Rules of The Dance Floor and Life

It’s summer, which for a lot of people means weddings, barbecues, and other parties of the like. In the summer I work at an event hall, and that means I see a lot of these events and a lot of dance floors and P!nk once said, “If God is a DJ, life is a dance floor.” I have compiled a list of my own rules for the dance floor accompanied by what they mean in the metaphor of life.

  1. Do not be the person texting on the dance floor. I see this all the time with people who are near my age. You’re dancing and having a great time, but then your friend who is somewhere else texts you about her boyfriend troubles or your own boyfriend is texting you making sure you’re not stepping out on him or hatever it may be. 90% of the time, it can wait. You look dumb trying to dance and have fun while staring into a screen. In life, need I say much more? Yes, technology is great. We all love our iPhones and Snapchat and everything. But take a minute and look up sometimes. You don’t need to keep everyone updated on every second of your life. Enjoy the moment in which you are present with those who are around you in real life.
  2. No one cares about your diet on the dance floor. Stop thinking about how many times you went up to the buffet. Stop wondering how long you have to Dougie before you burn off that piece of cake. Have fun. On an everyday basis, no one wants to know about how restrictive your diet is. If it makes you happy, and you enjoy what you are or aren’t eating, do it. But if you go to dinner with me, I’m getting a burger regardless of whether or not you’re just having a salad.
  3. It is [almost] always acceptable to be the first person on the dance floor. So in reality, if it’s a wedding and the dance floor is not open yet because they’re waiting to announce the bride and groom, do not be the first person on the dance floor. However, if the DJ says the dance floor is open and everyone is just looking around, be the first person. Everyone will silently thank you. Similarly, if you’re the only one willing to start something new, you should probably do it. There is a word derived from an indigenous language of Tierra Del Fuego known as Mamihlapinatapai, which refers to “a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other would initiate something that they both desire but which neither wants to begin.” We don’t have a word for this sensation in the English language, but we all know exactly what that is. Pro tip: be the initiator.
  4. If a dance circle opens up, take a turn in the center. I know not everybody loves being the center of attention as much as I do, but I think it’s always a good idea to take a step outside of your comfort zone, even if only for a minute. Take the spotlight sometimes. Even if you’re really bad at dancing. If you’re having fun, no one cares that you don’t have the best rhythm.
  5. Even if you hate the song, if everyone’s dancing, and you are otherwise having a good time, dance with them. You all know how much I hate Taylor Swift. But if I’m at a party, and Shake it Off comes on, you can bet I’m getting down to this sick beat™. It’s not worth my time to stand in the corner refusing to dance solely because I can’t stand the singer. Obviously in life, if you hate doing something or you are uncomfortable doing it, don’t do it. But if it’s something so minuscule as dancing to a Top 40 song, you might as well sing along.
  6. Learn the words to Bohemian Rhapsody. If you’ve been living under a rock for the last 40 years and still don’t know the words, or the gist of the words, do it now. Period. It’s basically the National Anthem. Just do it.
  7. Being single on the dance floor is usually more fun anyways. I have danced many a dance floor without a date. It’s fine. Don’t pout about it. Own it. When Single Ladies inevitably comes on, own that. Every living human being born not as a conjoined twin has had to be alone for some event in their life, and they have survived. You will survive if you make the most of it. It is okay to embrace singularity. On the dance floor and in life. It is okay to be alone. You’re never even really alone, there are 7.1 billion people in the world. Some alone time does us some good sometimes, anyway.
  8. Have a go-to song. On the dance floor, for karaoke, for the worst days of your life, have a go-to song. Learn a dance routine, learn the lyrics and the harmonies, make it your own. Get it tattooed on your body forever, if that’s what you’re into. Impress your friends with a flawlessly memorized Nicki verse, or some perfectly nailed choreography. This goes great for when you put #4 in practice. In life, you should figure out how to make yourself happy. Find your ultimate happy place that grounds you and brings you back into yourself for when the inevitably crappy things happen throughout your life. Find the thing that’s going to help you say “I’m okay. I’ll get through this.”
  9. Dance like nobody and everybody is watching at the same time. There is a psychological phenomenon called the imaginary audience when humans tend to believe that everyone around them is noticing them. Like when you’re having a bad hair day and you think surely everyone will notice. Truth is, no one really notices, and if they notice, they don’t care. So when you’re dancing and you don’t actually know how to dance, dance anyway. But don’t be afraid to show off if you are a really great dancer. Use the dance floor as a stage every now and then.
  10. What happens on the dance floor stays on the dance floor. Have fun. Life is short. Embarrass yourself, laugh about it, move on. Don’t take yourself too seriously.

 

xoxo,

Kam

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Why is That Girl Crying About the Black Eyed Peas?

Spoiler alert: I’m the girl.

We all have that one song that whenever we hear it, wherever we are, we are sent into an emotional trance be it ecstasy or dejection.

For me, one of those songs is “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas. I am not kidding. And the trance I go into is not necessarily happy. Every time that song plays I fight back tears. I was working my catering job last night for a Bar Mitzvah. The DJ played that song, and I had to tell myself, “Kamaron you are NOT about to cry in front of these 13-year-old kids.”

I sound crazy at this point, I realize that, but I’m so serious and I’m not totally proud of it. The Peas literally sing the days of the week in this song. It’s not exactly a lyrical masterpiece. Yet what it evokes in me would suggest something like that notion.

I remember when the hit song came out. It was huge, and 7 years later remains iconic. The song marked the unofficial (and shortlived) comeback of the Black Eyed Peas. It was regarded as the most successful song of the 21st century until it was surpassed by Pharrell’s “Happy” in 2014.

For me it means a lot more than the records and its cultural significance, though. It brings me back to middle school and the year following the untimely death of my father. I was getting ready to transition to high school and leave all my friends behind when I transferred into a private school. It was this moment of uncertainty for my life, but then will. i. am proclaimed, “I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night.”

That obscure but simple message is the tale as old as “Don’t worry, be happy.” BEP assures us, we don’t really know what the future or even the night holds, but they’ve got a feeling it’s going to be good, so we should enjoy it.

Maybe it’s just a catchy pop song. Maybe it’s just one of those fun songs we’ll keep playing at weddings and basketball games until we’re dead. Maybe I’m reading way too far into it, but maybe who cares? I’ve gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night.

I’m Different, Yeah, I’m Different

Peter Griffin, of Family Guy fame, once sang a song that speaks to me on many levels:

What makes you so special/The fact that you are special/But if everybody’s special/that kinda waters it down/So some of you ain’t special/I can tell you who is special/like you and you ain’t special/ and you are, and you’re not.

We’re all pretty much raised to think that we’re something special, and have the ability to change the world. Every parent thinks their kid is the greatest thing. Even if you have siblings, your parent likely brags like “My kid is THE best!” And you ask them which one and your parent is like “All of them . They’re all the BEST.”

I have this weird complex in my head that I always felt like I was actually super special. Like I will be a celebrity or something because my brain can’t function as an average person. This is a real thing that goes through my head.

But I’m in college now, and I’ve met all these people that are incredible human beings. I sit in my writing classes and think How am I supposed to compete in the industry with these people? I sometimes wonder about people who went to my school like JJ Abrams. Did his professors and peers know he was going to be a huge Hollywood director? I don’t even really want that kind of fame I just want to be better than a lot of people.

But then I think about the average people. The ones who kind of just keep their head down, work hard, and live out the American Dream. By that I mean, they graduate, they get a job, settle down, find a spouse, have kids, then work until they die. That’s an “average life,” right? It’s not a bad thing. Some of us look at that and think it looks miserably boring, but like that’s what most people do and that is what life looks like.

That freaks me out a little bit, though. I don’t want to be average. I have to be special.

There’s nothing wrong with being average, though. We need average people, or else nothing would get done in the world. We all have our talents and gifts. I just like to think that my talents and gifts are going to put me on the map. Like Peter Griffin said, “If everybody’s special, that kinda waters it down.”

I’m the worst. 🙂

xoxo,

Kam

Petty Uncool

I think most of us grew up with parents who told us not to be sore losers. Especially if you had siblings, this was a big part of growing up—accepting that you’re not always going to win, and when you don’t you have to say “Good game,” and move on.

Right now teens and twentysomethings (I have recently joined the twentysomething club), are really into being “petty.” Maybe it’s one of those passing trends that will soon be over when the next buzzword comes around, but there’s a serious problem underlying this fad. I’ve heard a lot of people talking about refusing to do big things because they can’t do them a certain way. I’m thinking especially about politics and voting, but I don’t want to put an example in your mind if one hasn’t already popped up.

Beyond politics, though, it’s a life habit that people are falling into. If I can’t do this my way, I’m not doing it at all. That’s petty, and that’s not how life works. Maybe I’m reading too much into a fad, but I’m fairly certain I’m not.

Why is it a cool thing to be petty? answer: it’s not. It shouldn’t be. It’s immature. I’m not talking about you being pressured into doing something you don’t want to do. Refusal to do something for a valid reason is not petty. Petty is not going to your best friend’s wedding because she didn’t pick you as maid of honor. Petty is being a sore loser.

I’ve fallen into this trap recently. That’s what people in my generation seem to do—we latch onto a fad “ironically” but then it becomes a part of our lives, and we need to take back control. Remember when sarcasm was used occasionally and was actually funny? Now people name sarcastic as a character trait they possess. That’s not cool! I’m sorry, it’s not about being cool, but it’s about being a better human, and untethered sarcasm isn’t going to get you there.

Stop being petty.

xoxo,

Kam

Open Letter to all the “Open Letter” People

Dear Open Letter People,

Why? Why do you all keep doing this? We all see every OdysseyOnline link that gets shared a billion times “Open Letter to______” I’m sorry, I’m not sorry, it’s unoriginal.

I did it. I have an “Open Letter to the Gays” on my blog. I did it over a year ago before this huge influx of open letters, so maybe it’s my fault this whole thing is trending, but now it’s getting really old.

I encourage writing! I think everyone should try their hand at blogging and writing personal essays. I don’t think every single one needs to be in the form of this “open letter.” Anything you post on the internet is an open letter, you don’t need to specify that.

Writing an “Open letter” to me is first and foremost clickbait. I get it, you want people to read and share your post. Look at this headline, it’s an open letter. I’m hoping everyone and their sister reads it and maybe stops writing these open letters. It’s a marketing ploy, which is fine, but maybe try something different. Instead of “Open Letter to my Former Self,” try “I Killed the Child Inside of Me.” Instead of “Open Letter to my Mom,” try “My Mom Isn’t Beyoncé, but She’s the Next Best Thing.”

It’s like people who think liking coffee is an important personality trait. We get it. You like coffee. You and half the country. I believe that you like coffee, it’s just not interesting. It doesn’t make you different. Do you like the blood of your enemies in your coffee? THAT’S different! That makes you the special snowflake you are!

Mahatma Ghandi once said, “Speak only if it improves upon the silence.” Do that. Be yourself. Be unique. Stop writing open letters.

xoxo,

Kam

 

I Don’t Hate Exercising

You know, I really really hate to admit when I’m wrong, but there comes a time when we all must humble ourselves and admit the truth. A little over a year ago, I wrote a post called I Hate Exercising where I explained why I felt that way. It actually was very focused on “the look” of working out, but also explained that I thought going to the gym was mind-numbingly boring.

I’m here today to tell you that I have been changed. I kind of sort of love working out. It’s still a lot about the way I feel after a workout, but part of me has really come to enjoy the grind (I still hate gym lingo, but baby steps).

Most of it came from being an athlete. That has never been as big of a deal as it has for me in college. Not only is it part of my social identity, it’s also just a huge part of my lifestyle. From February-May, I am in the gym 6 days a week with my team. Something that takes that much time out of your life has to be something you enjoy, or you lose yourself. And I prefer to be a winner.

This year in particular, I just got really motivated to be as in shape before the season started as I could. I went to the gym as often as I could, and really started to enjoy what I was doing there. Maybe I am just high on endorphins, but there’s something incredible about movement. I’m starting to understand the whole “runner’s high” experience (I get more of an “elliptical high,” but I digress). I feel like my mind and body have synced up and are operating to their full potential.

I could go on and on about the benefits of exercise, but you know them already, and they’re pretty boring. I will tell you that when you start to enjoy this activity, though, it’s kind of euphoric. I can’t even really explain it. I’m in a pretty good mood most of the time anyway, but I’m in a better mood now that I’m more in shape. This my way of saying everybody needs to get in shape to be happy, it’s not even about my physical appearance. It’s more of a mindset. I like the feeling of knowing I have started this good habit and I don’t want to quit.

I don’t know. I wanted everyone to know that I’ve had this revelation. I encourage my readers to find something they like doing that makes them feel this way. Who knows, maybe I’ll see you at the gym.

 

xoxo,

Kam

That’s What Happened With Cat

My lack of posts recently can be directly attributed to a major case of writer’s block. Therefore, I have decided to try something different and share an essay with you readers that I wrote for my nonfiction workshop this past semester. I hope you enjoy.

Pyewacket was a member of the family before I was even a thought. I grew up right behind her as if she was my third older sister. As she watched me grow from infancy through adolescence, I watched her grow from a spry young feline into a decrepit bag of bones.

When I was young, I wanted to align my opinions closest with my older brother Zack. As the only male child, he assumed dominance among the siblings, even over our oldest sister, so I imitated him the most. He didn’t like peas, so I didn’t like peas. He preferred vanilla, so I avoided chocolate. He always wanted a dog, so I affected a distaste toward our cat. As I grew older, while the rest of my opinions formed independently, I kept my apathy for Pyewacket.

Domestic house cats are typically expected to live up to 15 years. So when Pyewacket reached 17, then 18, we knew it couldn’t be much longer. First she started slowing down. Like any creature past its prime, Pyewacket slowly stopped doing normal cat things. She used scratching post less and less. She only went outside to cry to be let back in. She started sleeping all the time. Not that cats are usually playful and overly energetic, but there was a distinction between her youthful sleeping habits and those as she entered her final years.

Next came the howling. We understand that she may have gone deaf or, at least, hard of hearing so to compensate, her meows became howls. This would be fine for a normal healthy cat, but Pyewacket became a finicky old bitch. My bedroom was situated closest to Pyewacket’s food bowl, so I spent most of my high school years being woken up by these howls. If she was hungry, which was around her 6 am, she let me know. She would situate herself right outside my door and cry for an hour before I could motivate myself to get out of bed and feed her. MROW! MROW! MRRRROWWWW!!! became my alarm clock. I never wanted the job of caring for the cat, but she decided it would be my job for those years until the food itself wasn’t enough.

A curious thing about this aging cat was finding teeth throughout the house. I’d run my hand along the back of the couch where she habitually napped, and find a fang or two among the cushions. Soon it was hard to believe she had any teeth left, and apparently she had lost too many to continue to manage hard food. We noticed her food bowl went untouched for days before, I assume, she would endure gumming her food to avoid starvation. My mom ultimately decided to start buying wet food, and Pyewacket ate right up.

Then there was the peeing. In the beginning of her decline, Pyewacket started peeing on soft things. If a blanket or pillow were left on the floor, she would pee on it. She still used her litter box sometimes, but if you left any kind of fabric on the floor, you could expect it to smell like ammonia the next day. Whether she conditioned us to stop leaving things on the floor or she just stopped caring about where she was peeing, she eventually started peeing everywhere. The carpet, the linoleum, sometimes her litter box, but anywhere else was fair game. This was when my anger and hatred grew for her. She would look me square in the eye and pee on the carpet as if to say, “F*** your youth.” I eagerly awaited her death. Every time I found her sleeping especially static, I would check for a pulse only to be disappointed by the sudden up/down of her frail body taking a breath.

The summer before I left for college, I spent most of my time around the house. One day my sister, Kassidy, and I were home, doing nothing and expecting nothing. The landline rang and neither one of us answered. A woman’s voice echoed through the house leaving a voicemail, “Hello this is animal control. We found your kitty on the side of the road…” Kassidy and I met in the living room, realizing the situation. We glanced out the window and saw the animal control truck across the street. I bit my lip trying not to smile.

We approached the truck, and found the woman who had been trying to contact us.

“Hi, you were just leaving a message on our machine?” I asked.

“Hi! Yeah, your number was on her collar. I’m so sorry.” The woman opened the side of the truck.

“Ohhh no,” Kassidy feigned a sad face.

The woman brought a black garbage bag out of the truck and asked if there was some place we wanted it.

“Oh. We have to take it?” I asked, confused as to what would have happened if we hadn’t come outside.

“Yes..” The woman seemed appalled at my willingness to part with this animal.

“I guess you can leave her here on the porch, and we’ll wait for my mom to come home.” The woman gently laid the bagged cadaver on my front porch and left us with her condolences. I called my mom and delivered the bad news. I was shocked when she said she’d leave work on her lunch hour. The cat was still going to be dead when she got home at 4.

My mom pulled in the driveway with a wet face. I had hoped there wouldn’t be any crying. I showed her where the cat laid, baking in the sun. “What happened?” she cried.

“They’re not really sure. I guess she was on the grass across the street, and one of the neighbors called animal control. They didn’t think she got hit by a car. She didn’t look all bloody or anything.” We decided it would be best to put her in a better container until we could give her a proper burial later, so I brought out an empty litter container, in which she should not have fit, but she folded right in it. My mom returned to work.

That afternoon, my brother-in-law Alfredo came over to help us bury Pyewacket. She loved him the most, honestly. He dug a hole, and I brought out a paper bag to contain her more ecologically than the garbage bag. My mom scoffed at the inappropriateness of the Olive Garden bag in which we buried her, and I counter the fact that we could pay for an honorable pet funeral, and she quieted.

“Well, I don’t really believe that pets go to heaven,” my mom delivered a eulogy. “But if they do, I sure hope Alvin is rubbing your back with his foot [My father would do this all the time before he parted]. And I hope you weren’t in any pain. You were a good cat.” She wiped her face, and we took a moment of silence.

The whole situation was bittersweet on my end. I was not sad to see the cat go. I might even say I was glad to be done with her. I was however, disconcerted by the noises that continued throughout my house at night that I had previously attributed to Pyewacket. A thud here, a creak there. Now there was no comforting explanation as to what went bump in the night.

Leave Disney Princesses Alone!

While we’re on the subject of body shaming, can we talk about Disney Princesses?

Yes. The secret is out. Cinderella, Aurora, Snow White, all unrealistic bodies that would not support human life in the real world. But that’s the thing- they don’t exist in the real world. These are cartoon characters.

Why is it such a crime that all the princesses are skinny? Would I hate a plus-sized princess? No, but I don’t think it’s necessary. I keep seeing articles about people getting all up in arms because these characters have “unrealistic body standards.” My question is: whose standards are you holding yourselves or other people to? I know that there is this idea of ideal beauty in most of society’s mind that includes a slim waist. However, I do not for a second believe that that standard comes from cartoons. And I certainly do not believe they are furthering that standard.

Proportions are funny. Like for most of us not great artists when we’re asked to draw a face and we draw it with the eyes where the forehead should be and the nose in the true center of a perfectly circular face. I think a lot of us don’t understand how the actual proportions of our bodies work. But it’s not like we freak out if a person’s nose is in the exact center of the face. I don’t know if this is making sense.

I know the people at Disney have probably taken a few drawing classes, so they actually do understand proportions, and just choose to mess them up. But that doesn’t mean ill-proportioned bodies are becoming an expectation for our young girls. I think little girls want to look like Cinderella, yes, but not because her neck is the same size as her waist; it’s because she’s a freakin princess.

The point is, I don’t think women and girls look to cartoons for body inspiration. I think they do look at celebrities, I do it myself. And I’m not saying all celebrities should be a certain size in order to make girls feel comfortable. I think we’re getting past idolizing the anorexic look, and forgive me if I’m wrong. If we need better “role models” for our bodies (which in reality, we don’t need them at all) then we need more representation in live action movies. And even then, how about we just stop comparing ourselves to people who are on camera for a living. I know, easier said than done, but it’s the only solution.

Anyway, forget about cartoons. It’s not their fault we’re a messed up society.

Sorry this was a word vomit of a post.

xoxo,
Kam

An Open Letter to the Gays

Dear Gay Men Who Say Things About Their Nonexistent Uteruses,

I understand it is hard to be a gay man. It’s getting better on a global scale, sort of. Slowly but surely. I understand some of you have families who shun you or live in states where you don’t have rights. I understand you face constant discrimination and prejudice, and I agree with you, it is just not fair.

However, this does not mean you have a uterus.

I say this because I am a woman, and I do, in fact, have a uterus. I say this because the other day, while looking at an adorable video of my perfect niece, my perfectly flamboyant gay friend, exclaims, “Oh my uterus!” Listen, you don’t nor will you ever have a uterus. You have a lot of things: effeminate mannerisms, a queer little swish when you walk, and probably a passion for Lady Gaga. But you do not have the uterus.

I won’t go into comparisons between how hard it is to be a woman vs. how hard it is to be a gay man, because I don’t know that one is exponentially harder than the other, but do not try to take away my pain because of a “cuteness overload.”

First of all, MY uterus is not affected by pictures of puppies or baby elephants. MY uterus does not swoon at the sight of Harry Styles. MY uterus does not flutter when it “becomes emotional” because frankly, MY uterus doesn’t have emotions, and if it did it would only have one and it would without a doubt be RAGE.

MY uterus squeezes and contracts once a month if I decide hey I’m not even 19 I don’t need a baby. MY uterus causes me sometimes debilitating pain. MY uterus might one day hold a human life and expands to nearly 20x its normal weight. MY uterus is a part of me that defines my womanhood.

So talk to me about marriage equality. Complain about discrimination. Celebrate Katy Perry with me. But DO NOT try to take away the one thing that is solely mine. You do not have a uterus.

Xoxo
Kam

Unapologetic Disclaimer: I write this letter lightheartedly and in fun, good spirits. I support and love the gays. However the men still do not have uteruses.

I Hate Exercising

Spoiler alert: this is just gonna be a rant about why I hate exercising.

I hate exercising. I am all about health and if you’re into it, fitness, but I really really hate working out. It’s boring. I love playing sports (sort of), and like dancing and/or doing things like Zumba, but I absolutely hate going to the gym to run in place and pick up heavy things. It’s mind numbingly boring. I wish it wasn’t a socially encouraged thing that we subject ourselves to.

Let me tell you what I do at the gym. First, I take about 3 hours to convince myself to go. If that is successful, I take about another hour to get ready. The only thing I like about working out is the clothes. I love workout clothes. They’re comfortable, and if you can afford them, they’re cute. I love looking like someone who goes to the gym a lot. I think that’s a really cute look, and you really look like you have your life together if it looks like you enjoy working out and can afford Lululemon (I can’t.)

Affording cute workout clothes was a big deal for me. All of high school, I wore like my dad’s old basketball shorts and random t-shirts to the gym when I went to softball workouts and I felt like such a slob. Granted I went to a yuppie private school where the athletes were elitist jocks, the worst kind of jocks. You were a total scrub if you didn’t have brightly colored Nikes and matching spandex. The ultimate status symbol, of course, were Nike mid-calves. You all know what I’m talking about. Black socks, that come about 3 inches about the ankle, and have white swooshes on the sides. If you didn’t wear them you were irrelevant. The typical girl in my high school weight room would be wearing: brightly colored (probably custom) Nikes, preferably matching NikePro spandex under coordinated NikePro running shorts, and a white Fruit of the Loom v-neck men’s undershirt. I kid you not, every girl is in this same outfit or a variation of it. I loved this look. I wanted this look, but I couldn’t afford it and there was no way in hell my mom would’ve bought me $80 running shoes or $12/pair socks.

Eventually I figured out how to cheat the system. Wal Mart picked up on the trends, and their athletic wear line started to feature shorts that resembled, almost identically, the NikePro shorts and spandex for around $6/pair. I made out like bandit. I bought a pack of t-shirts, some Hanes mid-calf socks at around $0.50/pair, and matched some spandex and shorts. I finally had “the look.” I never felt more accomplished. By senior year, I had my own job, so I broke my bank on my first pair of Nike running shoes, and I had arrived. All this, and I did not like working out even a little more.

Now I’m in college. I go to Sarah Lawrence, which is a tiny liberal arts school in Yonkers, New York. Athletics here is like an afterthought. We have sports, and just became an NCAA Divison III competitor, and I am continuing my softball career here. There are people here that are athletes, but it’s nothing like high school. I went to a Zumba class in my first week here, in my Nike sneakers, Nike mid-calves, Wal Mart knock-off shorts, spandex, and my white v-neck, and I felt judged. Everyone else was pretty much naked, in tiny dancer shorts or just spandex, but they looked nothing like me. Maybe it was because it was a dance class, and not a weight-room, but I was mortified. Okay, it wasn’t that big a deal, but I’m pretty pissed.

Working out is all about a look. Okay, for some people it’s about health, but for me it’s about a look. I either want to look like I work out in my body shape or my clothes, and it’s definitely not gonna be my body shape at this point, so it has to be my clothes. And here, no one cares. I guess that’s good for me, but I’m pretty salty I put in so much effort for nothing.

Whatever, I hate working out.

xoxo
Kam