The other weekend, I was sitting around with my gal pals, chugging back keystones and talking about uncircumcised penises — ya know, the usual. After we touched on other hard-hitting issues like sex and people who annoy the shit out of us, we started talking about what we were like in high school.

I entertained my friends with stories of my God Squad days (in particular my now infamous “Brother-in-Christ” story). My friend Veronica asked with bemused wonderment, “Mary, how did you go from being who you were then … to who you are now?”

I took a swig of my warmed Keystone and deadpanned, “We’re going to need some more beer.”

I gave ‘em the cliff notes version, which is that during my senior year of high school, I started doubting the existence of God and through reflection realized that many of my true opinions on social issues did not jive with the Church’s (they tend to frown upon abortion, gay rights, and feminism, which did not juxapose well with the bleeding-heart-liberal that was growing inside of me). Then over time, the power of the ideology wore off on me, and I became … me, I suppose. I did what I wanted without the influence of religious dogma or the fear of damnation. An individual’s struggle with faith is intangible, mystical, and complicated, and it is very much based on thought processes and personal realizations, which makes it pretty much impossible to adequately explain. Just as I can not convey to people the importance of when I got saved, I can not truly express how I lost my faith. And we really didn’t have enough beer.

Veronica’s question has haunted me. And though I can’t convey in words the internal ups and downs of my spiritual status, I do remember one moment in particular.

I lost my faith on a zip line.

Yes, a zip line. As in, that thing that Macaulay Culkin swung down in Home Alone. A fucking zip line.

My senior year of high school, after the seeds of doubt had already been planted in my head, I went on another retreat with my youth group (a year after the Brother-in-Christ retreat). We all got black hoodies that had a funky design on them that stood for “Live Life by Loving God.” I wore this hoodie a lot. I still wear from time to time, although now with a sense of irony and kitsch. The theme of the retreat was “Free Falling.” But this was no Tom Petty concert. The lesson was that we should trust God completely with our lives and “free fall” into faith. And the pastor used the concept of falling from heights to make his point. We started the weekend with “trust falls” from a table with our youth group. I almost hyperventilated when we had to do the table trust fall, but I did it. My pastor then told us that the culminating event would be a ride on a 4-story zip line, where we were supposed to fall backward with our eyes closed and arms reached out to the sky.

Heights. It had to be heights.

In addition to dying alone, failure, and driving, I am terrified of heights. Not necessarily heights, but the possibility of crunching my body on the earth below me. I was not looking forward to the zip line.

I almost started crying when I was climbing up those four stories. And when I reached the top, I did, in fact, start crying. I clutched the pole of the crow’s nest while my youth pastor tried to calm me down and give me the courage to take the plunge. He assured me, “Mary, God is not going to let you fall.”

And I couldn’t help but think “How the hell would you know?” For all I knew, God could have had it ordained in his Grand Plan that I was to die that day. Having faith in God doesn’t mean that wonderful things are going to happen to you. He was just telling me this because it fit with his metaphor. He didn’t really know. As I tiptoed my way to the edge with tears in my eyes, I remember realizing for the first time that dogma was being used to manipulate me into believing something.

“You can do it, Mary! All you have to do is let go,” I heard him yell.

This is not when I lost my faith in God. This was when I lost faith in religion. But it’s a challenge to keep faith in one and not the other.

I was at the edge of losing my faith in God. And all I had to do was

let

go.

I jumped off the zip line.

Now with 50 percent more life-changing personal realizations!!!

This past weekend I went to a wedding for my good friends Darwin and Jess. You could tell it was a wedding for two people fresh out of college because when the Best Man gave his toast, my table of college friends lifted up our glasses of champagne and yelled “SOCIAL!” I wish I were joking. I also realized that I’m at the age where being single legitimately makes me feel awkward during slow dances. But all in all, the wedding was a gay affair (I mean happy, not the unholy, illegal union of homosexuals) with lots of dancing and way too much delicious food. The groom also led us in a rousing rendition of The Safety Dance.

The whole evening got me thinking about marriage in general. I think with all the debate in recent years about the meaning of marriage, gay marriage, sanctity, etc, I have to get a very important opinion off my chest.

I want to have wedding pie.

No wait! Even better: wedding pie. With the option of a wedding make-your-own-sundae bar.

I feel cakes are an inferior food to pie. Nay, an inferior food to all desserts. I cannot recall a single time I have eaten cake and thought “Oh yeah boy, that hit the spot. Oh man, was that a satisfying sweet treat, and I would never have wanted to eat anything else at this point in history.” The frosting is always too much and too sweet. And the actual cake part is like eating a decomposing sponge. And don’t even get me started on ice cream cake! It’s as if scientists gathered around one day and thought “Hey, what would happen if we took one really awesome food, and one really terrible one, and combined them and served them at kids’ birthday parties?! We could ruin both foods! Brilliant! Now let’s go invent AIDS!”

Does anyone ever even look forward to eating wedding cake? No. You look forward to steak and an open bar (tragically, an open steak bar has not been developed yet).

I don’t even know if I ever want to get married. If I do, I’d much rather hurry off to city hall, and then have a big blow-out with my friends and family (I hate the muss and fuss of planning big events, but this way, I still get presents). Regardless, I still strongly believe that pie is a much more appropriate and symbolic wedding desert. It’s warm. Sweet, yet fulfilling. Something substantial that will keep you going. It is culinary love for your belly. You pair pie with a make-your-own-sundae bar, well you are setting yourself up for an exciting lifetime of loving and delicious commitment. I have no idea why people continue to serve cake at their wedding receptions. Wedding cake is a superficial, fussy, ornate dessert that is mainly for show and people do it just because they think they should, but when you get down to it, it is an unnecessary, outdated tradition that just leaves your stomach feeling empty.

Ohhhhh. THAT’S why they serve it at weddings!

If my husband really wanted to have a cake, I would compromise and choose this one. And let’s face it, if I’m getting married, it’s to a guy that wants a Nintendo cake. Girl’s gotta have her standards.

I was looking at Facebook the other day because, well, I live in the year 2008. It sort of happens. Facebook’s great in the way that it has completely revolutionized our activities and social interaction. It blows my mind to seriously think of how different my life would be without Facebook. I mean, HOW ELSE WOULD I INVITE PEOPLE TO MY BIRTHDAY PARTY?! Dude, calling them takes waaaay too long. I’d rather click their names on a list. Because that way, I can also update my g-calendar at the same time. Multi-tasking, baby.

So, I was browsing my mini-feed. You know, the front page of Facebook that everyone was up in arms about last year, until they realized it’s really awesome. Anyways. Checking my mini-feed. Mackin posted a comment on Amy’s wall. Charlie posted on Sarah’s wall. Meredith posted new pics from her study abroad trip. Apparently Katie Blair and I have mutual friends and she’s PEOPLE I MAY KNOW. I have 5 friends signed on Facebookchat.

Then I looked at the Upcoming Birthdays section and realized that Facebook was telling me that it was my dead cousin’s birthday.

Wow. Thanks Facebook.

Earlier this semester, my cousin Sarah was killed in a brutal store shooting at a Lane Bryant in Tinley Park, IL. A robbery gone wrong. 5 women taken into the back room, bound and gagged, beaten, and shot execution-style in the back of the head. Sarah was one of them. She was 22. She just wanted to buy some clothes.

I won’t pretend that I was close with Sarah. We went to the same high school. Her brother was my age and in many of my classes. She did tech for most of the plays I was in in high school. We had many mutual friends and saw each other around school frequently. We saw each other at family functions and always got along pleasantly. We weren’t close. But dammit, she was family. And she was so young. Her death profoundly affected me, and completely changed the course of my final semester at college.

The week after she died was the worst I’ve felt in a long time. I spent Super Bowl Sunday crying alone in my pajamas and eating alfredo I’d ordered from Geovanti’s. Skipped most of my classes. Then I went home and discovered that Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church scheduled a protest at her funeral, and the rest of the victims’ funerals, and I almost lost it. At the funeral the pallbearers lifted her casket out of St. Damian’s Church, and the choir started singing “You Are My Sunshine,” and I definitely lost it. My friend Carl has a tendency to burst out into that song, and I knew I was going to hear it a lot, and it would never mean the same to me anymore. I went back to school later that night to see my theater troupe’s production of Oleanna. This was a great idea because I couldn’t handle being around any more sorrow, I needed to be with my friends. This was a bad idea because I didn’t want to deal with drunk freshmen at the cast party asking me “How ARE you?” and not have any idea how to respond to them truthfully without making things socially awkward (”Uh. Shitty. How the fuck are you?”). Like clockwork, Carl started singing “You Are My Sunshine” in his kitchen, and I knew I had to get the fuck out of there. I hurried home to cry alone in my room, and wonder if this would ever stop hurting. But I moved on, as we humans tend to do in these circumstances. I learned many things from this horrific experience, as we humans also have to do in order to make sense of such cruel nonsense.

WHAT MARY HAS LEARNED:

1) Life is short. Do what makes you happy, instead of what you feel obligated to do. Sarah’s death prompted me to drop out of a musical that I was mainly performing in because my close friend was the director, and to try out for a play that ended up truly being the best fit for me. It pissed some people off, including my close friend. Though I truly am sorry to have stressed out my friends, I saw that I couldn’t pass up an opportunity, particularly in my last semester of college.

2) Life is still short. Kiss cute boys! The realization of your own mortality is the strongest aphrodisiac. Give in to passion while you’re alive, because after you’re dead, it’s called “necrophilia.” The whole ordeal made me a bit more passionate, and I never regretted a single, hormone-driven moment. (”Don’t make out with your Brother-in-Christ“? Well guess what? I don’t have any brothers. You lose, Purity Retreat!)

3) I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Life is short. Spend it with people who matter. I had been going through a little bout of depression and social anxiety earlier in the semester, which I don’t really want to get into, but basically I had been paranoid that my friends didn’t care about me anymore. Sarah’s death jet propelled me out of my hole. I realized that my friends were people who care about me and love me and make this tragic world worth living in. I’d rather sit around shooting the breeze with the few people I truly love, rather than make small talk with drunk people at a party any day.

To sum up, nothing makes people want to live more than the presence of death.

I’d forgotten that I’d learned all of this until Facebook reminded me of Sarah’s death. I won’t lie, I clicked on her profile, because I was morbidly curious if anyone had been foolish enough to write a birthday message on her wall. You know, people who maybe hadn’t heard she’d died (but really, who hadn’t? it crushed our hometown). Instead I saw the last few posts of remembrance that people posted on her wall around the time she’d died. And then I scrolled down and read the ones people had written before she died. When things were … normal. When everyone I knew was immortal and our town was completely safe and everything made sense. And I burst into tears. It didn’t help that I happened to be listening to Sarah McLachlan’s “I will remember you” on my Pandora.

I still remember you Sarah. And I still hold those lessons close to my heart. I will continue to do what makes me happy, kiss cute boys without shame, and spend my life with the people I love the most. You still didn’t deserve to go the way you did, but at least this helps me to deal with that.

Thanks for the reminder of mortality, Facebook. It’s only a matter of time before you turn that into a new application.

In high school, I was a bona fide member of The God Squad. For real — I kept a signed “ATM card” in my purse (”Abstinence Til Marriage” card, for all you heathens out there). I told my friends that they shouldn’t swear, and sang warm, fuzzy songs while lifting my hands up to the Lord.

And I went to Bible Camp.

FOR TWO YEARS IN A ROW.

AND LOVED IT.

I was, my friends, a Jesus Freak.

A brief history of Mary’s experience with religion

I spent 8 years going to religious education at my local church until I was confirmed Catholic in the 8th grade, which to my family meant you never had to go to church again. Sophomore year of high school, I was comfortable in my status as Retired Catholic (which means you still get to go to heaven because you were confirmed, you just don’t do any special work like going to church or reading the bible or praying). One day a few of my friends casually invited me to a talent show at their non-denominational, evangelical youth group. It didn’t take long for this casual visit to become an important part of my lifestyle. Went every Sunday, got saved, and used this new group of people to develop my spiritual relationship with my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

And now, I’m agnostic.

So yeah, a lot of shit went down in between now and then.

I have a lot of things to say when it comes to religion in general, and my experiences in particular, and they won’t possibly fit into one blog post. In future entries to come, I hope to enlighten you with further details of how I was then, who I am now, and the steps that took place in between. Until then, I’ll entertain you with one of my tried and true youth group stories — a favorite among my friends.

In the fall of my junior year of high school, my youth group went to a purity retreat at Bair Lake Bible Camp (these retreats were in addition to the summer camp I attended). The whole point was to teach us kids to stay physically and mentally pure before God until we were married. And this includes bjs and hjs too. And thinking about bjs and hjs. But when you get married, your relationship with your heterosexual Christian significant other is transformed before God, and you can do whatever the heck ya want. Except anal. There’s stories in the bible about how that’s bad. And I think 69s too. It’s mentioned in Leviticus, I think. During this retreat, there were seriously girls bursting into tears because they had already had sex and the pastors had been telling us we could never be whole before God if we’d porked before marriage.

At one point, the pastor brought up all the siblings that were on the retreat (there were actually quite a few). The brothers went to one side of the room, and the sisters went to the other side.

The pastor pulled one pair of siblings to the middle of the room, and asked the girl, “Do you love your brother?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied.

“Do you love your sister?” he asked the boy.

“Yes of course.”

He turned back to the girl.

“Would you make out with your brother?”

The whole room went ape shit. “EWWWWWWW, THAT’S FUCKING SICK!” (No one actually said it because we were all Christians, but I guarantee you that’s what we were all thinking).

The pastor turned to the rest of the crowd and said:

“If you wouldn’t make out with your brother…then you shouldn’t make out with your Brother-In-Christ.”

Go back and re-read the previous sentence.

Now read it again. Soak it up. The psychological damage, my dear readers, took years to fix.

Even at Bible Camp, I couldn’t stop making love to the camera…

I did it! I drove a car! It had a steering wheel and everything!

After 5 years of living in fear, I decided it was time to become a big girl. I had my first driving lesson with my friend Jacqui. Jacqui is a generally awesome human being and your life is worse off for not knowing her. I’ve known her since my second day of classes freshman year, and over the past four years, I continuously am in awe of her many wonderful qualities. She’s patient, has a magical ability to make others feel completely at ease around her, is one of the least non-judgmental people I’ve ever known, and she used to be an Education major — in other words, she’s the best person in the world to teach this skittish chicken how to drive.

As the old proverb goes, give a girl a fish, and she’ll eat for the day. Teach a girl to drive, and she can go to the McDonald’s drive-thru whenever she’s hungry. It was in the empty parking lot of Rhodes Furniture Store where Jacqui would teach me how to fish a car.

Jacqui gave me the keys, and I climbed into the driver’s seat. What an odd view that I hadn’t seen in so long. Did you know that there’s a mirror attached to the roof of the car?! Yeah, it helps you see behind the car! Weird!

“Are you scared, Mary?” she asked me.

“Completely. But I’m ready.”

I told Jacqui to approach me as though I had absolutely no knowledge of driving a car…which after 5 years, wasn’t too far off. She slowly took me through the process of starting the car, and made me explain it out loud as I was doing it. Buckle up. Adjust the seat. Check your mirrors. Key in the ignition. Foot on brake. Put car into drive. Take my foot off the brake.

Take my foot off the brake.

Take my foot off the brake.

I took my foot off the brake.

And it was awesome.

As I inched my way through the deserted parking lot like a snail doing the electric slide, my foot hovering over the brake, I couldn’t believe I was finally doing this. I was driving a car. Later on, Jacqui even let me use the accelerator! And we went to another parking lot, where there were real live cars! Oh, and I learned how to park! And I did a good job too! I didn’t kill anyone!

Looking back, I think it took me this long because I was afraid of failing. Besides dying alone, failure is one of my greatest fears. You see, when I failed my Behind the Wheel test years ago, I was able to blame it on other things: My parents’ car was wrecked so I couldn’t practice, my instructor was the douche-bag wrestling coach, blahblahcrymeariverjustintimberlakeblahblah. But with this, I would have no one to blame but myself if I failed again. And that’s scary.

But to quote the cinematic classic House Arrest starring Jamie Lee Curtis, sometimes ya gotta “feel the fear and go for it.” In conquering every irrational phobia (driving, snakes, the dark, clowns with knives), you just gotta buckle down because getting over the initial fear is the true obstacle. Once you allow yourself to participate in your phobia, you realize that the whole phobia was silly and that you have nothing to fear but fear itself.

And car crashes.

FDR obviously never saw a clown with a knife before.

I don’t have a driver’s license.

How’s that? I thought long and hard about how I could open this post to have correct level of pizazz and ska-doosh in introducing today’s topic. I thought I could maybe ease into it. Something like “Hey, how’s your day going, reader? Oh, awesome, I think I might chill on the quad and play acoustic guitar with my friends and watch people do that weird slack-lining thing in between trees. Oh, by the way, I’m going to start to learn how to drive today and I’m more frightened than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

But I figured the direct approach would be best.

It’s true. This is my deep, dark secret. The one thing that I’m truly ashamed of in my life. The only people that know this terrible truth are my close circle of friends. Normally, I wait until people have grown fond of me before I reveal that I’m a total loser, but I wanted to start our blogger/reader relationship with some honesty and cripplingly embarrassing secrets. That’s normal for a third date, right?

Right?

RIGHT?

When my friends randomly bring it up in conversation, I get really angry and defensive. There is nothing more embarrassing for a 21-year-old woah-man than to have it revealed that she doesn’t have a driver’s license. It’s even more embarrassing for a 21-year-old feminist to admit that she follows certain stereotypes concerning women and driving. It’s kind of like coming out of the closet. The Pedestrian Closet. Except, when you come out of it, there’s none of the fun minority-oppression-street-cred. Just incredulity.

At one point, I got so sick of explaining this to people, that I started lying about why I didn’t have my license.

“Um…you might not believe this because I’ve changed a lot…but when my friends and I were 14…we stole a car.”

“REALLY?!”

“No, you ass. I failed the driving portion of Behind the Wheel in school. Now shut the fuck up and get me a whiskey and diet coke — they’re on special tonight.”

Failing this test, as puss-tastic as this may sound, was pretty traumatizing. Especially since it happened on my birthday. Ouch. As a result, I’ve never driven a car since. EVER. That was 5 years ago. Because I was scared, plain and simple. And instead of woah-manning up and getting my license, I chose to be a loser who had to constantly bum rides from friends and family.

That all ends today.

I am going to drive a car. I am determined to get my license this summer.

Because I’m not afraid anymore.

Wait. Yes, I am. Completely terrified.

But for once in my life, I’m not going to let that stop me.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

What can I say? She shouldn’t have made fun of me.

Hey guys and gals! Be sure to check out WPGU 107.1 tonight, where I’ll be co-hosting The Nightcap from 10-midnight. I’ll be stirring up a radio revolution bigger than Christian Slater in “Pump Up the Volume” with Sarah Clemmons, aka “Clem,” as she’s known in those parts. I’ve decided that tonight will be titled unofficially “Pimp My Blog Night” because both Clemmo and I recently opened blogs here on thegoodold217.com. Tune in to hear us plug our blogs until the proverbial cows come home, and ask each other questions about our divine blog-inspirations. We might even play some music.

The reason why I say that “Pimp My Blog Night” is an unofficial title, is because I need to double-check that I can, in fact, say “pimp” on the radio. I did my first co-hosting gig Monday night on the Night Cap, and I was surprised to find out that one cannot say “penis” on the radio. I know that the FCC has strange rules and regulations for language. For instance, you can tell someone to “quit their bitching,” but you cannot say “I love you, you stupid bitch.” You can talk about your fabulous vacation to the Grand Canyon where you “rode an ass all the way down to the bottom,” but you cannot say “Let’s go to church, you stupid asshole.”

But penis?! (Haha, “but penis” tee hee) PENIS?! That’s ludicrous. But enough about rappers.

I can understand if it’s against FCC regulations to say “Your face looks like a penis” or something equally witty. But apparently you can’t even use it in a basic, expository, anatomical context, like “This man has a penis.” So you can say “sex,” but you can’t say the parts involved in sex. You can say “take a tinkle,” but you can’t say the parts involved in taking said tinkle.

I had to find this out the hard way on Monday. The Night Cap Gang was mooned by three gentleman, one of whom decided it would be hilarious to whip out his donger. Just a typical night at the office! I wasn’t offended because it’s these sorts of things that make hosting a radio show exciting. Plus, I found it useful, because I was able to ascertain that it must have been really really cold outside.

I wanted to mention the moon-dong incident on-air as part of our banter, but Sarah had to cut me off before I uttered the unacceptable word, and inform me during the commercial break that it is not allowed. Genitalia does not exist in radio stations, according to FCC regulations.

Co-hosting is fun. My DJ name is Mare Bear. Sarah told me I should go with something edgier, but I had to inform her that I already have more edge than everyone combined at PGU, so I have to go with a softer name, as to prevent any listeners from cutting themselves on my aforementioned edge. But censoring my sailor’s mouth is going to be a challenge, boyhowdy. I do not know how to talk politely in public. I noticed this last night when I realized I uttered the word “cock” in front of adorable, impressionable children at Jarling’s Custard Cup. Listen, they’re gonna hear about these things eventually, they may as well hear it from me, right? With the reliance on abstinence-only education these days, I feel that I’m doing a public service.

I can’t help it if I’m this edgy. I’m a loose cannon. Ill-tempered with nothing left to lose. Rocking the boat. Taking on the man. Stirring the stew. Rocking the C-K off yo’ muthah. I’m a radio rebel, much like my idol, Dr. Johnny Fever from WKRP in Cincinnati. So what if he’s a fictional character? He didn’t take crap from anyone.

Wait, what did you say? WPGU can get fined 10,000 dollars for a single violation?

Oh.

That’s a lot of money.

Um.

Ok. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But I don’t have to like it!

Check out The Night Cap tonight at WPGU 107.1 from 10 pm - midnight!

Dr. Johnny Fever ain’t got nothing on me.

Hello ladies and gentlemen.

And welcome to my blog. My name is Mary Z, and I will be allowing you to further waste time on the Internet. You’re welcome.

According to Technorati.com, an internet watchdog site, there are currently 112.8 million blogs. I am a small blip on a large-scale radar. In other words, it’s kind of like being a student at the University of Illinois.

I used to have a blog. Ever heard of a little thing called “LiveJournal”? I was all over that. And before that, I was the queen of Xanga. Jealous? Those were the days before blogging was considered alternative journalism. High schoolers like me used them to bitch about their friends and then use the the defense of “Ummmm, I was VENTING, ok? It’s my journal, if you don’t like it, DON’T READ IT.” On that note, I’d like to apologize once again to Emilie Alcock — I shouldn’t have written those terrible things about you during A Midsummer Night’s Dream junior year. You did TOTALLY deserve the part of Helena.

But I couldn’t resist re-joining the ranks of the blogosphere. My friends Warrior Poet and With Tongue got their own blogs here on the good old 217 (have YOU heard about the 217?!), and reading their amusing mind droppings everyday made me realize I should be allowed to subject you to my thoughts as well. The question was, what to write about? A music blog was out of the question. My taste in music is not of the required “Randomly Named Indie Band/ Jam Band / Classic Rock Band That Everyone is Supposed to Like” persuasion. For instance, when I make a call-in request at WPGU, it’s always William Shatner’s cover of “Common People.” I’m sorry, but that one piece of musical genius is better than anything the Beatles or Miley Cyrus ever put out. And I don’t think I’m quite the person to blog on LGBT culture in Champaign. I mean, I haven’t even been to Studio 54 night, so how can I be possibly be informed on the issues?!?! And seriously, I’m having too much fun reading With Tongue.

So, I’ll have to write about what I know best: myself. This little corner of the Interweb will give you a glimpse into the mind and thoughts of yours truly. A terrifying thought, I know. But fret not, because I am a pretty entertaining person, and my skittish, quirky nature brings delight to the masses. I’ve had some interesting experiences in life that have shaped my outlook on life, and I’d like to entertain you with them. I might talk about some social or political issues that I’m particularly passionate about (sexual violence, religion, sex education, eating disorders, etc), but this ain’t no Op-Ed piece. The only reason I have deep interest in these topics is because I have had some sort of personal interaction with them. So if I’m gonna go on about an issue, I’m going to make it personal, and hopefully make you laugh in the process. I can’t be serious for too long before I make an inappropriate joke.

That’s what she said.

Huh?

Nevermind.

So please enjoy my blog, Triple Entendre. A triple entendre is, according to respected domains of information (aka, Wikipedia) a “rare occurrence in language where a phrase can be understood in any of three ways.” It’s sometimes silly, sometimes slightly inappropriate, but always clever and complex.

Wow, that almost sounds like I’m describing myself. Too bad the definition doesn’t include “eyes that glow like emeralds” and “nice ass.” Then it would be SPOT ON.

I know you can only see my eyes in this picture, but you’ll have to take my word on the other half.