Here’s another post where I tell you about something I don’t like and/or disagree with.
If you’re a friend of the blog, if you’re the Jon Hamm to my SNL, you know that I love personal safety. I can be spontaneous, but only if the threat of bodily harm is remote and contained to freak and unforeseeable accidents. As a child, was I up to taking a late night bike ride to a cemetery Now and Then, style? Absolutely, as long as a helmet was provided. I just loved the security of wearing my helmet (but I wasn’t a total nerd, I begrudgingly put on my wrist guards when I went roller blading).
This cautious part of my personality is the source of why I hate the term “YOLO” (For my relatives reading this, that means “You Only Live Once”). I get the sentiment, but I think it’s irresponsible. Do we need young adults running around YOLO-ing– trying bath salts and passing around Hep C to all of Arizona State? NO!
Sure, you only live once (though Buddha and Drew Barrymore might disagree with you on that), but I’m still interested in getting through life without a meth addiction.
So don’t you YOLO me, bitch! I will not try your meth!!!
My idea of YOLO-ing (ugh how many more times do I have to type out YOLO? I can hear it in my head, and I hate it) includes some low stakes bad ass-ery. For example, the other night my friend Jill came over, and instead of getting a male prostitute and REALLY living, we did something a little more our speed and snuck chicken fingers and wine juice boxes into a screening of Magic Mike.
Was bringing outside food and beverages against the theatre’s policy? Hell yes.
Did we see a movie about male strippers? Uh huh, I think we did.
Did I see Olivia Munn’s boobies (that weren’t even kind of necessary to the plot)? YUP.
AND I FELT SO ALIVE.