You hit the shuffle button. Shuffle is a liar. You think maybe the music player knows what you want. Nope! Spotify is wrong. So you skip it. Skip, Skip, Skip. You basically hit shuffle just to make your finger do extra work. You knew the song you wanted all along, you just gave the music app a tiny little chance to be right, and it failed. Every time. Still I try and try again hoping that maybe one day it will finally get it. And then you end up wanting to be on your phone in class or on the roads to fix it because the machine can never get it right. It has literally gotten me in trouble before just because of song choice. You don’t need shuffle. Shuffle needs you to teach it a lesson about your true music taste, which only you understand. You are just reminding your phone that you get the music you want, right now. It’s not a trait, it’s self success, despite unnecessary struggle and definitely super hard work.

For the past four years, I have been a raging coffee-holic. The thought of starting my day without a 12-ounce, golden brown Cup O’ Joe sends me into a spiral. I have tried every holiday menu of every coffee place within a 50 mile radius. Starbucks has the sugar-coma inducing drinks, Ziggi’s has everything Starbucks has plus Italian soda, Paul’s is the best tasting, and the Perk is the most wallet-friendly, outside of brewing my own. Every time I hear the whir of my family’s overworked, underpaid Nespresso, my heart begins to flutter. Then, comes the best part of my day: the first sip. Instant serotonin. At this point, my coffee craving is practically an addiction. The bitter, energy-brew is on my mind 25 hours, 8 days a week. I think about coffee for more time than when a 7-Eleven is open. Is my love of coffee toxic? Yes, probably. Do I have a problem? Nope!

I hate energy drinks. I hate the energy drink craze as a whole, but I am so annoying about it. Every time I see my brother down an Alani in the morning, I can’t help but tell him how bad it is for him and that he is going to get heart palpitations. I can’t help but argue with everyone who says that it’s the same as a cup of coffee. Every time I go to Dutch Bros and see the rebel menu, I can practically taste the cough syrup flavored fizz that I once wasted my money on, and my face grimaces not just with disgust but with disappointment. I think that those who drink Celsius every morning are babies whose palate never matured. I look down on those who buy cases of Redbull to survive the week, even though I go to Starbucks at least once a week. Even though I have a collection of coffee syrups. Even though I have had a cup of coffee every morning since I was in sixth grade.

My toxic trait is I fully believe I can cook or bake absolutely anything. I walk into my kitchen with so much hope and the confidence of a celebrity chef, but truly have zero idea of what I am doing. I can barely follow even the most basic of recipes. The last time I attempted to fry dough, the smoke was so intense my coach still smells like it. But the worst part of it all is that I never learned. Every time I see a cute recipe video on Instagram, I convince myself that this time I will definitely get it right. But every time without fail I get seriously humbled within the first five minutes. Not to mention my kitchen ends up looking like I literally battled with all of the ingredients and lost very badly. There is flour all over the counters, every single dish I have has been used. And ingredients all over the walls. But with every recipe, my delusion is reset. Who knows? Maybe one day the food might turn out edible.

My toxic trait is critiquing professionals as if I am one. I watch Dancing with the Stars (DWTS), The Voice, and football, and on all three of these occasions, I judge. On Dancing with the Stars, the second someone fumbles a move or is off time,I’m disgusted. I start thinking, “If I was on DWTS, I would be able to do that so much better.” Now, mind you, I have absolutely no experience whatsoever with dancing in any form, but still think of myself as a professional. The same thing happens with The Voice. Someone sings, no chairs turn, and I assume all the chairs would turn for me. Lastly, I will be watching football and honing in on their plays, asking myself the big question: why on earth do they run right into the middle where everyone is? Obviously, they won’t get far. If I were in their shoes, I would just run around and get tons of touchdowns. These so-called “professionals” have no idea what they’re doing, and they should consult me before trying something else. Clearly, I’m the professional here.

The worst thing someone can say to me is “ you choose.” Because I will never be able to choose. When I’m given two options, I worry that the one I choose will be the “wrong choice,” and most of the time I wish I had chosen the other option. The only thing worse than me being indecisive alone is when I am with another indecisive person; that’s when we end up not being able to choose anything. Honestly, I don’t know if I would even consider this a toxic trait. I feel like it just means that I care, but it definitely makes picking movies or restaurants frustrating for the people I am with. And the irony is that even after all the overthinking, half the time the choice doesn’t even matter. Yet, there I am, staring at a menu like I’m making a life-altering decision. I swear, sometimes I wish someone would just make the choice for me, so I could finally relax.