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Photography by Justin Hadley, Design by Cassi Costoulas, Campaign by Manda Costoulas
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I wonder how many people go to great lengths to break into vending machines; not for the cash, but because a bum machine swindled them out of their rightfully bought property by refusing to give them what they paid for and then shamelessly mocked them by letting them look at it for as long as they want until they get into a nice long stew about it.
All I wanted was some Ramen. And because my hotel had Ramen in their previously non-offending vending machine, I thought I was in luck. Quick trip downstairs, bada bing bada boom, Ramen in my bowl. I should have known something terrible was going to happen the moment I looked down at those delicious freeze-dried noodles and saw that, ominously, they had no price tag or number. However, through the power of some impressive deductive reasoning, and by that I mean putting in quarter after quarter until the machine gave me some Ramen, I paid an exorbitant dollar seventy-five for one pack of chicken powder flavored Ramen noodles. Which, as everyone knows, goes for about nineteen cents at the grocery store. However, I knew when I got into this that I would be paying for convenience, so I grit my teeth and thought of England. But the real trial was still to come.
When I put in my next dollar seventy-five, the unthinkable happened. The wire circle cradling my beloved Ramen did not complete its resolution. There was my Ramen, sitting there, crying out to me, while its coiled prison did not let it escape. Without even a hope of knocking it loose, I stood at that moment at a crossroads. Another woman, a better woman, perhaps, would maybe have cut her losses at that point. Taken the one pack of Ramen, not a meal, certainly, but not nothing, either. I am not that woman. 
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Photography by Justin Hadley, Design by Cassi Costoulas, Campaign by Manda Costoulas
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Photography by Justin Hadley, Design by Cassi Costoulas, Campaign by Manda Costoulas

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Ok friends. Before we get into what started this very productive Q&A session* we are about to embark upon together, there are a few things we need to clear up first. First of all, I need to explain to you what a Big Rock moment is. Then we're going to talk about reindeer. Big Rock first. In order to adequately set the scene you'd have to know Jesse Greene, the man and the legend. But we'll assume you don't. We'll also assume that you don't know what the hell I'm talking about when I tell you that the Big Rock concert series was a music festival event put on by 99X radio at Stone Mountain. To wit: a Big Rock moment is the moment of dawning realization of something obvious that has eluded you for years, so named after the moment when the legendary Jesse Greene (only spoken of in awed whispers of lore and tales of wonder) realized while at a 99X Big Rock concert at Stone Mountain that Stone Mountain was itself a big rock and thus the title of the concert series was a double entendre. This was proceeded directly afterwards by the realization that the previous series years before was called 'On the Bricks' because indeed Centennial Olympic Park is paved with bricks. As in “Holy shit last year was 'On the Bricks' is that because there are bricks in the park?” His world was thenceforth changed.
 I'm sure, the clever little devil that you are, you've realized how this all connects to reindeer and Google. But bear with me, and let's continue on this journey together. On a fine clear night, while ostensibly being very productive while not doing much of anything, a Big Rock moment of such staggering epiphany dawned upon my heart like the bright beacon of the morning sun. My eyes were opened, a veil was lifted, and I could see the innermost workings of the complex gears and levers of our clockwork world in one bright and terrifying moment of clarity. Reindeer are called reindeer because Santa puts reins on them. O, Providence! O, Happy Day! Immediately I knew there was only one thing to do in such a situation: consult the Oracle. Why, Google? Why are reindeer called reindeer? Surely I couldn't be mistaken? As I began to type in my question, I got as far as “Why are” when I saw with dawning dismay that my search for vindication would have to wait. The image before my eyes given to me by Google's predictive text handed me a new destiny. The Internet needed me. Don't worry, America. I'm here now. Shhh. It'll be alright.

*all questions answered without the help of Google.
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Some things in life are sacred. Things like the ability to sweat to your trusty Dance 90's VHS with your windows wide open, declaring to the world that yes, you can get jiggy with your bomb diggity self. And who could truly be happy without one's daily right to sit at coffee shops around America and loudly and consistently judge those more successful than yourself? Like people who wear loafers. Loafers are for loafing. When will people understand? These activities are sacred, protected by the inalienable rights we have as sweaty, dancing fools in this the race of humans. I think we all know where this is going. The most sacrosanct of all of life's joys. That's right. Cheese. Now, I know what you're thinking. Who could possibly ruin cheese? What folly is this? You're right, of course. Nobody can ruin cheese. But there is a fine balance between ruining cheese and simply refusing to do what's best for it.
In between my frantic schedule of sleeping all day and laying down a few snappy lines of dialogue for my Great Underachiever's Novel, my carefully planned afternoon was thrown way off its axis when, with feigned innocence as to her abomination, my sister bit down into a toasted (toasted!) peanut butter and cheddar sandwich. Trickery! Outrage! Shame!
Certain things are better left separate. Outlaws and sheriffs. Pirates and ninjas. Grad students and everyone else. Dogs and wood chippers (don't think about that one too hard). But more than all of these things (I'll take back pirates and ninjas, let's face it that would be awesome), is delicious cheese and sticky, cloying, passive-aggressive peanut butter. Cheese and peanut butter are natural born enemies! They are the Palin/Levi of food products. Please. Do what's best for cheese. Do what's best for humanity. Put the peanut butter down.
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