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.

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 2

[This post was previously published in mid-March, but was deleted. However, because the author is a violent hypocrite, she decided to repost it.]


This is a continuum of Part 1. If you haven't read the first installment, I would suggest you do so now.

If you've already witness the unappealing horror of that portion, then fear not. This one won't be quite as painful.

Though, by proxy, it will also be less funny. My apologies for not being able to drown everything in my insatiable wit.

All of the following is still basically true. The names of those unfortunate souls involved are still changed for the sake of their dignity, save for Kate's. She can still reap the failure she has sown.

Now.

As you might recall, Emo-Girl had just destroyed Goldfish's heart, but more importantly his lungs, since clearly she was the only thing stopping him from his consumptive smoking addiction.

With these heavy thoughts weighing on her soul, her feelings could only be described by this:

 [Photo copyrighted to Mr. Mark]

Unsure how to cope, she sought consolation in the psychopath, which, at the time, seemed better than melting despairingly into the purple shag carpet in her dorm room.

That same day, to aid her distressed caretaker, psychopath devised a brilliant plan:

Go find boys.

Fail el Numero Dos: Octopus

Since neither psychopath nor Emo-Girl were capable of sustaining real friendships with guys without either jumping down their throats about relationships or frightening them, they decided throw their unsightly presence on Corgill, the current love interest to psychopath, and his best friend, Octopus.

At first the plan seemed like one of worth, but rebound was a foreign concept to Emo-Girl.

In terms of taste, Corgill was more to her liking since he was cynical, theatrical, and an asshole but he was psychopath's turf.

Emo-Girl knew never to tread on psychopaths turf. Otherwise:

Which usually resulted in:

So, rather than have her spleen melted by sheer feminine rage, she turned her flighty attention to Octopus.

Due to her dramatic expulsion earlier, Emo-Girl's emotional endurance had withered considerably, so she allowed the Fates to take her where they pleased.

They took her into a Nerf-Gun battle.

Armed and dangerous [mostly to herself], Emo-Slinger fought valiantly against her adversary.

Octopus, despite his squishy, somewhat harmless name, was a fortress of a person.

He could be likened to a sentient oak tree on steroids.

He was agile, resourceful, calculating.

And he cheated.

Rather than stay in the fray like a real man, he used the safety of Corgill's room as a hideout.

All Emo-Girl had was a stool.

She did her very best to keep from having to surrender, but lack of ammunition and fear of entering enemy territory to retrieve some caused her to issue a ceasefire.

He stopped his barrage, but he was wary of her guile, since she had proved to be crafty when she feigned injury in order to get a cheap shot.

Psychopath, being ignored by Corgill, decided that she wanted to enlist in the warfare.

At last, Emo-Girl had an ally. She and her stool wouldn't have to fly solo any longer against Octopus Cheatermobile.

Ammunition was redistributed and the onslaught began again.

It seemed to be going well until

she was betrayed by psychopath. 

Confused and distressed by this, Emo-Girl stood up and faced her confederate. 

While she gawked, Octopus took his chance and resumed the skirmish.

Being shot at on both sides, Lieutenant Emo knew that her abilities as a Nerf gun-wielding soldier would not suffice. The best she could do was hide in the bathroom and hope they got bored waiting for her to come out.

As a last show of courage, she surrendered. 

<Due to the poor memory of the author, the rest of the night has been omitted for fear of falsifying details and because she can't honesty remember a dillydamned thing after this point.>

Emo-Girl laid in her bed, listening to quiet, angsty music and ruminating on her encounter with Octopus.

He had provided her with the first night of true, unhindered fun since she befriended the psychopath.

It was nice. It made her soul feel less black, like someone had sprinkled glitter into her murky, churning soup of melancholy. 

It was as if her soul had transformed from this:

Into this:

[Image copyright to Dragon Faerie]

However, Emo-Girl was more tentative to declare her feelings for Octopus as deathless love, since her feelings for Goldfish weren't as unconditional as she had pretended they were. 

Though, Octopus appeared to be a better candidate for her spastic, unstable affections than Goldfish. He was going to college (albeit community college) and had a job.

The Hunt was on again. 

She began by stalking finding him and talking over Facebook Chat because clearly Emo-Girl didn't learn from her first mistake. 

Facebook moved to Instant Messenger, which moved to text messaging, and finally to phone calls. [If you're not having violent de ja vu, your brain capacity is equal to that of a ground squirrel. Offense should be taken and hate mail should be sent.]

Though, unlike last time, the more they talked the more she liked him. She didn't have to force her feelings like she was eating unrefrigerated week old trout.

Another exquisite difference: they were able to have conversations about more than three subjects, which secured that Octopus had more than 4 firing neurons. She even was bold enough to believe that he had at least 30 that were continually working.

However, the magical, intelligent goodness that they shared was in grave danger.

Psychopath had turned her fickle attentions to Octopus, since Corgill had made it very apparent that there was nothing between them.

Now, due to unspoken [crazy] women laws, she expected Emo-Girl to bow out.

Emo-Girl knew this, but apparently she had a death wish.

Since, when psychopath liked a creature of the male species, no other female could even daydream about him without disastrously infringing on her rights.

But, Emo-Face continued to talk to Octopus secretly at her own peril.

Of course, because Emo-Girl couldn't lie to save her life and her sneaking skills were somewhat like walking on tile in a pair of lead flippers, she was found out fairly quickly.

You can guess what happened next:

Emo-Girl however did not, however, implode into panicked, fearful spasms of remorse and servitude.

She continued on her merry way, ignoring the fire-breathing psychopath that was intent on singeing her eyebrows off.

Eventually, after it was again made clear that she would have no luck, psychopath stopped drinking liquid flames and turned her attentions elsewhere. However,

 resentment festered.

[If you're not notably unsettled by this, you do not understand the monstrosity that is psychopath's wrath.]

<Fast Forward through the boring parts, which consist mostly of drama inducing IM conversations. To avoid boring you further, I will skip directly to the most exciting part, which by nature will quickly turn to the most horrific. You're welcome.>

It was a lovely autumn day. The weather was the kind of weather that was perfect for going on outdoor adventures, having magical experiences with the glories of nature. 

Emo-Girl, on the other hand, was:

-sitting in her room

-by herself

-trolling on the 1nt3rn3tz

-with all the lights off

...because that's how she rolled.

She was obviously a creature of the night.

However, despite her penchant to be vampirically antisocial, she knew something was wrong. 

She had not see icon nor screen name of Octopus all day. 

She was beginning to think that something entirely horribly had happened to him, like a herd of venomous deer with lightning for horns had caught him on his way to work and convinced him to join a nudist colony. 

Or worse. 

A Jehovah's Witness might have shown up at his door and given him pamphlet's about "Global Warming" which were really just thin disguises for their religious sect.

With these tantalizing prospects hanging over her head, she felt her fears had been realized when she was startled by psychopath's unmistakable panicked knocking on her door.

But when she answered, nothing was wrong. 

In fact, psychopath seemed to be eager for something.

Emo-Girl was bewildered. 

She went back to what she was doing, trying not to let psychopath's antics derail her from her very important fretting.

Then her phone rang, which startled her into more terror induced phantasms. 

At least until she saw who it was.

It was Octopus!

Her fears allayed, she answered the phone. 

They had some nice small talk, but then the conversation took a strange turn.

Kate: So, what's up?

Octopus: I... I don't think we can hang out over break.

What could this horrible omen mean for their wonderful future involving comic drawing children?

Stunned, Emo-Girl felt herself spiraling into anguish. 

Kate: Wh-what? Whyyy?

Octopus: 'Cause I'd much rather just go on a date with you.

Emo-Girl could not compute. 

Her brain had crashed and was now issuing the blue screen of death. 

Kate: Wah-... buh- Uuuaaaaaaaaht?! 

Octopus: Yeah, would you be up for it?

Kate: Wha- cuh- ffff, yes! I mean- shyeah, I'd really like that!

Octopus: Great!

Since Time is run by an ornery five year old with a temper problem, the night of the date arrived slower than Emo-Girl would've liked.

But it arrived. 

After much hassle with Emo-Girl's crippling indecision, the two had decided to go out to dinner and then to a movie.

The date started off well.

But then, they pulled into the restaurant.

<insert DOOM>

Emo-Girl had this notion that she was self-sufficient.

But when she went to exercise it by opening her door to get out of the car, Octopus nearly had a conniption and insisted that he get it for her.

She felt that she was perfectly capable of pulling on a handle and then pushing a door open.

Octopus was argued that it was the principle of the matter.

Emo-Girl was not convinced, but she ceded, not because he was right, but because he locked the passenger side door and would not unlock it unless she agreed to let him open it for her.

Opening doors from the inside was another skill that eluded Emo-Girl.

The date resumed normalcy until it came time to pay. 

As you can guess, Emo-Girl wanted to pay for herself. 

Octopus acted as if she had stabbed him and dumped salt in his open wound after which she lit on fire and laughed maliciously to organ music. 

Emo-Girl did not [and still does not] understand the courtesy of accepting people's generosity. She felt it was the same as indirectly enslaving someone to do her bidding. 

It also undermined her inner masculinity and frustrated her minute testosterone levels.

[Feast your eyes on her manliness. That poor creature next to Emo-Girl is her kid sister, Sqwaunkie.]

So, she insisted that she pay for herself.

However, when the waiter came around, he agreed with Octopus to have the tabs combined.

He didn't even consider Emo-Girl's unreasonable dilemma before he went then back to his business.

The silly girl-child was put out. 

So, in watered down feminist revenge, she paid for her own movie ticket and hid twenty dollars in his car while he wasn't looking.

She was so pleased by her rebellion that she didn't make a fuss for the rest of the evening.

She even let Octopus hold her hand during the movie. 

When they got out of their deeply romantic film [Bolt], it was still early in the night and Emo-Girl wasn't ready to part with her Mildly Chauvinistic Cashier.

Kate: So, whatcha wanna do now?

Octopus: Well, I don't have to have you home until 12:30, so what do you want to do?

Emo-Girl had another bout of immobilizing indecision to which she asked:

Kate: Why? Why do you do this to me?

Octopus: Because it's easy. 

Kate: ...

Octopus: Seriously, what do you want to do?

[Scott Pilgrim copyright to Bryan Lee O'Malley]

Kate: Well, we could go talk somewhere... Like a parking lot or something, since nothing will be open. 

Emo-Girl was not an avid watcher of horror films so she didn't realize her suggestion was somewhat abominable. 

But, despite her inability to sense a murder scene, they went and sat in the parking lot near her place of employment. [The only reason Emo-Girl had a job was because her father owned a business. Not because she had skill. Don't be preposterous.]

So, the talking commenced as they sat in his car. 

Suddenly, Octopus leaned across the seat and laid his head on her arm, which was laying unobtrusively on the armrest of the passenger seat. 

Emo-Girl was perplexed.

Men were still a foreign species to her and her lesson with Goldfish did not increase her knowledge in any respect other than what to avoid in the future.

She wondered if this was the beginning of the male mating ritual, since there was clearly no other reason to lean almost a foot and a half over in a car onto a female's left arm. 

With this in her mind, she had to decide what to do.

The three four choices from before surfaced in her mind, since she had no other point of reference and her teen fiction romance novels had failed her in every instance in the past.

But she quickly cast them aside because they didn't really apply in this situation (save for "Make Babies," but she felt that 'doing it' in a car was entirely undignified). 

She devised a new list of ways to react: 

1.) Ask what the hell he's doing.

2.) Spontaneously grow a third arm out of her sternum and poke his exposed ear.

3.) Pat his head.

Even though she preferred the second, she picked the last and gently tapped his head with her fingers, noting that his hair felt like what she imagined a goat would feel like. 

Though, upon actually feeling a goat at Zona Rosa, she was aghast at the horrible coarseness and realized that boy hair was nothing like it. 

Goats aside, Emo-Girl, unsure how to react further past the head pat, suggested that they go sit in the back seat, so they could talk better.

Unsurprisingly, this didn't occur to her as strange either, nor did it spark her inner "horror" detector. 

Octopus was not adverse to this suggestion, but he made sure to ask if she was comfortable with that.

The moderately dim poser didn't understand [or denied] what he could mean, so she responded with affirmations between bouts of nervous laughter.

They sat in the back of the car exchanging their past love stories, to which Emo-Girl grossly exaggerated her own, pretending that Goldfish was more like a telephone post than a hoers.

The conversation lulled after a while, since neither of the two of them had much of a romantic past. 

Suddenly, as if a storm cloud had taken up residence in the car with them, tension spiked to an electric level. 

Emo-Girl's fountain of hormones began to rush as if someone had stabbed her in the uterus, releasing a wave of womanly passions.

Octopus seemed to feel it too.  

Octopus: May I ask you something?

Kate: Yeahsurewhatsup?

Octopus: I know this is kinda soon for this sort of thing...

Kate: What? I'msureit'sfine. Shoot.

Octopus: Can- Can I kiss you?

Emo-Girl, despite her overwhelming joy, was cooly indifferent in her response.

Kate: Sure. That's fine. 

The process of kissing was less awkward than the first time, though trying to kiss a mule would be less awkward also.

They hesitated momentarily before touching lips, but when they finally did, it... 

It was not nearly what she had expected.

She had imagined it causing her heart to do something like this:

But alack. Nothing even remotely similar happened.

This was probably because she had her expectations up too high. 

Though, it would be quite a feat if a single kiss in the back of a car in a parking lot in the middle of the night caused a young girl's heart to explode out of her chest in a fiery, passionate blast.

It would also call into question your role as a possible serial killer. 

Though, because Emo-Girl had never been truly kissed, she decided that was what they were supposed to feel like and forcibly made herself like it.

The date ended with another short kiss, but it felt the same as the first.

<Fast forward> </Fast forward>

Returning to the veritable hell hole that housed her psychopath, she had an interval of drama, vomiting, and bitter, unmitigated weeping. 

Then Octopus came to visit for the weekend and she was free of her 160 pound ball and chain for the day, since she wouldn't deign to hang out with them. 

Albeit the day started well, but the visit went horribly awry by the end of the night.

It progressed as any hang out day would:

-Watch Octopus play Halo with Corgill and his other more intellectually advanced friend, Wallaby

-Wander campus in search of Enlightenment and the wild pudding bush

-Watch episodes of Invader Zim.

-Then send him home before it got too late.

Though, as they were carrying out the last step, Emo-Girl and Octopus had trouble letting each other go.

So, rather than do the mature thing and part without making things awkward, they decided to sit in the back of his car and talk for a time. 

Though, that quick declined into a three hour make-out session. 

Some new couples would call this a step forward, but for Emo-Girl this was a declaration of marriage. 

After he departed, Emo-Girl quickly fell into doubt. So she went to the only advisee she knew of:

Psychopath. 

Of course, if you recall from earlier: 

The resentment still festered.

[The terror this photo evokes should be similar to waking up to an axe murderer standing over your bed with a bloody hatchet and a glass of Tang to pour down your throat as you die to make your last moments full of sour watered down orange drink.]

So, going to the psychopath, her mind was warped and twisted into believing that Octopus was quite possibly going to kidnap her away to Yunnan to live with the Buddhists the next time they met.

His wonderful image in her mind had transformed from this:

To This:

[Art and Image Copyright to ChongoZilla]

So she resolved to break up with him the very next day. 

When the time came, because she was still a wuss, she called him on the phone and, unlike last time, ended the relationship in a tired, but dignified way, since it was nearly midnight.

<The author of this post would like to extend a not-so-apologetic apology for not including the break up call on the post. But she's still friends with Octopus (or at least she was) and she does not want to encroach on his dignity anymore than she already has. She also extends a thank you to her friend for letting her post this.> 

Thus, concludes the chronicles of The Not So Tragic Love Life of Kate Awkward: Part 2. 

If you haven't decided to hate me because I can't relay my life in a coherently amusing way, keep your eyes peeled for more awkwardness. 

If you have, well, screw you. 

I don't need your approval. 

Peace off.