i wanna puck

I love the sound of a hit. The sound of a heavy body smacking against the boards, shaking the whole rink. The gasp of the crowd and then the silence as everyone wills the fallen man to get back up. The cheers when the player rises once more. I love the fights and the cellies and the sometimes disastrous line changes. I love it when two goalies start going at it. I love the post-game interviews. 

Hockey. A fast-paced, exciting game that is the only team sport that can captivate me for more than ten minutes. A game for gigantic mega-men who have hearts of gold and a soft spot for puppies. A game for both the casual watcher and the fanatic. 

To be honest, I'm more interested in hockey for the players rather than the game. Specifically, the Chicago Blackhawks. My sister took me to the second playoffs game in 2014 between the Blues and the Blackhawks in Scottrade Center in St. Louis. The first playoffs game was a heartbreaker for all Hawks fans when the Blues won in double overtime, so everyone was sure that the Hawks would be pumped up and ready to fight.

And they were. I've never been to a more exciting sporting event. I was so close to my favorite players, I could've touched them if it weren't for those stupid boards. I screamed and cheered with my small red section amidst a sea of blue. I hugged random Blackhawks fans and my hand hurt so much from giving high-fives by the end of the night. 

I don't know exactly where I'm going with this. All I know is that hockey's amazing. 

The Chicago Blackhawks are awesome and they're the best. k bye

#OCAPTAINMYCAPTAIN #BECAUSEITSTHECUP

the deal about followers

Before I entered the addicting world of social media, I never understood why people cared so damn much about their followers. It's just a number! Why were all of my friends going crazy and competing with each other over a stupid number? I thought it was shallow and petty.

Then I made a Pinterest. And a tumblr. And a Twitter (which I deleted very quickly and have recently remade). And I started writing stories and posting them online. On some networks, I never made it far. On others, I was completely blown away by how fast my follower count was increasing. But on all of the different social media mediums that I joined, I learned just how much a new follower means to me, especially if they're a stranger.

I was suddenly ensnared in a world of fierce competition. I found myself comparing how many followers I had to how many my friends had. First, I was upset at how much my opinions had changed. I tried to convince myself that networking itself was more valuable to me than the number of people who followed me.

It wasn't until recently that I realized that wanting followers is a natural part of being part of a social network. It means that someone out there likes what I post, what I like, what I want to say. I feel as if it's a connection with someone else, something that we're always looking for, no matter how small or insignificant.

Accepting this philosophy, I decided to revert my attention back to the actual act of networking. I rejoice when I get new followers, but it's not the main reason why I post or pin or write. Now I can completely understand the hype about followers; I just don't want that number to define my happiness.

leg avenue

Have you ever been to Dallas & Co? I'm sure that many of you have, seeing as it's the leading costume supplier in Champaign. Well, last Thursday, I had my first encounter with the sex shop that is called Dallas & Co.

I was tagging along with one of my friends as she rushed to grab a last-minute costume for Halloween. As we walked through the confusing maze of disturbing statues and gruesome masks, we came to a room filled with the most appalling products of all. Imagine the pale, innocent Snow White depicted in the Disney films. Now chop her dress to mid-thigh length and, hey, why not add an extra slit up there. Lower the neckline by a few inches. As long as there aren't nip-slips, we're a go. Add some cute, blue, 7-inch stilettos, and you're ready for Halloween!

Everywhere I turned, there were pictures of busty, leggy women in outfits that made mockeries of Disney princesses or honest jobs. Nurses, police officers, teachers, athletes. Why is it necessary to sexualize professional, successful women? I don't see men in sexy, chest-baring costumes. Why is Halloween a holiday in which men can express their masculinity, but women are expected to become sex objects? Leg Avenue. For Play. These are only two brand names that were showcased at Dallas & Co.

My friend went to go try on her outfit and when she asked for the top, the saleswoman took out a scrap of fabric that, according to another friend, "looked like a headband." There was no denying that it was barely there. I stood there awkwardly, trying not to glare at everyone. I failed.

I glared at the gross, frat boys who couldn't keep their perverted looks to themselves, whose eyes lingered far too long on all of the costume displays for girls. I glared at the girl who was asking her boyfriend's opinion about which would look better on her, the revealing dragon princess dress (an awful rendition of Daenerys Targaryen's) or Elsa's see-through ice gown. I glared at my friend when she wasn't looking for getting me to step into this store.

Ok, I might be exaggerating here. But even Dallas & Co. doesn't want to advertise their scandalous costumes for women. I went on the website and scrolled through the multiple pictures available. There are scary masks, a patriotic Abraham Lincoln costume (for men) and zombie statues. Nowhere on the site is there a picture of mini-dresses and fishnet tights, which is surprising considering that half of their store is dedicated to this kind of merchandise.

I want to make it clear that I am not against sexy costumes. Go sexy! Sexy is fun. What I'm trying to get across is very simple. Don't let society norms govern what you dress like. You don't have to be "sexy" to be SEXY.

As an end to this somewhat intense and impassioned post, I'm gonna give a shout-out to all those women out there who showed creativity, went against the status quo, and owned it at Halloween this year. WERK IT!

rants

I was completely out of ideas for this blog post. Some friends told me to write about how I have nothing to write about, but I thought, How cliche. I'm not going to do something as lame as that. Sorry, friends. It wasn't a lame idea. I was probably just angry that I didn't think of it myself. So of course, I turned to the internet and typed in "interesting blog post topics."

I scrolled through many suggestions and rejected many suggestions. Too much work, too stupid, too much thinking necessary. You get the picture. Then I stumbled upon a post called "101 Fabulous Blog Topic Ideas" by someone named Molly Greene, a self-proclaimed "Author, Blogger, Blogging Specialist & Coach."

Yup, that's right. Molly Greene will teach you how to make your blog successful in exchange for $45 per hour. She even wrote a book about how to "get subscribers FAST!" Frankly, Molly Greene, I am not impressed. For one, I instantly shy away from those who call themselves specialists at anything without concrete evidence. And I try to avoid book series that have titles such as the "Gen Delacourt Mysteries." It just seems like bad writing and a lack of creativity to me. Also, the covers look like ones you can find on YA fiction novels. Ew.

I know that I don't have a right to judge. I mean, I haven't published any books! But I just can't seem to stop this tirade. It's not completely my fault. I don't try to find the bad in everything, but I think that you have it coming.

In your fabulous ideas, you wrote that a good blogger "does not rant, whine or complain." You say that a good personal essay blog post "entertains, inspires, or generates a positive emotion in your reader."

I don't know what universe you live in, but in my experience, people love ranting, whining and complaining. And we enjoy hearing other people rant, whine and complain about their lives. It makes us feel better about ourselves. It offers us some escape from our own pitiful existence.

It's called schadenfreude. And everyone totally experiences it. If you say you don't, you are either a liar or a very perfect human being (annoyingly perfect).

Molly Greene, I don't believe that you don't enjoy reading rants. Don't be ashamed. It's just human nature. But honestly, don't tell me that I can't rant what I want when I want.

catcalling

It pains me to admit it, but until very recently, I didn't mind when guys whistled at me in the streets. I liked it. It made me feel pretty. It was kind of like validation for me. It's incredibly embarrassing difficult to express and, honestly, I'm not quite sure why I'm posting this. I think it's because I want to get a message out.

Last week, I was in a parking lot after a swim meet, waiting for my parents to come  pick me up. I was wrapped in a towel and wearing a jacket and my parents were running late. So I was alone. At 7pm. In a parking lot. Alone.

A group of boys started whistling at me and shouting for me to come over. I was not flattered and I did not like it. I was freaking terrified. I didn't want to walk past them to get back into the building, so I walked to the farthest end of the lot away from them. There, I shivered and waited some more. Thankfully, a kind family let me sit in their car until my father finally drove up. (If you are reading this, kind family (you know who you are), thank you from the bottom of my heart).

So, what I'm trying to get across here is: do not catcall. Do not wolf-whistle. Do not honk. It's degrading. And objectifying. And terrifying as freak. The people who enjoy it have not yet realized  that they shouldn't enjoy it. And thank God I've learned my lesson.

i'm not obsessive, only excessively dedicated

A man once said, "Stick to a task 'til it sticks to you, for beginners are many, but finishers few."When I first began playing on my sister's iPhone, Candy Crush Saga was not a task; that would imply that there was work involved. When I found out that Candy Crush was available on Facebook, I eagerly stepped up to the plate. There were already 400 levels out and I had a lot of catching up to do.

I immersed myself into the colorful, delicious world of candy-smashing. I bonded with random Facebook "friends" over sending unlocking requests. Have 2.5 hours passed since my last log-in? Time to get back on and use those five precious lives! When I got stuck at difficult levels, I told myself that I was increasing my perseverance and determination by not giving up. I just would not admit the sad truth.

I I advanced rapidly through the ranks; I was unstoppable! A month or two ago, I caught up with the game. Now I was waiting for the developers to release more levels. I was the conquerer! Or at least, that's what my reaction would've been a year ago.

Candy Crush Saga is not a task.

Candy Crush Saga is a burden.

I'm tired of this sick obligation to continue. I often wonder, What level are they going to stop the game on? I hope they shut the whole thing down. I hope a virus runs through the developers' computers, destroying any traces of this stupid game's programming. Did you know that there are Candy Crush Saga addiction support groups? Why was this game created? When I think about it, I'm playing a game designed for little children with one-track minds and almost no critical thinking skills. Great. I'm a little child.

This game needs to die.

Damn, I'm out of lives.

no appreciation

I care a lot for my brother. I really do. Yes, I've considered slitting his throat in the middle of the night, or even worse, ripping up his precious football cards, but what sibling doesn't think these thoughts once in a while? I hurt when he's hurting and I'm happy when he's happy. I might laugh a little bit if his tendency to do stupid things gets himself in a mess, but after I finish cackling I'm always there to help him clean it up.

And what does this beloved brother do for me?

I care enough to sit down before his birthday and give serious thought to what his birthday present will be.

Even my little 9 or 10-year-old self was an accomplished procrastinator (I'm so proud), so the day before my brother's birthday, I dragged my mother to the beautiful maze/jungle/heaven called Toys R Us to look for the perfect present. I don't know if any of you have been to this wildly overpriced store, but my initial idea of buying a remote-controlled helicopter was not going to work out for a middle-schooler's budget.

What else does my brother like? Football! He loves football! His capacity for memorizing football stats never fails to amaze me. I once bet him $10 that he couldn't name 200 football players, their position and team. I haven't paid him anything that I owe him and I never intend to do so because I owe him more than I'll ever make in a lifetime. I bought him $20 worth of football cards. 140 more names to memorize. I refused to let my mom chip in. This was my present. She wouldn't be getting any credit for this ingenious gift.

He loved it. Of course. A little sister is never wrong. Or at least, I am never wrong. Or so I thought. Four months later, January 5th passed quite uneventfully. At the end of the day, I rounded on my brother angrily, demanding to know why I wasn't worthy enough to receive even a card for my birthday.

He scoffed at me and answered, "You never get me anything for my birthday."

I don't think I need to go into detail about what happened next. In short, there was much offended screaming on my part.

But he grew up. He matured. Or so I thought.

For his graduation, I decided to make him a small memento that he could carry to college to remind him of the darling sister he left at home. Inspired by the quotes that he wrote on post-it notes and stuck around his room and a friend (shout-out to you, bby), I spent nine hours making a small book of reasons why I loved him. 52 reasons. Nine. Freaking. Hours. I was suffering from carpal tunnel by the end of my immense task.

I went to his graduation, dressed up nicely, wore high heels and cheered as loud as I could when he walked to get his diploma. I told him how to correctly wear his cap and assured him that he didn't look as stupid as he felt. (That was a lie, but I can live with that). I waited almost an hour to talk to him, holding my present behind my back, practically quaking with excitement. I finally found him amongst the navy-clad crowd and tapped his shoulder.

"Hey, I'll see you later. I'm busy, Joy."

Yes, I did see him later. Hours later. I stayed up until midnight hoping to surprise him. He came home tired and ready to drop on the couch (he's given up sleeping in his own room, God knows why). I'm suddenly the annoying girl keeping him awake. When I gave him my reasons, he regained some manners, thanked me profusely and told me that this was "the coolest shit I've ever seen". That's a compliment.

Feeling rather pleased with myself, I told myself that there has never been a better sister in the world. I also told him that he better be grateful. He told me that he was. And I believed him.

Only two weeks ago, I was rummaging through his drawers. Why was I invading his privacy? I don't remember my motives. I was probably looking for markers or money or something of that sort. Guess what I found tucked in the corner of his junk drawer?

Needless to say, I don't feel obligated to buy him a birthday present this year.