god hates baguettes

Well, while you were in the bathroom, I sat down at this picnic table here in Bumblefug, Kentucky, and noticed that someone had carved that GOD HATES FAG, which, aside from being a grammatical nightmare, is absolutely ridiculous. So I’m changing it to ‘God Hates Baguettes.’ It’s tough to disagree with that. Everybody hates baguettes.
Well, while you were in the bathroom, I sat down at this picnic table here in Bumblefug, Kentucky, and noticed that someone had carved that GOD HATES FAG, which, aside from being a grammatical nightmare, is absolutely ridiculous. So I’m changing it to ‘God Hates Baguettes.’ It’s tough to disagree with that. Everybody hates baguettes.
—  ― John Green, An Abundance of Katherines
Once Upon A Time, there were two friends instant messaging on a social networking site.  A commonplace event, these teenagers are constantly doing things like that. However, this particular late night conversation bore an idea. A simple, interesting, entertaining idea. They could create a blog, a blog where everything they stood for and loved could come together. A project they could share despite the distance between them. So with lightning fast Tumblr skills, a blog was created and named after a fabulous Abundance of Katherines quote. Another friend was added to the list of contributors, a schedule was made, and God Hates Baguettes was created.                 So, welcome to God Hate Baguettes. This is the collaboration of ideas that matter to a few teenagers whose futures are so bright they gotta wear shades. Here you’ll find everything from human rights, to music, to my (Anisa’s) rambling writing. It’s still a work in progress, and not everything is going to run smoothly all the time, but that’s to be expected. You can click the link above to meet the authors who will be writing here, or you can ask a question or comment on something about GHB, or hey! you could click the follow button, or if all of that is just too much effort scroll down a bit and read the first article written by one of our collaborators. Everyone hates baguettes. -Anisa C.

Hey, guys, our first zine is out now! They include a piece of writing from each of our authors as well as some drawings of Maggie’s. We’d love to give them out for trade, though, if you don’t have something to trade, we’d also accept a dollar so that we can keep making these! Contact us through a message if you’re interested!

The 40th Hour

By the time this posts, this will be the 40th hour. The 40th hour of being awake and active. This is the longest I’ve ever been awake consecutively on purpose. I had insomnia for around two years, and I still have a mild case, but it has gotten much better. Nothing like this intentional marathon. On the 40th hour, though, we celebrate my best friend Jay’s 36 hours of being in Las Cruces, where he grew up. Jay Ytell moved from our hometown to Fort Collins, Colorado when we were in the sixth grade. As our friendship turned out to be indestructible, we try to see each other twice a year at the least. This time, he will only be here for a mere 5 days, and because of this limitation, we cannot afford to sleep much (or at all). This is only his first day he’s been here and in these hours, this is a list of what we’ve accomplished: picked up Jay from airport, played scrabble, lost at scrabble, went to Hastings, went to Best Buy, ate, talked with family, talked with sister, shared crazy stories with sister, played guitar, wrote half a metal song that sounds decent, went on a walk, nearly got eaten by dogs, climbed a tree because of said dogs, got back, watched creepypasta, played more guitar, went on internet and YouTube, showered, ate, watched Office Space, watched the first original Batman, hung out with Maggie Billings, went to my elementary school, climbed things, got back, made inappropriate jokes, went to a guitar lesson, bought queso, bought energy drinks, and wrote this article.

This is but the first in a glorious set of adventures.


Another Cog In the System

By Maggie Billings

       As of today, I have a driver’s license. In a spread out town like Las Cruces, there is very little public transportation, so getting around is difficult without a car. I’ve looked forward to this for months, yearning for the small level of independence granted with this license. No longer will I have to depend on parents and friends to get me where I want to be. 

      When I went to the DMV, I immediately recognized it as a place I’d seen in my nightmares.  Its chaotic governmental organization was unnerving and creepy and looked like what I imagined while reading 1984 and Brave New World. After giving a bored looking woman my information, I was assigned number 118 and told to wait for a thin, joyless lady to call me up and take my picture. The process reminded me of picture day in elementary school, except that the picture turned out better and there was slightly less crying. 

      From there, I was sent to another desk where another bored woman took more information for me and told me that I wasn’t old enough to get my license; that I had to be 15 and a half. I argued with her for a while, telling here that, in fact, I was 16 in less than two months, and in the end she grudgingly corrected the information and we started all over. Though I really wanted nothing more than to go home and go back to bed, we went through the process and she handed me my freshly printed black and white temporary license. Looking at it, I had a strange feeling. To the state of New Mexico, I was now more than just my parents, I had my own separate identity. I was Margaret Billings: a 5 foot tall, 95 pound organ donor with blue eyes from Las Cruces. Here’s my age, here’s my address.

      It’s a strange feeling to know that I’m in this big, grown up system. I have my own number, but to the government, that’s all I am. I hit the right age, I took the right classes, drove on my permit for the right hours, and that’s all that matters. I don’t have to be mature, but I feel like I should be. This license represents a milestone that most American teenagers reach in their lives, and when I look at my friends who have also passed this, I don’t feel old enough. They all look big and mature behind the wheel, like they should be there. I look like a cracked out ten-year-old taking her mom’s car out for a joyride. But I’m not, and so, I drive. I  take myself to get my hair cut, I run errands for my mom, and I play “You Point, I Drive” with my friends to kill time. To be honest with myself, I’ve never felt ready for any of the supposed milestones of my life, so I’ll have to go on anyway and hope that I will one day grow into this one.

Thoughts From A Graveyard

 The other day, my friend and I were driving around town and ended up at the Mason’s Graveyard. Having nothing else to do, we decided that we would search for the  grave with the oldest date of birth. We walked through the rows of headstones, reading off the names and dates engraved on them. To us, these people were only these names. All of their lives were summed up here, on these tombs. All we would know about Sindey and Estelle Rosenburger would be that they were beloved parents with lots of flowers decorating their grave. Where they were born, how they met, what their jobs were, if they had careers or happiness- these were things that we’ll never know. 

     On our walk, we met an old, incredibly friendly man who talked to us, repeating everything he said at least twice. He told us about his wife and that every day, he walks through the graveyard to come see her. They had been married for 55 years until her death 6 years ago. He told us about her family and his life and how much he loved her. While talking to him, I realized that that is why people get married for life- because they love someone so much that they have to be with them, even after they die. This man loved his wife so strongly that he couldn’t stand to be away from her, even in death. He couldn’t remember that he’d already told us something, but he could remember all the details of his love for her.  They undoubtedly had their problems, but through it all, there was love, and maybe it’s just because I’m young, but that is amazing and beautiful to me.

     After all this, I couldn’t help but think that through all of its complexities, life really boils down to a sentence on a tombstone and stories told by people who love us. No matter how many bridges we regretfully burn or how many nights we cry, it is the good things that are told about us after our deaths that are remembered. I like this. It means, to me, that in the end, we just need to do as much right as we can and keep enough people who love you around to write you a good obituary.