This was my first Christmas Eve & Day that I had to work. (Yes it sucked, let’s move on). Luckily I had company in the form of one of my newest friends Santiago, or else I would’ve totes hung myself with some Dollar General holiday garland and tinsel only to be discovered by my buidling’s security guard who thinks it’s appropriate to hug me whenever I come home drunk.

So what exactly do you do when you have to work the holidays far from home? Drink, obviously. But keep in mind, there is a delicate balance between a good festive buzz and being pathetically drunk on the Eve of Great Baby Jesus’ birth. This is a line you don’t want to cross, if you do you’ll probably end up hating yourself until 2012.

Tips to avoid this: Do NOT ride the bull. Do not even edge near the thing for god’s sake. It just goes against all that is pure and holy. Having dudes video your epic fail of a fall in a mini-skirt is definitely not my idea of a Merry Christmas. Didn’t think that even needed to be said but I definitely saw some exposed coochies last night and thought I’d reiterate for all my slotas out there taking no holidays off.

…And then there’s the sad drunks. The dudes that are at home drinking alone, lashing out at anyone who dares to keep them company after the bars close. Avoid these people. Even though they have the most bottles of liquor and the most banging flat-screen, they will try and ruin your merriness. Sure it sucks that you’re alone on Christmas and don’t have a significant other to cuddle and laugh at single people with, but god damn at least you aren’t on the street outside of Shakespeare’s begging for a quarter.

So DO consume drinks like “Jet Fuel” (it’s fucking blue, guys, BLUE) and have a “Vegas Bomb,” cause really, why the hell not? Now go and have a Merry Christmas, no excuses you filthy animals.

Two months ago I couldn’t keep a plant from shriveling up and dying, but now I’m a mom of sorts, (which totally means I expect gifts on Mother’s Day). My transformation into cat lady was so swift I almost missed it, but thankfully my friends were there to point out that I was becoming that creepy woman with a cat… Not. Sure, all the tell-tale signs were there, but I refused to acknowledge the fact that I was beginning to like my kitten more than most people: the baby-talk, the catnaps, the kitty litter remnants everywhere and, of course, the scratches.

I’m quite the impulsive person, and after meeting and falling instantly in love with my best friend’s cat I started the search for a four-legged friend to love me despite my tendency to never return texts, cancel first dates and crippling fear of commitment.

Now don’t let anyone tell you Craigslist is for creeps. Sure, a percentage of those using the site for “casual encounters” are people you would never want to meet in a dark alley, but there are plenty of legitimate good finds. This is where I found Molly. I adopted her from a perky high school girl who had received the cat as a gift she was unable to keep. Lucky for me her mom was allergic.

It was love at first meow. I met Molly’s former owner in a parking lot with FlipCam in hand, marking an important turning point in my life: my first cat video. Bringing her home was interesting, especially when my mother heard her nails claw the living room furniture set for the first time. My cat’s sheer energy was also very off-putting for my family, who were understandably used to chilling in front of the TV without fear of being scratched or bitten by a furry feline.

Molly and I set up shop at my house for a few weeks before coming back to Austin for session one of summer school. Only problem was my apartment complex doesn’t allow animals. To answer your question, yes I am secretly housing a kitten in my two-bedroom apartment at a secret location, and damn it is not easy. There’s not really too much a 3-month old kitten can do in an apartment beside damaging the drapes but my complex’s habit of entering your place at their discretion still has me on my toes.

Although my legs have one or two unflattering red scratches at all times and most of my silky pillows are snagged I can’t say I regret changing into the “creepy cat lady” who talks about her pet at parties, the creepy stare-offs I have with my cat before she pounces and tries to claw my eyes out are something I wouldn’t trade for the world.

I used to be 22 and from California, with a 90210 zipcode to boot. Thanks to my friend, Jose, who “works” in MacArthur Park in downtown LA, I temporarily led a life most teens could only dream about.

Exclusive clubs on Hollywood Blvd were no longer just figments of my imagination. And it was all thanks to my little plastic piece of freedom. During my internship in Los Angeles this past summer, my fake ID became my passport to some of the best night life in the world; my constant companion guaranteeing me a good time.

Now let’s not get it twisted, at the ripe young age of nineteen I knew how to control myself. I was no Lindsay Lohan, stumbling out of the hottest clubs a hot mess. In my mind, I was simply using my new “identity” as a ticket to gain access… My ID was my in.

But nothing gold can stay, and through a series of highly unfortunate and ridiculous events I was thrown back to underage and uncool status not once, but twice… And let me say, being 19 again hurt.

The first time my ID was taken away, by a cop no less, my quest to gain back my over-21 status resembled that of an addict fiending for their next fix. I simply could not live until I was 22 again. No matter the cost, I’d pay it; no matter the danger, I’d go.

Being without a car, I’d literally beg anyone with a set of wheels to drive me to Central LA  - becoming “that girl” to most of the people I interned and lived with who were mostly of age. But I couldn’t stop myself. I just couldn’t handle the idea of no longer being able to go out while everyone else was having “the best night ever!” This marked the beginning of my obsession with the fear of missing out, or as I lovingly call it: F.O.M.O.

It was like I had prematurely experienced what being 21 had to offer and I just could not go back to the way my weekends were before… What was behind the velvet rope simply could not be unseen.

…I was also in straight-up denial. To anyone who would listen I would preach my so-called maturity, wiseness beyond my years and the “unfairness” of the drinking age. It was all quite pathetic, really.

Finally summer drew to a close and I went back to school, where, let’s face it, no one needs a fake ID for a good time. I was back on track, I was with my people: my underage comrades facing a world that told us “you’re too young.”

And then SXSW happened. In the weeks prior to Austin’s weeklong festival I had made a wish-list of sorts, filled with my favorite DJs, bands and comedians coming to town. As the festival drew closer, each and every entertainer was scratched off the list due to the fact that they were all 21-plus events.

I was crushed. But more importantly that fiendish feeling was back. My absolute need to become of age was at it’s height when I watched a show from an alley outside a crappy bar. I vowed to never experience that pathetic feeling again. Jamming by the trash is just not cool.

What I learned from that week was to not come back to SXSW until I was 21, legitimately. Why put myself through that torture? At my age, I simply did not belong there. It was the equivalent of locking Amy Winehouse in a liquor store with no means of escape. It’s just not a good idea.

It’s been a slow process, but I’m learning to embrace my age. My real age. This is the prime of my life, or so I’ve heard. Nineteen is the perfect time to be young and stupid, no forged identity required.

Update: I have another fake and cannot be stopped. Oops.

Fast forward a few weeks after Jess threatening to punch me and we are sitting in front of my friend’s flat screen about to watch Julia Stiles pout and purse her lips for an hour and a half.

Now there wasn’t anything particularly special about The Prince and Me plot-wise or even with the caliber of acting, but we all found ourselves getting more and more emotionally invested in the story centered around a buff playboy prince who falls in love with a strong-willed American girl who just wants to go to John Hopkins for med school, gosh!

It’s no surprise the movie was a commercial success; it followed the almost scientific equation to winning the hearts of the female demographic. Turn a spoiled prince into a sweetheart with the power of love, and you’ve got box office gold.

According to Rhonda Woodward, author of four historical romance novels, the top three qualities women like to see in their leading men are muscles, handsomeness and intelligence. With this statement in mind, think about your favorite romantic hero be it Mr. Darcy or Lloyd Dobler. Does he have any of these traits Woodwart mentioned? Most generally well-liked men in romantic fiction embody at least one, if not all, of these qualities.

At any given time, there is a wide array of different types of romantic films to drag your significant other to – your staple romantic comedies, period pieces or every single movie Hugh Grant has ever starred in.

If you’re more of a curl-under-the-covers-with-a-book type, you should just see the money romance novels are pulling in year after year, no matter how crappy the economy is. According to Romance Writers of America’s website, even with the challenges facing the publishing world such as fewer bookstores and online piracy, romance novels were still the number one genre in fiction, taking in over a billion dollars in revenue in 2008.

But the big question is, why? In real life it is rare to see a beautiful, smart yet headstrong woman fall for the beefy dude who kidnapped and held her for ransom, so why do we fall for fiction where just this happens?

Or what about the common storyline on FictionPress.com, a website where amateur writers can publish their stories, of falling in love with your brother’s best friend but, oh no, you’re from completely different social circles in high school.

While we might roll our eyes at plots such as these, there is definitely an audience for this kind of work, with the most recent count of stories under the romance category on FictionPress coming in at an astounding 67,440. While these statistics don’t come as a surprise, there’s something to be said about the women, myself included, who love the romantic genre in general.

I’ll admit, reading stories about prince charming gives me an unrealistic expectation when it comes to dating and relationships. Finding my own personal Edward Cullen is just something that I have to accept is never going to happen.

But that didn’t stop me from reading the Twilight series, (I was 17, OK) with it’s combined total of thousands of pages of nonsense. And I guess that’s really the point, knowing that it’s all just unrealistic fun and taking every movie with Jennifer Aniston or book about love at first sight with a grain of salt.

“You,” I said deliberately, “don’t give a damn about me except physically.” Any boy would deny that; any gallant boy; any gallant liar. But Emile shook me, his voice was urgent, “You know, you shouldn’t have said that. You know? You know the truth always hurts.” (Even cliches can come in handy.) He grinned, “Don’t be bitter; I’m not. Come away from the sink, and watch.” He stepped back, drawing me toward him, slapping my stomach away, he kissed me long and sweetly. At last he let go. “There,” he said with a quiet smile. “The truth doesn’t always hurt, does it?”

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

So thus far in my spring semester here at Emerson things have been a litte… off. Sure, things started off great, what with the radio show and being promoted to Grass Roots Festival/sponsorship intern over at Bikes Not Bombs, but ever since I came back after Spring Break I have just been counting down the days of school left (29!).

Instead of spending my time reading for my ethics course or actually even attending my now defunct biology of the sexes class just because it happened to be before noon, I’d spend my time online; Facebooking, ChatRouletting, Stumbling. Anything but my actual assignment due.

And I fear as a result, I’ve had what you may call an Internet Overdose: a complete overexposure on all thing’s dot-com. This is probably due to my recent obsession with ChatRoulette and flirting with guys in plaid. Let me tell you, do not head down that path. It is dark and littered with dicks.

I know writing a blog post about wanting to disconnect from the World Wide Web might just seem a tad ludicrous, but shit, I gotta speak da truth. And I reach the conclusion of this post, I realize that in the past ten minutes or so that I’ve been writing my thoughts down I’ve refused to log on Facebook, even though I opened a new tab for it repeatedly; updated my Twitter once and am logged onto both Skype and iChat.

So, what’s the answer? Not complete separation from my laptop, but I think some time apart would be good… Oh, there I go, breaking up with my browser.

“Thanksgiving and Christmas have more people focused on the homeless,” according to John McGah, the director of Give US Your Poor, a public education campaign that is designed to dispel myths about homelessness and promote structural solutions. “The general public is exposed to more news [concerning the homeless]. People are more receptive and giving.”

But eventually the cliché stories on the nightly news stop and people go back to their every day lives, which the majority of the time does not involve giving back to the homeless.

In the words of Libby Hayes, executive director of the small advocacy group, Homes for Homeless, “during the holidays people are more likely to give, spring has more people volunteering.”

What is wrong with this equation is the fact that during those harsh winter months following the holidays where people tend to forget the homeless, there are still people sleeping on the streets in freezing temperatures.

According to statistics from the Boston Emergency Commission’s census, in the summer there is a larger amount of homeless sleeping on the streets because of the nicer weather. While in the winter, those on the street tend to be “a population more likely to represent the chronically homeless, those disabled with mental illness or substance abuse issues, or those dually-diagnosed. These street dwellers often report difficulty in dealing with the process of accessing and staying at shelters.”

It’s not that there isn’t an interest in helping the homeless, one Google search using the term “Boston homeless” yields a total of 3,690,000 results that  in a search taking 0.26 seconds. That makes 480 websites for every one single homeless person using the most recent count of 7,681 in the Boston metro area.

So what exactly are the reasons why people stop giving during the harshest time of the year, but seem to flock to help in the spring?

According to Hayes, the spike in volunteering during the warmer months has to do with “people being more out and about during the summer, they’re coming out of hibernation.”

Summer and spring is also a time that Hayes uses to concentrate efforts at Homes for Homeless with the alternative spring-breakers from colleges across Boston looking to volunteer.

“We don’t get as much unsolicited giving during that time like with Christmas, it’s more focused,” Hayes said. “We sponsor marathon runners, get them to run for a cause in races like ‘Walk for Hunger’ and ‘Walk for Homelessness’ that are in May. We just have more activity overall.”

As for McGah and his nonprofit, Give US Your Poor, the warmer months are also a time of heightened activity and volunteering, with their biggest event taking place.

“We have our big concert on April 30^th in New York City,” McGah says. “Classical tenor Mario Frangoulis is going to perform at Lincoln center.”

While McGah understands the general public’s logical reasoning behind giving during the holidays such as the tax break, he also sees a greater power at work.

“I’ve been doing a lot of research on how people get engaged on the topic of homelessness,” McGah said. “People will give a little bit when they feel guilty or bad. But people will give more when they feel there is a solution and hope involved, no matter what season it is.”

It all started when my friend, Viviana, and I’s toe nails had grown to an epic claw-sized proportion. My blue nail polish slowly evolved into a disgusting, scraped-up hot mess that needed to be taken care of, ASAP.

Viviana’s suitemate suggested some random nail salon that’s “cheap I promise,” so we finally made our way over one day after class only to see that the “nail salon” was in fact a run-down hair place that just screamed TETANUS.

For some reason, we didn’t leave. In retrospect, the five-year old Us Weekly magazines should’ve been a huge warning sign.

I don’t want to bore you with all the details about their strange foot massages that involved more pounding than rubbing or how they put so much massage oil on my legs that it felt like I had just come out of an orgy that involved lots and lots of lube, but let me just say that there was Palmolive dish soap involved to scrub our feet.

Finally it seemed as if these crazy women, who kept alternating positions when they couldn’t perform a specific duty, were almost done molesting our toes. My toes had been painted an Emerson purple while my friend’s were a prostitute red that’s already chipping, FYI.

Viviana and I were under the impression that, shit, if they didn’t even have a real pedicure chair for us to sit in or actual soap, our pedicures would be relatively cheap, but they turned out to be $30 – a pop.

We left completely broke and lubed up from our “massages” but we somehow managed to slide our way to Piano Row, grateful to have all ten of our toes still attached to our feet.

So as I have previously mentioned on this blog, ever since coming to Boston and starting my education here at Emerson, beside going to class and hanging out with my friends, I haven’t really been up to much.

Now this is a huge stretch from the multitasking, busy-bee me from back home when I was in high school. Anyway, how this all ties together is that I’ve finally found myself something to do and be a part of.

Two summers ago when I was doing a very short two-week stint at Boston University taking some summer course samples I was invited to go on a bike tour of the city with one of the RAs and accepted. What followed was one of the greatest bike rides I’ve ever been on.

The tour  was called MyRide and it was lead by teenagers who were a part of Bikes Not Bomb Earn-a-Bike program.

Anyway, all I remember thinking as I was trying to stuff my hair into a helmet (size large, by the way) was just how much I wanted to get involved in this project – to leave my mark somehow.

Flash-forward two years and here I am, an official Bikes Not Bombs volunteer. I just started two weeks ago and am in the beginning stages of just learning how to work the database, which is my role at the office hub. To sum it up, my primary responsibility is to enter transactions from the bike shop down the street into their new database and make sure all of the customers and donaters info is up to date and correct.

Sure, I’ll admit it sounds mundane and probably would be in a regular office. But the minute I get off the Orange line at Stony Brook it’s another planet. Far away from Emerson and it’s holier-than-thou student body where everybody is leaps and bonds more talented, smart and interesting than me (at least according to them).

Reading this months later from now I’ll probably gag at the amount of cheese emanating from this post but WHATEVER, this is the happiest I’ve been in a long time.

The original human nature was not like the present, but different. The primeval man was round, his back and sides forming a circle; and he had four hands and four feet, one head with two faces, looking opposite. He could walk upright as men now do, backwards or forwards as he pleased, and he could also roll over and over at a great pace, turning on his four hands and four feet, eight in all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast… [The sexes were not two as they are now, but originally three in number; there was man (made of 2 male parts), woman (made of 2 female parts), and the union of the two (one male and one female part). But the primeval humans] made an attack upon the gods [and Zeus said]: “Methinks I have a plan which will humble their pride and improve their manners; men shall continue to exist, but I will cut them in two. [Apollo] gave a turn to the face and pulled the skin from the sides all over that which in our language is called the belly, which he fastened in a knot (the same which is called the navel).

After the division the two parts of man, each desiring his other half, came together, and throwing their arms about one another, entwined in mutual embraces, longing to grow into one. Each of us when separated is always looking for his other half..And when one meets with his other half, the actual half of himself, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, and would not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment: these are the people who pass their whole lives together. And the reason is that human nature was originally one and we were a whole, and the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love.