Orange Is the New (Sarah) Black

"Now I was a for-real, hardened con. I felt infinitely better."- Piper Kerman, Orange Is the New Black

Okay. So maybe, I wasn't a hardened criminal. I'm still not a con. But, I was really arrested and I am really now a criminal. How's that for "you thought you knew Sarah Black?" Not so goodie-two-shoes now, am I? I don't know why I'm bragging about it. I kind of hate it.  But, the story is pretty good. Let this serve as 90% PSA 10% "Let Sarah make an ass of herself on the internet." So, here it is:

It was a dark and stormy night... Wait, wrong intro.

It was a Monday night. There we go. Yeah. It was a Monday. A fucking Monday night. I hadn't slept in two days, and what little sleep I got before that was minimal because I was riding the high of the best first date weekend ever. [Please see this for details on how that ended up for me.] Friday Karaoke, Saturday Cy-Hawk Football tailgate that turned into a late night frat party and me stealing a first kiss finally at 4a just to have to wake up at 8 and drive to Illinois for a bestie's baby shower. Let me put my life into perspective with this whole weekend...

I met a guy on Tinder on Friday afternoon. Against my final swear that I'd never go on another Tinder date after I was abandoned mid date at the comedy club the week before, I agreed to go on the date with the guy on the mere principle that he asked "On a scale of One to America, how free are you tonight?" Who can resist that? Well, I did, actually. I called him an asshat and said not to use lines on me. But, our conversation otherwise was fruitful. Cue our amazeballs first date and me inviting my friends to meet us because I couldn't leave the date yet. As he walked me to my car he insisted that I meet him the next morning for the Cy-Hawk Delta Chi tailgate. I was fashionably late to that event, but he never left my side and introduced me to everyone. Talk about a gem. This guy was cool. Cue everyone going to their respective homes for a nap. It was a long day. He then insisted we see each other again and we met up with my friends for some pool. The good sport even stuck around hanging out with my cooky uncle and his goth girlfriend. Nothing could scare this guy off. I accompanied him to the Delta Chi house and we slung beers and stood around telling fart jokes and telling faux pas stories about boning fat chicks and the like. I was one of the only girls there and the other girls were all clearly freshmen... I related to the guys a lot more. We finally parted ways at 4a after standing at my car for an hour awkwardly waiting for one of us to kiss the other. I endlessly give him shit that I had to kiss him first, but he just says that I'm lucky he reciprocated and I'm welcome. Asshat.

Phew. So, excessively long sleepless date recap over.

Cue 8a. I promised him I'd call to make sure we both woke up in time to drive back to Illinois. 830 I actually called and he just said, "You're late." I made some argument about how comfy my bed was but swore that I was sorry.

I rolled out of bed and into my car. Shower? What's that? Change of clothes? Why? Leggings and comfy shirts are perfectly fine attire for a baby shower, right? Good enough.

I arrived on time for the baby shower, surprisingly so. Caught up with old friends. Ate too much. Played some games. Helped pack the car with the baby loot and took my ass home to my parents house.

Around 4p, I decided it was time to take a nap, but having been in constant contact with Fratstar dateboy since 830a, I was giggly and giddy and couldn't nap. I decided to stay the night and leave at 330a the next day. I didn't fall asleep until 11/1130/12ish. Who knows. Fratstar was entertaining. Next thing I knew it was 330a and I had to leave to make it to my personal training session on time. I drove to Iowa City, trained, worked, and went home. (The whole day texting Fratstar, of course).

I had been asked to come and try out an open mic standup downtown Iowa City the week prior (when I was stood up mid date at the comedy club and left to have coffee with a homeless woman with her masters in writing. Oh, the people you meet in Iowa City). Apparently, my life experience, raw, and unscripted was enough for the MC there to insist I tell my stories.

I got home, drained that Monday and realized that if I didn't go to the open mic that night, I would probably chicken out and never do it. I talked myself into it. I begged my roommate to go, but she had to watch teen mom, or some other Basic White Girl show. No judgement, Al. <3

So, nervous to get up and word vomiting all of the jokes I had scribbled on pieces of paper throughout the week, I grabbed a couple tall boys for moral support and left. I parked my car and chugged a bad boy in the parking lot before I headed into the venue. Did I mention it was Busch Light? Oh yeah. Classtastic. I know. Be jeal. I sat in the car and rehearsed the jokes that I really should credit to Fratstar. He was the inspiration for most of them, because every typo in our textual relationship became a hilarious joke about anal sex. If you've seen my standup, you know that's my favorite subject.

Cue me having a second beer at 9p. My amazing cousin Ashley came out with her mom Deb and a few friends to see the show. Even though I was higher in the lineup, I kept getting bumped until a later set. I don't know if they were trying to space out the two girls performing that night, or if they were trying to make sure the crowd was drunk before I got up. But the MC took his sweet ass time getting me on stage. I had another beer in the interim. I knew I had to drive. I was being careful. I finally got on stage and this happened. Not an amazing performance. Definitely a lot of F-Bombs. But, for a first timer, I was proud.

I left the stage and everyone wanted to buy me drinks. It was now 1a, I hadn't slept in two days and in the scurry to get my shit together and get to the venue after work, that parking lot beer was my dinner. I refused shots left and right letting people know that I had to drive home. 2a rolled around and my cousin and I decided Pancheros was a good idea, but this creepo from the show insisted on buying us Panch. I got the worst vibes from him and he wouldn't leave us alone so I insisted we go to the one on the main drag instead of downtown. She argued a little but, eventually agreed. It had been 5 hours since my first beer. Maybe less than an hours since I finished my last.

Cue cherries and berries behind my little white Volkswagen. It was a Monday. A fucking Monday. Dillhole cop asks me if I knew how fast I was going. I replied I was sorry, I wasn't even thinking about it. I didn't have the pedal to the metal at all. He said it was 30 through there. I replied that surprised me. I always thought it was at least 35/40. I told him, I bet a lot of people speed through there. He, oh so wisely, pointed out that my house was the other direction from where I was headed. He asked me where I was going. I said Panch. I was sitting in front of my destination. He pointed out the obvious, that it was closed and I said "I see that now. I was avoiding a creepy guy who was harassing us at the one downtown." Did he send anyone to check out who was harassing girls downtown? NO. Without hesitation, he asked me if I had been drinking. I had a stamp on my hand from the show and the empty tall boy in my car. I didn't lie. But I also didn't think it an issue. Afterall, I didn't even feel buzzed. 3 beers in 5 hours? That's nothing. Er, nothing if you have slept or eaten; neither of which I had successfully done that day.

He immediately pulled me out of the car and started sobriety testing me while the backup he called- yeah fucking backup, for a little girl in a bug on a MONDAY FUCKING NIGHT. Backup searched my car and found the empty tall boy and the full, unopened companion hidden. The dipshit, Backup, asked me why I had hidden the cans from him. I replied, "You are cops..." That was the end of that conversation and the beginning of the most ridiculous sobriety testing ever.

To fail a street test, you have to fail two of the three tests; HGN, Walk and Turn, and the One-Leg stand.  I could tell I was failing the HGN because almost EVERYONE fails the HGN. Then the guy asked me to do the Walk and Turn test, but prefaced it with "Do you have any medical reason that would impair your walking." I told him honestly that I had been seen within the last six months for serious ankle issues that hindered my balance. No joke. I have horrible ankles and I have the podiatrist bills to prove it. He asked if it hindered my walking. I said, "I hinders my balance." He said, "Does it hinder your walking?"... Are you fucking serious? I said "It hinders my balance." He said, "Does it hinder your walking." I said, "No" just to shut him up. After all, I was not drunk. What were they going to do? He then said, "Follow the instructions exactly. Do you understand?" I said "I believe so." He said. "Do you understand?" I said, "I believe so." He said "Yes or no, do you understand." I said, "I believe so, yes." He said, "YES OR NO, DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE INSTRUCTIONS." I said, "Yes." Evidently, the- as he claimed it- argument was enough for me to fail the test before I even began it. Are you all seeing the pattern here. I wasn't giving him the answers he wanted so he said I was arguing with him. After that dumb shit, he asked me to do the one-leg stand but was pulling out his breathalizer as I finished up. For having weak ankles, I didn't even flinch and I know I did it just fine because, oh yeah, I was there and I wasn't drunk. I willingly blew into the breathalizer and waited for him to be more of a dick to me.

.09. Imagine my shock.... He then says some snide remark, "I think you've had way more than the one beer you admitted to me." Might I draw your attention to the fact that when he asked me if I had been drinking, I said yes. He said when was your last one, I said "Not, that long ago." I never gave him a number of drinks. Ever. But it was three.

He put me in the squad car while the Backup threw the empty beer can and the full one back in my car and parked it. Dillweed who was testing me said, "You're not under arrest. Just have to take you back to the station." Cue me calmly sitting in the room with THREE OTHER OFFICERS. Seriously, guys? You need THREE officers to hold a 5-foot-3, buck fifty girl who blew a .09 ON A MONDAY FUCKING NIGHT? Still convinced I would be fine to blow, and refusing meant I lost my license for a year, I blew in the breathalizer at the station- the one that is admissible in court. Yep. .09. The officer said, "Sarah, you are now under arrest for a DUI. Do you understand?" (I believe so) I said, "Yes.," and began quietly sobbing. The butch woman standing guard handed me a tissue. Dillweed cuffed me. The three officers put me back in the squad car. Backup buzzed over the walkie, "How the hell do you lock this car?" he asked. It's not fucking rocket science, guys. I told Dillweed to tell Backup use the key. What a novel fucking concept. Protect and serve whom while you can't even lock a Volkswagon Beetle?

Cuffed, I was escorted in by Dillweed and met with three more sheriffs for intake at the jail. Dillweed bid them adieu and I said, sincerely, "Thanks." Why the fuck did I say, "Thanks"?? I guess it was my last plea for mercy; my last "I'm so sweet, why wont you trust me?"

Still crying, the three sheriffs at the jail let me make some phone calls. I got a few because they heard me say to my mom, "Get ready, I'm going to lose my job and have to move into your basement." The next day was my actually first day in the trial run for the position I was up for promotion into and I was sitting in jail with zero clue as to when I would be released. At least not until noon. I called my boss and left a voicemail stating I had 'family issues'. With that, I was booked. They printed me, mug-shotted me, and gave me an oversized orange jumpsuit to change into.

You may or may not know this about me, but I love dresses and skirts. On this fine night, I happened to be wearing a skirt and pantyhose. What does pantyhose mean? No panties. They took my hose from me. They took my bra from me. I wasn't allowed shoes or socks. I was completely al fresco in the unflattering orange jumpsuit. As my final, friendly, feminine, female, escort and I approached the cell door, I paused and said "I feel like I hit rock bottom." "The good news is, There's only up from here." She handed me a blanket, turned the key and jailed me for the night.

I had a few panic attacks. If you know anything about my previous bouts with anxiety (touched on here) then you know my panic attacks are crippling. Literally. They can be so bad my hands, arms, and legs seize up and I hyperventilate to the cusp of unconsciousness. One finally put me under and I 'slept' until some young buck offered me a granola bar. Fuck you and your granola bar. Oh, it's beautiful. Cue two more crippling attacks while I waited to be escorted to the courtroom.

Another large manly woman arrived and told me to shuffle to the "courtroom." A room two doors down from cell-block D where I had come to know life as a jailbird. They took my itchy wool blanket, the only possession betrothed to me by the three sheriffs, that I had come to find comfort in the freezing cement and steel cell. They sat me in the back row with the only other woman who had been brought in that Monday night. I was a Nosey Nelly and read the police report in her had. Evidently, she had done a number on her boyfriend and was brought in on domestic abuse charges. I was suddenly glad I didn't have a cellmate.

Two rows in front of me was a man I knew from the homeless shelter. Don't worry folks, I wasn't homeless. I knew Seymour from all the days I worked volunteering at the homeless shelter. Yeah guys, I'm really a criminal. I was curious to see what he had been brought in on, but they shuffle the girls out of there pretty quickly. I was up first.

The judge did his usual "I hate my job" spiel and asked if I wanted a court appointed attorney. He had the paperwork I filled out that morning with my crippled hands and the sorry excuse they give you for a pen (they don't want anyone getting stabbed, I guess). I froze. I had no idea if my parents were going to get me an attorney. I hadn't talked to them since I was booked and we had no game plan then. Seymour yelled from behind me, "You want one, Sarah." I couldn't tell if he recognized me from the shelter or if the judge had said my name at some point. I was still a case number as far as I knew. Cue more tears. I was advised by the judge that I could apply again later for one. I said I didn't want one and was released on my own recognizance.

Hearing I was being released gave me a flicker of hope. I thought I would be free to go then and there after I picked up my stuff. Amazon Amanda, the baliff, escorted me toward an exit. Just kidding. The exit was past my cell. I took one step too far and she grabbed me by the arm so aggressively, you would have thought I was a donut and she hadn't seen food in weeks. She firmly guided me back to my cell where I asked "How long do I have to wait?" She replied, "As long as it takes," and shoved me back in the cell. I heard the clink of the key turning again. Cue another panic attack.

As I sat there, sockless, shoeless, pantiless, braless, on the bottom bunk I stared at whatever there was to stare at. I couldn't believe myself when I let out a laugh. A gut-busting laugh when I read the graffiti, no doubt written by the same sorry excuse for a blue pen I had written with that morning, were the words "It smell like cryin' in here." I couldn't tell at the time if it was truly funny or I had snapped from 7 hours in the hole but I was sure as shit laughing.

After the manic episode, I paced the cell for a while. I read the only (racially prejudiced latina) magazine written entirely in Spanish and tested how much I had retained from college. There was a clock on the other side of the little window they use to check on you and make sure you haven't found a way to hurt yourself. It had been an hour since court. I peed in the wide open toilet. A jailer checked on me just at the right time. Great. I love being degraded even further by not being able to pee in peace. I buzzed the buzzer hoping it worked. I hadn't had anything to drink since 130 that morning when I left the bar. I asked for a glass for water.

Over the intercom, a witchy voice replied, "You should have gotten one when you checked in." As if it were a hotel and I chose to "check in." I calmly retorted, "I am sorry, I only got a blanket when I got here." she said it would be a while and I said thanks.

An hour and a half later, about to pass out from dehydration on top of the fact that I was parched from hyperventilating for the previous hours, I buzzed again asking calmly when I might expect the cup. "It ain't coming. Use your hands."

Oh. OK. I'll get right on using my hands that have touched everything in this disgusting place. That's exactly how I wanted to get Hep. How did I not think of that before? Fuck her. I sat waiting.

An hour later I was released. I was given my clothes and I returned the grimy old jumpsuit that had been all over my lady bits. I hoped they washed them thoroughly beforehand. They handed me all of my shit and pointed me to the exit.

I walked out of the Johnson County jail in my skirt with no pantyhose or panties (because fuck them) into the bright warm sun of September. I walked the most shameful walk of shame I have ever walked down Riverside Dr. I called my boss and told her I wouldn't be in. I got a text from a friend asking why I was walking near campus. I didn't reply. Praying that my car was still there, I approached the lot and found my bug. I opened the door and sitting right on the passenger seat were the empty beer can and the full one from the night before. Are you kidding me? I hid them in the back seat and drove home to shower off jail.

In all of this, I would like to say I learned more than to always wear underwear. But it was all just a perfect combination of bad timing, and stupid things. It was a weekend that I went to a tailgate, a frat party, did a standup set and got arrested- while my bestie was having a baby shower. Talk about feeling like I need to reevaluate my life. 3 beers in 5 hours should have never ruined my life as I knew it. But this is my reality. Maybe it was my cue to grow up and join the adult world where my friends are getting married and reproducing. Maybe not. But, if there's one thing I know about life; it goes on.

And so concludes this chapter in my life: Orange Is the New (Sarah) Black.

Pics or it didn't happen!

This image graced the Iowa City Press Citizen homepage as the default mugshot for a whole week. Please note how it is labeled as 1/100 photos. 

Here We Go Again...

"I'm young, and I'm dumb, and I do stupid things when it comes to love. But, even if I always end up crying, you can't blame a girl for trying."- Sabrina Carpenter

I am officially another year older. 24 came faster than a virgin. I don't feel any smarter, any wiser. I feel blindsided and lost; I still feel like a stupid little girl.

I couldn't write for several weeks because I was a little brokenhearted. Shocker there, eh? Surprisingly, I made that move and finally stopped seeing the guy from the post before. YAY ME! It was my choice and it was empowering and I didn't even cry about it. Er, well, I barely cried about it. The sad part is, I only left because I found someone even more amazing and even more worth fighting for. That doesn't seem sad since he was amazing and worth fighting for. But, it's sad that it took me finding someone else to finally close that chapter in my life.

My first date with the new guy was, hands down, the best date ever. I have been on some pretty fantastic dates (also some shittier ones, like I mention in my stand up) but this guy was so unashamedly open, I couldn't resist. Honesty is sexy to me, and we were more than honest with each other. We talked about everything you're never supposed to talk about on a first date. And, we loved it. I will enact this policy of honesty on first dates from now on. There were no surprises about numbers of sexual partners, no guesses on religion or favorite food, no "I didn't realize he was that kind of liberal," moment after our first date. We knew everything about one another that should have scared us off from each other and all we did was make plans for the next morning- after karaoke of course. Best first date ever. I was hooked.

I would like to say I was being dumb and ignoring all the typical signs I have seen before when I fall into these one-sided love affairs. I'm usually the one to initiate phone calls, or texts. Finding time for them was my job and it was obvious I was usually more into him than he me. My fault. I know. I guess I usually just hope for the best. This time it was different.

He called me. He texted me. He made time for me and invited me places and introduced me to people. I kissed him first, but only because I knew it would be a while before we got to see each other again and he was clearly being a pansy about it. I wanted to give him the reassurance he needed to make it work with the distance and time we were about to face. It was so worth it. And he so made the effort. He wanted to meet my friends and he wanted me to stay an extra day when I visited. He wanted me to cook for him and we could just be lazy with no plans and everyone was a happy camper. This time it was different; except it wasn't.

All of that, just to end up in the same fucking situation I am always in: He loves me not.

There was a definitive point in which things changed. I hadn't done anything different and all of the sudden, I was overcome with all of my standard insecurities. Cue my neurotic girl brain jumping into overdrive. Out of no where two days went by without a word from him. Naturally, I overcompensated for his quietus and had a somewhat lengthy conversation with myself via text. I had to get it together, because if there's one thing that's certain, ALL WOMEN ARE CRAZY. The trick is to make all men believe we are the exception to this rule. I had to tone it down.

I let him have his space. But, I knew that we were close enough and comfortable enough for me to ask some questions. After all, our faux pas first date proved to me that we are clearly good communicators. So, I asked. The response has been a point of controversy among me and my friends. Most of the girls all say it's an understandable and reasonable response. The guys all say its a cop out. I don't rightly care which is the truth. What hurts is that I am not enough. He said we couldn't be together because he's not over his ex. Cool. I get that. But, this is an ex from two years ago. I know what it sounds like on the surface. But, as I sat with him on the phone crying (I assured him I am also an intense movie crier), I couldn't help but believe him. There was no reason for either of us to lie to the other. We had been so painfully honest about everything else in our lives, why start lying now?

Take it for what it is, cop out or true struggle, the reality is, I wasn't enough. I wasn't enough to make him get over her, or I wasn't enough to make him want to think of a better excuse than an ex from two years ago haunting his sheets. Whatever the truth, there I was again. For the third time this calendar year alone (a couple the year before), I was in yet another one-sided love affair; the worst kind of love affair.

This man makes me laugh non stop. He is the perfect compliment to my wild, unstructured, unplanned approach to life. He levels me out and brings be back down when I get my head too far in the clouds without any plan. He is one of the most supportive people I have ever met and he consistently encourages me to do what I love but demands a plan of action to do so. He puts everything into perspective for me. He consoles me when I'm sad or overwhelmed. Even better, he makes me feel sexy and wanted and worthy whenever we are together. We can talk for hours about nothing and have said everything we needed to. I feel taken care of and needed in the exact same moment. As simple as it is, it is everything a woman wants to feel. We all want to play the role of best friend and lover. With him I get that.

I want to say "got" not "get" but not much has changed. Remember how much I love to torture myself with hopefulness and listfulness? Oops, I did it again. The cooing and the swooning and the willingness to do anything for him because I foolishly believe that maybe he will come to and realize that I am the one he wants; that I am the one he needs. They never do. I'm only fooling myself. But I will keep trying, because I have to. I have to be absolutely certain he doesn't love me before I walk away. Because, what if this time it's different?

It never is.

- S.

Walking The Tightrope: If

"I can accept failure. Everyone fails at something. But, I can't accept not trying." -Michael Jordan

If we never said "if" we would never have to wonder. This is a thought so strange, apparently, when it escaped my eighteen-year-old mouth as I walked out of a gift shop in Mystic, Connecticut, of all places, a middle-aged stranger stopped me cold and with the most intense eye contact said "That is so profound," and walked away. In that exact moment, I knew what I said was more meaningful than what I intended it to mean in passing. I spent the next six years repeating it in my own head. My mantra. My words. My inspiration to myself.

It is incredible how this two-letter word has ruined so many lives in such a cunning a way as a two-letter word can. "If he loved me." "If she stayed." "If I hadn't done yadiya..." "If I had chased that ridiculous dream." I cannot live with asinine questions like this. They eat you from the inside like a parasite, feeding off of your insecurity growing into regret taking over your thoughts and actions, becoming that one moment in your life where everything could have been different, better. I do not regret. I do not ask "if."

I am sitting in my parents kitchen brewing a second pot of coffee for the day, in my typical "I'm Sarah Black and I'm about to drink too much coffee and I don't care" way. I had to make more coffee because I was struck this morning, for the first time in a long time, with the inspiration to ask some more questions of my twentysomething self. And, one cannot feasibly think clearly enough about deep philosophical, life-changing questions without at least a second pot of coffee. Naturally.

It is challenging as a contemporary twentysomething to see the success of your friends who are moving up corporate ladders (seemingly happily), buying new cars, getting married, having babies and not compare your life to theirs.

As those words escaped my eighteen-year-old mouth, I simultaneously soaked them in to remember and ignored them. I was on my way to college the following month, and had a plan to study English. On the surface that looks like I might be chasing a dream of writing. But, the reality is, I chose English because (it was my highest score on the ACT and) it was more useful than getting a degree in acting. True story. I actually got a lot of negative kickback from high school teachers and directors that I had worked with begging for a reason for my decision. Simply put, I told them it was a pipe dream and I had no cause to believe that I would be successful in acting.

Within the first month of school, all of the business kids, the marketing majors, the educations snobs were asking me what I was planning on doing with that degree in plain-ole English Studies. I joked it would be useful to have a mastery of my native tongue. They giggled and asked "But, seriously." But seriously. I had to find something to label myself. I wanted something impressive. Something to shut those fucking suburban kids up with their superiority complexes and "holier-than-thou who does not haveth a plan" attitudes. So, at eighteen, I had to make a decision of what to do with the rest of my life. I aced some Political Science classes and started scrounging for labels to throw on my major and now minor fields of study. I realized that more often than not, kids with my academic background went to law school. That sounded prestigious. I liked the ring of it. Okay, I'll go to law school with it.

I never had a passion for law. I had a passion for arguing and being correct. That was close enough, right? Wrong. When it came time to take the LSAT, I was part of my school's award-winning mock trial team. We kicked ass. And, not to brag, but I won personal awards at every single event we attended all the way up to the final regional rounds for the Midwest. You'll never guess what I was winning awards for. Acting. I was scoring the highest in the majority of rounds I competed in because I was putting on a good show on the witness stand pretending to be characters involved in the case. I was a shit attorney. I did some prosecution work for the team, but I only scored high because I gave the opening statement- I was storytelling. I was a convincing storyteller, so I scored high. But, when it came time for me to do a cross-exam, I froze. I sucked. I didn't know how to think like a lawyer. I practiced enough to know what I was supposed to look like, but if someone threw me off, I was done for. No more acting. No more composure. Just shaking hands and inarticulate questions. I couldn't think like those law-school kids. I can think on my feet, I cannot think like a lawyer on my feet. I opted out of taking the LSAT.

I should add at this time in my life, I was having crippling panic attacks. My hair was falling out. I was seeing a counselor. And, I was trying desperately to not fail my long-distance relationship. I was a mess. The day I sat in my counselor, Eric's, office and said "I don't think I want to take the LSAT or go to law school," it was like a million bricks were lifted from my shoulders and I had new clarity. Eric looked at me a little stunned, because it was all I had been talking about. I never shut up about mock trial, or the LSAT, or law school, or how I couldn't wait to go to UW Madison. I had my heart set on that beautiful place. He was the first person I told, officially, that I wasn't going. I am sure I told Brittany and my boyfriend. But I hadn't told my parents, my team, my coaches, my academic advisors. I had one more semester of college left, and I just changed my mind.

I made what I call, "the smart choice" and didn't change majors, minors, or direction with my undergrad. I was slated to graduate early with a stunning GPA and immaculate credentials. I finished in December 2012 ten days after my twenty-second birthday. The following four months proved to be the most difficult time in my life to date.

By January I had landed a corporate proofreading job in Iowa City. I couldn't physically bear the thought of working as a paralegal. Even tough I was insanely qualified with internships and experience coming out of my ass, I hated it. It physically made me ill to think about working in law. I am sure this was all just my brains way of saying it's not the right choice in response to the negative association I attached to studying law and law school. I had attached it to one of the more challenging times in my life. I couldn't see my self happy if I were involved with law. I couldn't bring myself to do it.

One month and five days after graduation, I was living with a stranger on the west side of Iowa City working for a company that developed and distributed standardized tests for schools across the US. When I applied for the job, I thought it was a proofreading job for textbooks. I had no idea that I would be working with standardized tests. I was always good at test taking. I am a fantastic standardized tester. But that does not mean that I approve of them. The whole system is fucked, but that's a rant for another time.

So, flash to me in a moral dilemma proofing tests for children across the country to be compared to other children by. I hated what I represented. But, even more so, I hated that the company was owned by British overlords. I have absolutely nothing against the Brits. I love you guys, with your accents, the Spice Girls, cool flag, and prince George. But, when a company that size (cleverly, I'll admit) has convinced America as a whole, that the product they have developed is necessary, accurate, and the only way to know how smart or normal your children are is taking a significant chunk of tax payers money (because where else would any school district get he money for these "required" tests) and sending it overseas to the mother company, it felt so morally devoid, I found myself depressed. I felt like I had sold my soul and my morals to have a job and pay rent. Phase two of playing the game of life and losing my mind: Complete.

I quickly found myself in a counselors office again weeding my way through emotions. The thing that forced me to see her was losing my dog. I couldn't take much more between the chaos of overhauling my life and selling my soul for a job, let alone losing the love of my life. It was a dark time. I drank a lot. I was wasted almost every night for nearly three months; alone. I distinctly remember pulling into my parking spot after getting home from work and sitting in my car for an hour screaming, crying, trying to talk myself out of being upset and trying to tell myself I didn't need to drink. The only thing that got me out of that car was the promise of the bottle of rum sitting on my counter. I got wasted again.

It didn't take long for JoAnna, my new counselor to help me. She seemed so reasonable and so smart. Everything she said made sense. I was being ridiculous, but she understood why and how and never once passed judgment on me. I quit drinking, hit the gym, and got a new job waitressing. I loved it for a while. And JoAnna and I were working on a new plan: Where to take my life. We agreed that I should go to grad school- but what to study? We agreed I would make a great teacher and so it was. I took the GRE (rocking that standardized test's ass) and had everything in order to finish applying and enroll. Some things came up and JoAnna had to quit counseling in our area and move. I was devastated, but convinced I knew where to go and that I could do it without her.

My waitressing job took a sour turn and I was no longer getting along with management. I was still struggling to pay bills between that job and working retail at the mall. Admittedly, working retail was a bad idea for me. Because I wasn't drinking as much anymore, I wanted to buy things. I spent significantly more money at the store than I made working there.

In January, I was offered a unique opportunity. If there is one bit of advice I can give anyone, it is to take your resume everywhere. You never know who will pick it up and call you. I have gotten my last two jobs by simply handing someone my resume and asking them to pass it along to anyone who might be interested. They were interested and so was I.

I took a low-paying offer from this new company just to get a steady paycheck and to not have to work two jobs anymore. I was still poor, but at least I was happy. Within a month of starting my new job, there were talks of moving me up the ladder. This was it. I was just like everyone else. Finally, a big girl, with a big girl job. I abandoned the grad school plans to see where this new career went, knowing that my applications and scores were all good for two more years.

Ten months later, I found myself talking money; reasonable money. I was asking significantly less than the market for the position they were asking me to jump through hoops to get. I had been working hard for ten months to find out that they never intended to pay me appropriately. Lesson in life to everyone: Never work for less than you're worth.

I began yet another quarter-life crisis reevaluation of my life.

In addition to feeling a bit insulted by the would-be maybe offer (if I got my personality in order enough for them- another long story), my personal life took a crazy turn and I was no longer immune to the strong arm of the law.

I was arrested for a DUI on a Monday night. I know what you're thinking. She clearly had alcohol issues before, so, it was just a matter of time. I want you to know that, even though this was a difficult time, the night I was picked up was the first night in a while that I had gone drinking and I had three beers in five hours. I was clearly not going hard. I hadn't slept in two days and hadn't eaten in well over twelve hours. Hungry plus tired plus beer equals a douchy cop cuffing you for going over the speed limit. Life lesson taken from this: .09 can ruin your life as you know it.

I was released from jail the following morning and called into work. I'll tell you about jail in another post. But, the experience of Johnson County Lockup was enough for me to call in to work, not to mention I now had to find an attorney and start figuring out how deep I had gotten myself in.

Certain that they would fire me over the issue (because my mug shot was plastered all over the local paper's website- lucky me), I started planning for the worst. I mentally game planned for losing my job and having to move home. Verbatim, from jail, I told my mother "I'm going to lose my job. Get ready for me to move into your basement." That day, that was the worst thing I could think of to have happen to me; to have to move home.

But, to come to terms with what I thought was the inevitable heat death of my universe (moving home), I began to see the silver linings in the situation. I was already struggling with money every single month- and the DUI bills on top of that now would make regular life impossible, especially with the measly promotion wages that were discussed in meetings with my superiors. It was a huge transition period in my friends lives. All of them were getting married and having babies and all of them were at least three to four hours away. At least once a month, I was travelling to see them. If I moved home, I would have fewer expenses, I would be closer to my friends and their life-changing happenings, and I could use the whole situation as a restart and finally do what I could have done all along: Comedy.

The night I was picked up was, oddly enough, my first stand-up performance at an open mic in Iowa City. It was exhilarating, fun, freeing, and I felt more myself on stage telling half-truths about my sex life than I ever did wearing pantyhose and heels in the office every morning. This was it. the sign I should have been following the entire trip through adulthood. I, finally, had the opportunity to follow my dream and I couldn't pass it up.

Through many "conversations" (I use quotes because they were more like arguments) with my parents, I convinced them and myself that this was the best bet for me. I immediately hit the ground running and actively looking for work in my parents' home town.

It has never taken me more than a month to find a new job when I put all the effort into it; which is a blessing and a curse. I am glad I have such turn-around time on employment, but it makes me look unstable as an employee to hop around so much. I take my chances and am always sure to include several reasons for why I am leaving my current job to pursue the next one. I am very convincing on paper and in person. I interview like a champ. I have yet to have an interview and not get the job for which I applied; with one exception- a job that required me to drive a company vehicle that I applied for after my DUI. They said they wanted me to try again in March when the restrictions were lifted. So, I could technically have a pretty good shot at the job still. I had great connections there.

But, I digress. I hit the ground running and within a week I had an interview lined up for a restaurant/brewery manager position in Rockford. If you know me now, you know that I took the job, and I LOVE it. I moved in with my parents, licenseless, broke, and hoping world war three wouldn't ensue because the short trips to my parents' house over the six years prior had not been all that amicable and I was clearly emotionally vulnerable and liable to take it out on them. We were all best in small doses; a day here, a night there. Months would feel like an eternity.  I felt insanely low. Like I thought I knew what rock bottom would feel like and I was already lower than that.

Yet, here I sit in my parents kitchen blogging. I usually reserve blogging for when I am truly inspired by something or have another twentysomething problem to talk through with the wall that is the internet. But this time, I think I have it figured out.

I did an open mic last week and there is a decent chance the opportunity could become a paying gig in the next month or so. Talk about instant gratification. Just a few months after deciding that I'd rather be poor chasing my dreams than poor pussyfooting around "yessirs" and  corporate kissassing, I have a real opportunity and a great first step to seeing my dreams come into fruition.

Remember how I said I have no regrets? I still don't. Not a single one of these things do I regret; except maybe not wearing underwear the night they arrested me. Going commando in the orange jumpsuit felt a little more white trash than I ever expected to feel. Again, I'll tell you all that later. But, had I known that I could be good in performing and that I'd be poor either way, I may have chosen to go in to an acting major. But, I may have spent my life wondering if I should have tried the corporate drone lifestyle. Now that I know for sure, without a doubt, and I can give you more than a million examples of why, I am not cut out for the corporate world, I have no regrets and no fears in chasing my dream of comedy.

Maybe I will fail. Maybe I'll be a one hit wonder in the comedy scene and you'll never hear of me again or see my name in lights. I'm okay with that. Because I tried doing what I didn't love and felt like I was failing. I was always unsure of myself and job and I knew I was failing my heart because I didn't pine for that life. Now it's my chance to fail at what I do love and come to peace with all of it and say, "At least I tried." I don't regret. I don't ask "if." I do.

Then again, maybe when I move to the city in the spring and start taking classes at Second City, something more will happen and my little dreams that are coming to true will feed the big dreams and I will end up writing for SNL or acting in an improv group or writing the next Bossypants (I love you, Tina Fey, oh so much). I will never know if I could be great if I don't try. So, here we go in the next chapter of my twentysomething life. It is bound to be filled with more questions and more blogs.

Lord help us all.

Love always,
Sarah

Let's Talk About Faith, Baby. Let's Talk About God and Me. Let's Talk About All The Good Things and The Bad Things That May Be.

I think it's only a little blasphemous to parody a Salt-n-Pepa song about fornication for the title of this post, but I think God has a sense of humor and is laughing with me...

I know some of you never thought that I would ever talk religion or faith. Some of you probably thought I had none, others know what I think, and the rest of you had never really thought about what I thought about faith- probably the vast majority of you. Nevertheless, I am going to be talking God. 

Let me preface this with telling you what I have come to believe. Then, I will go into how I got here. If I start at the start, it might scare you away. But, in order to understand me now, you may need to know how I got here.  

I believe in God. 

I am not a Christian.

Try not to let that last part make your head spin. It seems to blow some people's minds- like belief in God is synonymous with Christianity. I said this to my mother and she felt like she failed me. I assured her that there are many non-Christians in this world who are living just fine.

I believe that He created the universe. And only through personal experience do I believe he has direct influence in our everyday lives. 

Now, before all of the staunch atheists and other non-believers write me off as crazy, it needs to be understood that I was you. I know that you will never believe unless you experience it yourselves. And, that's okay. 

Because I also believe you're right.

I believe, wholeheartedly, in the very core of my being that you, too, are correct in your faith.

We are all right.

I believe that the God (because I have no other name for him) that created the universe, all man, time, space, himself, will not let us down. Not a single one of us will get to his feet and hear "Ooh, sorry, the correct answer is 'What is Mormonism?' Minus eternity points." (Because I imagine God has a sense of humor would greet us all with Jeopardy-style questions). 

Let me elaborate. I believe that when my consciousness, my soul, leaves this body and is launched into the next dimension, realm, life, what-have-you, my soul will be greeted by a presence. Not an old white man with a big white beard sitting, waiting; but my soul will be overcome with the sense of a presence who will instill in me a feeling of contentment, happiness, warmth, and just enough of "in your face, I was right" feeling to carry me through to the next vessel in which my consciousness will exist. What that means, I have no idea.

I also believe that when your consciousness leaves your body and is launched into the next dimension, realm, life, what-have-you, that you will be greeted with whatever it is that you expect to be greeted with. Whether that means that you are reincarnated into another being, or your get your wings and fly up through the clouds to heaven to sit and sing with your loved ones for eternity, or nothing. There is always that option; which is the favorite of the atheists. That's cool. I dig it. And to the religious oppressors, I ask that you stop trying to save them. They believe in nothing, and there's nothing to fear in nothing. It is nothing. 

Which brings me to my next point: Either, I'm right, or I'm wrong. There is no in between. Either there is a consciousness beyond life as we know it, or there isn't. Then there would be nothing. What is there to fear in nothing? Nothing. You won't know that you are experiencing nothingness, because your consciousness will no longer exist. Nothingness. It's really not that scary if you think about it. There is nothing to fear in nothing. Okay. You get it. Enough with the nothing. 

So, back to my faith. In summation, I believe whatever you believe will happen to you. The Mormons will be greeted by a god who is gracious and caring. Those who practice Judaism will be greeted with a God who welcomes them with open arms and praises them for their devotion. Those who follow faiths that believe in many gods, reincarnation, Enoch, etc. will all be greeted with that reality. And those who believe in nothing, will be greeted with the warm nothing they expected. 

That is what I believe.

I could not, would not, cannot believe (and this is just me) that a God that created such diversity in beings that aren't diverse at all in structure, chemistry, DNA, proximity would punish or disappoint, even, the masses of people who find (or don't find) Him in the short span of their consciousness in this thing we call Life.

Now that you know what I believe, you can dismiss my beliefs as you see fit. But, please keep your saving and your mockery to yourselves. Those who are out to save me, know that I am saved. Those who are out to mock me, do it behind my back like a decent human being. 

So, how did I get here; to this sort of omni-theistic belief in a higher power?

I started out like many children, spending my Sundays coloring in some bearded, toga'd, white guy with his palms open and the sun shining behind his head with a lamb, or 12 other dudes by his side; maybe the baby version of him in a manger with some hay and more sheep. We went to a "Nondenominational" church in BFE Illinois where my aunts and uncles and granny and grampy and ma and pa all went on Sundays. It was the church my parents got married in; it was the church my cousins were baptized in; it was the church I drank my first kneeling 1.5oz of grape juice in. We had some history there. 

I got turned off by a few things as I got older. The skirts had to be to your ankles. We weren't supposed to cut our hair. Granny told my I disappointed God when I donated my hair once. The gossip spread like wildfire and there was a lot of finger pointing and damning going on. My immediate family left the church unofficially and we all moved on.

I spent a few years with little spiritual guidance other than what I already knew and the couple of visits a year to granny's house where I mastered the eye roll and the whispered dismissal of what my blossoming preteen mind considered crazy people talk. 

Just in time, I met up with some middle school friends who went to a super trendy, super fun, super laid-back, rock-music playing Wednesday-night kind of place. I made my dad drive me. I guess I still knew that faith was important and I wanted it to be a part of my life. 

The only problem was, I was still skeptical of religion. And the more I went, the more it felt like they were trying to brainwash me with flashing lights and catchy choruses and I felt shook down every time they asked for 10% of an allowance I wasn't getting (I was a little spoiled and just got whatever it was I wanted). It didn't feel like God was there. It felt like pop culture and the church accountants were in charge, not God. Nevertheless, I tried to go for the faith of it. But, the more I went, the more the testimonials sounded rehearsed and the witnessing, an opportunity to be the center of attention for attention-hungry tweens. I couldn't keep going.

The next several years proved turbulent for my faith. I was forced to go to Catholic mass on every scouting event- despite my best arguments for why I shouldn't go and a few attempts to be dismissed from mass (e.g. whispering "Chug. Chug. Chug" and fist bumping as the priest finished the sacramental wine). Of the countless times I was asked (forced, dragged, demanded) to go to mass by my scout leaders, I got out of it successfully twice. Once, to stay and take care of a fellow scout who was not feeling well while we were all on retreat, and the second time when the only other non-Catholic (actually Lutheran) member of the troop requested she not have to go because it wasn't her faith either. We both felt creeped out and guilty sitting in Catholic mass. Is that how even Catholics feel? I guess that's not the point of this. 

I tried Evangelical churches, Pentecostal churches, Lutheran churches. I tried on a whole dressing room full of churches. None of it made sense to me. I chalked it up to me being an agnostic. I couldn't put my finger on what I didn't like about organized religion as a whole, but it was something different in each. Either they were too much about money, or too synchronized, or too much about Jesus and not enough about God for me. Nothing made sense to me.  

I don't mean to belittle any other religions with this. I am merely recapping the progression and digression of my faith over the years. 

So by this point, I was 18, rather disenchanted with any organized religion I had encountered (which were all Christian) and rather faithless. I hit a point in my life, where if you have read my previous post, you know I was struggling with loving myself. I fell out of religion entirely and denounced any God. How could something who "loves me" let me hate myself so much? I struggled with meaning in life. If there was none, how could I even keep pressing onward, trudging through an existence where my pain and suffering meant nothing. And I couldn't imagine if God existed he would let me suffer the worst kind of pain; the inescapable writhing of self-loathing. Hating myself was a reality with no purpose but for me to hate myself day in and day out. There is no pain like that. There exists no circle of any hell that one can imagine that hurts as much as hating yourself for who you are from the inside out- or the outside in; I never knew which direction the hate flowed.  

Talk about dark times. To write it now, even I want to make a mockery of it. To laugh at it and dismiss those feelings as hormonal teen feelings. But I remember the pain and I wrote about it so I couldn't forget how real it was. Sometimes the further away we get from something like that, the easier it is to belittle the experience and hush the the severity. But I made myself remember. I wanted to remember. I'm so glad I remember. I appreciate so much now that I didn't have the capacity to appreciate then. But, I always thank the old me for wanting to remember the pain so I never take for granted the goodness I feel now. 

It didn't happen all at once. I didn't wake up with an epiphany and hallelujah. Frankly, I woke up in sleep paralysis from the same nightmare at 3a for three nights in a row and just didn't sleep well for months. When the feeling the dreams gave me had kept me awake for long enough, I returned to a long-lost friend, prayer. 

Laying in the guest room of my grandparents' house where I learned so many nighttime prayers and old family values where praying should have felt right, it felt awkward and clumsy and ridiculous. But, it also felt good. I remember a feeling of terror just before I started to pray; inexplicably, terror for my own safety. Safely tucked in bed, I was afraid of the darkness- that's all there was to be afraid of. 

I started it out the only way I knew how- which felt a little like a lie since the addressee was no longer in the realm of my belief system but I continued on. I didn't pray for my safety, even though, for whatever reason I felt it was in jeopardy. I prayed generically for my family. And one thought led to another and I prayed more specifically for my brother- very specifically for my brother, and specific things in my brother's life. I ended it with an amen and my phone rang. I wish I were a good enough writer to make this up, but talk about instant gratification. If I'm lying I'm dying.

It was a mutual friend of mine and my brother's calling me in the middle of the night to ask about my brother and make sure he was okay because last he heard (as of 10 minutes prior) he was in a heap of trouble- which I had known nothing about when I was praying for him. I was compelled by nothing to pray for a nonissue; I was compelled to ask someone I wasn't sure was there to fix a problem I wasn't sure was a problem that was now a problem just minutes later.

A long (and unbelievable) story later, my prayers were literally, and I mean literally, answered as I spoke them. I instantly knew and that was enough proof for me. There was no way  it was coincidence or chance. I cannot believe it was anything other than God. Dismiss it how you will. You don't have to believe me. 

Since then, without a church, without a title, without anyone telling me how to believe; I have found my way and found my real faith. I have found the one thing that makes sense to me. I have found a God who listens, who answers, who acts and is there. I have found reason and peace with the way things were, the way things are, and the way things will be. I have never felt more comfort, truth, or love before this. 

This is my faith. My God who is helping me, teaching me, guiding me; holding me, carrying me, giving me the strength I need- because without Him I am lost. Without Him my life would be meaningless and all of my pain and all of my suffering would be the result of random happenings and any lessons learned would be moot because without God in my life there would be no method to the madness and the madness would once again consume me.

Please, believe as you will. But believe with all your heart. Believe with all the faith you can muster in anything. Just find what makes sense to you  and believe it. Whether that is God or NO God or a flying spaghetti monster or many Gods with many appendages. Find what you believe and believe it. Life will make so much more sense and you wont be roaming around aimlessly searching for nothing. You will be so much more fulfilled when you find meaning in your life- a reason to be here- to make everything of this life because all that lies beyond is nothing or to make everything of this life because it will take you to a better one beyond this existence. Just find your reason to be here. Because there is one. 

Mine is Him.

<3          

 

Now you know. And I'm not asking for your approval. I'm not asking for your admonishment. I am not asking for anything. You were just curious enough to know. So, thank you. 

I hope to hear other people's stories. I hope this inspires you to stand up and exclaim whatever it is you believe with the strictest confidence. Because no matter what, we are all right. 

Love always,

Sarah 

  

 

My Dirtiest Little Secret

I have a secret. And, I can't tell you his name. 

I am living, breathing, engaging in, (admittedly over analyzing) a "thing" that will never be a relationship and I can't even tell social media we hang out. 

We have a secret. 

No. He is not married. No. He does not have kids. No. I am NOT the other woman, nor would I ever be. That's just it, though. Why do we have a secret? He is a single, functioning, charming adult employed at a well paying job, with no one in his life but me... and Tinder.

What has this over-sexualized, over-publicized, commitment-phobic culture dragged me in to? I hardly recognize myself; except in moments of doubt when I find myself curled in a blubbering ball on my bed praying for mercy from this mess and my decision to stay in it. That is the me I know. The realist, the smart girl who knows when to run. But I never do. I quickly snap out of that when he sends me a snapchat. I realize that he probably sent it to 5 other women. But, any attention from him and I am a swooning, cooing, school girl ready to perpetuate our secret; just one more day. 

I have told myself its over almost a dozen times. I have told him its over twice. And where was I last Thursday? Hanging out talking movies and dirty jokes hoping he would somehow realize that I am the most amazing woman ever and suddenly want to be with me and only me. 

"I just want someone who wants to hang out all the time, thinks I'm the best person in the world, and wants to have sex with only me. " -Hannah, Girls

All of this is 100% my fault. I knew what it was going into it. I knew what it was from day 1. I knew the kind of guy he was from the day I met him. And somehow, in my stupid girl brain, I got it all twisted up thinking I could change him. Every woman stupidly thinks that at some point. 

In those moments of clarity when I said it was over, I tried to date and tried to meet other people. The worst part is, no matter who I would go out with or how many other people I met, I found myself calling him at the end of the night anyway. I don't want them. And as long as he is in my life and I keep stringing myself along, I will never be free to see other people because in my head, every snapchat, text, IM or any other form of communication from him that can be directed at me, is a glimmer of hope that he might actually be into me; because I'm that delirious. 

We used to just be friends. Every Thursday I would blow up his phone when I was out with my girlfriends and we would beg him to come out to karaoke and he would. That wasn't weird. Now, if I call him, it better not be more than once and I'd be lucky to see him when I'm out with my friends. If he is out with his friends, I can hug them to greet them, but a low five is pretty much all we do anymore. God forbid we show any intimacy in front of these people who actually know we "hang out." They might get the wrong idea; that we are in love or something. 

So, not only is our friendship a secret from all of social media, our intimate friendship is hushed in front of the people who know that we are a little more than friends. 

Just a little. 

I think my biggest problem is that he gets my sense of humor and he laughs and plays off of anything I say. I am a total sucker for anyone who thinks I'm funny and is funny right back. 

But, I digress. So, where has our generation gotten this secrecy from? 

Facebook, Twitter, Tinder, and countless other forms of communication have become an essential part of our lives. The socialization, the attention, the followers all of it presented as truth, naked and complete. But we have these little secrets until we are sure that they will work out. Then we can publicize as much as we want wherever we want. Until then, we have to pretend we don't know each other. 

We start out IMing and then you can text but God forbid you actually call each other. Only crazy people call someone else if they want to hang out- how desperate they must be. There are so many more stages to dating now! What ever happened to, "I like you. Do you like me enough to get pinned and make out in the backseat of my car overlooking the kissing cliff?" What happened to long talks on the phone and waiting for the other person to hang up first? 

Now it is the never ending battle of who could care less. 

I never care less.

He literally said to me, "Don't fall in love with me," the other day. As if love were the worst thing that could happen to someone. I always fall for the guy. No matter how hard I try not to. The truth is, love is the worst thing to happen to someone... if they're the only one in love.

I wish we could stop all this game playing and secrecy from the world and each other. I wish he could just admit that there are women he cares about more than me so I could move on or I could admit that there aren't any men that I care about more than him and he wouldn't run. But, that's not the way we do things 'round here anymore. 

Being a twentysomething and dating means secrets. It means playing games. It means pretending you don't care because caring, calling, falling, it all pushes people away. It means that I'll curl into a blubbering ball on my bed at least a dozen more times before I break and truly let myself let go of him. 

Hey, can I see you tonight?

-Sarah

Follow me on Twitter and Instagram @sarahfblack 

Always A Bridesmaid...

I would really like to open this with a quote about being a bridesmaid and being the best at it like Jane (Katherine Heigl) in 27 dresses; the organized, maid of honor, who is really a wedding planner as her hobby. She is perfectly dressed, beautiful, and could pull off a stunt like being in 3 weddings on the same day. But, if we are being entirely honest, I'm more like Megan (Melissa McCarthy) in Bridesmaids and I'm more likely to try to hit on the air marshall by proposing an unrest in the restroom together and then share a sandwich with him [Still not a slut. Don't worry. See my other post.] or Katie (Isla Fisher) in Bachelorette and someone will need to keep an eye on me all night to make sure I don't need my hair held back.

Let's just be honest for the sake of full exposure here, I'm not exactly stable at weddings. You give me a ladies' brunch with cocktails or a business dinner (er, well most of them) and I will be a perfect shining example of a classy woman. But there is something about seeing your best friends of 10, 15, 20 years (yeah, I have had friends for 20+ years) saying "I do," and tossing a bouquet that makes me go crazy.

Don't get me wrong at all. I LOVE being a bridesmaid and I am always genuinely happy for my friends and I am always happy to spend the day celebrating their love. I love the men they marry and I love sharing the whole experience with them, and I just love love.  But, I walk away from every dress fitting and shower and bachelorette party and I panic. Sometimes they turn into full-on panic attacks and other times it's just a "I need to call my only other single friend and have her talk me off the ledge" moment, but nevertheless, the panic is real.

I can't decide if it is more the fact that these girls, er women,- holy ballz, we are women now- are old enough to be getting married and it is so surreal that in this friendship of 10 years they have found the love of their life and are ready for the next phase to begin. OR if I'm just so selfish that every time another "big day" comes around, I think about mine and then I get overwhelmed with what that will be like... but I don't even know who I would marry... OMG I don't have a date... Shit, what if I don't get a +1... Everyone is expecting me to be single still... Do they have that little faith in me?... Do I have that much faith in myself?... I don't... Holy crap... I'll RSVP for just me.

It is definitely the latter.

The hard truth is that I haven't had a real date to a wedding that was straight and/or not my roommate since my relationship 2 years ago and that was just dumb-luck timing because that relationship didn't last long. Every wedding before and after that in my whole life has been fag hag or stag. I have never been the one to even really want to catch the bouquet because I can't subject the other women to the fate of me being the next one to get hitched. That may be never. Then, they'd all be screwed because of me. No thanks. I don't need that guilt.

So many people compare being single at a wedding to being a kid in a candy store; there are so many options and you can dance with whomever you please. You can flirt and just enjoy the romantic ambiance as you get to know the bride's third cousin twice removed named Ned.

It is really more like being a diabetic in a candy store and you're surrounded by love and happy couples and the singles table is you and a handful of 12 year olds who want dates to their bar mitzvahs and you look like the kind of woman a man could take to such a special occasion. Oy vey!

No woman wants to go to a wedding alone and noBODY wants to go home alone from a wedding. I do both frequently.

I suppose with the number of wedding's I'm in in the next two years, I could chalk it up to being in the wedding party and it would be awkward for my date to sit alone while I'm at the head table or some other excuse that makes sense until I'm 5 mimosas in and my lash glue wont stay because I'm tearing up because I'm stewing in my own selfish envy.

Don't worry ladies. I will NEVER ruin your wedding. I sincerely hope that my friends Courtnie, Katie, Ashley, Sarah, all of you know that I am beyond happy for you. I am so in love with being in your weddings and I could not be more touched that you have asked me. You are all marrying (or have married) amazing men and I want to be there more than anything. And, I promise I wont end up in sweat pants with my face in the toilet as I drunk dial some dude, nor will I take home any of the groomsmen. I SWEAR! I will be the classiest you have ever seen me.

All of my other friends who have invited me to their weddings, in the last year especially, Kelsie, Nicki and Steve, and countless others, thank you for inviting me. I love you all and I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else than with you on your big days.

I just panic when I realize I can't fill the +1 slot even with ample time.

Le sigh.

As always, thank you for reading. Ginormo thank you to my friends who have encouraged me to keep doing this. Even if it's just you guys reading, soooo worth it just to get it off my chest.

Peace, Love and Spanx,
Sarah

Follow me on Twitter and Instagram @sarahfblack

Reinventing the Wheel... Or Yourself, Whichever is Easier

"I'm always looking for something new: a new inspiration, a new philosophy, a new way to look at something, new talent."

-Madonna Ciccone

I know I promised something a little more serious. But it was depressing me, and I am still struggling with opening up. You would think that after my I'm A Barbie Girl post, I would be comfortable getting mentally naked in front of you all. It is still tough. So this week, I think it's time to talk positivity! 

Let's talk reinvention, people. We are in our twenties and we are trying desperately to figure out who we are and where we are going. Maybe we should step back and analyze what we are working with and make some decisions on what we want to change.

This week alone, I have utterly reinvented myself. In some ways I have gone back to my roots, in others, I have taken a dive into the unknown hoping for the best. I have taken up a new volunteer position. I have asked for a promotion at work. I have a regularly scheduled personal trainer. And, I have actually completed a load of laundry and put it away in the same day. You might not think that last one is very hard, but I'll be damned if I have done it yet since I have lived with in-house laundry (which, by the by, is the greatest luxury of them all next to a dishwasher). 

You may wonder why I made all of these changes at once, but I can tell you in the strictest confidence BECAUSE I CAN and  I knew I should. I was tired of sitting at home and sulking about how much boys suck. How about I fill my time with meaningful things that I love to do and be less self-pittying and selfish? I was always complaining that beings single sucked because I only had to worry about myself. Welp, now I can focus my energies on more productive and fulfilling things. 

Finding something to go back to your roots with will make your twenties seem less intimidating and more comfortable. We go through so many changes in these years that it is hard to remember who we used to be- in our Chuck Taylors, flare jeans, and studded belts. I may look a little ridiculous if I showed up in the office in anything other than heels and slacks, so I dug a little deeper and looked for a part of the old me that I could bring back. 

I was a scout for 13 years. Nerd. I know. But it really taught me the value of working hard in a community and what giving back what you can afford to give can be the most rewarding thing. I don't have a lot of money (hence asking for a promotion), but I do have some time to give. Even through college with working, internships, and graduation to focus on toward the end, I made time for volunteer work at a homeless shelter. It has always been important to me. 

I could hardly believe myself last week when I realized that I had been missing that part of my life for nearly two years since I moved to Iowa City. So, I located Shelter House Iowa City and called them up. I might be busy, but I have enough time to volunteer three hours a week. That is nothing in my schedule. I get to help in some of the most basic ways; organizing paperwork, connecting clients with caseworkers, helping clean laundry. 

This experience reminds me how much I actually have. What I think is not a lot of money still keeps a roof over my head, clothes in my closet, my dog fed, and a warm bed to sleep in. Things that I often take for granted when I look at my bills every month and wonder how much money I am going to have to go to Chicago or Milwaukee after I pay them. That's just it; I can pay them.  Helping other people get just that roof over their head makes me so much more thankful for the things I do have. I remember suddenly why I was so much happier when I was doing this stuff before.

Find that old thing you used to do, that old part of your personality and grab onto it again. It will make the transition a lot easier; even if it is just jamming out to Against Me! in the car once a week. But, after that, be sure you are progressing and moving forward with who you are now. 

I asked for a promotion at work. Not just a raise. A job title change, a salary change, a BIG fucking change. Admittedly, they asked to meet with me to discuss how things were going, but I seized the opportunity to lay out my requirements for staying. For months it has been increasingly harder to maintain certain luxuries and I will be honest, my parents have paid for all of my car repairs. THANKS MOM AND DAD! IT REALLY MEANS A LOT! (They'll get that. They totally read this). 

But, the reality is, I have a college degree and professional experience coming out of my ass. I want desperately to stay with my current company because I love the people, the culture, and frankly I love my job. How many people wake up and say that? But, without more compensation, those student loans will only get the interest paid every month, my credit card debt (a discussion in and of itself) will continue to look bleak, and I will have to keep asking mom and dad for more money every time my car doesn't start. Which was 20 times at least last winter. The future for the VW Bug does not look promising. 

My advice to anyone else out there who has been gunning and working their asses off like I have, is to go out there and ask for it. They will never give something to you if you don't ask. Besides, what can it hurt? Either they agree you're worth what you think you are, or they don't and just like in love, if they don't know your worth, move on because there is someone else out there who would be happy to have you. 

I get it, you're saying "Sarah, but look at the job market. And everyone requires experience." Look harder. I know. But I have landed jobs in this market 3 times now; When I was graduating college and landed a corporate proofreading job, when I left that job and became a waitress (actually a better job than the corporate one), and when I thought I might lose my mind if I had to waitress any longer and landed my currently sweet job. You might end up in my position where they low ball you a little at first but you take the opportunity for the experience and to get out of waitressing, but it will also present you with the opportunity to ask someone for a promotion. You'll be forced to make a daring leap into adulthood and make a stand for yourself. It will be scary, but worth it because even if you don't get the promotion, you had the balls to ask. 

P.S. I applied for a front desk position and demanded full time hours. My now amazingly close friend who hired me passed along my resume and got me the sales position that I am growing into a career. THANKS KATHI! BTW, Winey Women Wednesday soon? OMG PLZ? Yay! It's all about making connections, getting your name out there to potential employers, and then laying out what you need. Do it. You will find a good job. 

We never have to settle for jobs we hate. My dad kept telling me, when I hated my couple of jobs before, that it is just a reality and a part of life to hate your job. I couldn't accept that fate. I am sorry, Dad, I could never live in a world where I am unhappy for 1/3 of it (and sleeping for another 1/3 of it- that only left the last 1/3 to be happy and I wasn't because hating my job ruined my last 1/3 of each day). I think it is a great misconception of our generation. We have graduated into an economy that, like an abusive boyfriend, tells us we need it more than it needs us. False, it needs us a lot more. So go find your niche and get cracking on having a reason to ask for a promotion. 

Probably even more scary than asking for a promotion at work, I got a personal trainer. Seriously, if you are going to reinvent yourself, your twenties are the time to do it and do it completely. Make that life-changing decision to travel the world (which I still plan to do), take up an instrument and start a band (I took up the ukulele last year), or find your faith if you were ever unsure, or become a masochist like me and take up working out with a sadist and eating like a champion. Find something about yourself that you have wanted to change for a while and CHANGE IT. Empassion yourself to chase after who you want to be personally. I can't wait to meet skinny me. 

Hell, if you're like me this, you already chased after what you want to be professionally and socially, why not focus on yourself for a bit? I do not recommend doing all of these changes at once for everyone, but I am a professional self-spreader-thinner. :) 

And I finished that laundry and wrote this blog. Did I mention I did that all this week?... And it's only Tuesday? Whatever it is for you, go do it. We can survive our twenties, and we will DAMMIT! 

HOO HA! MOTIVATION! 

Thank you all again for reading this week. I was clearly busy planning my attack on my current life to up heave it and get out of the funk that I was clearly wading in when I wrote the last blog. I don't even have time to worry about boys now. See how I solved that one? 

As always, feel free to follow me on Twitter and Instagram @sarahfblack 

I love you. And thank you for going through this with me. <3

*EXPLICIT* Commitment, Monogamy, and Other Dirty Words My Parents Taught Me

"I just want someone who wants to hang out with me and thinks I'm the best person in the world and wants to have sex with only me." - Hannah, Girls

Let me preface this blog (I always preface my blogs, apparently) with the fact that I am getting drunk as I write it. This one has to be word vomit. I have spent 4 week and 7 drafts of a blog trying to articulate what is trapped up in my brain on the topic of relationships, love, sex, etc. So, if this gets a little more rambly than usual, sorry and God help us all.

I suppose today rather than spill all the good stuff about my bad dates, bad kisses, bad lines, and bad guys in general, I want to discuss my frustration with contemporary single culture. Known now as the "hook up" culture, men have finally gotten what they have always wanted: loose women with loose morals and loose vaginas. Okay, they probably don't want the last one, but frankly, if they are that kind of woman, the loose vaginas is a side-effect and a hazard of the job. What I am trying to say is; men have been trying for centuries to find a way to sneak around and get as much poon as possible without getting caught. They found what they thought was a loop hole and decided to stay single. Single men can trapse around with no moral obligation taking and bedding as many women as they see fit and going home to shower it off like it meant nothing. Women caught on. Somewhere in the lines of communication some feminist single woman said "I can do that too!" and she started behaving the way men have for centuries; sleeping around, different partners every night. Men, as dumb as they may seem, may have just pulled the most ingenious stunt of all evolution: They tricked us into thinking it was our idea to loosen our morals and vaginas and claim sexual independence and promiscuity in the name of feminism.

The only problem is, some of us aren't falling for it.

We slut bash because we don't see it as slut bashing-- er, we do, but not by the standard definition. We call them sluts and shame them because they have ruined the game for all of us. How are we expected to land and keep a man in a world where most men have booty on speed dial numbers 1-9 every night? How are we supposed to be respected when we refuse what's now expected? (I really should have been a rapper, these rhymes are sick).

The unfortunate thing is, I have now lost track of how many men have propositioned, asked, begged, and borderline aggressively pursued sex with me on a first date. Not to mention the handful and a half that have tried guilt tripping me. It's a damn good thing my parents raised me right and I don't give a flying fuck if you bought dinner; that doesn't entitle you to have your way at second, or third, or home base. Period. End of story.

Speaking of period: That seems to be the only deterrent for most men. "No, we have only known each other for a couple of hours." And, "Did you really just call me Sam?" are apparently not reasonable excuses for not sleeping with guys these days. I have resorted to claiming falsely that it is like the elevators from the Shining down there just so he will stop trying to get his hand down my pants in public. Yeah. There's no personal space anymore. Apparently what's mine is theirs even if they can't remember my name. I should really start throwing more punches.

My point is, there are so many women out there giving men exactly what they want and "all the good girls are home with broken hearts" oh, Tom Petty <3. All the sluts are out there sharing their HPV with everyone calling it "independence" and "liberation". These men of course, when they decide to go off the market have no idea they have HPV and give it to the good girl they fell in real honest-to-god love with. It's just a sad reality. 50% of all sexually active people will contract HPV. The statistics are terrifying for other STDs as well. But these children of the "hook up" culture also believe they are invincible and can't contract contractible diseases. I digress, again.

I am sick and tired of being guilt tripped and never going on second dates with guys because I can't see how women could treat their bodies like amusement parks. You have NO idea how many times I have heard men say the sentence, "It's just sex." These women brag bout the men they bed and wear it like a badge of honor when they leave with someone new. Isn't the point of feminist sexuality to claim your own body? Then claim it! Don't auction it off like some prized painting for pennies. It's just the Mona Lisa... 

I realize that what I just said has a double standard. It looks like I said that it was okay for men to be romping around and humping everything with a hole and a pulse because they have been doing that for centuries. The reality is that I don't think it's okay. And, I know that there are some genetics to blame for the carnal thrust lust that men experience. But, I also believe that we are evolved beings and we can sit back and rationalize ourselves out of murder-- the most passionate of crimes. So, I find it hard [no pun intended] to believe that a man cannot tell his dick it should stay in for the night.

This now also looks like I have made two sweeping generalizations, because I have. Obviously, I realize that not all women are sluts; because, I am not one. I realize that there are a good number of men who don't leave the house every morning wondering who they could give their itch to. The problem is that women are programmed to think monogamously. We are genetically hardwired to seek out one lone mate to impregnate us and protect us while we rear the children. Men are genetically hardwired to spread their seed. So, while it sounds like all fun and games to be out there dillying around like one of the guys, the sluts have created a trap for themselves and those of us who realize how important monogamy is.

The truth behind why men wont commit is in part because of monogamy. The other parts have a little to do with maturity, financial stability, and the dogma they eat up from their frat brothers who tell them if they commit they're pussy whipped and they'll have to get naked and chug two 40s before they run around the block (or some other homoerotic display of manliness).

The only men who aren't bothered by these things have found themselves in relationships and are off the market because there are more women out there looking for commitment (it is, after all, ingrained in our genes) that it takes significantly less effort for a man to find a mate if he is in fact looking. Let's be honest: We cook, we clean, we fuck- and we still ain't wifed up. (again with the sick rhymes. I am a lyrical poet). The odds are against us women who use the C word.

I realize my real beef is with the whole system. I don't care who started the battle of who could care less (because we know it's the men who care less), but I wish it were over. I really wish that chivalry weren't dead; that I could expect flowers on a first date that he paid for [for once] and a walk home where he stands on the street side. I wish I could meet a man looking for commitment and monogamy so we can get married and raise a well-mannered family together- though I'm sure any child of mine will speak sailor before he learns English. I hold out hope that a man like that still exists and is available for me to scoop up, but my faith is waning. Statistically speaking, there is a 1:1 ratio of men to women on this planet. my favorites are gay and have realized their everyone's favorite and the others who aren't in relationships don't want to be. Statistically speaking, I'm screwed; not in the good way.

FIN.

Thanks again for tuning in and reading up. I pinky swear the next post will NOT be a rant, but a true examination of this theory at work. I still have a lot of stories to tell :)

As always, feel free to follow me on Twitter and Instagram: @sarahfblack.

Sorry for all the profanity. It was necessary for the venting process.

Xox,
Sarah

I'm a Barbie Girl: The Life of a Plastic-Surgeried Twentysomething

"The perception of beauty is a moral test." - Henry David Thoreau

I stirred a lot of curiosity and interest with my last post and opening up about having plastic surgery when I was 21. It is only fair that I now explain myself. I intended this next post to discuss love, but I don't think it would be fair for me to leave you hanging with a teaser like that.

The only way to preface this is to say that I grew up believing that we should love ourselves for exactly who we are; that everyone is beautiful. [insert additional cliches as necessary]. What I never realized, until I was in the position myself, was that it is not always possible. You can't just wake up in the morning and say "I am going to love every inch of my skin." Well, you can, but saying and doing are two very different things. I think we are all aware of that. 

The challenge wasn't waking up some mornings and feeling blah about my body. The challenge was waking up every day feeling like a freak. Since I was 13, I ran around wondering what it would be like to feel normal. I felt like I should be ashamed. I felt like nothing about me could ever be beautiful; not until I fixed the ugliest part of me. Admittedly, some people would have never noticed. Hell, I hardly thought it an issue beyond seeing specialists and having my 13-year-old tits man-handled by a middle-aged man and a handful of nurses as they tried to just make sure my situation was "normal". It, apparently, was. So, I lived on without much care. That is, until I was 14, when my, then, friend pointed out how funny by breasts looked in a bathing suit. 

We all know 14 year old girls; with their cell phones and their cameras and their giggles. That was my friend, and I was her new object of gossip. She pinned me down and snapped as many pictures of how awkward and uneven my boobs were and sent them to whomever she could. I remember asking her to stop, but giggling it off with her. The only problem is, my giggles weren't because it was funny. My giggles were because I knew if she thought that what she was doing was hurting me, she would do it more. 

It isn't okay to say you feel ugly. It also isn't okay to be ugly. I couldn't do both. So, I laughed it off.  For the next 7 years, I laughed it off. 

In my room, in the shower, on the phone with my mother I cried about my uneven boobs, that were in the beginning just a little B and and bigger B. Not just sobbing, but that uncontrollable kind of crying, gasping, hoping she would be able to tell me how to be beautiful. I can only imagine how hard it is for a mother to sit and listen to her teenage daughter wail on about something that no one had control over and no one had an explanation for. By the time I was 18, I had a full size D; and a very small B. I walked around with one of those extra push up silicone pads that "adds two cup sizes" in the left half of my bra. 

Second base was off limits, but at least they finally looked even in a bra! They (duh) came in a two pack and one of them lasted me a few years. I was set for quite some time. There were a few second-base mishaps and one or two (right-handed) guys moved a little more quickly than I could stave off and found out I was faking it. They usually just assumed it was in both, but the mortification across my face was enough to kill any mood. {Boner Kill} Needless to say, I stayed a virgin for quite some time...

In those 7 years, I wasn't always so coy about it. There were still people in my life that were part of the original string of texts who hung around. And, I was in theater, and cheer, and dance. I was naked-ish around other people a lot. In order to avoid the awkward "Oh Em Gee, are your boobs, like totally different sizes?" conversation, I often disarmed people by bringing it up myself. Admittedly, probably not the best move, but it seemed like a smart idea at the time. Make it a joke, they can't use it against you, right? Sure. It worked. But, it became a BIG joke. They all just thought they were laughing with me, not at me. I couldn't be mad at them. 

By the time I was 18, there had been 4 years of ridicule and jokes behind me and I was on my way to college. FUCK YES COLLEGE! I was so excited to have all new friends, and no one that knew about my boobs, and a new roommate. 

Fuck.

A roommate. 

I was about to live, intimately close with a complete stranger. How could she not find out. My initial plan was to disarm her like I had disarmed so many adversaries before her and just play cavalier. That would have worked well, if she weren't a conniving bitch who thought it might liven up some frat parties to tell them about my boobs, so naturally they all wanted to see. Don't worry, ma, I didn't flash anyone. I moved out after a month. She was also fucking every dude on campus while I was trying to sleep three feet away. Have fun with those genital warts, darling.  

Anyway, I also could have taken the path of least resistance and just not said anything; except I only had one silicone bra insert (that I had to wash in the shower, or public sink {ew, underboob sweat}so there was no hiding it) and my right boob was covered in bruises. Epic bruises. Like black and blue all over bruises. 

I know, you're wondering, "WTF is with these bruises? She didn't mention shit about that before. I'm confused." Be confused no more:

Flashback to two weeks before my parents pack me and my teddy bear up and ship us off to the middle of no where for a bullshit degree. I'm in the shower, la di dah-ing about and in my head I hear Ms. Long, my 7/8th grade Health teacher's voice singing some little ditty she wrote about doing a self breast exam. I thought, "What the hell. May as well practice now, so when I'm old and have to worry about it, I'll know what I'm doing." Plus, boobs are soooooooo fun to play with. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the fact that I did find a lump. A sizeable one at that. When I found it, it was just a little bigger than a kernel of popcorn. Just like Ms. Long warned us about. Given my history of doctors and unanswered questions, I still hadn't really taken into consideration any risks for breast disease. No one mentioned it. I didn't even know if there was anything other than breast cancer that it could be. 

Freak out: Engage. 

I went weak at the knees. I couldn't breathe. And, I sobbed for another hour; the remainder of my two-hour daily break at girl-scout camp. I had to plaster on yet another "I'm totally fine" face and spend the rest of my week with 12-year-olds pretending like singing "Airborne Ranger" was the highlight of my life. 

I don't know if you have ever had a biopsy done, but I pray you never have to. They essentially have the largest gauge needle (before it is classified as a dagger) that has another needle inside of it that shoots out and rips tissue out of you and pulls it back into the first needle. You don't know fear until they have to give you local anesthetic  in 6 places because they have found 6 masses and they're going to stab you 6 times with Satan's idea of fun. 

Everything came back as benign and I was told just to monitor it. 

By May, the kernel-sized fibroadenoma (if we are going to get scientific) had grown to the size of a chewed up piece of Bubblicious. It was huge and so were the other 5. They had to come out. I spent the summer on Vicodin. You don't know funny until you have seen Spaceballs high on prescription meds.

The unfortunate thing is that the removal didn't change much for size and by now I was a solid DD on my right and still a fairly small B on my left. I spent two more years with my silicone friend before I couldn't take it anymore. I named it Pamela- like Pamela Anderson.

By this point I had landed me a boyfriend. Chyeah. I know. Me? A boyfriend? But for real. I did. And he never really said much about my boobs. He just let me do my thing. Distantly supportive, I would call it. We started dating in July. I was approved for surgery in October. Scheduled it for two weeks after my 21st birthday. It was seriously the best year of my life. I met someone who cared about me. We made it work long distance. I could legally drink in bars without having Katie or Brian sneak me in anymore. I was on an amazingly competitive Collegiate Mock Trial Team and we were all super close. And, I was finally going to be normal. 

Oh my God. Normal. 

The anticipation nearly killed me. In and out of the doctor's office; med student after med student. I had never heard myself referred to as "an extreme case" as though I weren't standing naked in front of two relative strangers before this time in my life. But, nothing was going to bring me down. I was going to finally be normal. 

No more jokes. No more swatting boys hands away. I could finally flash everyone at Mardi Gras. I could say goodbye to Pamela. 

As I awoke in recovery, I started crying. I opened my eyes and stared at the pock-holed white ceiling tiles as a nurse grabbed my hand and I whispered "It's over."      

Straight up, out of a movie, right? But, really. It happened just like that. 

The unfortunate thing is that it wasn't exactly 100% over.

My body didn't like the sutures and by July I was a scarred-up mess. I went in for one more surgery to try to fix the scars but my body didn't like the new stitches either. By the following December, I had accepted my fate as the scarred up version of me. At least I didn't have to laugh it off anymore. I am better. And, I am happier. The problem is I am still scarred. So, I can't flash people at Mardi Gras, and second base is still awkward as fuck. But, I'm working on it. And, I don't know if I will ever feel normal. I still feel like a freak with unsightly scars and one real boob and one fake one, but guys don't seem to mind a variety pack.

  

I'm still not perfect. I am still not the kind of beautiful I want to be. But, I just have to try to love myself for who I am and try wake up every morning and say "I am going to love the skin I'm in." Easier said than done. But, goddamn, I'm trying.

Thank you for letting me open up about the most intimate thing I could possibly open up about. On more than one occasion, I broke down into a blubbering mess writing this. The pain is still there. The memories are real. And, the normativity I long to experience is still just a dream. But, it helps to talk about it. It helps to not have to laugh at myself. 

My eternal gratitude,

Sarah Black

P.S.
"Ugly is as Ugly does,
but what does Beauty do?
It sits alone and waits to be
'till Ugly joins it too. 

Beauty is as Beauty does,
but what does Ugly do?
When Beauty's in bad company,
It can think it's Ugly too."

- SB

Please feel free to follow me on Instagram and Twitter @sarahfblack