I Hope They Serve Liquor In Heaven


Posing for photos and only sometimes
posing in life.

Posers. We don’t like them. We despise them. We call them fake. We laugh at them (AKA Kelsey from the Bachelor) when they pretend to be cheery and we know deep down they are manipulative, rude, and apparently too smart for us all. While they are flitting about doing whatever fakesque things they have planned for the day, we are thinking - “Why you gotta be so mean?” 

By now surely a few people come to mind. You are visualizing that uber bitch, (and I don’t mean your driver from last weekend’s outing) I mean that girl who makes you crazy with all the time in the day she has to pretend she is something she’s not. With great hesitation I type the next few words…. now picture yourself. 

Do you want to stop reading? I got you all hyped up on mentally picturing some mega bitch in your life and now I want you to look in the mirror. Its tough I know, but I’m about to throw myself under the bus if it makes you feel better. 

The truth is, we are all fake at some point in our lives. We don’t always mean to be and sometimes it is the socially acceptable thing to do - to simply be FAKE. Some of it stems from trying to be respectful and some of it stems from worrying about what others think. Imagine having to eat something at an event that doesn’t really float your boat. You would rather betray your taste buds then be that girl who says “I don’t like that.” 
I hate to say it and try as we might - there will always be a part of us that cares about approval from others. We care about the opinions of important people in our lives. The people we surround ourselves with and people we care about, we in turn care what they think. This ladies (and shout out to any boys that may be reading) is why I struggle buying a piece of clothing my mom doesn’t like. UGH RENEE JUST LIE AND TELL ME YOU LIKE THE DRESS TOO. 

Back to the story of self shame I promised. Picture it: last weekend. I am making out with Justin Timberlake. (Kidding, that was a dream and he is almost officially a DILF so that thought is now over). 

Ok, really this time. Picture it: I am at a dental school event. One of my best friends is a third year and thankfully lets me tag along to the fun parities that include tons of perfectly positioned pearly whites. (ALLITERATION ANYONE?)

So there we were, at the after party of a Bourbon Tasting event. The host, another dental student (shout out to Emilio) graciously stocked up on a plethora of alcohol. Captain Morgan, a variety of bourbons, and beer. The last after party I attended allowed for the guests to witness me falling out of a chair. Sadly I was just sitting in the chair one second and the next second I was lying on the cold hard ground. I wasn’t in trouble, but I was FREAKING EMBARRASSED. The terrible news was that my phone was in my back pocket and I fell flat on my bum. I was so relieved when the screen didn’t shatter, but to my dismay the phone stopped working altogether. It would no longer turn on and there was no chance of revival at the Apple Store. Needless to say, I could not afford another mishap at this soiree. 

This knocked out any bourbon and the Captain. My only choice left was my nemesis: BEER. I cannot put it more simply: I hate beer. It doesn’t do it for me. It takes me about two years to get down a drink that I do like. I just can’t deal with fermented wheat, but the thing I hate more than hating beer is the fact that I don’t like it. I desperately want to be the cool girl who bros out with a beer at the bar. I want to be that girl who picks up a six pack or the girl who can’t wait to try a craft beer with her beau. Sadly this girl isn’t me. I get that it is an acquired taste, but the only thing for me to acquire is the fact that my feelings towards the drink are NEVER going to change. 

INSERT FAKENESS. Rather than sit at that party empty handed, I held on to a beer. I chewed gum in between minuscule sips to numb the pain of the horrid liquid. (I’m being dramatic, its not that bad.) The point is that in order to fit in, to feel accepted, to be polite I took part in something I don’t like. I was a FAB. (Fake ass betch. Most of the time I am pretty FAB - short for fabulous, but in this instance I was a FAB. Completely different contexts.) 

Fun fact: I’ll have you know that the night ended out at a bar where I more than enjoyed a vodka water with a spritz of Raspberry Lemonade Mio. If that drink were a person, I would have hugged it. YES I TAKE WATER FLAVORS OUT TO THE BAR - you’re welcome for the idea. 

I’ll also have you know that my truest friends saw my snapchats of beer in hand and quickly brought it to my attention that I was being FAKE. One of them was right on cue calling me out. She didn’t miss a beat. I love her for that because before the snap was ever sent, I knew she would. The other happens to feel the same about beer, thank god I am not alone in my disdain. I quickly reassured her that I had not left her stranded on BEER SUCKS ISLAND, that I was only faking so I didn’t look like a loser. After all I was hanging with FUTURE DOCTORS and I doubt any of them would want to wife me up if I looked like a party pooper. 

At this point I should really be championing the idea to be ourselves! I should be an example not to pretend to like something to appease the crowd. While this is true, it is not the message I am sending today. I agree in the power of being yourself and I agree you shouldn’t change for others. However, I have come to realize that we are all fake in little ways. From time to time its easier for our own sanity. Small doses of fake are acceptable, don’t make yourself truly unhappy just to placate another. I simply want us all to realize that we engage in fake behaviors. The sooner we embrace that, the sooner we may be able to understand the reason behind others’ fakeness. 

EXCEPT KELSEY FROM THE BACHELOR. I don’t have time for that betch. 

To my lovers and my haters: 
Laters,