Panic! At the Miley Cyrus Concert

The fear awoke from beneath my glitter-coated fake eyelashes. Because I couldn’t comfortably open my eyes wide enough to see my Miley, I felt the same stifle between the negative-zero inches between me and the humming human perimeter surrounding me. I’ve never attended a door buster on Black Friday, but it was as if Miley was the only thing on sale to us three hundred sardines on the floor of the New York City venue.

As the speedily growing idea that I couldn’t move my body without disrupting the puzzle of the crowd, the mentally manipulated change in my body temperature began to create a heat chamber within my synthetic jacket. Knowing that unlike an outside venue, I wouldn’t be able to crouch down to find fresh, cool air beneath me. I stand on my tippiest toes in my seasoned Converse, grasping any air above me but the sardine next to me…

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Tough Love: Lessons You Won’t Learn in the Classroom

University 101

There are lessons you can learn in school that aren’t academic and will stay with you longer than equations for algorithms. Unfortunately, they’re taught by Life, who we know can be a b*tch.

It may take you a few months out in the real world to realize how impacting these lessons can be, but you’ll be left with a passing grade in wisdom and peace.

Not Everyone is Your Friend


Unfortunately. You’d think incoming freshmen are pumped to make new friends, knowing that college is a time for maturing.

Often however, many of them arrive with friends from home, already swaddled by the comfort of entering a new world with bestie.

The trick is to not hold on to expectations of people. More times than not, they will come short. Going in with an open mind, you may find shiny tin that may rust or you’ll find gold.

Beware of Roommate Catfish


Cute on the…

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The understanding of a situation or event only after it has happened or developed.

quote as evidence for or justification of an argument or statement

My perspective of observations I make on past experiences or the crazy shit I see every day, supported by my scholarly logic as a writer and incessantly annoyed waitress. WordPress also titled as such because HindSIGHT was already taken.

To enterain and seduce with my words, stories, thoughts and feeling of the psychotic happenings of my everyday life.

-Emma Jean MaioranaAB


One may find it poor form to have a laptop open at the bar, but considering that the password to this bars’ Wi-Fi is iloveporn, I think I am owed the pleasure of utilizing their Internet wavelengths.

My blonde beer, that’s name escapes me, water, iPhone, and two empty bar stools beside me and I probably look like some weird introverted writer or something. My outfit doesn’t help my cause—black leggings with white lace loafers (that’s what I’m calling them), a cut off maroon tank with a tight neck collar, a choker of all things, and black and red flannel, very much resembling a hipster who cuts wood for a hobby. But by today’s standards, I look pretty cute. Going for a Kylie Jenner-esque look. I’m also sans bra.

Still full from this afternoons cheat meal for the year… I-I just burped.

Excuse me. Today, my boyfriend Charlie and I went to Carytown Burgers & Fries.

So neglected was my stomach, having forgotten the taste of grease yet fed beer almost every night, this burger was the first I’ve had in maybe a year (not including the burger from Jack Browns, made petite, for lawn gnomes or smurfs).

Our burgers were brought out on a classic red diner-like tray; seasoned fries in one small basket and a palm-sized mushroom-Swiss burger in another (I’m a size nine shoe, if that helps to put the monstrosity of the burger into perspective).

carytown burgers & fries

(here’s a wanna-be-photographer-extra-edited picture of my burger. isn’t it just so much more appetizing with an Instagram filter!?)

Charlie inhaled his burger so I felt even better having convinced myself that I savored mine. But again, one loses all concept of time whilst eating. Family dinners last all of about ten minutes in my house (Haha, my house. I mean, my parents house).

So juicy was my burger, a little over cooked, but layered with half of “the works”, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise married among Swiss cheese and sautéed mushrooms between soft pillow-y buns, the kind with the seeds on them. I shook my handcrafted Russian sauce (which to my initial disappointed surprise, having been served such sauce previously, is actually only mayonnaise and ketchup) onto the burger—three bites, more sauce, etc. I would’ve melted into my patio chair if my sauce was already prepared on my burger, but I made it work. The chef I am.

In due time, I gobbled up the crap out of it, and my fries, and some of Charlie’s cheese fries, all without even growing a food baby! Score!

I must’ve said how good it was twelve times, and then ended my 500 caloric pleasure with my brain coming to, demanding, “Now go to the gym”.

And I just learned the Wi-Fi password it is indeed not iloveporn, but ilovepork.


-ary. Kidding. Let’s get it out in the open while we’re at it– missionary: the most unsatisfying position in the book. Those poor people back then (before comfortability and confidence in ones body) when picking up a girl and sleeping with her missionary style was the climax of sexual adventures.

An insight into the hairy past presented itself to me while I stopped into a local RVA bar to visit my boyfriend and hang around (drink free beer) until he was cut (done with his shift.) For those who have yet slash never experienced the necessary life lessons battered into ones soul by a restaurant job, you will taste the bitter truth that lies behind the scenes. Another time though, I’m on a roll with this).

So, being mindful as to step into the non-smoking side of the restaurant/bar, I casually panicked to find somewhere to sit. You know, when you try to look like you have control, carefully choosing which seat to sit your sore, squat tired ass, but actually frantically calming yourself down as to avoid siting in three different locations before resting between to older men at the bar. I needed a clear view of my man of course, so I can stare in admiration as he asked hipsters what craft beer would suit their non mainstream enjoyment. You got that kind of hall pass as a girlfriend– making borderline creepy googley eyes at the sexiest man in the room. Reaching six months in our relationship, I’m also allowed to freely ask why the hell his fellow mousey bartender keeps grazing his back and hips as she scooted by to reach for a glass or for all I know, a handful of his balls.

Sipping my blonde beer that purposefully tasted the least like an IPA as the drafts would allow, I quickly made new friends with my neighbor bar loungers. ”

“You watch basketball?” he asked.

“Yeah, most definitely not”, I smiled.

Moments later (because who has any concept of time in a bar and in the presence of beer) Paul, Steve and I shared backgrounds and stories of college while taking bites of a thick layered chocolate cake, without any forks. *As a server, one should observe. Mouse girl would have noticed the possibility of us sharing the cake, bringing three forks, “Just in case, *smile*”. However she was too busy devising her plan as to how she could blow my boyfriend behind the bar without me seeing. I was on to her.

Skipping to the fact that by this time, Paul, a bald business entrepreneur, having graduated college somewhere around the time I was born, who annoyingly supported the ugly truth that men do in fact age way better than women, was complimenting my Juicy Couture perfume but indeed “wasn’t hitting on me”. My new friends began to reminisce on their fratty days by answering my initial question– “What was your slang for “hooking up” with a girl back then?”

Amidst the both of them spewing memories of drunken nights that were primarily focused on finding girls to “pick up”, I acquired the indecent visual of ten minute lackluster missionary position sex, hairy bushes, and big nipples. (I don’t know why big nipples came to mind but it just seems to fit in with the 80’s stigma– big hair, big pants, big nipples.) Quite frightening was the immediate connection I made from this history lesson, one of few I’ve actually paid attention to, to my mom, who is relatively the same age as these me. I enjoy finding common ground and relateability between mother and daughter, and in this instance it was sex. But now having imprinted a semi-disturbing image in my head, the point the men made was that girls are more sexual, confident, and comfortable with their bodies they are these days, which I gathered as that girls are more likely to sleep with fifty year olds. I then attributed my mothers signature weary expression of my past casual-philandering to her having grown up with a severely more conservative youth. Things were private and meant to stay in the bedroom. Somewhere, at some point, maybe by the influence of Captain Morgan himself, girls started flashing their perky boobies from apartment balconies while shouting, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours!” therefore shedding all sense of innocence and a dress-code. In lieu of such freedom, doggy style and the countless positions that make me question the un- lifelike flexibility of cartoon characters in “The Sex Position of the Day” books became the norm.

Inviting them to free crab soup and dessert and excellent service at my place of white collar and black tie torture, hoping to meet again, my two amigos and I parted ways like old collegues, and later that night I hit a mailbox.

My mission is to entertain and seduce with my words, stories, thoughts, and feelings of the usual psychotic happenings in my life.


Writing Process

      Though I’ve become aware of a new feeling I cannot shake, that my work will never be completely how I want it to be, the final revisions to my final essay came frequently, in bursts of inspiration. I learned to leave myself plenty of time to ponder over my essays so that my brain can generate new ideas or dispose of old ones. I revisited my final essay multiple times, editing and cutting it down every time. This final piece ended up as my favorite so I made sure to tailor it as perfectly as possible– I still don’t think it’s totally completed the way I want it to. This sense of incompleteness stems from a belief that I have yet served a justice to the topic of the essay. I want to capture and embody every inch of it exactly how it should for it deserves every creative juice I can concoct. 

The process went a little like this;

New idea or rhetorical strategy pops into head
Handwrite it down on paper
Revisit and reread the essay 
Add the new idea/strategy
Reread it and cut/edit the whole thing
Print it out and repeat previous step
I constantly searched for mistakes and grammatical errors
I took a day or two break from the essay (after spending at least two hours on it at a time)
I cut what I deemed unnecessary and tried to apply writing tools I recently learned 

I will most likely re-re visit the piece, for touch ups that will inevitably and randomly come to me– I can’t help it. 

-Emma J. Maiorana