Load of Bollix

I am twenty-one years old, do not have allergies, and am a virgin. I wouldn ’t go so far as to say I am proud of this fact, but rather indifferent. I do however believe now that Claritin is available without a prescription that is it wholly inconsequential whether one has allergies or not. I am vehemently opposed to Lifetime television for women, SUVs (wholly unnecessary in a v. American sort of way ), and tongue piercing (slutty). I hold grudges, have a very irrational, palpable fear of the OB- GYN , live for Peter, Paul and Mary, and cry while watching movies, television, the odd commercial--really, any form of visual media--like it is my job. I have been known to wish car accidents upon others when they piss me off, with a 10% success rate. My schadenfreude began at an early age, when I laughed at my Grammy when she broke this huge puzzle version of Renoir’s Sur la Terrasse (French for on la terrasse ) she had been working on for months. I fear it has only increased with age (t

My name is Mary, or, it may be Mary Beth (Marybeth). No one, including my mother, is quite sure. I know that my family calls me Mary Beth and my friends call me Mary, Mar (like a goddamned horse), Steiny, Whitebread, Whitey Stein (ok, maybe that one just once, and by one person), or my personal favorite, Steinberg. (I truly do LOVE my last name. So please, oh anonymous reader slash Internet creep, indulge me this one narcissistic quirk.) I didn’t like having two first names when I was growing up, so over the course of many years I successfully marginalized the Beth half of my name to no name’s land--the middle initial. The result of this action was fourfold: 1. Firstly, the United States Postal Service, to this day, does not know the difference between my mother and myself. I like to think that this is not indicative of anything further. 2. Secondly, I get to be normal like everyone else, and actually have a middle name. 3. Thirdly, for my part, essentially renaming myself over many ma

It is hard for a young woman to find her place because in her four-years of college she is expected to occupy every conceivable one. We are told to carve our own niche, but at the same time we are hit from every side on what that niche should look like, and its damn near impossible to figure out what you want over all the noise. Be smart, but no one likes a know-it-all; love your body, but unless you can see your sternum through your skin, you’re fat. Build a successful career, but keep an eye out for a husband who will make all your decisions for you. Do what you love, but if you dare major in art history I’ll kill you for wasting my money. The college student is given four years to play-sure we study, we cram, we work, we learn (some more than others)-but essentially we are free to do fuck-all. At the end of those four years of binge-drinking, instant messaging, all-night memorizing, random hook-uping, and late-night nonsense talking, we are expected to emerge with a degree in one ha