Laughable Lyrics: Taylor Swift aka Overly Attached Psychopath

Warning: The following post is both inflammatory and extremely biased. [Also, it's meant to be silly, so take that stick out of your butt hole, you prude.]

Hi, there.

My name is Kate. I have a problem with sappy lyrics.

I'm not talking about sappy as in breakfast waffles with syrup. I'm talking sappier than Boston, Massachusetts on the day of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

Don't think I'm serious?

Yeah, that's right. 

Buuut anyway.

There are just some songs that I cannot stand because the lyrics make me want to yank out my eardrums with fishhooks.

Of course, this is all a matter of personal taste. So really, my opinions should be thrown into the wind like a caped villain into a jet turbine.

But is that going to stop me from ranting?

HELL. NO.

My squishy, unfortunate target today is Taylor Swift, specifically her song "You Belong With Me."

I wanted to start with her song "Love Story," otherwise known as "Romeo and Juliet," because it's pretty sickening. However, that one is so over critiqued it would be like walking into a piñata party that ended weeks ago. The only thing left is a broken piñata whose guts had been spilled and eaten, leaving only papery remains. 

So, anyway.

"You Belong With Me" doesn't quite qualify as sappy, but it does sing "sentimental vomit" at the same decibel as Adele. 

Let us start with the first verse.

"You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset

She's going off about something that you said

'Cause she doesn't get your humor like I do."

Why are you stalking their cellphone calls? More importantly, how? 

I dare say that sounds a mite bit stalkish. And by "a mite bit," I mean: 

Yikes.

And since when is his girlfriend not liking his humor a bad thing? 

You like his jokes?

If you think about the age group you're singing about, probably high school, boy's usually joke about three things:

1.) Sex

2.) Sex

3.) Wieners

So, either you must be very perverse or you're a dude, because, let's face it, high school boys don't really have a sense of humor at all.

Second verse:

"I'm in the room, it's a typical Tuesday night

I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like

And she'll never know your story like I do."

Whatever, girl. The only reason you know anything about him is because you stalk him on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube, 9gag, Memebase, and Fanfiction.net.

And, what makes your musical taste better than hers?

Just because she doesn't like it doesn't mean she's suddenly unworthy, you silly, self-involved creeper. 

Refrain time!

"But she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts

She's Cheer Captain and I'm on the bleachers

Dreaming about the day when you wake up and find

That what you're looking for has been here the whole time.

"If you could see that I'm the one who understands you

Been here all along, so why can't you see?

You, you belong with me, you belong with me."

Oh. My. Gosh.

I don't even know where to begin. 

Firstly, really? Short skirts, cheer captain? Are you going trifle with dumb things like that? 

I can see why short skirts could be a problem. It gives off the wrong vibe. 

But cheer captain? Really?!

What about being a cheer captain makes her lower than you? At least she does something with herself, rather than sit on her fat fanny and eat popcorn like you.

*a-HEM*

You could at least point out some real flaws, like she cheats on him, or she is a practicing Satanist.

But, no. You pick her clothes and her hobby.

Nice. Real mature.

Secondly, how do you know what he's looking for? 

You: Because I know him. We're soul mates. He sat with me once in an art class my Freshman year and he told me about the time he got a papercut. I know him.

Yep. That's love, right there. Plain and simple.

Just because you have a history and you know a lot about each other does not mean that you're meant to be together. 

Otherwise, we'd all be dating our siblings. 

Thirdly, "I'm the one who understands you."

You make him sound like some emo kid or exchange student. 

Hate to break it to you, honey. [Not really.] You're not the only one. If you were, I doubt he'd be ignoring you like this. 

Next verse. 

"Walking the streets with you and your worn-out jeans

I can't help thinking this is how it ought to be

Laughing on a park bench, thinking to myself

Hey, isn't this easy?"

What is with you and clothes, woman? Sheesh. Why can't you just leave it at "you?" 

Unless, of course, you're subtly hinting at the fact that you would like to be in those pants.

And what's easy? 

Laughing? Sitting on a bench? Murdering hobos? Getting into his pants?

Vagueness leaves room for interpretation, madam.

Not to mention, when we don't know what the hell you're talking about, the sweetness of the song is kinda negated.

Next verse!

"And you've got a smile that could light up this whole town

I haven't seen it in a while since she brought you down

You say you're fine, I know you better than that

Hey, what ya doing with a girl like that?"

How do you know it's the girlfriend making him sad? I feel like that's a little presumptive, my dear.

I don't see your facts or proof to back up this claim.  It wouldn't kill you to write a verse about how she's bringing him down, would it? It's easy.

She's got a knife she wants to plunge in your chest.

I haven't seen her change her underwear in days.

You say she's great, but I see the ligature marks on your neck.

Hey, what are you doing with a girl like that?

[Shut up. I'm not a poet.]

See? Simple.

Moving on:

"Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time how could you not know?

Baby, you belong with me, you belong with me."

Holy. Crap.

Absolutely terrifying. Maybe the reason, he's been down this whole time is because you're stalking his house and he hasn't been able to get any sleep for the past three months.

Lawdy.

Next:
Oh, I remember you driving to my house in the middle of the night

I'm the one who makes you laugh when you know you're 'bout to cry

And I know your favorite songs and you tell me 'bout your dreams

Think I know where you belong, think I know it's with me

You were five. You had a sleep overs until you were seven.

Brief, young friendship does not an undying, mutual love make.

NEXT:

Standing by and waiting at your back door

All this time, how could you not know?

Baby, you belong with me, you belong with me

You belong with me

Have you ever thought just maybe

You belong with me?

You belong with me 

 

 

 

 

 LOVE ME, MY DARLING. WE ARE MEANT TO BE TOGETHERRRR.

Oh, my word, lady. Leave him alone. Jeez Louise. Let the poor boy make his own decisions. He's not a child.

Put down the chloroform and back away slowly.

Good Golly.

Is it any wonder that this woman has no boyfriend? She scares them all away by cross examining them and analyzing all their actions and emotions. And then stalking all their ex's and analyzing them too.

She's like a terrifying homicide investigator of creepy, obsessive love. Like if Bones or Homicide Hunter: Lt. Joe Kenda had a baby with any of the Twilight books.

Here's some advice, Taylor Swift. Rather than write songs about being a jealous stalker, go do a crossword. That should jump start the more logical side of your brain, which will then put down your screaming libido.

Maybe then you'll be able to write better lyrics.

Welp, that's about all I can say about this song. Until next time.

Peace off.

Buses aka Large Vehicular Caskets

It has come to my attention that I have very strange fears. So, I'm here to address the first of many.

Buses.

Most people would look at me and go, "What? They're not scary. They're just like big cars."

That is a common misconception.

They are actually couriers of death.

My opinion, predictably, comes from childhood trauma.

Little Kate, in all her wide eyed innocence,

[* NOT Kate]

Was sent to sit in the back of the bus.

Of course, the teachers of her grade school, having a momentary brain lapse, decided that physics and science were the Devil's play and those who believe in it were being fooled by Satan.

So, ignoring Boyle's law of volume, they packed enough students to fill four buses into one.

As one can imagine, Little Kate was crushed in the deluge of children.

[Dear God why...]

That is where Little Kate was trapped for the hour long bus ride to scenic Topeka, Kansas to visit the capital building.

Might I just say that being trapped in a scorching hot pressure cooker of screaming, laughing, farting children with violent car sickness and claustrophobia for an hour is the definition of grisly, monstrous torment.

If I am sent to hell for blowing Westboro Baptist Church to the sky [a necessary evil], reliving this day is what I predict will follow my death.

For all eternity.

I wouldn't wish a grade school bus ride this on anyone. Not even you, Justin Beiber.

 

Well, one would think that after growing up, hitting high school and puberty, the fear would diminish.

This is also a misconception.

Buses are still large, Twinkie-shaped death traps.

Given, you don't have to deal with the same issues as the typical, unfortunate grade-schooler, public transportation is no less menacing.

Reason Number One: Passengers.

When you ride buses, you encounter people from all walks of life.

Hippies, hobos, prostitutes, lawn-care workers, plumbers, cheerleaders, dentists. All of them equally horrible.

However the worst are those people with the shifty eyes––the ones you suspect have just snorted as much crack as Charlie Sheen in the past four years.

The ones that look like they just got out of jail three hours ago.

The ones who look like

Joaquin Phoenix...

They inevitably sit right next to you, their unwashed stench rolling over you like poisonous gas.

Part of you hopes that your nostril hair will be singed off, so you can enjoy the smell of burning hair instead.

There are also the "loud talkers" who either come with an equally loud talking friend, or are on their cell phone.

I kinda want to run these people through the shredder.

Are you deaf? Can you not hear yourself?

If this were a perfect world, this:

 

 "LOL. OMG, Jennay! Didn't you hear about my totally awesome laser hair removal?!"

Would be shortly followed by this:

Not only would punching them shut them up, it would also turn them albino, so they will never be accepted in society and will have to live the rest of their life in shame.

Unless of course you're Johnny Winter, then you'll just be awesome and people will be pleased to hear you talk loudly on the bus, mostly because you're actually riding the bus.

Anyway... Another reason not to ride buses: Filthy.

Unless you're in a flippin' Greyhound bus, the quality is pretty grungy.

It might have to do with the people riding the bus, but still.

Cigarette butts, pissed on Scientology pamphlets, discarded Kleenexes.

Unsightly!

I'm a bit of a germaphobe, not like Monk, but I normally avoid going into places where one should probably wear a biohazard suit.

Last and most important reason buses make my insides feel like little crawling maggots: Emergency Exits.

How the hell are you supposed to get out of one of these things if it plunges into a lake or a turbulent storm swollen river?

Answer 1: The Roof Hatch

They're a good idea in theory, but does anyone but the bus driver really know how to work this thing?

If you're at 5'3", like me, you're going to wonder if you can even reach the damn thing, let alone know how to open it.

If the other two exits are submerged or damaged, and you're too short to reach the ceiling, should you just give up the ghost? Or hope a friendly water based life form comes to your rescue?

Frankly, that sort of uncertainty gives me the willies.

Answer 2: The Window Escape

 

Yeah, that'll work.

For how long has that window been in there? How many years of filth have crusted over both sides?

How strong do you have to be to break the Gorilla glue strength crap that has welded itself to the panel?

And if you do manage to get the window out, approximately how fat do you have to be to get stuck, trapping everyone else inside?

Optimists would say, "Fear not! There is always-

Answer 3: The Back Door!"

 

This door is the one I have the most hope in.

It's bigger, closer to the ground, and easily accessible for silly short weaklings like me.

BUT. It's at the back of the effing bus. 

Just thinking about that thing is bringing back horrific imagery of the grade school bus rides. 

The panicked pile up, the nervous sweating, the nauseating shift of human movement. 

I think, if I had to choose between paying for gas and driving myself somewhere or riding a bus. I'd probably just drive.

I would save myself the stress and the disgust. 

Judge me all you like. 

I'm a snob. I know it.

If you give me sparkling wine, I'll turn it down because it reminds me too much of Twilight vampires. 

It's because you ride the bus.

This post has officially worn out its welcome and so have I.

Peace off.

Rant: Class of Who Cares.

Oh, dang, it's a rant.

Subject: High School Reunions.

I don't really understand the concept of reunions.

Firstly, 2008 was not that long ago. Therefore, no reunion is necessary. Nothing significant has happened in the last four years that would need sharing.

Secondly, what the hell is the point?

Idealists say: "Ooooh, it's for reuniting with your buddies from high school and sharing how much you've grown and how much you've accomplished!"

This is how I see it:

You leave each other for an indeterminate amount of time, usually about 5 to 10 years––something most people are almost crawling out of their skin to do, despite the tearful good-bye's at graduation.

Then, someone gets the idea of summoning you all back from remote corners of the world, only to have half the people show up. There are, also, the inevitable few who are forgotten, who find out about it after the fact. (These people end up being serial killers.)

After being badgered into going by high school "friends" who then leave you dry by not actually going, you don your semi-formal attire and meet in the smelly gymnasium to which fond memories of sweating like a pig are attached.

Then, when you're all drinking cheap wine and "socializing," meaning bragging about what you've accomplished (most of which are lies) or what you're going to do in the near future, you find out unsavory things about your classmates:

- Who has married who, which never really interested you anyway, since being married this early usually spells disaster.

- Who died. That's a really inspiring topic.

- Who's in jail or has gone off the deep end, the only topic of any interest at all, since you had bets on who would tank when you were still roped together as a unit.

- Who's made it in the world, which only makes you realize how little you've accomplished.

Then, after three hours of awkward half-conversations and way too much wine, you realize you hated all of these people anyway.

Of course, I didn't always think like this. 

When I was in high school, the thought of a high school reunion was a happy thing!

I would come back and everyone will have changed significantly, and they'd all be mature and more well-rounded.

You see, then I went to college, and I kept my F*cebook. After four years, I went back and browsed through the photos of those people I knew in high school.

Turns out, they haven't changed at all.

The drunks are even more drunk, the stoners are now hipster stoners, girls who were morally aligned are now skanks,  the skanks are wearing even less clothing and more spray on tan than they used to, and the geeks have leveled up into basement dwelling, blue-skinned WoW freaks who don't shower.

It's a crying shame. Well, not really. I'm not terribly surprised by this. Disappointed, but not surprised.

Of course, there are the select few who redeem the class, but those types generally avoid reunions or go for a short time to humor those who threw it.

Personally, I hope to end up in the "forgotten" category. I don't want the guilt of having to refuse a reunion of a class comprised of loathsome people.

So, if you hear a story about how a woman in Kansas snapped and there was a recent high school reunion followed by mass murder, then you know what happened.

Bleh. It seems like when I start these rants I know exactly where I'm going, but by the end, my brain shorts out, gets bored and whines about doing something else.

I'm going to go to bed now. This has been entirely too pointless and unnecessarily negative. But, a rant is a rant.

Peace off.

The Urge to be Emo

Well, I was sitting here, trolling around the internet, and I had the overwhelming impulse to do something exquisitely emo.


I'm not sure if this is left over emo-sediment from my Freshman year of college, or if I'm just massively hormonal, but occasionally, I just want to do something really, really emo.


Like:

Or 

Level of Emo.

Really emo...

Usually, my first inclination is to post a really angsty Facebook status like:


"Life sucks and guess what? You'll never measure up, and most of the time, no one will care about your lost hopes."
(I actually just made that up as I was typing this...)


But I have the feeling that 98% of my friends would give me that look that House gets when he thinks someone is really stupid. 

That one. 

BUT.

I also don't want other people, who don't really know me, to go:  

 OMG, I tuutally no how u feal. 

Which would be unavoidably followed by their own terrible story.

Which usually has to do with their parents being an unbearable burden because they wouldn't buy them a car only drug lords can afford.

Or because they wouldn't let them go out and ruin their lives by drinking enough to kill a 300 pound Irishman.

That foofaraw is a whole lot more annoying than people frowning at me, as if I told them all my organs had liquified due to my raw, untamed despair.

It's similar to having someone rub their hand on my unshaven legs––against the grain. 

Emo statuses also have a tendency to worry people unnecessarily. 

Especially when the cause of the distress probably had to do with the fact that A. ) I didn't get to shower that morning. Or B.) I got an 95% on a test and not a 100%. (Yeah, I'm THAT kind of person.)

So, because I don't want to be THAT person––at least not publicly––I don't ever post emo statuses. 

Though, I still have the itch to do something that reeks of teen angst and self-pity. 

My next consideration is to post a super emo photo of myself. 

I figure that a really blurry, high contrast self-portrait will properly alert people to my inner distress.

It would probably look something like this:

[Yes, this is another actual photo of me...]

In my head, my "truly emo" image evokes the same emotion as this: 

[Photo copyright to rockthenations]

But, in reality, to everyone else, I just look like this:

So, I don't post emo pictures of myself either. 

Do any other people have these urges? 

If you do, What do you do with them?! 

I'm completely at a loss. 

My only other option, aside from the ones above, is to sit in my room, in the dark, playing Red Jumpsuit Apparatus or Evanescence, and writing angsty poetry about the wittle mousey I saw get run over on my way to work.

And that is right out. 

If I did, all my hair would turn black, I'd have the urge to get myself pierced in unspeakable places, but even worse, I'd want to listen to Lady Gaga and Justin Beiber. (I've really got nothing against the Beibs, in reality.)

Bah.

BAH, I say.

Generally, when I get the feeling to be emo, I sit there and stare at the computer screen, wondering if I should purge my font of emo feelings or if I should squelch them under a large boulder of denial.

Or I go watch crime shows. 

Because hearing about other people's misfortune satisfies the darkness in my soooooul.

[Not really.]

Well, my angstiness has passed and I don't know what else to write. 

Peace off. 

Is He Staring? He's Totally Staring.

Last night, when I was watching crime shows and waiting for Fuzzle to text me and tell me he hadn't died on his way back home, I started thinking about human behaviors.

Specifically, high school behaviors.

In my opinion, high school as a whole is just one large awkwardness painfully stretched over four years, morphing through phases and changing shapes like a chameleon on steroids.

Well, while I was reflecting on said awkwardness, I started to wonder about something I saw in my own unsightly behavior.

I don't know if anyone else  had this problem, but during my entire high school career, I was hyper conscious of anyone looking at me.

Whenever saw––or even thought––someone was looking at me, my brain would convulse and release a deluge of questions, which usually ran along the lines of:

Oh my gosh! They're looking at me, does that mean they're thinking about me? What are they thinking about? Should I look back? What if I make eye contact? Then, I'll have to smile. I hate smiling at people because I don't want them to know that I'm looking at them. If they know I'm looking at them, then they'll think I'm thinking about them, and I'm not thinking about them, or at least I don't want them to know I'm thinking about them.  

[tl;dr] version: Oh, shit. Why?

Which would release adrenaline that would make my face flush involuntarily, most likely making people think that I had wet myself or some other embarrassment.

Of course, it was even worse when it came to boys, especially boys I liked at the time.

It was like my awkwardness had been forcibly given Speed and then sent to play with children with ADHD.

Whenever a boy even shot me a cursory glance or accidentally looked my direction after he turned around to talk check if his boxers were showing, it would feel like this:

Or like this:

Rather than register his glance as something normal, my neurons would misfire and interpret it as a secret devotion or overflowing love just waiting to break loose.

So, then I would fawn like a dog over this boy for the next couple weeks until I realized that they didn't even know I existed.

My ridiculousness makes me think of Helena from Midsummer Night's Dream.

"I am your spaniel; And, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you!" (Shakespeare 1.2.Something). [I did that from memory. Ooooh, yeah.]

I was such an embarrassment.

"Uuaagh, oh, [boy of interest's name], without you I'll just diiiiiiiie!" (Not Shakespeare).

But, after I healed from the wounds of my own self-delusion, the process would inevitably restart when some other poor sap would, in misplaced politeness, bless me when I sneezed. 

I'm sure other people had this same problem, but probably not through their entire high school career. 

I'm really not surprised that I never had a boyfriend until I got to college, but you all know what a horrible failure that was also. [See Not So Tragic Love Life of Kate Awkward Parts One and Two]

Well, at least until this year. 

I luh you, Fuzzle. 

I think I can name pretty much all of the boys that I was interested in throughout those four years, albeit in no particular order.

For their dignity, I will not put last names.

1.) Kyle

2.) Jared

3.) Adam

4.) Jantzen

5.) Eddie

6.) Jeff

7.) Bryan

8.) Dave

9.) Colin

10.) Jason

11.) Casey

12.) Matt

13.) Matt

14.) Matt (Yes, they're all different.)

15.) Andrew

16.) Johnny

17.) Chris

18.) Andrew

19.) Kyle

20.) Louis, fondly known as Lucy.

21.) Adam

22.) Stevie

23.) Sean

23.) Blake

24.) Kerry

25.) Kevin

26.) Kyle (They were triplets.)

27.) Tyler

28.) Trey

Yes, I'm that flighty. No, I'm not making it up. No, none of them were repeated and I'm sure there were more. 

I'm sure some of you, if anyone is reading this, are wondering, "Did you talking to any of them??"

The answer is no. 

That would require me to have a spine. 

Let me give you an example of a typical Katie-Guy conversation. 

Boy: Hey, Katie.

Katie: What? Oh! He-hey, there!

Boy: What's up?

Katie: Oh, nothingreally, justyouknow, waitingforclasstostartandjustsncnbdjsfjdhgbxmncjvdfh.

Boy: Wh-what'd you say?

Katie: Nothing! How'reyou?

Boy: Good. Thanks.

(awkward pause)

Boy: Soooo, what class are you going to?

Katie: Uuuuuh, World History... NO! (high-pitched giggle) Sorry, that's tomorrow. I have Acting 2.

Boy: Cool. See you.

Katie: See ya! 

Oh, the shame. 

So, clearly there would be no reason for me to talk to them because I would only end up making myself look like a caffeinated squirrel trapped in a human's body.

BUT. 

I grew up and I can talk to people normally now.

So, there is hope for all you awkward people out there!

If I were to give you any advice on getting out of this little rut, it would be: 

Don't watch early morning cartoons on WB and actually go out and talk to people.

Okay, that's all I got. 

I'm Kate Awkward and I approve this message.

Peace off.

The Not so Tragic Love Life of Kate Awkward: Part 1

[Oop! It's back. I previously published this in February, but I deleted it because I was ashamed. However, I liked it too much to delete it permanently. That, and I'm an asshole. Enjoy.]

All of the following is basically true. The names have been replaced to protect the dignity of all those involved except Kate, she gets to wallow in her shame.

Let's begin.

There was a girl. Her name was Kate.

Kate had no personal identity because she was lame. 

Falling into the alternative crowd in high school, she developed the desire to be emo. Sadly, she was only a poser. 

She looked like this:

She was very serious about her poserdom.

[Yes, this is an actual photo of me from that period of my life.] 

She was so serious that she took MySpace pictures of herself nearly every day. 

She updated her Facebook status to something tragically sad, like "What if I would go to sleep for days, would you count the hours?" and "I hate my life." 

Or to something unfortunate that happened, like, "I can't believe I have to go to stupid school" and "Why does this keep happening to me?" (The identity of 'this' remains a mystery, but it can be assumed that it had something to do with missing breakfast.) [Yes, these are actual statuses that I posted.]

Clearly, she was a catch just waiting to be had. 

[Note the sarcasm.]

She stalk-... pursued any male who accidentally happened to glance her way, misguided and fueled by bad teen fiction novels that told of instantaneous, "true" love.

She had no luck, to the surprise of no one. Not even her.

Then, this silly non-emo emo kid did something she swore never to do. 

She went to College. 

She proceeded to meet the craziest psychopath to ever walk the earth wearing the clothes of a human being and immediately befriended her.

This friendship swiftly became a doctor-patient-quite-possibly-lesbian situation. 

The non-emo, emo girl willingly played the doctor of the pair, while the psychopath in sheep's clothing was the murder victim in the ER.

This relationship consumed her.

While she denied her suffering for the most part, she used the accepted suffering to fuel her emo-ness. 

During their time together, the psychopath searched for a mate in a frothy, desperate frenzy, excreting angst all over Dr. Emo when her labors were fruitless. Dr. Emo absorbed it and gave the psychopath a dose of hope in each instance.

While trying to balance school, sleep, and taking psycho to the ER every Sunday for five weeks straight, Dr. Emo was trying to find love as well.

Little did she know she was getting in way over her head.

Failure el Numero Uno: Goldfish

Emo Girl met Goldfish while shopping in her favorite poser store, Hot Topic. He was a worker there and one that had caught her eye due to his blood red hair.

His looks and IQ could be likened to this:

Emo Girl was smitten instantly.

Blinded by teenage passion and desperation, she looked around his minor flaws and completely denied the major ones.

Poor Emo-poser-girl was far too shy to talk to him herself and ask his name, so rather than just suck up her fear and talk to him, she avoided it entirely and devised an unnecessarily convoluted plan. 

First, she needed a name. Then her plan could commence without hindrance. 

She knew the receipt would have the name of the cashier on it, since it was clearly out of her capacity to just read his name tag.

So, as time passed, she, in her loitering, over stylized glory, kept revisiting the store, buying pin-buttons, wrist bands, and anything under 5 dollars, hoping to be rung up by her Knight with Shining Nail Polish.

One day, her dreams were realized. 

Pretending to be entirely neutral, but not uninterested, she gave him the "glittering, innocent" smile while she waited [the one she had been practicing beforehand in the mirror at home].  

It looked something like this:

She hoped that in that moment she she had seduced his heart right out of his chest and was just acting completely unchanged by her display of well-practiced enticement.

Her unneeded emo accessories purchased, Emo-Girl left with the receipt, his name firmly printed on it.

At first, she quelled her desire to stalk investigate. She stored the receipt in her wallet for safe keeping.

Then she promptly forgot about it, since the psychopath was having a life threatening situation (meaning she was experiencing slight trauma and was having minor boy troubles) and in need of Dr. Emo's medicinal, and seemingly endless font of encouragement and support. 

Later, after the psychopath had been sated, she found the receipt again and decided to do a little research.

She geared up her computer and with her l33t stalking powers entered his name into the Facebook search bar. 

After only a couple pages of Goldfish with multitudinous last names, she found her Goldfish, identified by his blood red hair. 

She was impressed by her own creepiness and was naturally hesitant to add him. But the distance of the internet and the desire of love compelled her to press the fateful button. 

Hours passed and soon the anxiously awaited notification appeared, telling her that he had added her as a friend.

She felt jubilant, but it was rapidly replaced by terror. What would she do now? 

Talking to him was absolutely preposterous. What would she say when he asked her how she knew him? 

"Oh, I was stalking you..." was not the smoothest path to take. Neither was "I visited your store every weekend for three weeks straight and conveniently 'found' you over Facebook."

So, time passed and, after a long day of emotional harassment from her favorite psychopath, Emo Girl plucked up the courage to FB Chat with him.

The conversation proceeded like a partially oiled machine, awkward, jerky, and spastic. Though, for Emo-Girl this was a step forward. In fact, he seemed amused by her. 

Though, the unavoidable question of who she was did arise.

She hastily gave a partial truth, saying that she knew him from his work, lying that they talked one afternoon while she was shopping. 

He took that story without question. (How this didn't alert her to his lack of functioning neurons will never be resolved.)

This match made in a highly materialistic Alternative store was progressing well.

Instant Message moved to text message (after Goldfish shared his number and Desperation Emo begged her parents to allow her text messaging) and then text messaging to phone calls. 

Their conversations would revolve like fish in a bowl on three subjects, Cars, iPods, and Music, since those were the only three things that Goldfish had the proficiency to address.

Soon, the anticipated day that they would meet finally arrived. Poser-Emo felt like this could be the moment they would confess their undying love for one another.

However, there was a hitch. 

Emo-Face was too afraid to go alone, so she asked the psychopath to go with her.  

As could be assumed, there was no avowal of souls during this meeting. The feelings in Emo Girl's self-blackened heart could be described as thus:

But she felt that it was more like this:

[Image copyrighted to ArtHawk]

Such tragedy.

The next time she saw her beloved Goldfish was when he attended her performance of Macbeth. 

She was playing the romantic part of Witch # 2. Dressed in lingerie with a bloody doll, Emo-Actress captured the heart of her Goldfish as she killed a mother and her son on stage. 

After her disturbing performance, they met up, loitered awkwardly outside the theater while struggling through small talk, then decided to go on a deeply romantic walk to the bluff near the murky, smelly Missouri river. 

Sitting down on the bench nearest the overlook, Emo-Actress' source of knowledge failed her. 

According to her multitudinous adolescent-fiction-romance books, the Bluff was a place where budding lovers discovered each other by the light of the moon. 

This hypothesis could not be tested due to the Abbey full of monks only 500 feet behind her, all of whom had the ability to hear her hair growing without having to open their windows. 

But more so than that, Emo girl was too distracted because Goldfish had his arm around her shoulder and that was the farthest she had gone with any man in her whole lifetime.

She was unsure how to respond. 

In her mind, there were three options:

1.) Scoot closer.

2.) Follow the example of a statue and do absolutely nothing. Not even breathe.

3.) Run. 

4.) Make babies.

That was four. Emo-girl can't quantify either. 

Following her pathetically under-developed womanly instincts, she chose the first.

Using the ambient temperature as an excuse, which was probably around 75 degrees Fahrenheit, she gracelessly jammed herself next to him until she was nestled under his shoulder. 

When he didn't appear fazed by her unwieldy display, she decided it might be safe to lean her head on his shoulder. 

Emo-Girl laid her head on him in such a way that she was still partially holding her head up, but was relying on his shoulder to support her. She did this because she felt resting her head too heavily without tact would signify weakness or harlotry and setting it too lightly would make her seem standoffish and stiff.

As could be expected, this position was comfortable for a grand span of 4 seconds. 

Her neck tightened and her neglected muscles cried, but she didn't want to pull away. She was sure that he would feel utterly rejected since she was positive her most precious, awkward affection was the only thing keeping him from despair.

So, rather than do the logical thing, she stayed in that painful position until her whole body began to shake. 

Goldfish exercised the 4 partially functioning cells of his brain and pulled her closer so as to share body heat, since he still thought that she was cold- a ruse that a brain dead monkey could have seen through. 

As if someone had turned on a hormone faucet in her body, Emo-Girl felt the historic and thrilling moment of their first passionate kiss rising up inside her.

His lips were only inches away. 

As if he felt her hormone fountain spilling onto him, he turned his head toward hers and...

Emo-Girl balked. She didn't know how to kiss someone.

Short circuited by this sudden wash of confusion, she panicked and did the first thing she could think of to avoid a prodigious social catastrophe that would wipe out her dignity and self-esteem in the same blow:

She pressed her cheek against his instead.

Even though the initial crisis was averted, the desire to passionately exchange saliva still stewed in the back of her mind, dancing on her other thoughts like an Irish Stepper on PCP. 

Trying a second time, she slowly readjusted her head until their lips were nearly touching, since, much like asking his name, asking to kiss him was completely beyond her capacity. 

Both sensing each other's desires, they turned their heads into one another's like two rolling pins crushing a plate of dough and they shared their first kiss.

Emo Girl was too dazed by the shock of being kissed to realize that it was the most disappointing moment in her 18 years of life. 

It was wet, slobbery and unsavory, but because it was her first kiss and she was convinced she had found the man of her dreams, she denied it and pretended it was the most amazing thing since Ziplock bags filled with cornstarch and water.

After concluding their messy face stamping, they paused to assess the situation between them, unsure of how to proceed.

Goldfish: So, I guess we're dating now.

Kate: I guess we must be. I don't know.

Goldfish: I mean, we did just kiss and everything...

Kate: Yeah, I think we're dating now.

And so it was sealed. This couple was now connected by the bond of an awkward kiss with the witness of 30+ monks.

Nothing could go wrong. 

Goldfish left for home hours later since he had to get back before his morning shift the next day. (If it wasn't mentioned before, Goldfish was not in school nor did he have the desire to go back.)

Five days later, after thinking on her feelings for Goldfish and being mentally ransacked by a jealous psychopath who still had no mate, Emo-Girl had come to the conclusion that Goldfish was not up to her standards. 

Surprise.

She called him on a Friday, before her final performance of Macbeth. She was in hysterics even before she picked up the phone, since she had never broken up with someone before.

Her feelings were synonymous to this:

Clearly her woes were too great to bear.

Tucked away in a bathroom at the public eatery on campus, she dialed the number of her doom and raised the instrument of death to her ear. 

As it rang, despair edged into her mind. She felt like she what she was about to do was the equivalent to feeding a child to a pack of rabid marmosets. 

But luckily she had her trusty psychopath and her future roommate, Gwin, there to give her support as she called. 

The conversation followed similarly to this:

Goldfish: Hello?

Kate: Goldfish,I'msorrybutwe'renotworkingoutandI'msorryand-IwishIdidn'thavetodothisandI'msosososorryPleaseforgivemeInevermeanttohurtyou-IjustthoughtthatIknewwhatIwantedandI'msososorry! -hysterical babbling-

Goldfish: Wha-... what? No. Please don't. 

Kate: I'm sorry. This just isn't working. -more hysteria-

Goldfish: -getting choked up- But, you're the only one who keeps me from smoking... I need you.

Kate: I expect you to not do that for your own sake. I'm so sorry, but I have to go.

Goldfish: But... Okay.

She snapped the bearer of misfortune shut and burst into anime-class tears, throwing herself on the necks of her friend Gwin and her psychopath, losing the function of her legs for a couple moments. 

She was able to compose herself enough to kill the mother and son one last time. 

After the trauma had subsided enough that she could see normally, Emo-Girl felt better about her life and her outlook.

Little did she know, her luck with men would not improve.

And thus concludes the first portion of The Not So Tragic Love Life of Kate Awkward.

Peace off.