Things That Suck About Being a Girl

While being a female can be a glorious thing, it can also be a huge pain in the ass! It’s not enough that we have countless expectations thrown at as from every direction- how we should look, how we should feel, how we should react- we are also judged relentlessly for nearly everything we do, say, and like. We are supposed to look flawless, but not like we are trying too hard. We aren’t supposed to talk about sex, but we also shouldn’t be prudes. We aren’t supposed to be emotional, but we also aren’t supposed to be cold hearted. Many times, it seems like no matter what we do, girls simply cannot win. Being a girl is hard: we have awful menstrual cramps, bodies that sometimes hate us and minds that hate us even more, beauty expectations we can never hope to achieve, and live our lives in a constant paradox of what we should be. This post is not about those things. Those things, while important, are very well known. This post is about those lesser known disadvantages that affect us in a far more blatant way. The things that girls constantly wish would change to make their already hard lives a little easier, because after all, we didn’t ask for any of this.


The price of our clothes: Women’s clothes cost to much more than men’s! Men can easily find a nice outfit for about $30; women can barely even find a decent pair of pants for that price. I vividly remember seeing a set of plain colored hoodies at a store once. These were just regular, plain old hoodies. In the women’s section, they cost $22, BUT the same hoodies (I could not find a single difference, even when I tried them on) only cost $12 in the men’s section. That’s nearly half the price! And it doesn’t end there: it’s in jeans, athletic wear, underwear, and every other article of clothing you can think of. Why do women spend so much more on clothes? Because our clothes cost more, and believe me when I say we are sick of it too.


Having the perfect outfit in your head, but not being able to find it anywhere: We’ve all done this- thought up the perfect outfit to wear to something. Whether it’s a wedding, a party, or a business meeting, we have a clear picture of what we want to wear. The problem? That outfit doesn’t seem to exist, but everything else you find seems subpar, and anything you do end up buying will end up disappointing you.  


The pockets: While we are on the subject of clothes, let’s talk about pockets. Ask any girl about her pockets, and she will take you on a long, extensive journey on why they suck. For some reason, clothing companies love to make it look like our pants have pockets, when in fact they don’t; it’s just for “fashion.” And in the off chance they actually do have pockets, they are so tiny, you can barely fit your keys in there, let alone anything else. We have things to carry too, and not all of us want to carry a purse all the time. While guys have to dig in their pockets for their phones, girls can’t even get their phones in their pocket most of the time. The next time a guy wants to complain about girls always needing their purses, feel free to remind them that we have nowhere else to put our things, and they are more than welcome to carry our stuff in their bottomless pockets.


Having a million shoes, but NONE match this outfit: We spend so much time picking out a killer outfit, but none of the shoes we have look quite right. In fact, we know exactly what shoes would be perfect- the ones we saw in the store a month ago that we talked ourselves out of buying. Ever wondered why girls have so many shoes? That’s why.


Periods: I know I said I wouldn’t mention these, but periods really, really suck.


The hair: It gets everywhere! In the shower, in the drains, all over the sink, on our clothes, in our mouths- I’ve even found it wrapped around the bristles of my toothbrush. We can’t run our fingers through our hair without some of it coming with. Our hair gets everywhere. All the time. We know. You can stop pointing it out to us.


Disappearing bobby pins: Where do they go!? It’s like they get up and walk away sometimes. I bought fifty a month ago, and I suddenly have two? How is that even possible!?


Shaving: As if shaving your legs wasn’t already bad enough, leg hair loves to grow super fast. If you shave on Friday, you’ll be lucky if you don’t need to shave again by Sunday, and if you get goose bumps- forget it. And when you’re done shaving (which is far more difficult than you’d think), you get razor bumps, insanely painful cuts (seriously, why do they hurt so bad!?), ingrown hairs (especially in the down there area), and itchy. Chances are, you also missed a spot, which you will obsessively run your fingers over until you shave it. It is an unbelievable pain, but we do it anyway.


The struggle between wanting to be cute and wanting to be comfortable: This is a constant battle we fight almost every day. Do I wear the cute dress or the comfy yoga pants? The shoes that pinch my toes but are so cute, or the comfy, worn out shoes. Do I put my hair up so its out of my face or keep it down so I can wear it cute. It’s a hard choice; cute or comfy? Cute or comfy? CUTE OR COMFY!? But there is those rare occasions where you find the outfit/ hairstyle that is cute AND comfy.


The morning debate: We go to bed super excited for the cute outfit and hair style we have picked out for the next day, that we can barely sleep. Then the morning hits, and we have the same conversation with ourselves every time. If we get up with our alarm, we can pull off this amazing look, BUT if we sleep for 15 more minutes, we can still pull it off if we skip the shower. 15 minutes come and go and it happens again- if we sleep for 15 more minutes, we can still wear the outfit and just put our hair up. After another 15, we tell ourselves that no one really cares how we look anyway, as long as we make it on time. Another 15 go by, and it’s yoga pants and a t-shirt again and we’re late.


Being a girl isn’t always easy, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it sometimes. Remember, we are all struggling to figure out how to be the right kind of girl, but the truth is, no matter what they say, there is no right way. You are all doing it fabulously! Keep keeping being your beautiful selves, and remember that we are all in this together, for better or for worse. 


To You

I’ve written to you so many times, never able to find the words to convey how I feel. I think I’ve finally discovered the reason why: I’ve been writing out of anger. Every time I sit down to write how I feel about you, it’s when I feel consumed by my anger at you and I let the anger out on the paper. But as soon as the words are out and the anger melts away, I’m left with how I truly feel; sad. I feel as though I’m swirling in a vast emptiness- an emptiness filled with pain and regret. There was so much left unsaid; so many things I still want to say to you.

It’s been almost three months since I’ve heard from you, and the silence has been deafening. I’ve never felt so lost and alone. I wanted to pick up my phone so many times- almost called more times than I can count- but I always told myself if you wanted to talk to me, you would have by now. You told me to stop talking to you, so I listened. Part of me wishes I would have begged you to stay, but I know that that’s not who I am. You told me to go, so I went, and it has been killing me ever since.

Make no mistake- I’m still angry at you. I’m so angry I hope I never see you again. I hope that someone does to you what you’ve done to me. I’m so angry I want to scream and yell. But I know that all that anger would vanish if you would just talk to me again- if you would just be a part of my life again. Because I know that all that anger would never be worth losing you over, at least not for me.

But you made a choice- a choice to turn your back on me- and I hope it was worth it. You gave up on someone who would never have given up on you, and I hope it was worth it. You threw me away and shattered my already broken pieces- I hope it was worth it. I spent a long time blaming myself for all that happened, but then I realized that I’m not the only one to blame. You could have saved us. You could’ve chosen different. You could’ve chosen other words to say. You could’ve chosen to stay out of a situation you didn’t belong in. We both made choices that the other didn’t like, but I never would’ve chosen to lose you. I never would’ve chosen this. You chose this.

You chose to say goodbye. You chose to throw me away. You chose to stop caring. You chose to give up on me. You chose to turn your back. You chose to walk away. You chose the silence. You chose this ending. And I am the one paying for it. I am the one who is dealing with the consequences of the choices you made. I am the one pretending it doesn’t still hurt. I am the one who lays awake at night, crying silently. I am the one who would do anything to fix this. I have to suffer because of something you chose.

They say get over it, but I can’t. They say move on, but I don’t know how. They say you aren’t worth this, but I don’t believe them. They say that it’s over, but I can’t accept that. They say that it will all be okay, but I can’t see how. I always said that losing you would destroy me, and in a way, it has. When something happens, you’re still the first person I want to tell. When I see something that makes me laugh, you are the first person I want to share it with. When something goes wrong, you are the only person I want to talk to. I’m mad at you for this- for making me feel this way- but I’m more mad at myself. I always hoped the day wouldn’t come where you would see me the way I see myself, but it did. And now you’re gone.

I wish I could go back and change the words I said. I wish I could change the choices I made. I wish I could change your mind. I wish I could keep myself from ever trusting you. I wish I could keep myself from ever believing you when you told me you’d always be there. I wish I could tell you not to lie when you told me you’d never throw me away. I wish I could go back and change everything, but most of all I wish I could go back to that first party. Go back to the night I met you, and we become something a little more than friends. I wish I could go back to before we ever got so complicated. I wish I could return to that night- that night that changed everything- I would’ve stayed home. But then I realize that the little time I had with you was worth all this pain, and if I truly could go back, I would do it all over again. Because you are worth it, even if I’m not. 

The Friendzone


There are a lot of reasons that this photo gets under my skin. First of all, it’s the word “friendzone”. This disgusting little word was one that was likely invented by a boy who was mad a girl didn’t have feelings for him the way he did for her. It’s a concept that is foreign to women, because we understand that no means no. We understand that sometimes the boys/girls you like don’t always like you back. We understand that people have the right to refuse unwanted relationships. The problem with the word “friendzone” is that it implies that we are doing something wrong for not being interested in someone. It implies that we should be sorry to the people that we don’t have mutual romantic feelings for. It implies that he has a right to us.

There have been plenty of men in my life that I have liked as more than a friend and they often times (all the time) do not feel the same way. Yes, it sucks and it hurts, but that’s life. Those men have a right to feel differently than I do. They have a right to be with girls that I feel are the wrong ones. Yes, it hurts for a while, but I move on.

The other problem with this word is that it makes it seem like being a friend is such a bad thing. If I like someone that doesn’t like me back, I would much rather be their friend than not be in their life as all. If someone truly cares for me the way they claim, then being my friend should be an advantage, NOT a disadvantage. If being the choice is being with someone I don’t have feeling for or not having them in my life at all, I’m going to pick the second one, because you clearly don’t appreciate me. At the end of the day, a solid friendship is much better than a failed relationship. Why is being y friend suddenly become negative when you find I don’t like you the way you like me?

Now for the rest of this photo. First of all, the boys I am “friendzoning” are ones I am not looking to pursue a relationship with. I do not have those kinds of feelings about them, or I don’t know that they have ever thought of me as more than a friend. If it is such a burden to be my friend, then don’t. It’s that simple. Secondly, I am allowed to be upset about being single, no matter how many guy friends I have. A friendship is different than a romantic relationship, so I am allowed to yearn for romance, despite my abundance of guy friends. I should be allowed to talk about these feelings with my friends, no matter their gender. Friends do that for each other. If you can’t support me or be there for me, then don’t. I will find new friends. If it’s too difficult to be a good friend to me, then don’t be. If you don’t care enough about to want to see me happy with someone I love, then you need to reevaluate the definition of the word friend.

Stop using friendship to be spiteful and petty. Stop making women feel bad for only seeing you as a friend. Stop making women feel bad for not reciprocating your feelings. Stop making women feel bad for having the choice to say no. Stop using this word to put us down for the way we feel. I am single and I have a lot of guy friends. I feel differently about each of them; some I like more than a friend, some I know like me as more than a friend, and some are just simply friends, but I love them all in different ways. I know that we don’t always feel the same about each other, and that’s okay. Having them as friends is more than enough, but that doesn’t mean I don’t crave a romantic relationship. We are allowed to express our emotions, especially when it comes to love. Stop using this word to put others down, and be happy that you have a friend who cares enough about you to keep you in their life.

The Burger

Recently, I traveled to Chicago for the first time; as a girl from a very rural town, the big city is a bit overwhelming. I crammed as much into the five days I was there as I possibly could; the Willis Tower, Navy Pier, the Magnificent Mile, The Chicago History Museum, Millennium Park- I tried to do it all. Of course, I tried the Chicago hotdog and the Chicago pizza- both are Chicago musts- but one part of this trip stood out more than anything else: The Burger.

After a long day walking around the loop and being a dedicated tourist, my travel buddy (who is also my best friend) and I were searching desperately for a good place to eat. We saw a gleaming sign that read “Rock Bottom.” I pointed it at, and with a smile in my voice, bellowed out, “Hey, that’s where I live!” Both laughing at my half-joke, we decided we might as well eat there. We walked in, were seated, and ordered drinks almost immediately. We both scanned the menu, trying to decide what we wanted. She couldn’t decide between steak and a burger and I couldn’t decide between anything. At the recommendation of the waiter, my comrade decided to go with a burger. Liking the way that sounded, I asked the waiter to order me his favorite burger. What did he choose? The Fireman’s Burger. This burger featured pepper jack cheese, avocado, red onions, pickled jalapeños, lettuce, red chili sauce, and chipotle mayo all on a ¾ lb. beef patty. It didn’t like anything I haven’t had before, so I figured it was worth a try. He said he liked a little spice, and so do I, but I still asked for the pickled jalapeños on the side.

I had already downed my alcohol laced blueberry lemonade and half my water by the time our food came. This burger was huge. I knew right away there was no way I was going to finish it all at once.


“I also put the red chili sauce here on the side for you. That can get kind of hot,” the waiter explained, pointing to a small cup of sauce that was the deep red color of a raspberry. It had the texture of a thick salsa verde, and seemed harmless enough. I spread a thin layer on the top bun of my burger, and before dumping the rest on, I decided to try a taste of the sauce my waiter thought I was too weak to handle. I plucked a perfectly crisp, golden fry from the pile on my plate, and plunged it deep into the sauce. I slowly lifted it to my mouth, curious as to what I was about to experience, and laid it on my tongue. It didn’t seem hot at all… at first.

A mere second after it hit my tongue, I felt it. The actual fires of Hell straight from the Devil himself. There is spicy and then there is the Devil’s asshole, and this sauce was NOT just simply “spicy.” Now at this point, most people would push this demon sauce to the side, and finish their meal, but I am far too stupid for that. Einstein once described insanity as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, which is exactly what I was. Each time I would dip my fry in Hades’ diarrhea, my mouth would begin to burn worse than before. I would suck down a giant gulp of water, and do the whole thing over again. I would bite my burger, which had the thin layer of this sauce of death, and my tongue would feel like it had burst into flames. The waiter, seeing my face that was beat red and covered in a sheen of sweat from the heat of my mouth, placed two glasses of water in front of me.

By the time I was halfway through my meal, everything burned- my tongue, my throat, my chest, my stomach- the entire path the inferno they called sauce had traveled was on fire. My face was hot and red, my forehead was sweating, and I was gulping in air as though I were suffocating. It was then that I realized what I had just done. This demon burger’s journey did not end in my stomach, where it was causing my stomach fluid to boil. That was only the halfway point to its destination. I ate the rest of my fries slathered in ketchup, hoping to assuage the burning that was filling the entire upper half of my body.

I confronted the waiter as he delivered our checks. “A little spicy?” I squawked out. “That is not just a little spicy. That taste like it came directly from the Devil’s ass. Do you just have him in the back letting it go into a bucket, because that’s what it tastes like.” He chuckled a bit before answering with “Well, I’m from the South, so we like our spice.” From the South!?  Didn’t he think that may have been a good idea to mention that before I ordered? His “little spice” is three times as spicy as mine. We left the restaurant; the remainder of my burger in a to go box.

We were waiting for the train when I felt it- the drop. That feeling after a big meal when everything in your entire digestive system seems to drop down like dead weight. I started to panic; we still had a 45-minute train ride between me and the bathroom in our hotel room. I breathed through the increasing pressure filling my bowels, refusing to give in to it. My companion tried to coach me through it, but I was terrified of what was going to happen when I got to that bathroom. “Does room service bring fire extinguishers?” I asked, my voice full of regret. “Because my ass is about to have a volcano level eruption.”

I help my breath half of the ride home, with a rancid smell leaking out of my bottom every few minutes. I could barely hold it any longer as the elevator traveled to the second floor. I was about to blow when my savior unlocked the door and I burst in and went straight to the bathroom, not even pausing to flick on the light or shut the door. The sound echoed throughout the room, as the kraken released in the form of a fart. Once I was convinced nothing solid was coming out, I walked, hunched over, to my bed to lay down in my agony and think of all the life choices I had made to get me here. I lay there for what seemed like hours, curled tightly into a ball, clutching my burning stomach, releasing toxic gas that echoed off the walls. Finally, the pain began to subside. I was able to get out of bed and walk without the burn shooting through my entire body. I sauntered over to the fridge, and there I found it- the rest of The Burger. This burger had caused me more pain than I thought food ever could. It made me feel like I was being burned from the inside out. This burger was the thing I thought was going to end my life in a smoky haze. I wrenched it from the fridge on the verge of tears, tore open the box filled with rage, flopped down on the bed, and ate the rest.