…because what a disaster they were.

I think I was the only 12 year old in the history of 12 year olds who genuinely wanted to stay 12 forever. 13 was just an odd number and I didn’t like it, I guess that was the first sign of some really awful teenage years to come.

Then I was a freshman in high school, and as anyone who has ever been a freshman knows – the worst year of your life is spent as a high school freshman. I spent my fourteenth year of life trying to be someone I wasn’t, but then again who didn’t?

I turned 15 with a lot fewer friends than my teenage years prior. That was rough, but with that I made better friendships. This was also the year i became a “blogger.” I’ll link my 15 year old I-don’t-know-anything-about-anything-but-I-think-I-know-something-about-everything blog HERE. Seriously go read it, it’ll tell you everything you need to know about 15 year old Samantha.

At 16 I got reckless, like really REALLY reckless. 16 was supposed to be great and it wasn’t. My sixteenth year of life was spent f-cking up. We’ll get into details at another time, but just know that 16 year old Samantha came in like a wrecking ball, successfully destroying everything in her path.

I honestly can’t tell you what 17 looked like, as I spent much of it under the influence.

And all of a sudden I was starting college and things took a major turn ..for the better? I began caring again – not just about the people around me but myself as well. Starting college was SO exciting, but that spark burned quickly and things got boring. I became obsessed with this idea of being “happy” though struggled so hard to figure out what made me wholly happy.

And that brings me to where I am today, still trying to figure this whole life thing out. An interesting (for lack of better words) past behind me, I truly believe it’s only uphill from here. And in this very moment, writing these very words while sitting on a train in London, I feel happy.  I don’t want to speak too soon but I have this crazy feeling that the 20s are going to be something special – FINGERS CROSSED!

Samantha

My Professor brought up a good point when discussing blogs the other day; “I SIMPLY DON’T CARE.”

Now if you’re reading this, I am almost certain that this thought has crossed your mind at least once when either reading my blog, another blog, or simply perusing the internet for interesting content. There are so many platforms nowadays for us to share things with the world, and more often than not people have literally nothing to say. Though despite having LITERALLY NOTHING to say, people say it anyway – publishing their mindless thoughts for the world to see in hopes that someone will “like” their awful writing (both literally and figuratively). We live in a “like” obsessed world, and that my friends is just the sad truth. But I digress, back to this whole blogging thing – allow me to explain to you why your blog sucks so fuh-reaking bad:

1. Is your content even RELEVANT?
2. You’re probably a liar and/or a truth-stretcher (a new word I am in the process of legitimizing to Merriam-Webster, as we speak).
3. Do YOU even care?

Point number one is probably the most obvious when it comes to your shitty blog – if you’re writing about what the sky looked like from your apartment window yesterday morning, do you really expect anyone to care? Let’s be honest here, that “amazing” sky of yours is one that everyone else lives under as well (i.e. one that everyone else can see with their OWN two eyes). So there you have it, either instagram a picture of “your” sky you basic you-know-what or just forget about it altogether because truth is NO ONE CARES.

Secondly, we all know your life isn’t half as glamorous as you make it out to be on your bullshit blog. This one really gets to me, especially when I know the person personally and can call them out on their shit writing as I read it. I’ve got some prime examples of this truth-stretching blogging and I would kill to share it with you, but I don’t have a whole lot of friends as it is so I’m not looking to decrease those numbers anytime soon. But just know that I know that you didn’t “attend” blah-blah-blah fashion show, but merely skimmed through it on Style.com a day after the collection showed and then decided to publish your less-than-mediocre summary of it on the internet – LIAR!

And lastly, I can spot a phony from a mile away (and so can everyone else). There are many times in our lives where we prefer the idea of something more than we actually prefer that thing. It’s sort of like I really like the idea of drinking iced coffee in the summer but I can’t stomach the taste of watered-down dirt and honestly I sometimes order it anyway because I like the way I look walking around with an iced coffee on a hot summer day. So if you read a blog and think “wow, I really like this!” don’t automatically jump to “I should start a blog too!” Trust me, it’s OK not to blog – especially if your blog is bullshit.

Hope no one was too offended by this. But if you were, then chances are your blog is actual bullshit.

Samantha

P.S. Yes mom, I’m done using the word “bullshit” …for now.

BEWARE OF BRITISH MEN.

It was Saturday night and I just wanted to go home. My roommate and I made our way out of the club and as soon as we stepped foot on the sidewalk, it all began. One guy in line asked us where we were headed, to which we responded, “home,” another group of old (and I’m talking like my dad age old) men asked us where they should go, to which we responded, “we don’t know,” to which they continued to ask until we walked away. In our mini-skirts and high-heels we searched so desperately for our bus and just couldn’t seem to find it. Then, another man, a very nice man actually, asked us again where we were going – and despite asking us if we wanted to hangout with him and his friends – helped us find our bus even after we said we’d rather head home. So finally, we’re walking in the right direction when two men (again, older) stop dead in their tracks, causing me to stop as well, when one exclaims, “I’ve found my soulmate!” (referring to me, I suppose). I smiled, being the RESPECTFUL and CIVIL person that I am (boys, take notes!) when I feel one grab my arm from behind me and say, “I can tell you’re a little fat, but I’ll let it slide.” It took me a second to realize what had just happened as I continued to walk away from them, and when I did all I could do was laugh. I distinctly remember saying (and sorry mom for the swearing, I know you hate it when I swear but an old man called me fat so I get a pass here), “What the fuck! Did he just call me fat? No one’s ever called me fat to my face before!” I broke out in laughter as I found it SO hilarious that someone had just called me FAT. I mean it was/still is funny that someone would call me fat to my face in such a matter-of-fact way. I mean he didn’t say it in a mean way or anything, and after all he did say he’d let my chubbiness “slide.” It wasn’t until this morning though, almost two days later, that I took a step back and looked at the bigger picture. A drunk man calling me fat is not something that offends me, but the way in which I get treated as a young female in the city of London is something I find offensive.

I don’t really know how else to say this, so I’ll just go ahead and be honest – a number of English men I have encountered in my three short weeks of living in London have turned out to be complete PIGS. Don’t get me wrong, I love London and all, just not the majority of their male population (which is a total bummer because I had high-hopes of finding me a nice English husband – JK – except not really). Coming from the New York City streets (I sound so hardcore, I know) where I’ve spent ample amount of time ignoring any and all forms of harassment as a young person my age would encounter. I like to think I’ve developed quite a thick skin to such annoyance – just keep walking, avoid eye-contact, and whatever you do, DO NOT react. So coming to London I thought I had it all figured out, but (and that’s a very big BUT) I quickly found myself fighting back and reacting. I couldn’t, and still can’t help myself – I don’t think I can walk a single block here without a stare that lasts too long, an “I see you baby” from a man in his car, or even an air kiss from the pervert walking past me. It’s so annoying. Like SO F—ING ANNOYING. I tell myself I can deal with it, because I know I can, but I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sometimes drive me crazy. I honestly don’t know what else to say here other than, THIS NEEDS TO STOP.

Samantha

I hope this is what heaven looks like.

In my Fashion Forecasting class on Thursday, my Professor (aka “Tutor” as the Brits like to call them) recommended my classmates and I take a trip to the East End of London. She (my Professor) had this presentation put together on where to go and what to do while in the East End. Though she sped through it quite quickly, as class was almost over, I was able to pick up on one very important (well, important to me at least) recommendation, and that was the Columbia Road Flower Market held every Sunday from 8am-1pm. “You’ll want to go early, as it gets pretty crowded!” she advised, and I am so happy that she did because she turned out to be so right (as it turns out, I’m not the only one who enjoys flowers around here).

I set my alarm for 7am, though after being up until 2am, I slept through it and instead woke up closer to 8. No one was awake yet since we all went out for a drink the night before (and I am the only person crazy enough to get up early on a Sunday for flowers). I didn’t mind the emptiness though, I’ll even tell you a little secret – it’s actually my favorite, getting up early and having the entire flat to myself. So let’s skip to the part where I quickly got dressed and headed out to the Columbia Road Flower Market – all alone – just the way I like to be.

 

It’s hard to explain the feeling I get when I see a flower. It’s just like the most satisfying feeling in the world when I can see and smell and experience a beautiful living organism. Flowers simply blow my mind, it’s like, how do they do it? How do they transform from something so small and basic into something so much bigger and more magnificent? How do they manage to be so beautiful? How do they smell so damn good? And how are they all so entirely unique and special in their own individual way????

Now I’m not entirely sure, actually scratch that – I am positive that no one thinks of flowers the way that I do. Not saying that’s a bad thing, because I’m sure there’s something in this world that fascinates everyone as much as a silly little flower blows my mind. But whatever it is, that thing that makes you light up inside and sparks an abundance of curiosity within you, please understand that that is how flowers make me feel. Pretty amazing, huh?

Oh and there was also a beet juice, the purchasing of flower-decorated cards, the purchasing of a bouquet of flowers, and pictures taken of cats lying on top of cars involved in this morning as well. Pretty great morning, guys – PRETTY FREAKIN’ GREAT.

Samantha