"Blessing In Disguise"

Shut the fuck up.

Seriously, this nonsense makes a person going through some shit get even crazier. It is the opposite of empathy, and it minimizes the gravity of ones situation.

I seriously hate this phrase. I can't even begin to emphasize this enough.

Seriously. Seriously. Seriously.

The thing that really frosts my cookies about it is that it negates that the thing that has happened is awful. Just because you might end up in a better place eventually does not mean that this horrible thing was not horrible. Also, if the horrible thing did not occur, that just means that your life is blessed already without the trouble of dealing with a complete bullshit situation.

If this post oozes of frustration and bitterness, my point has been made.

On another note, how hilarious would it be to see like a personified blessing wearing a pair of fake glasses with bushy eyebrows and a big nose? It would be incredibly hilarious is the correct answer.

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away."

Apples, doctors, health?

Please. That's almost as true as the Cosmopolitan magazine theory that eating a yogurt a day keeps yeast infections away. That is to say, it's not true.

Looking back on the reason for this treason, I've considered a few things. The most apt theory implies that apples must not have tasted good when they first became a regular on the kid menu. Such that, mothers everywhere banned together to make up some ridiculous rhyme to get them into bellies.

Rhymes are the first sign that something is askew. Take for example this ditty I just made up: "A mushroom a week will give you a great physique." Maybe if that's the only thing you ate, but mushrooms alone have the potential to make you cracked out of your gourd.

If anything, carry away just this one thing: just because it's a rhyme doesn't mean it's accurate.

Another perfect example: "Hang your clothes up, and I'll get you a pup." Boy, I'm not getting you a dog, even if you hang up my clothes too.

Rhymes are the devils delight. That's a fact.

Out of Breath

If you're reading this, you're alive. You did it! Don't give me this ear full saying you've had enough. Enough life. I told an 80-year-old that I didn't want to live til I was 80. I immediately regretted saying it as it poured out of my regretful face. This woman is so full of life, of breath, air. Sure, every time I see her she's showing some more gums and less teeth, but she's chill.

Every day I see her at work and think, no, you're not out of breath until your body is decomposing in the ground. Out of breath is the same as without breath. So, as long as you're "with it," you have it. The key is to skip wasting it.

"candy, beer, chips and snacks -- that's what makes the tummy fat."

This saying is not in widespread use, BUT IT SHOULD BE. Perhaps the new slogan for Michelle Obama's War on Fat Middle Schoolers? I could see it. A beautifully toned-armed-MO standing beneath a plastic banner, while kids whose parents claim "haven't grown into their bodies" let this non-rhyming life advice sink in.

For nearly 26 years, though I've only paid attention for the last 10, my father has repeated this sentiment time and again. Of course, he's the same turd buying Sara Lee premade cakes and cookies that, while they don't even taste good, you eat because they're still cookies, and they're there, so they're adequate.

There's no ifs, ands, or buts, candy, beer, chips and snacks make the tummy fat. Even if you're a high-metabolism-having-14-year-old boy, eventually those tasty treats will not only bite you in the ass, but create one. And not the good, taut booties coveted by JLo and Beyonce, but rather the rippled messes trailing behind unhappy teachers. Michelle gets it.

"Candy, beer, chips and snacks 2012!"

"It's all in your head."

I spend a great deal of time pouring over The New York Times, CNN, Variety, E!, and basically anything that streams on NPR. Perhaps it's my journalistic inclination to question the world and soak in the news as it's the very vehicle that is for both questioning and answering.

A few weeks ago I spent a great deal of time reading and rereading "What Happened to the Girls in Le Roy," an article published March 7, in the New York  Times.

My favorite part of the piece was a comment by a woman whose daughter was diagnosed with a sort of "hysteria of tics" brought on by stress. She essentially said, "What is this, the 70s?" referring to the years and years where "women's diseases" were prevalent, ranging from Post-Partum to other confidence-surrending ailments.

This article brought back into the public eye this "female disease," but now it's news because it's so out of the ordinary, when back in the day stress sicknesses were buried in psychotherapy appointments. We've all seen Betty Draper on Madmen detail her housewife problems to her therapist, and the subsequent need for attention.To her credit, she was married to a liar. I love Don Draper as a character, but men in the '60s, no thank you.

The notion that your body can manifest a physical ramification of something your mind can't deal with really freaks me out. It's not all in your head once the first crack in the glass creeps through, gradually shattering the facade. So, no, it's not all in your head. Usually when you feel like someone dislikes you, or this that or the other, you're not wrong. You may have blown it out of proportion, sure, but that doesn't make it any less real.