A couple of weeks ago, when my cell phone (endearingly named Dino, since it was probably manufactured during the Jurassic Period) finally went kaput, I sprang for one of those nifty phones with the keyboard - for optimal texting, as the salesperson put it. Since I’d been growing increasingly fond of texting, I figured the keyboard feature would make sending out messages more convenient. But little did I know that I was about to go from casual messenger to a total texting addict.

Yes, I admit it. I really, really like to text. I do it all the time: under the table at restaurants, during the previews of movies. Sometimes I even stop in transit to send out a text (I don’t have the hand-eye coordination to walk and text at the same time. Not yet, at least). While I try not to be rude with my texting, I can’t help but love this new development in communication.

But before you condemn me to the ring of hell reserved for the intellectually degenerating and socially awkward teenage population, hear me out. As an aspiring writer and self-proclaimed grammar Nazi, there are some lines I refuse to cross when it comes to texting. I never use abbreviations, except for the occasional “lol.” With my old phone, that made writing out one text an all-day affair, but with my handy keyboard, it’s a snap. And that annoying, pointless one-word text that makes you want to reach into your phone and punch the person who sent it? I won’t send it. Ever. I get way too many of them as it is; I won’t subject any of my friends to that type of agony.

My reason for texting is restricted to simple convenience. Read More »

Here’s a shocker: BBC News reports that young girls face increasing pressure to become sexualized at younger ages, and besides becoming sluttier and sluttier, they also give into self-destructive habits to cope with social stress.

My first thought? Oh, no! Save the children. My second thought? Ummm, obvi?

When I was young, my role models were Barbie and Kelly Kapowski. Barbie had an impossible waist paired with magic tits, and Kelly Kapowski had cheated on Zack Morris with college boy Jeff, her boss at the Max. Parents today are concerned that the Bratz dolls negatively influence girls’ body images. I think they look like ghetto skanks with big heads, myself. But I suppose if they are inspiring young girls to seek a ghetto-skank look, there is cause for concern.

But I digress. BBC reports that girls are suffering from various social anxieties: two in five girls studied knew someone who had self-harmed; two in five knew someone who had panic attacks; and one in three knew someone with an eating disorder.

These problems suck; I know, I’ve dealt with all of them. I went through a brief bout of anorexia when I was thirteen, dropping to 104 pounds on a 5′7” frame. When I started eating again after an intervention, knives and razors became my friends. Read More »

People do a lot of things to prove their love for their favorite sports team. They paint their faces blue. They write letters on their stomaches and then flash the jumbotron at half time — in the middle of winter. They beat up other people who don’t feel the same about their favorite sports team. When it comes to dedication, sports fans truly understand the meaning of the word.

But I think this is taking dedication too far.

A 37-year-old Alabama middle-school teacher is being accused of sleeping with 8 members of her middle school’s baseball team. 8 members. All under the age of 17 years old.

Julie Pritchett was apparently already having an affair with one 15 year old boy on the team when she woke up and decided that one little boy wasn’t enough. She wanted 7 more! Because who isn’t into having their own little coven of teenage boys? It’s like Snow White! Except instead of dwarfs and singing animals, you get a possible 20 year jail sentence for being a sexual predator! Yay! Read More »

(SARA, 23, walks down the street in Queens, NY with a giant bag of laundry. As she passes the elementary school by her apartment, she comes across a group of 14-year-old[?] boys. One KID separates out to meet the next group of boys half a block up.)

KID
(to his friend)
Yo, Hassan! Mothaf*cka gonna rob your ass, son!

(Kid laughs and presses the fire alarm, which buzzes one loud buzz. He turns around to look at Sara.)

KID
Testing the fire alarm, miss.

SARA
(sarcastic)
Wow, awesome.

KID
Yeah?
(thinks)
You’re looking pretty awesome. Read More »

I know people who look back at high school and wish they could go back. I know people who want to leave it in the past and never look back. And I know people who could really care less either way. I don’t really know where I fit in that, but I know that my high school – the second one, since I transferred halfway through – and a few of the teachers had enough of an impact in my life that I feel like I at least owed them a visit. So I did.

Now, let me explain something real quick to you guys; teenagers scare the living shit out of me. No, really, they do. After being teased and taunted for years, a group of teenagers giggling and laughing anywhere near me automatically puts me on edge. But I was willing to walk through the halls infested with these loud cockroaches to see my old teachers.

I went to a school with a mild crime problem, so of course there was a security van parked in front. When I passed by, the guy honked at me, and I groaned to myself. I really didn’t feel like dealing with security, but I turned and went over to the car. Turns out it was one of my favorite guards, and he greeted me pretty happily before I went in.

I made the rounds to my favorite teachers. Two of them – two of the most important to me – weren’t there, so the chances that I’ll go back to see them before the year is up are pretty high. I was surprised how everyone remembered me so well. Probably the funniest reoccurring question was, “Are you seriously a senior?” Three years didn’t really seem like a lot, but it was. The auditorium and the music wing were both redone, and all of the kids had LAPTOPS. At the risk of sounding like an old grump, when I went to school, we didn’t get laptops. We had to crowd around one of the four computers in the room and share. Dang nabbit. Read More »