50 Shades of Crazy

In high school, I made the decision to jump on the bandwagon and read The Twilight Saga. Like a majority of the teenage girl population, I loved it. Unlike the majority of the teenage girl population, it ruined me. I started to get even more fed up with my teenage boyfriend than usual. He was just lazy. I mean my God, if it was raining I needed him to cover me from head to tow in a water repelling shield and carry me to the car. At night, while I slept, I fully expected him to climb into my window and whisper things like “I’ll make sure no one ever looks you in the eye without asking” or “don't worry sweetie, I will viciously murdered all your male friends because I am that in love with you.” He just didn’t do that kind of stuff and I had to break up with him. Those things were reasonable. Like W.W.E.D…what would Edward do, babe? As I grew and matured, I slowly released my Edward Cullen fantasy. I mean it wasn’t really that I stopped finding overwhelming control in a relationship important; I just got way more desperate and forgot about it a little. That is until I read the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy.

That horribly written, kinky sex filled novel became my secret heroin. I knew the implication this might have on me mentally, but I couldn’t put it down. I tried my hardest to use the things my therapist taught me during my Twilight binge, but I just couldn’t stop it from taking a temporary toll on my current relationship. I wasn’t committed to 50 Shades for the whips, chains and other slightly terrifying sexcapades that Anastasia and Christian embarked on, I was in it for the unhealthy level of obsession that he had with her.

The change washed over me slowly but surely as I morphed into a little blonde haired psychopath. “Hey I think I’m going to go out with my friends tonight” I muttered one evening to my boyfriend. “Okay cool have fun,” he responded like the most irresponsible human being I’d ever met. I should have listened to my therapist and calmly walked to the bathroom looked myself in the mirror and said “Katherine, Christian Grey isn’t real. It’s also really strange that, in the novel 50 Shades of Grey…WHERE HE EXISTS…he forces his girlfriend to take a security team with her everywhere she goes. That’s not normal behavior. Also Katherine, you look really pretty today. You should go assert confidence and go make a real human connection instead of wasting your time with romance novels. ” But I didn’t. I snapped. “Look sir” I screamed as I jumped off the couch. I emphasized the ‘sir’ because that’s what Ana calls Christian in the book. “I just told you that I am going to a bar. A BAR. In Norman, OK…a city with an EXTREMELY high crime rate. Like I mean right under DETROIT. And you’re just going to be that nonchalant about me going? I guess I get that you don’t have the financial means to hire a security team 24/7 but you can’t even do it for one night? Oh my god. You’re so cheap. At least force your roommate to follow me around all night and make sure I’m super safe.” He looked stunned which annoyed me even more so I just left. The next morning I had forgotten about it. It was clear I’d suffered from what Summer Roberts on The O.C. calls a “rage blackout.”

 Later that day, and after a few more chapters, I decided to take another cue from the book. I snuck over to his house while he was at work and suspended myself from the ceiling with rope. I thought this would be a nice romantic gesture after a long day of the 9 to 5 but it totally backfired. He told me to leave and not come back until I had let go of “Anastasia” and come back to “Katherine.” I sat on the curb of his apartment building sobbing covered in rope burns and self-defeat. He obviously just didn’t want to evolve with me, right? This couldn’t be my fault. I slowly got up and adjusted the Bloomingdales tag on the Alexander McQueen dress I had bought myself for the occasion with the money I was supposed to be using on school tuition. So 50 Shades of me. 

Then it hit me. I was spiraling again. This sick, sexy, dysfunctional couple was my new Edward and Bella and I needed help. I took a big deep breath and set fire to the book…. well I deleted it off my iPhone but you get the point. I returned the dress, I guess buying it with your parents money isn’t really the same as your megabillionaire lover’s personal shopper buying it for you. My boyfriend eventually took me back and my life is back on track but let this be a warning to all of you. 50 Shades of Grey is a cruel, harsh drug. This isn’t literary child’s play, Ladies. Be careful out there. 

Katherine

An Open Letter to Call Me Maybe

Dear "Call Me Maybe",

I used to consider myself a fairly intelligent person. I read books. I pretended I needed glasses. I used the word “seemingly”…correctly most of the time. I watched documentaries with subtitles. I mean I didn’t enjoy them but I watched them.  I tasted wine and then slowly swished it around in the glass muttering things like “can you feel those rich notes dance on your tongue?” I might even venture to say that people don’t like to invite me to parties because I always have the most interesting historical trivia. But now I’m not that person that I used to be and it’s your entire bubbly, infectious fault, "Call Me Maybe".

I will never forget the first time I heard you, your brain washing melody dripped out of my roommate’s iPhone speaker. I scoffed at you. “HA!”,  I said as I took a sip of my black coffee with a dash of pretension stirred in, “this song is so stupid.” Then something awful and wonderful happened. As you transitioned into the chorus, I felt an almost "Freaky Friday" change come over me. Within those 3 minutes and 13 seconds I had become a completely different person. There is now a pile of rainbow glitter where my cold, judgmental heart used to lie. I don’t walk anymore, I sashay. I call my friends things like “baby girl” and say “totes” with reckless abandon. My ringtone is just a recording of a little kid telling me to have an awesome day. I only wear colors that match the bubble gum I’m using to blow flirty bubbles. The most alarming thing I’ve realized is I am definitely not the only person that this has happened to. My best friend’s boyfriend, "American Chopper cast member look alike with a passion for Duck Dynasty", even wiggles to it. The entire town has turned into a giant dance sequence in a subpar movie and I effing love it.

I guess in short, "Call Me Maybe", thank you. Thank you for allowing the world to shed their converse tennis shoes and inhibitions, start drawing hearts over the I’s on their rent checks, and really live.

Sincerely with Kisses, Colored Eyeliner, and Kitten Smiles,

Katherine 

Hell On Earth: The Cottage Pool

“Through me you enter into the city of woes

Through me you enter into eternal pain,

Through me you enter the population of loss.

 Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

-Dante’s Inferno

Ever since I lied to my Priest about brushing my teeth during my First Reconciliation, I’ve been 110% sure I’m going to Hell. He asked me what I wanted to confess and I just stared back at him, cloaked in terrified silence. “Well,” he started, “Do you always mind your Mother?” I answered "yes" truthfully. “Have you ever stolen anything?” I said no, frankly insulted that he had even insinuated something so appalling. “Do you always brush your teeth when your Mother tells you to?” Oh God. How did he know? “Uhhhhh…yes.” I lied looking down at my Velcro-fastened shoes in horror. I tossed and turned that night knowing my fate was sealed. I was screwed. There was no way I was going to sit on a cloud watching as much Famous Jet Jackson as I wanted while Angels taught my Polly Pockets to talk after what I had just done. As I grew up I always knew in the back of my mind that I probably didn’t stand a chance. In high school, as I stamped out the Camel Number 9 I was pretending to smoke with my Catholic school required loafer, I knew I had just solidified that fact even more. The thing was, I just didn’t know what form “Hell” would come in. I mean I thought I did. You know "fiery pit with a mean red guy screaming at you to do certain tasks" or maybe somewhere that you could only wear Crocs and you had to do a lot of math. I was wrong. Hell is a much different, much more awful place and I would see it much sooner than expected. 

I’ve decided Hell is different for everyone. You know, like Satan has a Genius application or something that customizes your eternal pain. Unfortunately, mine came in the form of the pool at my apartment complex, The Cottages of Norman. 

When I walked in, I knew something was off. The air smelled of stale, barf-stained fraternity tank tops and Keystone Lights.  As the abrupt “clang” of the metal gate echoed behind me, I knew there was no way out. Immediately my sense of hearing was compromised, deafening my brain with the sounds of "Party Rock Anthem" mashed up with something that sounded like Pit Bull mashed up with Barry Manilow mashed up with a baby crying mashed up with Pink Floyd mashed up with Gladys Knight mashed up with the sounds of take off on the first Apollo mission mashed up with The Jackson 5 mashed up with Mel Gibson’s voicemail to his ex-wife. I knew this was sent to weaken me for the attack. 

I did my best to make it to a lounge chair, wading through the piles of passed out guys named Chad and other bros that weren’t up to the first challenge of the Under World, “Day Drankin’.” I laid down bracing myself for the next phase of the swimming pool prep process, trying my best to ignore the too-loud conversations of the overly tanned and perfectly groomed.  The next thing I heard was “No, but like I’m for real. If he’s gonna be all about her than I’m def. going to make out with that half-Iranian guy that’s been texting me. It’s like 'let me live'….. ya know? YOLO and all that. You think you can smoke weed with your ex after I repeatedly asked you not to and I’m just gonna be like 'yeah, sure honey, I’ll do your laundry and hook up with you whenever?’ So over it. Like already done. Like unclear as to why I'm just now over it.” 

At that point I thought maybe it was a good idea to swim and take my mind off things. I tried to be sexy as I walked over to the pool but the pavement was so hot I just ended up looking like a scene from Bridget Jones’ Diary or something. Once I got in, the pool was so incredibly packed that swimming had become a mere pipe dream. It was like a battle zone, but with a lot more over-the-swimsuit fondling. The worst part was I had absolutely no idea what to do with my hands. Do I put them at my sides? Do I cross my arms? Do I use them to subtly dance? Like seriously, what do I do with my hands? I decided to just throw them straight into the air and make unbreakable eye contact with every well-manicured sorostitute that came my way, showing them that I would not back down. It was every man for himself. I climbed out and dangled my pale legs from the edge. I gazed down at the murky water filled with urine, beer cans and tanning oil, briefly catching a glimpse of my reflection.  A tear came to my eye. “I WANT ANOTHER CHANCE!” I screamed at water Katherine. “PLEASE GOD GIVE ME ANOTHER CHANCE!” Then suddenly the heavens opened up and an angel dropped down in the most unlikely form. “You can’t have glass by the pool”, she barked glancing at my drink, “leave.” 

I’ve literally never missed Mass since.