"It's just that everything I try to do, nothing seems to turn out right"

"In high school, I thought you were a total bitch, but...you're actually pretty cool."

In 10th grade the volleyball coach wouldn't let me be starting DS the second half of the season because of my "attitude". I had no idea what she was talking about.

"If you don't get that look off your face you're benching it the rest of the game!" This was a phrase I was use to hearing on a weekly basis.

I truly believe I'm just one of those people who was born with a "bitch face". I realize we live in a society where we judge people based off their hairstyle, their clothes, makeup, car, etc., but aren't we suppose to get to know people before we start placing labels? I know I don't bleed sunshine on a regular basis, but I'd like to think that I'm a pretty friendly girl. Sure, I know how to turn on the bitch switch when needed but I generally don't unless; A) You're being really mean to one of my friends, B) You are shitty to me first, or C) I see you as competition in boy situation.

First impressions are bullshit. I hate the phrase "A first impression is everything". Not true. First impressions are either fake as hell or so honest that they come off as something fake anyway. I'm slightly socially awkward. Yeah I have friends and like to go out on the weekends, but I have to admit, I definitely know how to make the "wrong" kind of first impression.

I live within extremes. I'm always too much of this, not enough of that. Never a middle ground. Sometimes I'm too shy, other times I can't even stop my own word vomit. I guess it just depends on how I feel around you. Intuition? I can be shy, quiet and aloof around people I feel intimidated by. If I'm in a group of people who I don't really know and they're all talking about something they saw/did, etc., Im not the type of person to jump in the convo with my two cents. I will most likely daydream, cross my arms and glance awkwardly around the room. I see how this can be misconstrued. My intentions are not to look like a snotty brat. It's just that maybe I think you're a cool person, with interesting things to say, and I'm afraid of opening my mouth because of what you will think of me. I would rather get criticized by something I don't say than something I do say. Too self conscious? Maybe. That's just me.

I hate when people don't like me after only 30 minutes of knowing me. It's not that I feel the need to be loved by everyone, but I'm kind of a complex girl, there's more to me than the half hour you spent across the table from me...lets at least have a real conversation before you decide to not like me for one reason or another. Maybe I'm just being overly-sensitive about this but I can't help but feel hurt when people get the wrong idea.

Maybe I should just start speaking up. If anything, it makes sense mathmatically. Being mute and looking awkward = negative judgement. Talking = friendly = higher chance of looking "normal" = higher probability of making a "good" impression vs. defaulting to hair twirling and floor glancing. Talking > not talking.

As I venture into my late twenties I am coming to terms with the fact that I'm never going to be that charismatic girl. In high school I was nominated for some winter formal thing, but turned it down because of the fear of having to walk all dressed up in front of the entire school. I literally had to go to the principal's office and tell him I didn't want them to call my name over the loudspeaker in the morning announcements. I wasn't trying to be a stuck up princess. I genuinely feared the possibility of criticism from my classmates.

I realize insecurity is not the most desirable or attractive quality. Again...like I said...I live within extremes. I'm shy and awkwardly weird but then blurt out how shy and awkwardly weird I am. There's nothing like self depricavation. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make in a very half-assed, tangential way, is that I don't mean to be such a bitch. My shitty demeanor is not intentional. Next time I side glance at you or smirk as I stir the ice in my drink...take it as a compliment. It means I find you amusing. It means I think you're someone with something intelligent/interesting to say and I just can't think of a damn thing to say because I'm unimpressed with my own dialogue.

And for the record I think my "bitch face" is pretty intimidating. Coach should have let me start more games.

I'm a vegetarian...but I still love a Burger.

As I downed what was left of my 40 oz. Coors Light (yeah I'm classy) I checked my reflection once more in my toothpaste smeared mirror. Maybe I need more eyeliner? Should I trim my bangs real quick? Why the hell am I wearing this dumb hoodie to a bar? Should I try to dress more girly? Shit. I should have used Whitestrips today. I applied another unnecessary layer of $16 lip gloss and headed out the door. For some reason pricey, department store lip gloss fixes everything.

The carpeted halls muted my pathetic attempt to walk in heels. Heels and a hoodie? Again...pure class. As I entered the foyer of my rundown apartment building, my heels stuck to the vodka covered rubber floor. Of the two years I lived in the 525 Monroe, I don't think I ever saw anyone clean those rusty, rubber floors. They were the kind of floors that have 1/4 inch elevated circles everywhere that are supposed to emulate traction. I soon learned that rubber floors in rainy Oregon and 3:00 am stumbles back home equals bruised knees and scuffed high heels.

I opened the front door and prepared to brave the Oregon, February air. I heard chatty voices of girls to my left. Uh oh...people my age...eyes to pavement. I shielded myself from any possibility of social interaction by looking toward the illuminating lights of the bus stop across the street, creating a curtain of blonde hair which read: "Please don't fucking talk to me". I could feel their judging eyes burning through my makeshift hair shield. How will I ever make friends like this?

I decided to disguise my social awkwardness by making an attempt to half-smile. My eyes quickly shifted to a girl leaning against the crumbling building. She had waist long dark hair (which we would later refer to as "mermaid" hair), a white tube top, and a Marlboro Light between her middle and index finger. As she blew smoke out her smirking smile she cocked her head up toward the sky. She exuded confidence. You could tell she was the kind of girl who was always the life of the party. Someone who people were drawn to.

Two blocks North and I was at my destination. Cantina. The local dive bar which served cheap, over poured drinks to the binge drinking college kids. Being newly 21, unsure of myself and intimidated by all the girls in their halter tops and short skirts, I ordered a vodka cran and stood by the wall. The dark area between the dance floor and the tables. Perfect for creeper-lurking. After meeting up with some friends and a few more vodka crans later, I ran into Marlboro Light girl.

"Hey! You're my neighbor!" She shouted this over the ridiculously loud rap music. "We should go out together sometime!" We exchanged numbers in a drunken daze. "Burger! Make sure you put me in as Mary BURGER!" I remember thinking it was slightly odd and intriguing that she insisted on being called by her full name. And Burger? Just like I thought...this girl's got confidence.

The next day "Mary Burger" appeared on the screen of my hot pink Razar (which was at the time covered in duct tape). "Hey what are you doing? You want to go get some food?" We met in the musty hallway between her apartment and mine. Both nursing hangovers from the night before wearing, slippers, sweat pants and hoodies. Instant friendship.

And that was how I found my intellectual soul mate. We soon discovered our mutual love for music, cynicism, Sex and the City re-runs, grape flavored vodka, writing, bad-boys and caffeine. We eventually made keys to each other's places which came in handy every time I couldn't remember if I turned off my flat iron and had to have Mary check, or when Mary wanted to borrow an item of clothing which was always scattered throughout my messy room. The next two years in that convict filled apartment building were hands down the best times I had in college. Sure, at the time we wanted to murder spandex girl upstairs, and demon hippie dude across the hall. My view of the dumpster was comical and proved to be perfect for people watching the rehab clinic next door. It was dirty and at times a little scary. The heaters sucked in the winter and the paper thin walls kept us up on nights we had midterms. My bedroom window which faced the ally way was often frequented by intoxicated boys too drunk to wait to find a bathroom. One time I actually woke up to a boy peeing on my window. Awesome. We found out nearly half of the town's sex offenders lived within a 50 foot radius of our rooms. Our mailboxes were always full because we refused to give any attention to overdue bills. The parking was horrible and nearly every day Mary and I had stacks of bright orange parking tickets on our illegally parked cars. Parking tickets soon became a game of who could get the most. Mary taught me how to cook orzo pasta and I introduced her to screamo bands (yes...we were emo kids...and damn proud of it). She bleached a chunk of her dark hair and I added black to mine. We refused to wear anything but black nail polish, caked on eyeliner and Chuck Taylors. She was there to comfort me after my first real heartbreak, and I was always eager to live vicariously though her ability to simultaneously date 4 guys at once, who were all friends and worked together, without them ever knowing...(this girl still amazes me). We may have wanted to bomb the place from time to time, but looking back, I had a lot of great memories in the 525 with Mary Burger. Even though I now live in the Southwestern desert and she lives in the Southeastern tropics, she has remained a close friend of mine throughout time and distance. Whenever I need to talk to someone who actually "gets" me...she's there to give me a dose of Oregon. It's really reassuring to know that even though you're so far away from home, there's always that phone call you can make to help keep you grounded. I'm convinced that one day we will live near one another again...but next time with a little less vodka and a little better fashion sense.