I am a horrible bog monster sent from the depths to torture cameras and look like an egg

so my cheer squad had professional photos taken a few days ago. great.

 we were told in advance of the date and time. incredible. flawless communication. what could possibly go wrong.

Me.

Me could.

see, I, in my infinite wisdom, read the message and somehow decided that the photos were at 10PM, which is our usual practice time. cool. fine. perfect. 

so I’m just chilling. watching my silly little videos. picking out my silly little pose to do for my solo picture. living my best, most unbothered life.

I even planned it out. “I’ll start getting ready around 8,” I told myself. “plenty of time. maybe even too much time.”

there was not, in fact, too much time.

at 7:30 I decide to take a quick stroll to the dining hall. maybe get a muffin. maybe touch grass. maybe be a functioning adult for once in my life, but then— BEHOLD.

 a text. from my teammate.

“hey do you wanna walk to the photos together?”

and I, sweet summer child that I am, reply:

“yeah sure! meet you at 9:30!”

and she’s like

“bro what do you mean 9:30??? the pictures are at 8???”

the. pictures. are. at. 8.

EIGHT. PM.

I have never moved faster in my life. I sprint back to my dorm like the last 15 minutes of a romcom, except instead of chasing true love, I’m chasing basic competence.

I didn’t even make it to the dining hall either so NO DINNER FOR JAY.

I throw my hair into the worst ponytail known to mankind, put on my uniform, and bolt out the door to meet my teammate.

 and you’d think, “ah, surely that’s where the bullshit ends. Surely you get a break.”

no.

because when we get there, I realize I have forgotten something crucial.

 My. fucking. Poms.

I sprint BACK to my dorm, grab the poms, glance in the mirror, and make direct eye contact with a creature who looks like it’s been run over by a monster truck made of garbage and broken glass. then I sprint BACK.

when I get there?

 no one else is even there yet.

it’s just me and my teammate standing there like dumbasses.

 and when everyone does show up, they’re looking like literal goddesses descended from Olympus. lashes. curls. flawless all around. LITERALLY OFFENSIVELY STUNNING.

and me ? I’m there looking like I just crawled out of a bog to deliver an ominous warning, only to be promptly slain by the main character, and dumped back into the murky depths to be eaten by small fishes.

 to make matters worse, apparently no one else was doing ponytails.

 so I’m the lone, frizzy-headed bridge troll in a sea of perfectly coiffed angels.

the photos came out exactly how you think they did.

imagine:

 a glittering choir of pom-pom wielding cherubs…

 and me, in the corner, smiling like I just bit into a lemon and saw the face of hades himself, and he told me to fuck off.

I can never leave the house again.