It has been raining for 3 DAYS. Constantly. Now the awesome thing about this is that, since my darling pony fell on my leg in his misguided attempt to utterly destroy me, whenever it rains my leg starts aching. Since God (apparently) has finally gotten tired of people like Paris Hilton and Bear Grylls and has decided to flood the earth again, it has not stopped raining. Luckily for you this constant throbbing pain reminds me of the time when the family doctor thought I had rheumatoid arthritis.
When I went to preschool it was in a converted bomb shed on Quantico base. There were two of these structures, a red one and a green one. They were shaped like half cylinders. I am convinced the leftover energy from the bombs is why I can only remember running around shrieking like a banshee at recess and hating nap time because it cut into my shrieking time. I learned in the red one, which was obviously better because red symbolizes aggression, just like bombs.
Side note, my mother had to convince me everyday before preschool that the buttercups that grew on the playground, as though the devil himself was setting them out to tempt me, did not taste like butter. She had to re-convince me every day that they tasted like painful death by poison. I'm surprised I made it this far too.
Anyway, one of the best features of this age (besides preschool) were my nightly growing pains. I got them every night (hence the nightly) and I would wake my parents up and they would curse the day they had children. I am sure they would fondly reminisce about when they used to be able to sleep. I never, ever, even now, sleep all the way through the night. I did finally develop the ability to not wake people up in a misguided attempt to show them the magic of 3:30 in the morning. Which I am sure many people appreciate.
Finally, in a desperate attempt to spare themselves the agony of another night spent drugging me into a pain-free state of semi-consciousness, they took me to the doctor. Who (I imagine) looked up from his dirty magazine and screeched “rheumatoid arthritis!” before retreating to the relative safety of the sea where he could frolic un-molested with entire pods of wild doctors and sun himself on the deck of a yacht.
Since they had lost the doctor, they had to take me to a hospital. Hospitals are just large doctor aquariums, places for nurses to tag and release these wildly irrational sea-beasts. Always remember to bring a net of woven mermaid hair to trap your doctor long enough to ensure an adequate period of medical care and attention. Their skin will eventually secrete enough acid to erode away the net and allow them to escape into the harbor, which is why insurance is so expensive, but your health is worth it.
I recall this hospital as being full of zombie-esque people who were billions of miles taller than me. As well as doctors who looked positively ghostly in their flowing white robes. I also remember being there for at least a month, although i am told it was just long enough to get my blood drawn for tests.
And here we come to the truly magical part of the story. You see, I did not react to this traumatic event like a normal child. I know this because I talk to the boyfriend, who, and I am not making this up, is 24 and still gets tricked into several shots by his mother EVERY YEAR. (I imagine) She tells him something like “Darling, lets go get ice cream!” and he leaps into the car with glee. Then she stops at Walgreens, which is clearly advertising flu shots, tricks/threatens him out of the car, and they vaccinate him.
The first time it happened I was squealing with delight to the point where I couldn’t breathe and nearly died of happiness once he told me. This is because he is a large and manly hockey player with a beard, all of which suggest that he could get stuck with a harpoon and not bat an eyelash. He is also really fucking smart and frequently out-logics me because I am not amazing a logic/common sense due to my preference for book smarts and unicorns. But he gets tricked into a shot at least once a year! By the same person!
Here my was my reaction to getting a needle shoved into my arm and left there at age 4:
Me: “What do you think you are doing?!”
Young And Unsuspecting Medical Intern: “I need to take some of your blood to test you for a debilitating disease. It will only hurt for a second.”
Me: “I didn’t say you could do that.”
YAUMI: “Ummm… okay… Can I take some of your blood?” At this point he has the filled vial already and is probably looking for a quick escape.
Me: “No! That is MY BLOOD and no one asked me if they could take MY BLOOD!” I screamed it loudly enough that, apparently, I became the star of the clinic.
At this point my mother apologized to the nice YAUMI and took me away while I berated her for not getting my permission before drawing my blood and ensuring I wasn't going to live a short, pain-filled and tragic life. I’m sure she was charmed. There were no tears. Also there was no arthritis and I got a band-aid folded into the shape of a bunny.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
I have way too much free time
I recently learned something about myself. It would appear that without having a constant array of things to accomplish socially and academically I fall into a cycle that consists of completely unacceptable activities. And by unacceptable I do not mean creepy, weird and upsetting, I mean ridiculous and definitely more suitable for someone who is not supposed to be a fully formed adult.
I learned this moments ago when the boyfriend, who was being awesome and couple-y and living up to the standard his glorious beard sets for his personality, texted me to ask what I was doing. Which was great (in the worst way possible) because I couldn’t think up a good enough lie on the spot like that and was forced to tell him what I was actually doing.
He can see straight through my lies. Probably because he knows that if I tell him I am doing something normal, like watching TV or painting my nails, that I actually am lying through my teeth to conceal my true (and probably more interesting) activities. Apparently we’ve been dating long enough that he knows I don’t have the ability to sit and concentrate on anything less fascinating that ancient Greek sacrificial ritual. Which is nice, because it means he no longer gets surprised by my antics and he even participates/humors me in my social experiments on our friends.
So I told him the true truth; which happened to be that I was sitting cross-legged my parent’s living room floor wrapped in my comforter, eating leftover honey-baked ham and watching Survivorman. He very sweetly concealed his laughter and told me this was a perfectly normal activity and I shouldn't be ashamed at all.
Was I pretending to be in the woods of Ontario with him? Yes, I was. My ham was the bear I killed with my own teeth. My blanket, its pelt. (Bear liver is full of Vitamin A, and it will poison you, so you should never eat it).
The moment I had to admit what I was actually doing was the exact moment I realized that it was completely socially unacceptable. Not as bad as arson or chewing with your mouth open, it was bad in a not-that-bad-but-still-awkward kind of way. Like child leashes, which are extremely useful and probably a good idea, but are also embarrassing and not something you want anyone to know that you are involved in. At least, anyone who isn’t a parent that made the mistake of taking their child to Disneyland.
Fortunately, since I live in a house where everyone but me is asleep by 10, I can get up to all sorts of shenanigans that I previously never even considered. This is because I had my sorority sisters and/or friends and/or the boyfriend to find me something to do besides pretend I am on the discovery channel trekking alongside whatever host happens to be onscreen. Or talking to the PNM ghost. Or taking internet quizzes. Or make a zombie apocalypse survival plan for 7 billionth time. This is actually not fortunate. I can’t wait to start my job.
I learned this moments ago when the boyfriend, who was being awesome and couple-y and living up to the standard his glorious beard sets for his personality, texted me to ask what I was doing. Which was great (in the worst way possible) because I couldn’t think up a good enough lie on the spot like that and was forced to tell him what I was actually doing.
He can see straight through my lies. Probably because he knows that if I tell him I am doing something normal, like watching TV or painting my nails, that I actually am lying through my teeth to conceal my true (and probably more interesting) activities. Apparently we’ve been dating long enough that he knows I don’t have the ability to sit and concentrate on anything less fascinating that ancient Greek sacrificial ritual. Which is nice, because it means he no longer gets surprised by my antics and he even participates/humors me in my social experiments on our friends.
So I told him the true truth; which happened to be that I was sitting cross-legged my parent’s living room floor wrapped in my comforter, eating leftover honey-baked ham and watching Survivorman. He very sweetly concealed his laughter and told me this was a perfectly normal activity and I shouldn't be ashamed at all.
Was I pretending to be in the woods of Ontario with him? Yes, I was. My ham was the bear I killed with my own teeth. My blanket, its pelt. (Bear liver is full of Vitamin A, and it will poison you, so you should never eat it).
The moment I had to admit what I was actually doing was the exact moment I realized that it was completely socially unacceptable. Not as bad as arson or chewing with your mouth open, it was bad in a not-that-bad-but-still-awkward kind of way. Like child leashes, which are extremely useful and probably a good idea, but are also embarrassing and not something you want anyone to know that you are involved in. At least, anyone who isn’t a parent that made the mistake of taking their child to Disneyland.
Fortunately, since I live in a house where everyone but me is asleep by 10, I can get up to all sorts of shenanigans that I previously never even considered. This is because I had my sorority sisters and/or friends and/or the boyfriend to find me something to do besides pretend I am on the discovery channel trekking alongside whatever host happens to be onscreen. Or talking to the PNM ghost. Or taking internet quizzes. Or make a zombie apocalypse survival plan for 7 billionth time. This is actually not fortunate. I can’t wait to start my job.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Hummels are Horrible
They started out normal.
I should have started not at that point in the story. I cant even walk in a straight line, so its completely un-startling that the only way I can figure out how to start a thought is to toss you into the metaphorical abyss of my story and yell ‘swim bitches!’
Which, I might add, is cruel and unnecessary. Like kitten sweaters and booster shots.
My mom decided she was ready to start her very own eBay business a few weeks ago. Also, my spell check automatically recognizes that particular word… huh… It even capitalizes the B for me. How long has eBay been a recognized word?
Anyway, this all came about because my mom has been watching hoarders on several different television channels and has become convinced she is well on her way to becoming a hoarder. She is literally living in fear that in a few years someone will come into the house and die under an avalanche of stuff she has yet to collect. Then she will have to have someone clean her house and, just like on TV, they will discover a mummified cat body that crunches when they shovel it up off the varnished floor. Which makes perfect sense because she owns exactly zero cats and doesn’t have enough stuff to merit and awkward pile in the corner, much less a full fledged avalanche of repressed emotions.
So, since we moved recently, all her and my dad’s stuff was corralled into a series of cardboard boxes, she picked out everything that she wanted to sell, and I have been running her eBay business ever since. She does take the packages to the post office, because I cannot drive my van this close to DC without having an emotional breakdown at least as serious as the end of the dinosaurs.
One of the most delightful portions of my eBay experience is definitely the awesome description writing portion. Nothing is more stupendous, except watching paint dry or grass grow, or getting major dental work done. But other than that, and everything else is the world, just short of genocide and the sun going into red giant and deep frying earth, is elicits less strong motion from me than writing hummel descriptions.
This is why, if you were to find my mother’s account, you could document my slow descent into madness. As I said earlier, they started out normal.
I documented colors, decorative schemes, widths and heights, faults, flaws, fairy dust, gnawing damage, everything. And somewhere along the way, I completely forgot what the real point of this eBay business was. Apparently, it is not a platform for me to say irrational things, which was also un-startling.
My last eBay description read “this adorable little Goebel kitten figurine is just waiting for you to take it home and so it can charm you from its perch on your shelf.”
Once I got done rolling around the kitchen floor at how hilarious I found myself and how frantically emotional I was getting about my boredom, I came to a realization. I had posted enough of my mother’s things to merit free posting so I slapped that sucker up into the antique figurine section faster than it takes Dumbledore to tie together a plot.
I should have started not at that point in the story. I cant even walk in a straight line, so its completely un-startling that the only way I can figure out how to start a thought is to toss you into the metaphorical abyss of my story and yell ‘swim bitches!’
Which, I might add, is cruel and unnecessary. Like kitten sweaters and booster shots.
My mom decided she was ready to start her very own eBay business a few weeks ago. Also, my spell check automatically recognizes that particular word… huh… It even capitalizes the B for me. How long has eBay been a recognized word?
Anyway, this all came about because my mom has been watching hoarders on several different television channels and has become convinced she is well on her way to becoming a hoarder. She is literally living in fear that in a few years someone will come into the house and die under an avalanche of stuff she has yet to collect. Then she will have to have someone clean her house and, just like on TV, they will discover a mummified cat body that crunches when they shovel it up off the varnished floor. Which makes perfect sense because she owns exactly zero cats and doesn’t have enough stuff to merit and awkward pile in the corner, much less a full fledged avalanche of repressed emotions.
So, since we moved recently, all her and my dad’s stuff was corralled into a series of cardboard boxes, she picked out everything that she wanted to sell, and I have been running her eBay business ever since. She does take the packages to the post office, because I cannot drive my van this close to DC without having an emotional breakdown at least as serious as the end of the dinosaurs.
One of the most delightful portions of my eBay experience is definitely the awesome description writing portion. Nothing is more stupendous, except watching paint dry or grass grow, or getting major dental work done. But other than that, and everything else is the world, just short of genocide and the sun going into red giant and deep frying earth, is elicits less strong motion from me than writing hummel descriptions.
This is why, if you were to find my mother’s account, you could document my slow descent into madness. As I said earlier, they started out normal.
I documented colors, decorative schemes, widths and heights, faults, flaws, fairy dust, gnawing damage, everything. And somewhere along the way, I completely forgot what the real point of this eBay business was. Apparently, it is not a platform for me to say irrational things, which was also un-startling.
My last eBay description read “this adorable little Goebel kitten figurine is just waiting for you to take it home and so it can charm you from its perch on your shelf.”
Once I got done rolling around the kitchen floor at how hilarious I found myself and how frantically emotional I was getting about my boredom, I came to a realization. I had posted enough of my mother’s things to merit free posting so I slapped that sucker up into the antique figurine section faster than it takes Dumbledore to tie together a plot.
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Magical Mouth Surgery Misadventure
This one time, because my orthodontist is a lying jerk-face, I got my wisdom teeth out. This wasn’t supposed to happen to me and was more surprising than the one time a large hawk landed gracefully on my shoulder. You see, when I went in and got x-rayed for society’s favorite method of child torture (braces) Mr. Orthodontist told me that I, much like the unicorn, was a rare breed of homo sapien who has evolved enough not to have wisdom teeth like most barbarians who slough around our planet.
My 12 year old brain responded in this manner: "Thank fucking god I hit one genetic score, I may need glasses and braces and be hobbit sized, but I do not have wisdom teeth.” After spending ¾ of the most awkward years of everyone’s life in braces and glasses and a complete inability to dress myself presentably (I was that kid) I made it to college, learned archaeology and was flying high.
Until my dentist pointed out to me that ‘oh hey, your teeth are moving’. BAM! Wisdom Teeth. I imagine it happening like when Emeril adds garlic to his pretentious recipes.
The blow to my self confidence was shattering. Or at least, moderately upsetting. After I experimented with jumping off the couch at my grandparent’s house and landing teeth first on their antique wooden rocking chair when I was 5, I developed a healthy fear of letting anyone near my mouth with anything. Which was, of course, why I was the first and last kid in my family to need braces.
Thankfully, the nice man who was going to rip my teeth out noticed that I was about to burst into an embarrassing fit of tears as he described the procedure to me and did not do anything with shiny instruments or my mouth. He rationally knew that he did not want to deal with me when I actually had to have my mouth cut open, so he handed me a tiny little manila envelope (it was adorable, like a smurf!) with a shiny new valium pill in it for when I actually had to do something scarier than getting an anatomy lesson.
I cherished that sucker. It was going to make everything okay in a world my greatest irrational fear, aside from annihilation by Gamma Rays from Space, kept happening to me. So the day came. I was dragged out of my bed by my two sisters, who had been through several major injuries apiece and were super excited to see me finally get silly on some anesthesia, because it was summer vacation and there was nothing else to do.
I popped the valium and was driven to the dentist where they put an IV in me, and told me it would help me calm down more (its nice to now my fight or flight instincts can conquer drugs). Then this man with a magnificent beard talked to me, explaining that he would do the surgery since my usual dentist was MIA. He asked me questions, but I was starting to hallucinate so my twin answered them for me.
I remember calmly thinking “This is what it must be like to be on drugs,” as I watched broken shards of a rainbow flit around the room like a school of minnows. The nurse harassed me about counting. Which, I am proud to say, I did not do. I knew I would not get to 0 counting down from 100, so I felt no reason to try when there were so many more interesting things to take up my attention. Like swimming rainbows.
The next thing I remember is sitting up in my parents bed (apparently I had refused to sleep in my own). I walked into the bathroom, saw my bloody shirt, and spit BLOOD into the sink. My brain, rational creature that it is, immediately said “Coughing blood is a symptom of tuberculosis or even ebola. What if the blood from your shirt is from your eyes because your cells are exploding?”
I had no idea what the hell was going on but I was intensely concerned that I had a disease eating away at my cells in particular. I have never cherished my cells as much before or since as I did in that moment. I was more worried about them than my actual body.
Thankfully, Erin’s twin senses started to tingle and she ran into the bathroom and wisely yelled “DON’T PANIC!” which worked since I was still heavily sedated and very suggestible. Then she gave me pudding and a vicodin after calling my mother, because I had already forgotten I had gotten mouth surgery and re-panicked twice, and Erin was no longer finding anesthesia as funny as it had first seemed. Then, I discovered Vicodin made me throw up.
My 12 year old brain responded in this manner: "Thank fucking god I hit one genetic score, I may need glasses and braces and be hobbit sized, but I do not have wisdom teeth.” After spending ¾ of the most awkward years of everyone’s life in braces and glasses and a complete inability to dress myself presentably (I was that kid) I made it to college, learned archaeology and was flying high.
Until my dentist pointed out to me that ‘oh hey, your teeth are moving’. BAM! Wisdom Teeth. I imagine it happening like when Emeril adds garlic to his pretentious recipes.
The blow to my self confidence was shattering. Or at least, moderately upsetting. After I experimented with jumping off the couch at my grandparent’s house and landing teeth first on their antique wooden rocking chair when I was 5, I developed a healthy fear of letting anyone near my mouth with anything. Which was, of course, why I was the first and last kid in my family to need braces.
Thankfully, the nice man who was going to rip my teeth out noticed that I was about to burst into an embarrassing fit of tears as he described the procedure to me and did not do anything with shiny instruments or my mouth. He rationally knew that he did not want to deal with me when I actually had to have my mouth cut open, so he handed me a tiny little manila envelope (it was adorable, like a smurf!) with a shiny new valium pill in it for when I actually had to do something scarier than getting an anatomy lesson.
I cherished that sucker. It was going to make everything okay in a world my greatest irrational fear, aside from annihilation by Gamma Rays from Space, kept happening to me. So the day came. I was dragged out of my bed by my two sisters, who had been through several major injuries apiece and were super excited to see me finally get silly on some anesthesia, because it was summer vacation and there was nothing else to do.
I popped the valium and was driven to the dentist where they put an IV in me, and told me it would help me calm down more (its nice to now my fight or flight instincts can conquer drugs). Then this man with a magnificent beard talked to me, explaining that he would do the surgery since my usual dentist was MIA. He asked me questions, but I was starting to hallucinate so my twin answered them for me.
I remember calmly thinking “This is what it must be like to be on drugs,” as I watched broken shards of a rainbow flit around the room like a school of minnows. The nurse harassed me about counting. Which, I am proud to say, I did not do. I knew I would not get to 0 counting down from 100, so I felt no reason to try when there were so many more interesting things to take up my attention. Like swimming rainbows.
The next thing I remember is sitting up in my parents bed (apparently I had refused to sleep in my own). I walked into the bathroom, saw my bloody shirt, and spit BLOOD into the sink. My brain, rational creature that it is, immediately said “Coughing blood is a symptom of tuberculosis or even ebola. What if the blood from your shirt is from your eyes because your cells are exploding?”
I had no idea what the hell was going on but I was intensely concerned that I had a disease eating away at my cells in particular. I have never cherished my cells as much before or since as I did in that moment. I was more worried about them than my actual body.
Thankfully, Erin’s twin senses started to tingle and she ran into the bathroom and wisely yelled “DON’T PANIC!” which worked since I was still heavily sedated and very suggestible. Then she gave me pudding and a vicodin after calling my mother, because I had already forgotten I had gotten mouth surgery and re-panicked twice, and Erin was no longer finding anesthesia as funny as it had first seemed. Then, I discovered Vicodin made me throw up.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Cannibalism Commercials
While in college, I had no TV. This was not because I am a pretentious hipster who needs to be put in my place. I promise that was definitely not the reason. I had no TV because I broke my old one and was way too lazy to get another one. Also, I was too cheap.
Since I had taken a semi-voluntary vow of poverty if I wanted to watch TV I had to go into the basement of my sorority house and watch it there. Except I would have to watch some stupid reality TV show because I never ever saw that TV not in use. Since I value my IQ points (they are, after all, my meal ticket) I was forced to find alternate methods to get my dose of cable. Namely, sucking it up.
So I haven’t seen much TV at all except for when I could manage to snipe the boyfriend’s TV from him. This wasn’t to be mean, it was just so I could watch south park or Steven Hawking instead of entertaining myself while he was watching football/baseball/hockey was on. And even then, if it came down to a wrestling match for the channel changer I probably wouldn’t win, even with my awesome Thunderdome fighting skills. (Tip: hit him in the knee cap with the channel changer and sprint! You may not get the TV but he wont get to change the channel either.).
However, now that I have nothing to fill up my time except for job applications, grad school applications and TV, I have come to a realization. Here it is:
Commercials are awful, more awful then ever before. And not just because they are intrinsically akin to the spawn of Satan, now they do something even worse that create cliffhangers and be a billion times louder than the TV show.
They make me feel sad :C
I have seen commercials where they personify a food item, they make you love this food item, you want it to succeed in its endeavors and live a long happy life. Then, moments after you fall in friend-love with it, the food item is EATEN TO DEATH by a suburban family who smile cold unfeeling smirks of death.
I was watching TV the other week, and a cough-drop commercial (the brand of which rhymes with Ebola) came on. In it, a bee fell in love with a cough-drop and as they were boating together on a leaf, sharing secrets and dreams and whispering sweet nothings to each other, some asshole reached out of the sky and ATE THE COUGH-DROP. And then the bee was sobbing and screaming because his true love had been plucked out of the boat and his life and eaten! Fuck you cough-drop brand I am never buying a cough drop from you ever again. Why? Because you are cannibalistic assholes. I’m getting all teary-eyes about that bee right now.
But it gets worse.
They have a commercial where a frightened lady chocolate is afraid to get on the catapult of death that will shoot her into the living room full of a bunch of chocolate eating suburbanites in white. So the man chocolate hugs her with his paper string and they get on the death catapult together and are eaten by a ‘loving couple’ with a small ‘son’ (demons don’t have real children).
Are you kidding me? Why would that make me want to eat your candy?! You just portrayed the violent deaths of two young lovers! And the people who ate them smiled over at each other like they had just absorbed the two little chocolate souls and could feel a brief flash of emotion before they sunk back into the cold empty void from which their cruelty springs.
Its like watching a tiny little version Saw. A 30 second long flash of absolute soul crushing horror. What ad person thought this up? And who told them that it was a good idea?! Why would they inflict these images on the American public? What have we done?
Since I had taken a semi-voluntary vow of poverty if I wanted to watch TV I had to go into the basement of my sorority house and watch it there. Except I would have to watch some stupid reality TV show because I never ever saw that TV not in use. Since I value my IQ points (they are, after all, my meal ticket) I was forced to find alternate methods to get my dose of cable. Namely, sucking it up.
So I haven’t seen much TV at all except for when I could manage to snipe the boyfriend’s TV from him. This wasn’t to be mean, it was just so I could watch south park or Steven Hawking instead of entertaining myself while he was watching football/baseball/hockey was on. And even then, if it came down to a wrestling match for the channel changer I probably wouldn’t win, even with my awesome Thunderdome fighting skills. (Tip: hit him in the knee cap with the channel changer and sprint! You may not get the TV but he wont get to change the channel either.).
However, now that I have nothing to fill up my time except for job applications, grad school applications and TV, I have come to a realization. Here it is:
Commercials are awful, more awful then ever before. And not just because they are intrinsically akin to the spawn of Satan, now they do something even worse that create cliffhangers and be a billion times louder than the TV show.
They make me feel sad :C
I have seen commercials where they personify a food item, they make you love this food item, you want it to succeed in its endeavors and live a long happy life. Then, moments after you fall in friend-love with it, the food item is EATEN TO DEATH by a suburban family who smile cold unfeeling smirks of death.
I was watching TV the other week, and a cough-drop commercial (the brand of which rhymes with Ebola) came on. In it, a bee fell in love with a cough-drop and as they were boating together on a leaf, sharing secrets and dreams and whispering sweet nothings to each other, some asshole reached out of the sky and ATE THE COUGH-DROP. And then the bee was sobbing and screaming because his true love had been plucked out of the boat and his life and eaten! Fuck you cough-drop brand I am never buying a cough drop from you ever again. Why? Because you are cannibalistic assholes. I’m getting all teary-eyes about that bee right now.
But it gets worse.
They have a commercial where a frightened lady chocolate is afraid to get on the catapult of death that will shoot her into the living room full of a bunch of chocolate eating suburbanites in white. So the man chocolate hugs her with his paper string and they get on the death catapult together and are eaten by a ‘loving couple’ with a small ‘son’ (demons don’t have real children).
Are you kidding me? Why would that make me want to eat your candy?! You just portrayed the violent deaths of two young lovers! And the people who ate them smiled over at each other like they had just absorbed the two little chocolate souls and could feel a brief flash of emotion before they sunk back into the cold empty void from which their cruelty springs.
Its like watching a tiny little version Saw. A 30 second long flash of absolute soul crushing horror. What ad person thought this up? And who told them that it was a good idea?! Why would they inflict these images on the American public? What have we done?
Saturday, September 25, 2010
I would be an asset to your cult/secret society
1- I am punctual. I mean it, in a whole sorority that thought it was cute to run on Sigma Kappa Time, which means 15-fucking-minutes-late-to-everything-even-class-time, I was always on time. Why? I fear being the last person into the room. You have to sit in the awkward spots that no one wants to sit in, and everyone looks at you like “look at that suck up sitting in the front row. She probably think if she impresses the level 12 warlock he wont make her bathe in rat blood so she can become a level 2 orc.” If there is one thing I hate, its looking like a jerk. So I will always be on time for your rituals/indoctrination classes.
2- I have many creative ideas with which you can begin to gain enough capital to control the world. Here are some examples of my excellent work:
-Diamond cartel
-Race horse cloning
-Lemonade stand
-Public access donation show where celebrities answer the phone
-Pop artist albums
-Our first song can be about blow and hookers. All the kids today to like that.
-improbable win with a high stakes bet on a roulette table
3- I am also super awesome at keeping secrets. You may have noted earlier that I was in a sorority. This is beneficial because we have to keep secrets all the time. We have a secret ritual, and secret songs, and even secret dances. And I haven't even told my dogs about them. Imagine how good I would be at keeping your secrets (really really good!). I’m like a steel trap. Or at least like a shut door. Not a swing door, like some people. I wont even crack under the pressure of drugs.
I know this because when I got my wisdom teeth out, I had a different dentist because my usual one was in Cabo (probably). I knew he was trying to get my secrets, and no amount of valium or laughing gas could get me to say a word. Though this may have been because I had forgotten how to say words, and because I was distracted by the rainbows swimming around the room. If my twin sister hadn’t been there to spill all my information to that interloper he would never have found out… whatever he was asking… (I am not good at being under the influence of anything, even my mom thinks its genetically improbable and slightly embarrassing)
4- I am easy to hypnotize. I have never been before, I just know I could be hypnotized and brainwashed with a minimum of fuss.
These are all the reasons why I would be an asset to your secret group/society/cult. I can also provide a resume, and several falsified recommendation letters upon request.
2- I have many creative ideas with which you can begin to gain enough capital to control the world. Here are some examples of my excellent work:
-Diamond cartel
-Race horse cloning
-Lemonade stand
-Public access donation show where celebrities answer the phone
-Pop artist albums
-Our first song can be about blow and hookers. All the kids today to like that.
-improbable win with a high stakes bet on a roulette table
3- I am also super awesome at keeping secrets. You may have noted earlier that I was in a sorority. This is beneficial because we have to keep secrets all the time. We have a secret ritual, and secret songs, and even secret dances. And I haven't even told my dogs about them. Imagine how good I would be at keeping your secrets (really really good!). I’m like a steel trap. Or at least like a shut door. Not a swing door, like some people. I wont even crack under the pressure of drugs.
I know this because when I got my wisdom teeth out, I had a different dentist because my usual one was in Cabo (probably). I knew he was trying to get my secrets, and no amount of valium or laughing gas could get me to say a word. Though this may have been because I had forgotten how to say words, and because I was distracted by the rainbows swimming around the room. If my twin sister hadn’t been there to spill all my information to that interloper he would never have found out… whatever he was asking… (I am not good at being under the influence of anything, even my mom thinks its genetically improbable and slightly embarrassing)
4- I am easy to hypnotize. I have never been before, I just know I could be hypnotized and brainwashed with a minimum of fuss.
These are all the reasons why I would be an asset to your secret group/society/cult. I can also provide a resume, and several falsified recommendation letters upon request.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Diamond Cartel? Excellent decision!
I have a plan. A plan to solve all of my problems, which include being unemployed, broke, living with my parents, and unable to afford unicorn bait for my traps.
I haven’t shared this yet because I was ashamed. It’s a natural reaction to what I have considered my affliction for a long time. But I think its time for the world to know my secret.
I drive a white conversion van.
Some of you may know this by a different name, namely a rapist van, but let me assure you that my van is a pillar of pure and wholesome wonder. My van doesn’t make the world worse (like rapists), it makes the world better (like the Planeteers).
Conversion vans are not a thing of shame and ridicule. My van is no longer something to hide in the shadows of Notre Dame until Disney declares the need for a sudden upswing in self esteem. No, my van is nothing more than a fat unicorn, a primitive space ship, a tiny house that will keep me from ever being truly homeless. My delicate constitution is flower-like and frail, I couldn’t handle anything more primitive that a refrigerator box.
And it is my van that has solved everything, even though both of its bumpers have been ripped off (not my fault, by the way), its TV doesn’t work anymore, the roof has two patched up holes (my fault, never underestimate the height of a rapist van) and two of the seatbelts are missing. My van is no longer an affliction, now, it is a blessing, it’s the cure to the disease of poverty that has afflicted me for nearly 2 months now. Yeah, I don’t know how I survived this long either. My will to live is more powerful than Bear Grylls and Les Stroud combined.
You see, I recently learned that there is a natural park in Alabama that is just shitting diamonds. DIAMONDS. And they let you keep whatever you find. I think you see where I am going with this.
I’m totally moving to Alabama, and by moving I mean driving down there and awkwardly living in my van, possibly showering in truck stop sinks and/or small waterfalls. Haven't we all secretly wanted to shower in small waterfalls at some point or other?
I am becoming a diamond cartel. And none of my diamonds will be covered with the metaphorical blood and shame of destitute African babies. See what I did there? I just turned my greedy self centered plan into an operation that will help to completely knock out one of the saddest businesses ever. I win.
I haven’t shared this yet because I was ashamed. It’s a natural reaction to what I have considered my affliction for a long time. But I think its time for the world to know my secret.
I drive a white conversion van.
Some of you may know this by a different name, namely a rapist van, but let me assure you that my van is a pillar of pure and wholesome wonder. My van doesn’t make the world worse (like rapists), it makes the world better (like the Planeteers).
Conversion vans are not a thing of shame and ridicule. My van is no longer something to hide in the shadows of Notre Dame until Disney declares the need for a sudden upswing in self esteem. No, my van is nothing more than a fat unicorn, a primitive space ship, a tiny house that will keep me from ever being truly homeless. My delicate constitution is flower-like and frail, I couldn’t handle anything more primitive that a refrigerator box.
And it is my van that has solved everything, even though both of its bumpers have been ripped off (not my fault, by the way), its TV doesn’t work anymore, the roof has two patched up holes (my fault, never underestimate the height of a rapist van) and two of the seatbelts are missing. My van is no longer an affliction, now, it is a blessing, it’s the cure to the disease of poverty that has afflicted me for nearly 2 months now. Yeah, I don’t know how I survived this long either. My will to live is more powerful than Bear Grylls and Les Stroud combined.
You see, I recently learned that there is a natural park in Alabama that is just shitting diamonds. DIAMONDS. And they let you keep whatever you find. I think you see where I am going with this.
I’m totally moving to Alabama, and by moving I mean driving down there and awkwardly living in my van, possibly showering in truck stop sinks and/or small waterfalls. Haven't we all secretly wanted to shower in small waterfalls at some point or other?
I am becoming a diamond cartel. And none of my diamonds will be covered with the metaphorical blood and shame of destitute African babies. See what I did there? I just turned my greedy self centered plan into an operation that will help to completely knock out one of the saddest businesses ever. I win.
I probably shouldnt be emperor of Rome.
Yesterday, according to my facebook, which is never wrong ever no matter what, is the birthday of the great Augustus. This is too bad because The Russian Spy, who is enamored with him despite his current status of extra dead, is sick today and can‘t celebrate. (She is one of my best friends. We met in Latin class, where I spent the first semester seriously considering if she was a Russian Spy and I was afraid to talk to her, lest she kill me for my secrets. She is actually Irish and awesome enough to a spy but has yet to actually obtain super secret status, I think. To all the covert ops members who read my blog (17.5 people) you’re welcome).
Augustus is not my favorite Roman emperor. I have no logical reason for this, he should be everyone‘s favorite emperor. I think the sorority girl who lives inside me (Like, oh my gosh, she is sooooo super silly and loves the letter S) has these perverse whims that only allows me to like socially inept despot emperors.
Like Caligula, for example.
Now there was an emperor. He looked at the system, shattered everything good and pure about it, and then rode away on a winged unicorn. Augustus looked at the system and said to himself “Well, everything seems to be in need of repair. Let me put in place several policies to return us to a state of terrifying glory and might while solidifying my power simultaneously.”
Logic is such a downer sometimes. (I can say that because I have no real control over any circumstances beyond my own.)
Don’t get me wrong, I am all for a well ordered society. If anarchy happened I would not be the awesome badass who saved helpless infants and created a social structure out of nothing before disappearing into the desert to continue my campaign against men is ass-less chaps. I would be a more average caliber of badass who campaigns against assless chaps through a series of political posters, buttons, and well thought out speeches.
I would want to be in that social structure and contribute to it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I would be more like the Tina Turner leader in Mad Max should I be put in charge of a system that had no checks or balances. Not 100%, let me assure you, I don’t have nearly enough Machiavellian style crazy in me to get up to the level of those shenanigans (I’m more of an Uncle Buck at heart).
Here is why:
As an anthropology student occasionally I get this inclination to see what happens when I do X to someone. Usually this experiment is limited to saying outlandish things (ex: If I was eaten by a cannibal do you think they would get a caffeine buzz from me?) to the boyfriend and noting the response. But occasionally, I get the urge to figure out what happens when person X is with person Y. But Y has a weird tick that drives X insane and we don’t even know how Z is going to affect this situation! Then everything explodes in the equivalent of pseudo-anthropolgy glitter and my sorority girl immediately begins planning what to do next.
Thankfully, my parents raised me with morals and I feel best when following the social code set in place by our culture. If you want to coexist comfortably, you have to at least pretend to follow the normal cultural ideals. But if culture got eaten by an explosion of radio-active T-Rexs, I might go the route of Caligula, only more awkward and less uncomfortably sexual. Why? To see what happens, even though I understand that it may end in my completely legitimized assassination.
He didn’t really ride away on a unicorn, I’m sorry I lied.
Augustus is not my favorite Roman emperor. I have no logical reason for this, he should be everyone‘s favorite emperor. I think the sorority girl who lives inside me (Like, oh my gosh, she is sooooo super silly and loves the letter S) has these perverse whims that only allows me to like socially inept despot emperors.
Like Caligula, for example.
Now there was an emperor. He looked at the system, shattered everything good and pure about it, and then rode away on a winged unicorn. Augustus looked at the system and said to himself “Well, everything seems to be in need of repair. Let me put in place several policies to return us to a state of terrifying glory and might while solidifying my power simultaneously.”
Logic is such a downer sometimes. (I can say that because I have no real control over any circumstances beyond my own.)
Don’t get me wrong, I am all for a well ordered society. If anarchy happened I would not be the awesome badass who saved helpless infants and created a social structure out of nothing before disappearing into the desert to continue my campaign against men is ass-less chaps. I would be a more average caliber of badass who campaigns against assless chaps through a series of political posters, buttons, and well thought out speeches.
I would want to be in that social structure and contribute to it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I would be more like the Tina Turner leader in Mad Max should I be put in charge of a system that had no checks or balances. Not 100%, let me assure you, I don’t have nearly enough Machiavellian style crazy in me to get up to the level of those shenanigans (I’m more of an Uncle Buck at heart).
Here is why:
As an anthropology student occasionally I get this inclination to see what happens when I do X to someone. Usually this experiment is limited to saying outlandish things (ex: If I was eaten by a cannibal do you think they would get a caffeine buzz from me?) to the boyfriend and noting the response. But occasionally, I get the urge to figure out what happens when person X is with person Y. But Y has a weird tick that drives X insane and we don’t even know how Z is going to affect this situation! Then everything explodes in the equivalent of pseudo-anthropolgy glitter and my sorority girl immediately begins planning what to do next.
Thankfully, my parents raised me with morals and I feel best when following the social code set in place by our culture. If you want to coexist comfortably, you have to at least pretend to follow the normal cultural ideals. But if culture got eaten by an explosion of radio-active T-Rexs, I might go the route of Caligula, only more awkward and less uncomfortably sexual. Why? To see what happens, even though I understand that it may end in my completely legitimized assassination.
He didn’t really ride away on a unicorn, I’m sorry I lied.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
The Perfectly Normal Haunting
I know my house was only built in the 80’s, and not even the early part of the 80‘s. But I am completely positive, more positive than I am about the existence of the chupacabra, that my parents bought a house which is haunted by a perfectly normal man.
The Perfectly Normal Man, or PNM as we will now call him, is an expert in appearing at the corner of my eye. He’s amazing at it. I’ll be walking around my parents house which is full of angles,stairs, knick-knacks and dogs frolicking. Suddenly there he will be, lurking in the least menacing way possible.
He is the best/worst lurker ever. I mean, when I catch him its never like on the discovery channel. I don’t flip out and dance in a circle waving my arms and squealing prayers. Probably cause I’m not a pansy, but that’s beside the point. Should I somehow exorcise him? Is it fair to exorcise a ghost who’s one crime is being not that upsetting and remarkably normal? This was probably his house way before it was mine.
But what if he turns invisible and spies on me?
What if he is Patrick Swayze, and I can look forward to making ghost pottery and cuddling with Whoopi Goldberg in the near future? There is no way I am gonna risk fucking that chance up!
Plus, exorcisms look like a disgustingly horrifying business. I can’t clean up my own vomit without activating my up-chuck cycle all over again and locking myself into a perpetual loop of atrocity. There is no way I could handle that green slime. Could PNM produce green slime? Or is that skill limited only to ghosts of a more demonic inclination?
PNM is way too normal to get up to slime shenanigans now, but an exorcism could easily take my life from zero percent slime to IM SO SORRY percent in the time it takes an eagle to be inspiring (very little time). Would he accept an apology if I failed to exorcise him into oblivion? He seems polite now, but it could be because I’m a guest in his little house of peculiars (not horrors, just peculiars).
Now, I know some of you are thinking, “for the love of God Caitlin, I could convince you to do practically anything if I mentioned a dinosaur was involved, even tangentially. Your parent’s house isn’t haunted, you are just easy to convince.” And to that, I say, you’re right. Half the time when I was a toddler I got in trouble for doing things my twin sister was afraid to do herself because she had enough common sense to realize that X would result in Y (Y=punishment and/or bleeding). She would talk me into trying all sorts of things that resulted in mild to moderate bodily harm.
But consider this: three times while I was writing this he lurked into my field of vision and I yelled at him because he was lurking in a not-so-creepy-but-kinda-eerie way. PNM is too normal to be more than slightly disconcerting. I bet he does it on purpose he is lulling me into a false sense of security probably.
I’ll let you know.
The Perfectly Normal Man, or PNM as we will now call him, is an expert in appearing at the corner of my eye. He’s amazing at it. I’ll be walking around my parents house which is full of angles,stairs, knick-knacks and dogs frolicking. Suddenly there he will be, lurking in the least menacing way possible.
He is the best/worst lurker ever. I mean, when I catch him its never like on the discovery channel. I don’t flip out and dance in a circle waving my arms and squealing prayers. Probably cause I’m not a pansy, but that’s beside the point. Should I somehow exorcise him? Is it fair to exorcise a ghost who’s one crime is being not that upsetting and remarkably normal? This was probably his house way before it was mine.
But what if he turns invisible and spies on me?
What if he is Patrick Swayze, and I can look forward to making ghost pottery and cuddling with Whoopi Goldberg in the near future? There is no way I am gonna risk fucking that chance up!
Plus, exorcisms look like a disgustingly horrifying business. I can’t clean up my own vomit without activating my up-chuck cycle all over again and locking myself into a perpetual loop of atrocity. There is no way I could handle that green slime. Could PNM produce green slime? Or is that skill limited only to ghosts of a more demonic inclination?
PNM is way too normal to get up to slime shenanigans now, but an exorcism could easily take my life from zero percent slime to IM SO SORRY percent in the time it takes an eagle to be inspiring (very little time). Would he accept an apology if I failed to exorcise him into oblivion? He seems polite now, but it could be because I’m a guest in his little house of peculiars (not horrors, just peculiars).
Now, I know some of you are thinking, “for the love of God Caitlin, I could convince you to do practically anything if I mentioned a dinosaur was involved, even tangentially. Your parent’s house isn’t haunted, you are just easy to convince.” And to that, I say, you’re right. Half the time when I was a toddler I got in trouble for doing things my twin sister was afraid to do herself because she had enough common sense to realize that X would result in Y (Y=punishment and/or bleeding). She would talk me into trying all sorts of things that resulted in mild to moderate bodily harm.
But consider this: three times while I was writing this he lurked into my field of vision and I yelled at him because he was lurking in a not-so-creepy-but-kinda-eerie way. PNM is too normal to be more than slightly disconcerting. I bet he does it on purpose he is lulling me into a false sense of security probably.
I’ll let you know.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Horses: 7/8 of a Unicorn
All kidding aside, horses are awesome. They’re 7/8 of the way to unicorn, and make you taller and thus the most dominant human in the area (provided you are on the tallest horse which I frequently was; which is awesome because I’m practically a hobbit on my own two feet). Couple that with being instrumental in human progress and you get a big pile of stupendous.
My first pony was not mine, she was a school horse in Camp Lejune NC. Its name was Snowflake and she was a huge bitch. She was every girl’s dream pony. Snowflake was white and had dark eyes that at first promised love but were actually chips of obsidian Satan mined himself and placed in the eyes of this hell-spawn of a pony. Snowflake had perfected the art of chasing her riders when they were walking her around and cornering them in a stall until their mothers came to the rescue. She was not very nice at all.
I’m shocked I liked horseback riding after Snowflake. But she made me taller than my twin and younger sibling, both of whom had a good foot on me until I turned 18 and grew 2 inches my first year of college. I was high and mighty on my white pony. Especially next to my two siblings on docile Shetland ponies that were friendly, and hilarious to hang out with, and filled with love and glitter. But none of that mattered because on foot I was an awkward clumsy seven year old who read too much. On Snowflake I was a fucking Valkyrie riding down the northern wind to do battle with my enchanted rainbow battle axe.
This lead to me eventually obtaining a horse that was actually mine. She was dark brown and lived at my friend's house and we would ride in tiny circles while my mom coached us so that we could win a blue ribbon in 4-H. Now let me dispel any rumors right now, everyone in 4-H gets a blue ribbon. You may place 8th out of 8, but you get a blue ribbon, damn it. My preferred place was 5th out of 11 in the quarter horse division ages 15-18.
My horse’s name was Trouble. She was very nice and not much trouble at all since she was 20 years old. We had grand adventures together, mostly because the entire time we were riding in horse shows together I had a terrible sinus infection. Trouble was the first horse I ever fell off of, and I fell with a vengeance. I made up for spending my whole youth not falling off horses during the time we were together. Now don’t get me wrong, it was never any awesome falling (like I would do on my next horse) it was always ridiculous and embarrassing falling.
Since I had recently been told I was too low in the equestrian team hierarchy to be in competitions that required a saddle (i was a freshman), I was spending all of my time riding bareback. What made this awesome was that I could go at a gallop and not fall off, but god help me if we were standing still. The world would tilt and off I would go, landing in a comical puff of dust. I am completely convinced everyone at the fair ground thought I was as special as a 3 dollar bill and twice as ridiculous.
After Trouble there was Herman. Herman was large and Herman was angry. I judged him to be some weird mix of German and Native American, since he was an appaloosa but his name was clearly Germanic. This resulted in an awesome blend of fighting Native American spirit and vicious Germanic Viking heritage coupled with a rough childhood. He was a fucking savage that hid his heart of gold from the rest of the world better than Mad Max the Road Warrior.
Herman and I spent our first six months together fighting like Rome and Carthage. I think my parents were convinced I was going to die. Well my mom was, we tried to hide this fact from my dad, who thinks to this day that horses are synonyms for painful death.
Things came to a head when Herman, knowing that I was helpless against the forces of gravity, decided to rear in the air. Now, when horses do this they look wild and free and majestic and glorious. They are like a sunset over an explosion. That fucking awesome. When they do it with a moderately coordinated 16 year old on them, they look retarded because the 16 year old makes them fall over backwards on accident.
Here was my train of thought as we tumbled over together into a mess of human and horse parts that was not a centaur, but just a pile of things that will end badly:
“Suck it asshole, you’re falling! Shit, I’m falling. He is definitely on my leg. Oh god he’s getting back up-and-im-gonna-get-dragged-over-the-ground-and-SHATTER-MY-SPINE.” What continues to amaze me is that time slowed down to a crawl. I remember it like a stop motion film- click, move an inch, click, move another inch.
None of that last part of that thought happened. Through some miracle I managed to have a horse stand up over me and run away at warp speed, and not step on me. So I ran him down and rode him for 5 more minutes because I was consumed by a ravening fury that, had I been in battle, would have allowed me to kill hordes of Persians like I was all 300 Spartans at once. I say five minutes because it was that long before I remembered a 1600 lb animal had crushed my left leg and it hurt worse than being caught on fire. Then we went to the hospital and I got to use crutches for the first time in my life.
After this incident, Herman and I were best friends. Which was odd, but rewarding.
My first pony was not mine, she was a school horse in Camp Lejune NC. Its name was Snowflake and she was a huge bitch. She was every girl’s dream pony. Snowflake was white and had dark eyes that at first promised love but were actually chips of obsidian Satan mined himself and placed in the eyes of this hell-spawn of a pony. Snowflake had perfected the art of chasing her riders when they were walking her around and cornering them in a stall until their mothers came to the rescue. She was not very nice at all.
I’m shocked I liked horseback riding after Snowflake. But she made me taller than my twin and younger sibling, both of whom had a good foot on me until I turned 18 and grew 2 inches my first year of college. I was high and mighty on my white pony. Especially next to my two siblings on docile Shetland ponies that were friendly, and hilarious to hang out with, and filled with love and glitter. But none of that mattered because on foot I was an awkward clumsy seven year old who read too much. On Snowflake I was a fucking Valkyrie riding down the northern wind to do battle with my enchanted rainbow battle axe.
This lead to me eventually obtaining a horse that was actually mine. She was dark brown and lived at my friend's house and we would ride in tiny circles while my mom coached us so that we could win a blue ribbon in 4-H. Now let me dispel any rumors right now, everyone in 4-H gets a blue ribbon. You may place 8th out of 8, but you get a blue ribbon, damn it. My preferred place was 5th out of 11 in the quarter horse division ages 15-18.
My horse’s name was Trouble. She was very nice and not much trouble at all since she was 20 years old. We had grand adventures together, mostly because the entire time we were riding in horse shows together I had a terrible sinus infection. Trouble was the first horse I ever fell off of, and I fell with a vengeance. I made up for spending my whole youth not falling off horses during the time we were together. Now don’t get me wrong, it was never any awesome falling (like I would do on my next horse) it was always ridiculous and embarrassing falling.
Since I had recently been told I was too low in the equestrian team hierarchy to be in competitions that required a saddle (i was a freshman), I was spending all of my time riding bareback. What made this awesome was that I could go at a gallop and not fall off, but god help me if we were standing still. The world would tilt and off I would go, landing in a comical puff of dust. I am completely convinced everyone at the fair ground thought I was as special as a 3 dollar bill and twice as ridiculous.
After Trouble there was Herman. Herman was large and Herman was angry. I judged him to be some weird mix of German and Native American, since he was an appaloosa but his name was clearly Germanic. This resulted in an awesome blend of fighting Native American spirit and vicious Germanic Viking heritage coupled with a rough childhood. He was a fucking savage that hid his heart of gold from the rest of the world better than Mad Max the Road Warrior.
Herman and I spent our first six months together fighting like Rome and Carthage. I think my parents were convinced I was going to die. Well my mom was, we tried to hide this fact from my dad, who thinks to this day that horses are synonyms for painful death.
Things came to a head when Herman, knowing that I was helpless against the forces of gravity, decided to rear in the air. Now, when horses do this they look wild and free and majestic and glorious. They are like a sunset over an explosion. That fucking awesome. When they do it with a moderately coordinated 16 year old on them, they look retarded because the 16 year old makes them fall over backwards on accident.
Here was my train of thought as we tumbled over together into a mess of human and horse parts that was not a centaur, but just a pile of things that will end badly:
“Suck it asshole, you’re falling! Shit, I’m falling. He is definitely on my leg. Oh god he’s getting back up-and-im-gonna-get-dragged-over-the-ground-and-SHATTER-MY-SPINE.” What continues to amaze me is that time slowed down to a crawl. I remember it like a stop motion film- click, move an inch, click, move another inch.
None of that last part of that thought happened. Through some miracle I managed to have a horse stand up over me and run away at warp speed, and not step on me. So I ran him down and rode him for 5 more minutes because I was consumed by a ravening fury that, had I been in battle, would have allowed me to kill hordes of Persians like I was all 300 Spartans at once. I say five minutes because it was that long before I remembered a 1600 lb animal had crushed my left leg and it hurt worse than being caught on fire. Then we went to the hospital and I got to use crutches for the first time in my life.
After this incident, Herman and I were best friends. Which was odd, but rewarding.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The great rattlesnake adventure
If there is one thing I pride myself on it is the ability to go from zero to OH SHIT RUN in the amount of time it takes a unicorn to charm a 6 year old girl (.3145 seconds). If there is anything I don’t pride myself on it is my lack of Titan killing ability and my constantly failing common sense.
These skills have helped me countless times in the past, but the crowning jewel is when I was in third grade when I thought there was a rattlesnake in my room.
It was about 2 in the morning when I awoke, quite suddenly, to a loud buzzing rattle coming from the closet where my sisters and I kept our collection of adorable stuffed animals. I laid in bed, on the bottom bunk, puzzling and puzzling. "What is this buzz? Why does it stop and start? Why wont it shut the fuck up so I can go to sleep and be functional for my super important third grade activities? How can I-
"RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE PANIC RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE
RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE
RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKEPANIC RATTLESNAKE!"
That was about how my thought process went.
So powerful was my fear that I levitated myself up through the air into my twin sister’s bed. She was surprised by this, since earlier we had had an epic twin battle that resulted in a furious onslaught of fists and insults that, as far as I know, is still in the house today bothering the new tenants and breaking dishes. Nothing creates poltergeists like the combined rage of a pair of 6-year-olds. I could feel her seriously considering launching me from the bed like a lawn dart (she was like 8 inches taller than me). That was when I dropped the bomb.
“There’s a rattlesnake. Here. In our room.”
She was silent, listening intently for the horrible buzz that was signaling our impending doom by painful snake bite poisoning. God only knew what would cure an injury like that. Dinosaur tears and amputation probably.
Thankfully, Erin’s fight or flight instinct was much sharper than mine. With a graceful gazelle-like leap she catapulted across the room and sprinted out of our door towards our parents room. I, certain that our house was crawling with rattlesnakes, began to frantically try to open the child lock on our window. I planned to escape, leaving my youngest sister asleep as a distraction for the rattlesnake, so that I could escape with my life and limbs and live out my life in the woods behind our yard. Because snake don’t live in the woods, of course, they live in toy closets.
Thankfully, our mother walked in and, in a remarkably godlike act, made light. (With a light switch located right above my pillow). There, in the comforting fluorescent glow of a non-eco friendly light bulb, was a body poster my youngest sister had made at school rattling every time the fan oscillated past it.
These skills have helped me countless times in the past, but the crowning jewel is when I was in third grade when I thought there was a rattlesnake in my room.
It was about 2 in the morning when I awoke, quite suddenly, to a loud buzzing rattle coming from the closet where my sisters and I kept our collection of adorable stuffed animals. I laid in bed, on the bottom bunk, puzzling and puzzling. "What is this buzz? Why does it stop and start? Why wont it shut the fuck up so I can go to sleep and be functional for my super important third grade activities? How can I-
"RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE PANIC RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE
RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKE
RATTLESNAKE RATTLESNAKEPANIC RATTLESNAKE!"
That was about how my thought process went.
So powerful was my fear that I levitated myself up through the air into my twin sister’s bed. She was surprised by this, since earlier we had had an epic twin battle that resulted in a furious onslaught of fists and insults that, as far as I know, is still in the house today bothering the new tenants and breaking dishes. Nothing creates poltergeists like the combined rage of a pair of 6-year-olds. I could feel her seriously considering launching me from the bed like a lawn dart (she was like 8 inches taller than me). That was when I dropped the bomb.
“There’s a rattlesnake. Here. In our room.”
She was silent, listening intently for the horrible buzz that was signaling our impending doom by painful snake bite poisoning. God only knew what would cure an injury like that. Dinosaur tears and amputation probably.
Thankfully, Erin’s fight or flight instinct was much sharper than mine. With a graceful gazelle-like leap she catapulted across the room and sprinted out of our door towards our parents room. I, certain that our house was crawling with rattlesnakes, began to frantically try to open the child lock on our window. I planned to escape, leaving my youngest sister asleep as a distraction for the rattlesnake, so that I could escape with my life and limbs and live out my life in the woods behind our yard. Because snake don’t live in the woods, of course, they live in toy closets.
Thankfully, our mother walked in and, in a remarkably godlike act, made light. (With a light switch located right above my pillow). There, in the comforting fluorescent glow of a non-eco friendly light bulb, was a body poster my youngest sister had made at school rattling every time the fan oscillated past it.
How I learned high school is completely pointless
Once upon a time, before I got my bachelors degree that was so instrumental in my employme- oh wait, I cant get a job bagging groceries despite my countless hours of Latin drilling. What a shock...
Once upon a time when I was a wee young high school student, all awkward and covered in zits and the stink of angst/hormones, I decided to test out of Sophomore year English. I figured that since I had gotten over 100% in my freshman year class, I might as well not waste my awesome brain power on shit like English when I could take jewelry design classes. (Oh yeah!)
What I was supposed to do to test out:
Read Hamlet, Animal Farm, Tuesdays with Morrie, Lord of the Flies, and one other book that was so insignificant I cant even remember it. Read and practice on a large study packet about 5 paragraph essays.
What I did to test out of Sophomore English:
Read half of Lord of the Flies, and Hamlet’s suicidal rant.
So I wandered into the test-out facility, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, wrote an essay on something, and answered a bunch of multiple choice questions on what happened in a bunch of books I didn’t read. A week later, I stumbled into the test out office, expecting to be told what a ‘time wasting little delinquent’ I was, and didn’t I know women couldn’t read anyway, and how had I even managed to navigate my way from behind the oven?! Instead, I heard this:
“Well, your reading comprehension was appalling, you hardly got a question right. But your essay was as glorious as a bald eagle resting on Andrew Jackson’s shoulder while he prepared to duel with those American hating bastards from over the sea*. So you passed sophomore year English.”
And that’s when I knew, nothing in high school that I was learning had any point at all.
* Actually, she just said it was really well written
* I am not a supremely uneducated wolverine, and I did read all the books later. Maybe even the one who’s name I cant remember…
Once upon a time when I was a wee young high school student, all awkward and covered in zits and the stink of angst/hormones, I decided to test out of Sophomore year English. I figured that since I had gotten over 100% in my freshman year class, I might as well not waste my awesome brain power on shit like English when I could take jewelry design classes. (Oh yeah!)
What I was supposed to do to test out:
Read Hamlet, Animal Farm, Tuesdays with Morrie, Lord of the Flies, and one other book that was so insignificant I cant even remember it. Read and practice on a large study packet about 5 paragraph essays.
What I did to test out of Sophomore English:
Read half of Lord of the Flies, and Hamlet’s suicidal rant.
So I wandered into the test-out facility, all bright eyed and bushy tailed, wrote an essay on something, and answered a bunch of multiple choice questions on what happened in a bunch of books I didn’t read. A week later, I stumbled into the test out office, expecting to be told what a ‘time wasting little delinquent’ I was, and didn’t I know women couldn’t read anyway, and how had I even managed to navigate my way from behind the oven?! Instead, I heard this:
“Well, your reading comprehension was appalling, you hardly got a question right. But your essay was as glorious as a bald eagle resting on Andrew Jackson’s shoulder while he prepared to duel with those American hating bastards from over the sea*. So you passed sophomore year English.”
And that’s when I knew, nothing in high school that I was learning had any point at all.
* Actually, she just said it was really well written
* I am not a supremely uneducated wolverine, and I did read all the books later. Maybe even the one who’s name I cant remember…
Monday, September 20, 2010
I have a squash problem.
It is not the normal problem people have with squash, which is usually along the lines of “I planted 27 squash seeds and got 27 squash vines and now they are organizing and forming little unions, mafias and gang alliances. I need you, my fellow Americans, to take them before they overtake my tomato plants and launch an offensive into my neighbor's yard.”
Neither is it the problem where some godless, soulless human being invites you to dinner and tries to trick you into eating a boiled stringy pile of pulp that was apparently squash once.
No, I have a squash problem because I moved to Virginia after I graduated and the universe laughed and told me I didn’t need a job. This squash came from Hudsonville, Michigan; a charming area that produces ice cream and glitter and is 15 minutes away from every friend I have except my dogs.
So now my acorn squash has feelings, apparently. Which is actually terrible, because I ate his friends over the course of the week. If anything, he is a victim and doesn’t view me as a friend even though I cuddled with him last night. (Not really, squashes are shit cuddlers, I cuddled with Bruce my stuffed penguin instead.)
I tried to eat him yesterday, but then I looked at him and imagined how terrified and lonely he must be as a Michigan squash in Stafford Virginia. And then I imagined my life without the squash, severed from Michigan beyond any and all connection. What if I could never find another Hudsonville acorn squash? What would I do without this tiny piece of chemically significant vegetation? Never see sunshine again, probably. I would mourn my squash in the basement. I would build a mourning fort using my weight lifting gear and subsist on cardboard box pieces and acorn squash.
The future aside (I always pretend time is ending in about 4 seconds) what the hell am I going to do if it rots? I look at it as the equivalent of a golden unicorn egg, only one that has feelings, since most unicorns are cold and uncaring.
This isn’t the first time I have become emotionally involved with a vegetable. Over the span of my youth, I fell in love with several potatoes, and sobbed with despair as one by one they rotted, and my mom had to throw them away so I didn’t get ebola or beriberi. I imagined them rotting in the dump, feeling lost and abandoned.
And that's why I have a squash problem.
Neither is it the problem where some godless, soulless human being invites you to dinner and tries to trick you into eating a boiled stringy pile of pulp that was apparently squash once.
No, I have a squash problem because I moved to Virginia after I graduated and the universe laughed and told me I didn’t need a job. This squash came from Hudsonville, Michigan; a charming area that produces ice cream and glitter and is 15 minutes away from every friend I have except my dogs.
So now my acorn squash has feelings, apparently. Which is actually terrible, because I ate his friends over the course of the week. If anything, he is a victim and doesn’t view me as a friend even though I cuddled with him last night. (Not really, squashes are shit cuddlers, I cuddled with Bruce my stuffed penguin instead.)
I tried to eat him yesterday, but then I looked at him and imagined how terrified and lonely he must be as a Michigan squash in Stafford Virginia. And then I imagined my life without the squash, severed from Michigan beyond any and all connection. What if I could never find another Hudsonville acorn squash? What would I do without this tiny piece of chemically significant vegetation? Never see sunshine again, probably. I would mourn my squash in the basement. I would build a mourning fort using my weight lifting gear and subsist on cardboard box pieces and acorn squash.
The future aside (I always pretend time is ending in about 4 seconds) what the hell am I going to do if it rots? I look at it as the equivalent of a golden unicorn egg, only one that has feelings, since most unicorns are cold and uncaring.
This isn’t the first time I have become emotionally involved with a vegetable. Over the span of my youth, I fell in love with several potatoes, and sobbed with despair as one by one they rotted, and my mom had to throw them away so I didn’t get ebola or beriberi. I imagined them rotting in the dump, feeling lost and abandoned.
And that's why I have a squash problem.
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