but I simply turned and went back to my little table. He stood there at the counter, probably watching me walk away and wondering why I wouldn't answer his question, why, against the unspoken code of our culture, I hadn't at least finished the exchange with a friendly word or a wave. But there was no way I would tell him (or you, notice) where I taught or what I taught or anything else about me. And there was no way I could explain this to him courteously; the whole exchange made me too nervous. I certainly wasn't angry at him, but I was a bit afraid. And right there in the coffee shop, I felt the presence of my angel, the rustling of her skirts: "Be sympathetic," I heard her reprimand me, sweetly. "Be tender. And pure." I couldn't be polite, but I did feel guilty.
Though I wasn't finished with my reading, when I got back to the table, I gathered up my things and left.
I turned upon her and caught her by the throat. I did my best to kill her. My excuse, if I were to be had up in a court of law, would be that I acted in self-defense. Had I not killed her she would have killed me.
He bent down to gently arrange the towel over my bare and oozing body, after it was all over with. "You were so good-looking, I just couldn't resist," he told me.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't enjoy being complimented on my physical appearance. Why, I wondered at that moment, had I ever wanted to be considered pretty -- or kind, or good? Compliments mean nothing. Or worse, compliments mean this. What good does such a compliment do me?
Thus, whenever I felt the shadow of her wing or the radiance of her halo upon my page, I took up the inkpot and flung it at her. She died hard. Her fictitious nature was of great assistance to her. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality.
I haven't killed her. Yet. Maybe I need to go out and get an inkpot to fling at her. Hmm, I wonder how she'd hold up against a flying laptop. I can imagine hurling this 10-pound black plastic box at her (she's up in the corner, to my right). It easily tears through the soft blue, rough cotton of her ankle-length gown (she has a long, thin white lace apron tied around her waist). The computer crashes into the space where the walls and ceiling meet; she falls to the carpet. And then what? She's dead. And how do I feel about that? Guilty? Relieved? Well, I don't think I'd want to stuff my pockets with rocks and wade into a river. (Did Woolf ever really kill her angel? Or is it the angel that killed her?)
What I want to know is this: If I'm ever physically attacked again, will I fight to save myself? And will I be fighting out of righteous anger or out of unstrung fear?
What I need to know is this: Is the angel really the one who needs to die?
"I guess I'll get twenty years in the penitentiary for this," he says and waves his hand across the room at me.
Twenty years? Just for this? Just for doing this to me? Twenty years is a really long time.
In fact, he got 35 years. On a plea bargain. The police, the lawyers, the judge -- the state, the legal system -- even he, the criminal, the rapist, thought he deserved decades in jail for what he'd done to me. Why didn't I?
Reprinted from Harvard Review (#26), a Harvard University literary journal that contains fiction, poetry, essays, and more. Subscriptions: $16/yr. (2 issues) from Harvard Review, Lamont Library, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA 02138; www.hcl.harvard.edu/harvardreview
It's all Coming Together
I want to start off this post with saying that I most awesomely fixed my life, with help of course. Reflecting on my life one year ago I am able to realize how my life has done a total and complete 180. One year ago I was studying at SUNY Purchase, miserable, jaded, depressed, and feeling physically ill in some way or another almost every single day. All of my illnesses flared up at the same exact time due to many exhausting years of NSAID usage. I was stuck in classes I did not like and had next to no intention of attending. I had an unsatisfactory roommate life. I had absolutely no direction in my life and was looking at another full year of misery in a piece of sh*t college with its sh*t eating students (a quote I used on the phone-a-thon people from Purchase when they called me) and felt trapped.
This time last year I was a wreck. The biggest wreck I've ever been, actually. But today I feel better than I've ever been before, in my whole life really. Other than a multivitamin and a daily oral contraceptive I am not currently taking any medication in pill form. My only real medication comes in the form of a biweekly self injection. One of my illnesses has actually disappeared. I'm in the Ivy League of SUNY schools, with a better average than I ever attained at Purchase, love all of my classes, and have the rest of my college career planned out. This is going to be my toughest semester yet. I saw the opportunity to complete all of the requirements for my major this semester, and so have enrolled myself in very challenging, upper level classes. Since all 80 something of my credits from Purchase transferred I need only take three classes this semester, however I decided to take a fourth. I took a class with the professor last semester and I think it is more important for me to establish a rapport with professors I like rather than take the easy way out. And why am I doing this? Because I'm going to law school, and will be needing recommendations You heard me right. LAW SCHOOL. However, I will be staying an extra year at college than intended, by CHOICE. There is no mandatory senior project at Binghamton University, but I am given the opportunity to complete an honors thesis. And so within three semesters, the current one included, I will graduate the top SUNY school with an honors degree. My former friends rubbed it in my face how I was worth less than them. Well now I'm basically metaphorically kicking them in the balls and marrying their mother, giving myself supreme authority over them. It may sound like I'm gloating, and that's because I am. I am so proud of myself for turning my life around. I achieved what I had only dreamed of. My life is working out so well that sometimes it literally scares me. I've never had so much to lose before, and I'll be damned if I let anyone or anything get in the way of it. I've honestly never been proud of myself before, but now I am. I'm not only proving to myself that I am worth something, but I'm proving it to everyone else who ever doubted me. This is a story I will tell my kids. I've come a hell of a long way in such a ridiculously short amount of time. That's the most impressive thing I've ever heard. Make a note of it: if anyone ever tells you you're worthless, metaphorically kick them in the balls and marry their mother.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
This time last year I was a wreck. The biggest wreck I've ever been, actually. But today I feel better than I've ever been before, in my whole life really. Other than a multivitamin and a daily oral contraceptive I am not currently taking any medication in pill form. My only real medication comes in the form of a biweekly self injection. One of my illnesses has actually disappeared. I'm in the Ivy League of SUNY schools, with a better average than I ever attained at Purchase, love all of my classes, and have the rest of my college career planned out. This is going to be my toughest semester yet. I saw the opportunity to complete all of the requirements for my major this semester, and so have enrolled myself in very challenging, upper level classes. Since all 80 something of my credits from Purchase transferred I need only take three classes this semester, however I decided to take a fourth. I took a class with the professor last semester and I think it is more important for me to establish a rapport with professors I like rather than take the easy way out. And why am I doing this? Because I'm going to law school, and will be needing recommendations You heard me right. LAW SCHOOL. However, I will be staying an extra year at college than intended, by CHOICE. There is no mandatory senior project at Binghamton University, but I am given the opportunity to complete an honors thesis. And so within three semesters, the current one included, I will graduate the top SUNY school with an honors degree. My former friends rubbed it in my face how I was worth less than them. Well now I'm basically metaphorically kicking them in the balls and marrying their mother, giving myself supreme authority over them. It may sound like I'm gloating, and that's because I am. I am so proud of myself for turning my life around. I achieved what I had only dreamed of. My life is working out so well that sometimes it literally scares me. I've never had so much to lose before, and I'll be damned if I let anyone or anything get in the way of it. I've honestly never been proud of myself before, but now I am. I'm not only proving to myself that I am worth something, but I'm proving it to everyone else who ever doubted me. This is a story I will tell my kids. I've come a hell of a long way in such a ridiculously short amount of time. That's the most impressive thing I've ever heard. Make a note of it: if anyone ever tells you you're worthless, metaphorically kick them in the balls and marry their mother.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Friday, February 1, 2013
No Red Bumps!
I hate shaving. I really hate shaving. Not only does it gobble up time, but it also proves just how clumsy I am, especially when standing one legged on a slippery surface. I don't know how other ladies do it, but I wash my body before I shave, just to make sure no dirt or anything rushes into my pores when I shave. If that actually happens. I could be making that up. So, washing takes a while. It's funny, my deodorant seems to fail all throughout the day, except for when I'm in a steamy room, vigorously attempting to rub it off with soap and water. Once I'm satisfied with my cleanliness I apply the shaving cream, half of which washes off well before I'm even done shaving. And in between the starting and finishing points I will have dropped my razor between 6-10 times. I try to keep a steady pace so I don't cut myself, but somehow I always do. I open up a nice little cut on my ankle that all of the leftover shaving cream rushed in to fill. Desperately, I try to equip myself with the "feel the burn!" mentality. Let's face it, that doesn't work. But what I hate most out of the whole grueling ordeal of shaving is the red bumps I get on my legs after. My skin is really sensitive to shaving, so by the time I get out of the shower I look like I have rubella, or some other skin reddening disease that there are now vaccinations for.
Not even a year ago I walked into one of my favorite beauty stores, Lush, in NYC and a salesperson, noticing my tattoo, approached me. She told me about this amazing product called Ocean Salt that is in the same category as exfoliator/body scrub. She told me that over time extra ink and dirt set into the pores and cause the tattoo to fade. Ocean Salt gets into the pores and removes all of that gunk and prevents fading. BUT IT DOES MORE! The salesperson told me to use Ocean Salt on the area I'm shaving, before I shave, to prevent red bumps from appearing. Guess what? It actually works! I don't know how this exfoliator is so different from any others I tried, but it is. I ran out of Ocean Salt in December and tried to use other kinds of scrubs and exfoliators before I shaved, and got red bumps all over my legs anyway. I even use Ocean Salt on my face when I'm breaking out, and notice a difference in my complexion the next day.
All Lush products are 100% natural, vegan, and not tested on animals. There is literally nothing in any of the products that is harmful to your health, unless you have certain food allergies that is. I highly recommend not only Ocean Salt, but every product by this company. It's an investment you won't regret.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Not even a year ago I walked into one of my favorite beauty stores, Lush, in NYC and a salesperson, noticing my tattoo, approached me. She told me about this amazing product called Ocean Salt that is in the same category as exfoliator/body scrub. She told me that over time extra ink and dirt set into the pores and cause the tattoo to fade. Ocean Salt gets into the pores and removes all of that gunk and prevents fading. BUT IT DOES MORE! The salesperson told me to use Ocean Salt on the area I'm shaving, before I shave, to prevent red bumps from appearing. Guess what? It actually works! I don't know how this exfoliator is so different from any others I tried, but it is. I ran out of Ocean Salt in December and tried to use other kinds of scrubs and exfoliators before I shaved, and got red bumps all over my legs anyway. I even use Ocean Salt on my face when I'm breaking out, and notice a difference in my complexion the next day.
All Lush products are 100% natural, vegan, and not tested on animals. There is literally nothing in any of the products that is harmful to your health, unless you have certain food allergies that is. I highly recommend not only Ocean Salt, but every product by this company. It's an investment you won't regret.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
But I Don't Want to be an Adult Yet!
Every single year I hear my fellow college-goers talking about internships and jobs that they're getting over the summer, and grad school this, MCATs that. We're graduating next year! We're graduating this year! Only one semester til we graduate! Oh my God, we graduate tomorrow! All of that banter serves only to remind me about an encroaching, uncertain future, that I'm not yet mentally prepared for. Having been diagnosed with my first illness when I was 10, I never got the chance to finish out my childhood. The harshness of reality turned me into an adult before I even hit puberty. Because of that I do often feel too mature for my age, like I'm a forty-year-old with a really young looking face. But the thing is, I can be really immature for my age too. If I am required to take a class to graduate I'll put it off for as long as I can if I have no interest in it. I frequently space out in classes to daydream about a place more interesting. I cry whenever I get disappointed. I still watch Spongebob. I want to get married in a castle. While I'm mature to the point of being obnoxious 90% of the time, I'm desperately trying to recover my lost years of childhood the other 10% of the time. I thought that I didn't want to talk about the future, or hear about it, or even make plans for it because I can just be a very indifferent, miserable person. But really it's because I know when I graduate college I won't have any more chances to reclaim my childhood. It scares me to death. How can I know how to be an adult when I never truly grew up?
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Monday, January 28, 2013
The Threat of the New Girl
My new apartmentmate moved in yesterday, and I can say that I really like her, which is big coming from me. I have a lot of trust issues and on top of that I can sometimes be quick to judge people for the oddest of reasons. I was very pleasantly surprised by myself, but not surprised by how my other two roommates reacted to her arrival.
When our previous fourth roommate moved out the other two were talking about how they don't want someone moving into her empty room. They did not explain their reasoning, and refused to answer when I asked. All they said was how they were praying that no one else would move in the following semester. Now, this is a ridiculous hope. There are literally thousands of undergraduates at this school, a good amount of them living on campus. In fact, there are so many students that the school is currently having a whole new dorm community built to accommodate any possible overflow. There literally was never any hope of having three people living in a four person apartment. When I explained this, one of my roommates confessed that the next girl to move in would soon move out because she intended on scaring her. She also admitted that our other roommate would back her up and join her to make this girl feel so uncomfortable that she would have no choice but to leave. So once the new girl, K, came in, my roommates had nothing but bad words to say about it. K has many food allergies, and that was why she had to move into our apartment. She could not eat at the dining halls because they cross contaminated foods, giving her many allergic reactions last semester. She brought her own food, her own cooking utensils, and her own pots and pans to avoid any allergic reactions. I can understand this because I have food restrictions of my own. No soy, no dairy, a limited amount of fats and sugars, and a limited amount of alcohol. I'm also quite used to it because my sister has a somewhat limited food vocabulary, and I've gotten used to cooking for her to accomodate that. For me, this was no problem. K wanted to have her friends over so that they could see her new place. They were freshman, and they all live in dorms, so it was a different experience for them. They were making every attempt to control their noise level, which was minimal, but I assured them that it wasn't a problem.
Immediately when K's friends came over, one of my roommates had to lock herself into her room. When the next one showed up, the one who intends on scaring her to death, she immediately came into my room and asked who all of those people were. Somehow she couldn't quite figure it out for herself. When I told her they were K's friends, come to see her new apartment, a distressed look crossed her face. My shut-in roommate emerged from the dark confines of her room to say we should have an apartment meeting about it.
Forest came over and we spent our time together in my room for some privacy and some Honey Boo Boo. By the time he left K and her friends had gone out and my roommates had just come back from grocery shopping. I could hear them whispering conspicuously in the kitchen, so I went out to have a listen. Together they were expressing how inconvenienced they were by K's reasonably sized canister of cooking utensils and moved it from one side of the stove to the other (why?). Then they said how they would love for her to have an allergy attack. They knew K was somewhat uncomfortable with alcohol, so they schemed that they should always have a bottle of wine in the fridge to deter her from...living? Maybe? One of them also went on to say how she had such a blistering headache from all the noise K's friends had been making, and how she hoped they weren't going to keep her up at night. (K's friends were over at 3 in the afternoon.) I'm not really sure why they are acting so aggressively to a girl who they only briefly met for a few seconds, who is friendly and polite, and makes every effort to keep our apartment in the order we had it in. I don't know why they have to criticize the fact that she keeps her sanitary supplies in the supply closet, which is always shut, or why they are pretending to be inconvenienced by her food allergies, but it's already gotten on my nerves. If it wasn't enough that they were doing this kind of thing to me last semester, now they feel they have to be even worse to this lovely, charming girl. If I were acting this way towards one of them it would be a fiasco. But since they're the ones doing it, they've reasoned that it is somehow okay. I know the "golden rule" is such a cliche, but it's appropriate. Treat others the way you would like to be treated. Especially when that "other" is a really nice person who wishes no ill upon you.
How am I to turn this around? I know that if the two of them acted so outrageously negatively on the very first day they knew her, it will in all likeliness only get worse. But I've had so many roommate issues in the past that I want to remove myself from any confrontation instead of engaging in it. I've learned that unless someone's actions are interfering with my grades, my sleep, or the way I feel about myself, the fight just isn't worth it.
...But they did bring up how I "ate all the brownies" again last night, and that almost got crazy. I don't even like brownies.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Sunday, January 27, 2013
A New Place
As my friends already know, I'm only just now starting my second semester at SUNY Binghamton, even though this is supposed to be my fourth and final year. I transferred as a junior, which most everyone at my old school advised me against, to get away from all of the awfulness that was SUNY Purchase.
I didn't do so well in high school, well, because it bored me. I was an indifferent teenager who woke up in the morning hating the institution that I felt forced to go to. My SAT scores were great, but since my GPA was mediocre I didn't get into the colleges I wanted to. I had to settled for not my second, not even my third, but my FOURTH choice school, SUNY Purchase, a place that I felt had nothing to offer me. The campus was a dump (still is) and had no noteworthy programs except for those in the arts. Once I was there, though I started to feel a little different. The campus was small, a feature I liked because that meant that I could never get lost, and I made a great group of friends who I considered to be my sisters. But the longer I stayed, the worse things got for me. When I was a sophomore I discovered alcohol and lost one of the greatest friends I'd ever had. Instead I chose to become friends with a girl who had a few problems of her own, and turned all of our mutual friends and acquaintances against me in the beginning of our junior year. She had a mental issue, which she refused to seek treatment for, and not only lied compulsively, but actually believed them to be true. One night she started a rumor that I wished her and all of our friends dead, a statement that I in no way even hinted at. Nevertheless, my friends believed her, without even consulting me. I got cyberbullied and harassed in public. I didn't even want to leave my room anymore, because I could never go outside without passing someone who hated me. When I saw someone I knew I was never sure if I could wave hello to them, because I never knew if they would wave back. Then one of my roommates threatened to kill me. And then the only friend I had left pulled out of our plans to room with me the following year.
There was nothing left for me at that school. I knew if I was doomed to spend my senior year in misery and not be proud of the degree that I would earn. I got so depressed I couldn't even come up with a topic for the senior project that I was supposed to get started on. Nothing really seemed to matter anymore because I literally had nothing left to loose. That was when I decided to transfer. I didn't care how many of my credits transferred over, or if I had to stay a semester or two longer at my new school. I just wanted to get OUT. When I told my plans to the few acquaintances I had left, they all full out bashed the idea. They said regardless of my motives, I shouldn't "let" people bother me or get in my way of graduating on time. I guess that's an easy thing to say when you don't feel depressed to the point that you can't get out of bed in the morning after you've been up all night crying yourself to sleep. They couldn't understand how toxic that environment was for me. If this had happened to me in high school, people would have been nothing but sympathetic. But since I was an adult I should be able to "ignore" the bullies, even though they were continuing to viciously attack me every chance they got, despite my attempts to apologize for a comment that I never even made.
I'm happy that I transferred schools. I'm actually HAPPY. In a year's time I will have graduated from the number one SUNY school, with excellent grades that I wasn't getting at Purchase. I have found a peace within myself that I never even dreamed. That was worth all the risks of transferring.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
I didn't do so well in high school, well, because it bored me. I was an indifferent teenager who woke up in the morning hating the institution that I felt forced to go to. My SAT scores were great, but since my GPA was mediocre I didn't get into the colleges I wanted to. I had to settled for not my second, not even my third, but my FOURTH choice school, SUNY Purchase, a place that I felt had nothing to offer me. The campus was a dump (still is) and had no noteworthy programs except for those in the arts. Once I was there, though I started to feel a little different. The campus was small, a feature I liked because that meant that I could never get lost, and I made a great group of friends who I considered to be my sisters. But the longer I stayed, the worse things got for me. When I was a sophomore I discovered alcohol and lost one of the greatest friends I'd ever had. Instead I chose to become friends with a girl who had a few problems of her own, and turned all of our mutual friends and acquaintances against me in the beginning of our junior year. She had a mental issue, which she refused to seek treatment for, and not only lied compulsively, but actually believed them to be true. One night she started a rumor that I wished her and all of our friends dead, a statement that I in no way even hinted at. Nevertheless, my friends believed her, without even consulting me. I got cyberbullied and harassed in public. I didn't even want to leave my room anymore, because I could never go outside without passing someone who hated me. When I saw someone I knew I was never sure if I could wave hello to them, because I never knew if they would wave back. Then one of my roommates threatened to kill me. And then the only friend I had left pulled out of our plans to room with me the following year.
There was nothing left for me at that school. I knew if I was doomed to spend my senior year in misery and not be proud of the degree that I would earn. I got so depressed I couldn't even come up with a topic for the senior project that I was supposed to get started on. Nothing really seemed to matter anymore because I literally had nothing left to loose. That was when I decided to transfer. I didn't care how many of my credits transferred over, or if I had to stay a semester or two longer at my new school. I just wanted to get OUT. When I told my plans to the few acquaintances I had left, they all full out bashed the idea. They said regardless of my motives, I shouldn't "let" people bother me or get in my way of graduating on time. I guess that's an easy thing to say when you don't feel depressed to the point that you can't get out of bed in the morning after you've been up all night crying yourself to sleep. They couldn't understand how toxic that environment was for me. If this had happened to me in high school, people would have been nothing but sympathetic. But since I was an adult I should be able to "ignore" the bullies, even though they were continuing to viciously attack me every chance they got, despite my attempts to apologize for a comment that I never even made.
I'm happy that I transferred schools. I'm actually HAPPY. In a year's time I will have graduated from the number one SUNY school, with excellent grades that I wasn't getting at Purchase. I have found a peace within myself that I never even dreamed. That was worth all the risks of transferring.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Styrofoam Nation! Have we not Learned Anything from Wall-E?
I make it a habit to not use styrofoam products if I can help it. But unfortunately in many cases styrofoam cannot be avoided. Most delis by me put their iced teas in large styrofoam cups. In fact, in high school I remember people used it as sort of a fashion statement for whatever reason. The large styrofoam cup symbolized the contents of the cup were the signature iced tea from the most expensive deli in town. It sounds ridiculous but there were a lot of ridiculous trends in high school, like Uggs and pounds of eyeliner and skipping lunch. I never got iced teas because they were in these cups. Styrofoam is not biodegradable. It is a weird, squeaky substance comprised of so many chemicals that it will never in a million or a hundred million years break down, making it the most harmful daily used material on the planet.
I can admit to not being 100% green. I drive a car, take my time in the shower, and occasionally use hair spray. But I have over the years done things to lessen my personal carbon footprint. I wash clothes with cold water only, open the blinds instead of turning on lights, and take the train if I want to see my friends up island. But boycotted styrofoam is what I'm most proud of. If a deli has only styrofoam cups I get an already bottled drink. If a "to go" box at a restaurant is made of styrofoam I don't use it. It sounds like little, I know. But if others started the styrofoam boycott less of it would end up littering our environment. There are many cases in which styrofoam can be avoided. Styrofoam peanuts, for example. NOBODY LIKES STYROFOAM PEANUTS. I groan every time I open a package and have to dig through those squeaky little crunchy bits because I know I cannot hope to unearth my product without making a mess. Peanuts are something every company can get rid of and can be easily substituted with something else. It's not just the use of styrofoam in packaging, but the amount of styrofoam that is used. I've pulled many small items from inside a great fat womb of styrofoam several inches thicker than my actual product. I make sure all the styrofoam ends up in the dumpster outside my apartment, but I know many are not so patient and concerned about that. Styrofoam is bulky, and there is a lot of it. People wind up breaking chunks of it up into bits, leaving the scraps and beads to fall to the floor or ground, too numerous to pick up. Why is so much of this weird, alien life form substance being used? That's what I'd like to know. Is it because styrofoam is cheap? Probably. But that doesn't mean that the amount of styrofoam being used is necessary. For Earth Day this year, avoid styrofoam like it's the herp!
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
I can admit to not being 100% green. I drive a car, take my time in the shower, and occasionally use hair spray. But I have over the years done things to lessen my personal carbon footprint. I wash clothes with cold water only, open the blinds instead of turning on lights, and take the train if I want to see my friends up island. But boycotted styrofoam is what I'm most proud of. If a deli has only styrofoam cups I get an already bottled drink. If a "to go" box at a restaurant is made of styrofoam I don't use it. It sounds like little, I know. But if others started the styrofoam boycott less of it would end up littering our environment. There are many cases in which styrofoam can be avoided. Styrofoam peanuts, for example. NOBODY LIKES STYROFOAM PEANUTS. I groan every time I open a package and have to dig through those squeaky little crunchy bits because I know I cannot hope to unearth my product without making a mess. Peanuts are something every company can get rid of and can be easily substituted with something else. It's not just the use of styrofoam in packaging, but the amount of styrofoam that is used. I've pulled many small items from inside a great fat womb of styrofoam several inches thicker than my actual product. I make sure all the styrofoam ends up in the dumpster outside my apartment, but I know many are not so patient and concerned about that. Styrofoam is bulky, and there is a lot of it. People wind up breaking chunks of it up into bits, leaving the scraps and beads to fall to the floor or ground, too numerous to pick up. Why is so much of this weird, alien life form substance being used? That's what I'd like to know. Is it because styrofoam is cheap? Probably. But that doesn't mean that the amount of styrofoam being used is necessary. For Earth Day this year, avoid styrofoam like it's the herp!
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Jekyll & Hyde Club
I've never really been to a theme restaurant besides The Hard Rock Cafe. The closest thing we have to theme restaurants on Long Islands is Applebee's. So the last time I went to NYC I went to a themed restaurant!
My two primary doctors have offices in the city and when I go in with my mother for great moral support we also try to do something fun while we're in Manhattan to make the appointments a little less daunting. This time me and mama played tourist and started out our day with the Ripley's Believe it or not Museum. Neither of us would suggest going there. It's a little disappointing. But it framed out theme of weirdness for the day, so when we got hungry we went off to get some lunch at the Jekyll and Hyde Club in Times Square. You don't see an entrance to the place, and if you didn't look at the menu out front you wouldn't even know that it was a restaurant. There is a man in a top hat standing next to the sign and a phone booth. To enter the restaurant you have to dial the phone and recite the password that the doorman gives you. When you're accepted in a door at the back of the phone booth will open, leading you to a series of two rooms with one way mirrors and paintings with cut outs through the eyes. One room would have been enough because, well, we were hungry. But it was well worth it once we actually got in.
The place reminds me of the Young Sherlock Holmes movie. The restaurant is decked out in collectibles from mysterious lands like Africa and the East, places that were still considered somewhat exotic in the early 1900s. Mounted on the wall were a sphinx head, an elephant head, gargoyles, and crocodile skeletons. A cabinet of skulls greets you as you walk in before you take your seat in black leather upholstered furniture. As I took my seat I was able to fully appreciate the menagerie of oddities that were collected. It was like a mad Victorian scientist used a time machine to collect memorabilia from every decade. The place had everything from a statue of Zeus to an interactive robot.
The menu is pretty standard for a theme restaurant: burgers, salads, nachos, stuff like that. But the food is actually really pretty good, though it may not sound like anything special. Their drinks are themed to fit the atmosphere, with names like "Elixir" that make you feel like you're drinking a special formula that will either give you superpowers or turn you into a werewolf. Props to their ginger lime drink.
As you sip your magic potion and eat your burger the entertainment goes on all around you. The elephant head, the gargoyle, and the sphinx head all interact with you, singing, and talking, and spouting random facts, while actors come around to your table and keep you company as you eat. The two actors we had were a young man in a fes and a young German "doctor" with a steampunk eye patch. They walk around the restaurant, cracking jokes and interacting with the things on the walls, compliment you, and entertain you. After a while I kind of just wanted to eat my burger without being watched, but otherwise these guys were really a lot of fun. I think that Jekyll and Hyde is not only a really fun theme, but also a theme that actually works well for a restaurant because it can translate into food, unlike hard rock.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Friday, January 18, 2013
Is Purity Making a Comeback?
Remember purity rings? The first time I heard of them was circa 2007 when the Jonas Brothers showed theirs off proudly. Many people made fun of them choosing to be a virgin, while others were inspired by them and bought their own. It was an admirable lifestyle choice, but in the end proved to be a fad that died out within a year or two.
On a more recent episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta one of the housewives' daughters took up a vow of celibacy and asked her mother for a purity ring. I thought the prospect was a little strange because the purity ring did seem to be a fleeting fad when I was her age. But recently a Facebook friend of mine posted a photo of her new purity ring. Considering she is in college I'm calling this a bold move and giving her a round of applause. I remember being the weird kid in high school who boys seemed to be allergic to. I didn't get my first kiss until I was 17 and felt really behind the curve. There were people I went to high school with who lost their virginities well before I ever got my first kiss. I felt like since I wasn't having sex that I was missing out on something. When a friend of mine would talk about her sexual encounters I felt left out because I had no stories of my own to share. I never felt pressured to have sex, but I did often feel left out.
I can honestly say that I have so much respect for someone who openly admits to being a virgin and committing to reserve a special part of themselves for someone who they feel deserves it. I hope everyone who takes on this endeavor reach their goal of finding that special someone. I know that sometimes I wish I had chosen someone different.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
On a more recent episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta one of the housewives' daughters took up a vow of celibacy and asked her mother for a purity ring. I thought the prospect was a little strange because the purity ring did seem to be a fleeting fad when I was her age. But recently a Facebook friend of mine posted a photo of her new purity ring. Considering she is in college I'm calling this a bold move and giving her a round of applause. I remember being the weird kid in high school who boys seemed to be allergic to. I didn't get my first kiss until I was 17 and felt really behind the curve. There were people I went to high school with who lost their virginities well before I ever got my first kiss. I felt like since I wasn't having sex that I was missing out on something. When a friend of mine would talk about her sexual encounters I felt left out because I had no stories of my own to share. I never felt pressured to have sex, but I did often feel left out.
I can honestly say that I have so much respect for someone who openly admits to being a virgin and committing to reserve a special part of themselves for someone who they feel deserves it. I hope everyone who takes on this endeavor reach their goal of finding that special someone. I know that sometimes I wish I had chosen someone different.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
Warning: Your Private Parts may be Offending Someone
Whenever you get a tattoo you feel immediately compelled to 1. text your best friend, and 2. share it on Facebook. I have one tattoo and I did both of these. I probably did the second one because I rarely have anything of interest to share on Facebook. I'll admit that my life isn't that interesting. I can accept that. But many people have a tendency to add a third step. 3. give your tattoo a photo shoot!
Body art photo shoots can be, well, awkward. Not only is the photo shoot for the tattoo, but also for the individual's body. Getting a tattoo in a place like your chest, belly, thigh, or low on your hipbone give provide the opportunity to take provocative pictures of oneself. Men show off their rippling pectorals, six pack, or bulging arm muscles. Even if the tattoo is on an upper chest muscle the picture usually turns into a shirtless, full body photo. Women similarly take photos of them showing off their flat stomachs, large breasts, or round bootay.
When people are proud of their bodies they love to show them off, and rightfully show. But sometimes the shoot can get a little awkward. I've already state that I get uncomfortable for what I feel are displays of over-sexuality. People sometimes get tattoos in certain place because they feel it makes the tattoo sexy. For example, the hipbone. I agree, it's a very sexy place to get a tattoo. But it's not always sexy when one pulls the side of their pants or panties down to their lady parts to show the tattoo to the world of social networking. Usually, these photos don't come singularly, or even in pairs, but in a photo shoot in which few clothes are worn, and often worn incorrectly in order to better display the body art.
I have a specific anecdote in mind to further prove my point. Yes, an anecdote!
Not even a full year ago I was still enrolled in my previous college. It wasn't unusual for the students to wear few clothes. One time I spotted a girl wearing her bra outside of her shirt. But what sticks out in my mind most was the time when I saw a freshly completed tattoo in a rather disturbing spot. It was early spring and I was enjoying my walk to one of the dining halls to get myself a spot of lunch. And then I saw it. A strange, perhaps extraterrestrial, perhaps distorted human figure, rimmed in red, printed on a young woman's thigh. Her shorts were rolled up on the side of the tattoo and tucked into the underside of her panties to reveal the strange man she bore adjacent to her...will the word labia offend anyone? For whatever reason my first thought was "It's March. I'm wearing jeans and a jacket and I'm shaking." Then I thought, "Tattoos burn the first few hours after you get them done. I'm sure pants would hurt her leg." And then I thought, "But a skirt never hurt anyone! Why am I looking up her crotch right now?" And I began to blush. I diverted my gaze as I entered the dining hall.
I have now just proved the yellow section of this picture correct. When you get a tattoo or piercing people's eyes are drawn to it, and that area in general. I feel like I'm violating people when they show off their more private tattoos. Many find it sexy and appealing, but others find it uncomfortable and sometimes even offensive. Warning: revealing or just barely having the nipple, genitalia, or butt crack covered may be considered offensive to some.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
When people are proud of their bodies they love to show them off, and rightfully show. But sometimes the shoot can get a little awkward. I've already state that I get uncomfortable for what I feel are displays of over-sexuality. People sometimes get tattoos in certain place because they feel it makes the tattoo sexy. For example, the hipbone. I agree, it's a very sexy place to get a tattoo. But it's not always sexy when one pulls the side of their pants or panties down to their lady parts to show the tattoo to the world of social networking. Usually, these photos don't come singularly, or even in pairs, but in a photo shoot in which few clothes are worn, and often worn incorrectly in order to better display the body art.
I have a specific anecdote in mind to further prove my point. Yes, an anecdote!
Not even a full year ago I was still enrolled in my previous college. It wasn't unusual for the students to wear few clothes. One time I spotted a girl wearing her bra outside of her shirt. But what sticks out in my mind most was the time when I saw a freshly completed tattoo in a rather disturbing spot. It was early spring and I was enjoying my walk to one of the dining halls to get myself a spot of lunch. And then I saw it. A strange, perhaps extraterrestrial, perhaps distorted human figure, rimmed in red, printed on a young woman's thigh. Her shorts were rolled up on the side of the tattoo and tucked into the underside of her panties to reveal the strange man she bore adjacent to her...will the word labia offend anyone? For whatever reason my first thought was "It's March. I'm wearing jeans and a jacket and I'm shaking." Then I thought, "Tattoos burn the first few hours after you get them done. I'm sure pants would hurt her leg." And then I thought, "But a skirt never hurt anyone! Why am I looking up her crotch right now?" And I began to blush. I diverted my gaze as I entered the dining hall.
I have now just proved the yellow section of this picture correct. When you get a tattoo or piercing people's eyes are drawn to it, and that area in general. I feel like I'm violating people when they show off their more private tattoos. Many find it sexy and appealing, but others find it uncomfortable and sometimes even offensive. Warning: revealing or just barely having the nipple, genitalia, or butt crack covered may be considered offensive to some.
Forever the honest,
Stephanie Lato
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