Whut ha' happend was...

 One gusty November night in Atlanta (where it was still 75 degrees), a young girl sat at home with her dogs and her schoolwork. Her tailless, heathen cat was meandering through the front yard, returning from torturing some innocent, adorable, and rather unlucky creature. Inside, the fans were on and the windows were open, letting in the fresh air that smelled just like autumn would smell, only warmer.

Delia knows that she's about to be yelled at for pouncing Lucy. She does it anyway.

The girl looked up from her studies, and watched as her Australian Shepherd puppy bounced through the house, and bounced up on the great Dane that was trying so terribly hard to sleep on the couch, and bounced over to the front window. There she half-yelped, half-growled at the heathen cat, despite having  met her 1,000 times before. Strangely, the puppy still can't quite figure out what the cat is or how to react to her. The great Dane raised her head, wondering if perhaps, finally, the puppy actually managed to discover some potential threat (like a rogue squirrel, or a family of pedestrians, or a car that stopped within 100 yards of the house, or a Gila monster). The puppy looked back, grinning and open-mouthed as if to say , " Oh my god, bark-yelp-growling is FUN!!! Why don't we make noise more often?! Look at all the stuff outside! I want to bark at everything and see if it moves!! "

The puppy whipped around and went back to her excited grumbles. The Dane just stared for a minute, eyes half-closed as her brain struggled to wake up and figure out what just happened. She looked at the girl, who shrugged her shoulders. The Dane then put her head back down, deciding that sleep was more important, and started snoring softly.

The girl smiled to herself. Her little, furry family was hysterical. She turned back to her studies. They had been taking up the majority of her time for what felt like years, but was really only a matter of months. When she wasn't studying, she was looking for a job. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry as she thought to herself, "If only my bills could learn to pay themselves."

She decided to stop distracting herself with thoughts of bills speaking to themselves ("Here's that $100 that's due. Why, thank you. My pleasure."), and thoughts of her dogs getting jobs and contributing to the house ("Lucy is so big, she could start a grocery-carrying service, and Delia could power the house by running on a shepherd-sized hamster wheel...."), and thoughts of the tragic demise of her social life. Back to work. Always back to work.

But maybe, one day, she'll be able to get back to that blog she had so much fun writing.

xoxo

When did it get so fucking cold?

I love the cold. Love it. I would rather be freezing, in Siberia wearing a tank top and bikini bottoms, 2 minutes from a cold-induced coma leading to death, than just the tiniest bit too warm.

That being said, holy hell is it freezing right now! It may be because I'm sitting in the squid room, or because I'm wearing a tank top, or because I'm wearing a hat made of ice cubes, but regardless, I am uncomfortably cold (I didn't think that was possible).

I'm going to go make a casserole, or something. In the meantime, have a panoramic view of the squid room (though it's a mess at the moment, and covered in cardboard and art supplies because I'm making decorations for a friend's zombie party this weekend).

SQUID ROOM!

Sometimes I get drunk.

And now, two seconds with Slagathor

Who watches Fringe? Anyone?

I am freaking in love with that show. Holy shit, is it good times. Olivia is like the hardcore love-child of Chuck Norris and Mulan. Broyles is the most frightening, stern, calm freak of nature ever. Walter is the mad scientist version of what I hope my dad turns into in 20 years, and Peter is freaking Percy from DAWSON'S CREEK (which, no, I never watched. Not a single episode. I just find it amusing that a cast member of the bitchiest, whiniest, pre-teen drama EVER finagled his way onto a show with so many supreme beings of ultimate badassery).

I wish that the cast of Fringe were here in Atlanta. I've been sick with what I am certain is either some weird, mucus-replicating super-weapon made by bald men to try to take over the world so the parallel universe can reign supreme,  or super-triple pneumonia. My brains are oozing out of my face, hurting while doing so, and my sinuses are slowly collapsing under the suction and pressure. Plus, I've been busy as all hell with school (why was learning so much easier a few years ago, when I was so much dumber???), so the poor True Story of Slaggy-Waggy/Slaggo/Slaggs has been neglected a bit. Apologies.

How I've spent almost every moment of free time for the past two weeks.

I met a new friend a week or two ago, by the name of Rocky Doe. He's a dear (not a deer, even though I LOVE puns), and wrote me a poem that was inspired by this bizarre blog-nonsense. In lieu of actually telling you a story or trying to come up with anything clever on my own, I'm going to now close with said poem (with the permission, of course, of dear Rocky Doe).

I hope to update more regularly now that my house is clean(ish) and my midterms are over (for the most part) and my life is calming down (and by "life" I mean "horrendous cold").

Without further ado:

"I went to your blog and read it, and composed this poem in my style.

LLM I

sleep god damn it

sleep come to me now

sleep please don't run away 

please don't run away and leave me awake

please don't run away and leave me thinking

please don't run away and leave me alone

leave me alone to wait

leave me alone to want

leave me alone to sleep

-Rocky Doe"

Insomnia isn't a bitch. It's a steroid-raging, professional weight lifting asshole.

I have way too much in my brain at the moment. The cliché question is: what the fuck is the point? I mean, all lofty existentialism aside, life is only as meaningful as I make it. Right?

I tell people that the purpose of life is to be kind and be happy. I feel as though attributing your existence to anything else is just making wild assumptions based on some bizarre-o world concoction that lives only on the mind of the subject.

Though it would be pretty hysterical if the whole planet was just an exhibit in an interstellar zoo for giant aliens. My reaction to that discovery would probably be something like, "Well, duh. What did you think was going on, exactly? And when do they feed us? The gas in my apartment has been out for a week and I'm starving."

Thanks a lot for the weird, speculative existentialism, Makers Mark. That's so like you; always looking out.

I hope for your sake that I'm already asleep.

Baseball games have a way of putting things into perspective, while boring you to death.

On Friday I did something I never thought I would do (at least, not since I had friends of a legal drinking age turned 21).  I attended a baseball game, and was sober for its entirety.

In all honesty, I never thought I would last through an entire baseball game.  I love sports, but by "sports" I mean football, soccer, hockey, poker.... You know, games that take some serious skill. But baseball? They're scared of the rain, they keep their grass pristine, they wear pants tighter than that chick that played Peter Pan on Broadway (which is okay in football, because they're all muscle-y and actually endanger their health when playing the game), and then they think they can make up for these blights against their masculinity by kicking dust and spitting a lot.

However, the tickets were courtesy of Turner, and my family invited me, so I figured it would be nice to go spend some time with them.

Let me just say that the best part of the ENTIRE game was the end. On Friday nights, Turner Stadium does an awesome fireworks show. Seriously. It beat anything you'd see at Nascar (they have fireworks, right? I've never spent more than 3 minutes actively watching a Narcar race. Spoiler alert: They turn left) or the Stone Mountain Laser Show. My favorite fireworks are the ones that look like someone just threw firework confetti into the air. And I like the spinny, screaming ones that reminded me of Dementors (though I had to ask my little sister what those hooded, evil things from Harry Potter that shotgun out your soul are called.... She may have been a bit sketchy on my description, but she still figured it out).

The best fireworks. Because you needed to know.

So yeah, the fireworks were the redeeming factor. As I was sitting behind first base during the game, though, I couldn't help but notice how many freaking moths there were. And those bastards were having a fucking BLAST. They were swooping and dive-bombing the field, and I could almost hear their child-like, mothy laughter. I spent the remainder of the game watching the moths. At one point, I leaned over to Daddy and remarked on how much fun the moths were having, and his response was, "Just wait until the bats get here." The expression on my face was wildly similar to the one Mar would have later, when they were advertising the fireworks show on the jumbo-tron (is that what it's called?) and I told her that the whole show would be on the jumbo-tron, too, just like the advert. She made the same face, but hers quickly turned into a death-glare that may have actually killed me (in which case, death is almost exactly like life, except for the fact that you can't be killed twice by your sister's evil death glare about television fireworks at a baseball game).

As we piled into the car, Daddy told me what went down when I wandered over to sit behind first base with some friends of his that were filming the game for work. Apparently the children (who are 11, 11, and 7) were whining about when I was getting back so they could go get food. The toothless, hillbilly woman sitting behind them (who was also responsible for cackling like a freak and then yelling at her husband, "DIDJA HEAR?! DIDJA HEAR?! They made a chicken noise!! Ahahahaha! Yah, a chicken noise! They said it was because of a FOUL BALL!" halfway through the game) saw Daddy looking around for me and she decided to ask, "Sir, didja lose your wife?"

That's right. "Your wife." Dad laughed it off, and said, "Well, you either just insulted my daughter or complimented me," and the woman, in all her Southern hospitality, responded with, "Oh NO [in a whisper]. I sure didn't mean tuh insult anyone." Daddy continued to be friendly and chuckle, and the woman was mortified until another foul ball, complete with chicken sound effects, stole her happy mind away from the subject at hand.

Guys, my point is this. Fireworks are awesome. Baseball is lame. Rednecks can make anything hilarious. And the best way to get a girl to cut back on the drinking, and perhaps start getting a little more sleep, is by asking her father if he's missing his wife.

Thank god football season is here.

The better to make into art projects that weird out your friends and relatives, my dear.

I may have been an odd child (fuck, I may still be an odd child). I did all kinds of bizarre, strange things while growing up, as I'm sure everyone did. One comes to mind, and has to do with my last post, so I thought I would share (unless you're my father, in which case you ought to stop reading unless you want to experience a serious birthday spoiler). 

When I was, uh, 11 or something, I had to have four adult teeth removed. They were the four teeth that were behind each of my canines (I don't know if they're actually canines.... They're the pointiest teeth people have, so it seems right). The reason for this was that my huge, giant, really loud mouth was physically too small to accommodate all of my teeth. Yes, I was awake during the removal of these teeth. Yes, it was weird as all hell. Also, as a bonus, they gave me the four teeth they removed. 

I've since been told that oral surgeons no longer part with the fun things they remove from the mouths of the public, and I think that's tragic. People ought to fight for that more than they do. I mean, they're your fucking teeth. You grew them. You brushed them twice daily (I hope). You experienced pain with them when they first came in, and lust love with them when they were first touched by the tongue of that weird kid in the 9th grade that thought "french kissing" and "kissing" were the same thing. They were with you through your first punch in the jaw for calling some kids mom a hooker (because you were probably too young to use colorful, more creative terms like "brazen hussy" or "trollop"). They enjoyed your first beer, or wine cooler if you're not a huge fan of beer. They're a part of you. I don't understand why people haven't formed coalitions, or called in lobbyists, or rallied about this bullshit.

But yes, I was one of the lucky few who had their teeth returned to them upon removal. They sat on my bookshelf in a small case, next to my boom box with a dual tape deck, for a good 6 months to a year with no more than the occasional "Hey guys, check this out, it's teeth!" from me and, "Ewwwww, awesome" from my incredibly sophisticated childhood friends.

Life went on. Then, one day, my mum came home after a trip to Michaels. She called me into the dining room, and informed me that she got some craft stuff and was hoping we could do some mother-daughter bonding (probably because she's actually my step-mum, and I am was a horrendous pain in the ass always as a kid). 

One of the crafty things she brought home was a soap-making kit. She also got some shells, and flowers, and other cute things to put in the different molds. There were scents, too, and food color that helped add to the "creativity" bit of the project. Halfway through, while I was arranging some flowers in the oval soap and Mum was sticking seashells into a star-soap, she gasped slightly and looked up at me. "What?" was my youthful, polite response that was not at all in an adolescent, pain in the ass kind of tone. "Lindsey, I just had an idea. Go get your teeth!"

As I realized what she was thinking, I forgot my pointless, cliche, youthful irritation jumped up and ran to my room, grabbing the box with my teeth and running back. We ended up making two clear, heart-shaped soaps. Each contained one of my adult teeth. They were lovely, and thoughtful, and oh, so endearing, and really quite weird as fuck.

So I gave them to my dad for Father's day. His response was something like, "Oh, soap. Did you guys make these with the kit that Bec got? Cool. Hey, there's something in them.... Lindsey, are those your TEETH?! Oh, AWESOME!" Mum and I beamed with pride, and Dad still has those heart-teeth-soaps in a dish in his bathroom, 12(ish) years later. 


Now for the fun part (Dad, totes not kidding. You'll be pissed with yourself if you keep reading. Unless even my own father doesn't read this, in which case, what the fuck, Dad? You give me all kinds of crap for missing dinner at your place because I was sick last week, and you're not even reading my blog? Way to be a huge jerkface). I came across one of my teeth a while ago, when I was trying to clean my house. I have no idea where the fourth tooth ran off to, or how this tooth ended up still loitering around my miscellaneous junk, but I was going through some random nonsense one day and there it was. 

Adult teeth are surprisingly huge when they're pulled out of your face.

After throwing around some ideas with Mum, the fate of this tooth was finally decided. 

*
*
*


I am going to make my father a painting. Okay, that's not really a big deal. I paint all the damn time. It's a hobby, that is occasionally lucrative and a teensy bit more than occasionally relaxing. What's epic is this: I am making my dad a painting of himself, as a zombie. Included in this painting will be my tooth. I'm going to put the tooth on the end of a piece of red yarn, and dangle it from his zombie gums using epoxy. It will be graphic, and hysterical, and if he doesn't put it up in his office at work I will be wholeheartedly disappointed.


This promises to be the most epic zombie-esque painting I've done yet, and I will absolutely post photos once it's nearing completion. 

...

Okay, well, that bulletin was what this entire post was leading up to. So, you know, go to bed, or something. Oooh, or enjoy drowning your disappointment in this anticlimactic end with whiskey. And save me some. Sharing is caring, bitches. Meanwhile, I'm going to go kick the shit out of this insomnia until both Insomnia and I are so tired one of us HAS to sleep. That means I'll get to sleep at least a little, regardless of the outcome of the fight (even though I'm a badass and am going to destroy that perky bastard). 

*Note to self: No more half-watching American Gladiator reruns while writing a post for the blog.

P.S. Here's a photo of my teeth, just to prove that I didn't lose this tooth recently and that I am not actually a secret hillbilly. 

This is often referred to as "The Dragon Face". It makes regular appearances when I know for a fact that an attempt at a smile will result in a horrible drunk face. Because everyone knows that dragon>drunk.

P.S.Again. I'm totally not making a dragon face right now.

Zombies of the canine persuasion.

Holy hell, changes are exhausting.

I've recently quit my shady boring crap job as a(n) underpaid taken for granted unappreciated illegally compensated office manager, have started attending classes full-time at GSU, and am looking for a bartending job (though I have one that I should be able to start in October, fingers crossed). All of this change has just worn me the fuck out, so apologies for not being around as often.

I find myself jotting things down throughout the day that I want to discuss here, and yet I lack the time, energy, or mindset to expand upon them. Fortunately for me, I can write whatever the hell I want here, so suck it. Or just, you know, feel free to expand upon whatever yourself. See? I'm encouraging you to take some creative initiative. You're welcome.

    *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  

Upon discussing obscene and/or favorite phrases and slanderous names with a friend, one came up that I had never heard. 

*Side note: A few favorites of mine would be: "Jesus H. Tap-Dancing Christ," from The Blues Brothers; "ass-goblin" from my ridiculous childhood; "douche-canoe" from the darling Jenny, The Bloggess; and old reliable, "fuck," from my dad/grandparents when they're driving or watching football (okay, okay, Gram isn't one for cursing during football. And she usually only says "fuck" in the car if Grandpa is the one driving).*

It would seem the only reason I had never heard this turn of phrase was because I don't watch that comedian that people all love to hate... ugh... what the fuck is his name? He was in Waiting, and other nonsense. He's all loud... Okay, whatever. I can't think of his name off-hand and I'm already late leaving for dinner with my family, so you guys just guess and remind me. Anyway, the expression was "Satan's asshole." I found it wildly amusing, having never heard it before. Then my charming friend said they had one better. 

In keeping with the religious theme of Satan's asshole, he said his favorite offensive expression was, "Jesus Christ on a stick with BBQ sauce". As I sat there, visualizing Jesus Christ (or, at least, the most propagated image of him) on a stick, with Jack Daniel's BBQ sauce all over his nice linen robe and a horde of starving cannibals surrounding him (cannibals which may or may not have been zombies), I started wondering if that hadn't been the plan all along. The Romans were considered the masters of the known world, once upon a time. What if they wanted to eat Jesus, just because he was considered a deity? The idea isn't that off the wall, is it? I mean, we massage our cows. We eat things that are exotic or dangerous and potentially fatal just to prove that we're the most badass species (or so we think) on the planet. What if the Romans just wanted to taste the "lamb of God"?

"Yeah, it's funny because 'on a stick' is like the cross, you know, and then he's covered in BBQ sauce, heh heh heh," was the sentence that broke my concentration. 

Okay, I have to run to dinner and try to nonchalantly take a photo of my dad making a zombie face. It's a long story. I'll explain later. 

GSU has aced Pain in the Ass 1001

I was so, so, so very excited about finally going back to school.  I'm still excited, sure, but I'm also starting to realize that there's just no winning when it comes to the quality and competency of institutions for higher education.

Don't get me wrong.  My professors are fabulous.  The classes are going to be entertaining, at the very least.  But good Christ, I have never seen more slack-jawed, clearly dumbfounded people in my entire life.  Walking through the courtyard is like getting a backstage pass to a Neanderthal convention.

When did 18-22 year olds turn into such blathering idiots?  You know, I ask because my biggest concern is that I'll discover that I was JUST LIKE THEM, and I fear the only option I would have left would be to turn to Seppuku as a means of salvaging my honor. 

Other than the completely oblivious student body (for the record, I'm generalizing. You know, like saying "the general public is a mass of greedy, bovine-esque bastards," despite the fact that I know quite a few people that are the opposite), my GSU experience, 2nd edition, is just like the last. There are the same, completely insane hobos wandering around downtown Atlanta. There are the same horrendously-dressed "business women" that don't know how to apply lipstick but can down four Philly Cheesesteaks in 14.6 minutes. There are the same drivers, in newer cars, still trying to pretend they're NYC motorists, honking and yelling and all that, but lacking the guts to actually commit to the role by running someone over. The heat and humidity, the odd-smelling train to and from campus, the cops pretending to look busy despite the traffic light above their heads CLEARLY doing all the work. All the things that you'd have to spend considerable time downtown on a regular basis to notice... well... they're still there. Atlanta hasn't changed.  And while I love Atlanta, because it is my home, I still can't wait to (one day) find myself living in NYC.

At least the motorists there have some balls.

And this round goes to.... Chuck Norris. But you already knew that.

The past 24 hours have been completely insane (not that I'm wildly familiar with insanity, mind you). I don't know what is going on, but I am totally baffled. Like, more than usual.

Life has been like, "Hey! Here, have something AWESOME!" Then fate, or Satan (for you zealots out there), has been like, "Dude, Life, what the hell are you doing? That was a bit much, don't you think? I better balance that shit out, stat." And then Life is all, "Hey, now. Come on Fate/Satan FATAN. That was harsh, dude. Like, WAY more drastic than that good thing I did. Now I have to do something awesome again. Fucker. Oh, by the way, Chuck Norris called. He asked me to tell you-" then Life roundhouse kicks Fatan in the face.

Now that this is an actual fight, I figure someone ought to keep score.

-Realizing that my financial aid went through -point to Life
-Spending 4 hours on my feet,behind a bar, after being unable to find the shard of glass embedded in my foot -point to Fatan
-Getting free Braves tickets for a friend that really, really wanted them but couldn't afford them (and the requisite teasing about their love for the only sport almost as lame as golf) -point to Life
-Helping a friend through a traumatic experience that involved all kinds of insanity, cops, misunderstandings, and the like -point to Fatan
-Waking up late for work by 30 minutes this morning -point to Fatan
-Hearing from a darling old friend that I haven't seen in far too long-point to Life
-Getting totally dumped by my band... stupid time constraints -point to Fatan
-Being commissioned by a serious art collector to do a painting for his new house -point to Life
-FINALLY getting the glass out of my foot, using nothing but ingenuity and some cuticle clippers -point to Life
- Forgetting to eat today -point to my figure, and irritability

So I'm off to fly home, deal with dogs, fly to class, and then go home again before going to karaoke. Jesus Christ, I need a Jack and Coke nap.

Fucking 3am

"Why do you stay up all night and drink whiskey if you have work at 9am and then have class until 10pm?"

"I'm an insomniac. And I forgot to buy ice cream. Shove off."

Note to Future Lindsey:
After class tomorrow, but before passing out with the dogs on the amazing rug in the living room that you nabbed for $40 marked down from $155 because the dumb bastards at Ikea don't know how to use stain remover, stop at the 24 hour Kroger and buy some fucking cookie dough ice cream. And milk.* And maybe some Tylenol PM.

Goodnight to those who sleep. And by "good", I mean "shit" because I'm totally jealous moody due to lack of sleep and ice cream (not in that order).

*Also, get some more Eukanuba for the beasts. And some juice. And cheese (American and parm). And see if you can find someone to take your card and get a can of Bali Shag while you're at work tomorrow. /to-do list

Work, work, work, work. Hey boys! How ya doin'? Didja miss me?

I was giving my number to a woman on the phone at work, so she could call me back, when I said, "Four, zero, one, one. Yep. And my extension is 2001." Her reply was, "Oh! I like that extension. That's a good extension." So I mindlessly replied with, "That's what SHE said... I mean... uh... Thanks."

Okay, so I only said "that's what she said" silently to myself. But my brain was like, "Say it! SAY IT. SAYITSAYITSAYITSAYIT." Clearly, I need a nap. Or a drink. Damn me for leaving my cosmopolitan-boots at home.

Work has been so entertaining lately. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Or the lack of serious pressure and insanity that I have been dealing with for the past year and a half. Or both. Or all three. 

- * - * - *  - * - * - *  - * - * - *  - * - * - *  - * - * - *  - * - * - *  - * - * - *  - * - * - *  

As I go through my day, I tend to get burnt out on working and decide to play on Facebook   edit photos from last weekend's party   brush up on my NFL stats   stare blankly into space read the BBC world news. I occasionally hit up CNN, but I find that the best reporting on the US tends to come from anywhere but the US. And the BBC is awesome.

I came across an article today that was about how the children of sperm donors are finding their half-siblings, and occasionally even tracking down the donors. It was really interesting, but I had to read it three times to really grasp what was being said. Why? Because the last name of one of the children the article highlights is -wait for it- CLAPOFF. As in, to clap one off? As in spanking the monkey? As in choking the snake, as in jerking it in a cup to pay for the large pizza with the works and the six pack of PBR you're going to consume later that night?

So the article was like, "The offspring of blah blah sperm donor blah CLAPOFF." And then I would start laughing maniacally to myself, and then I would think of other euphamisms for male masturbation, and then I would realize that my eyes were still reading the article, and my brain was trying to follow and pretend as though it wasn't amused (even though it totally was), so I'd pay attention again and read, "...sperm donation enabled two mothers to give birth blah blah blah the internet age has allowed their twins Jonah and Hilit Jacobson in Georgia and Jesse and Jayme CLAPOFF...." And it would start all over again.

I was going to ask if I ought to be concerned about what I thought was immaturity on my part. That was the point of this post, initially. But, actually, the Clapoff thing is REALLY fucking hysterical, and totally chock full of high-brow laughs. I wonder if the guys at CNN tracked those kids down to do a story on insanely, hilariously ironic last names and then their brilliant story was shot down by The Man, a.k.a. their boss that had never taken a single journalism class or known anything about what gathers public interest, so they just went with what they could find in a pinch, while sticking with the same general subject.

I'm sure that's what happened. I mean, come on- HAHAHA, oh, I totally just said "come on"! Hahaha..... Man. That's fucking awesome. What was I talking about?

BOWNED. Fuck. I mean owned.

I just went to type a charming, but still somewhat professional email to my boss. And yet, for some reason, my hand-eye-coordination thinks that professionalism is bullshit. It also thinks it isn't getting enough action, because Hand-Eye Coordination is being a HUGE slut today.

For example, instead of typing "I would love to," I wrote, "I would love you." It gets worse.

"I know you're busy as hell," became, "I know you're busty as hell."

"I have that log at my desk [referring to the credit card log I use for collections, etc.]" became, "I have that flog at my desk."

Those are the only examples of the skanky typos (though there were a few normal, G-rated typos, too).

True story. And I am so very glad that I proofread my emails before sending them. At least, usually. God, I grope. HOPE. I mean hope.

And that didn't happen because I'm thinking about such inappropriate things while I ought to be working probably. Get your minds out of the gutter. JEEZ (with an "e"....).

P.S. Just so you know, I'm not currently drunk. Here's a photo for comparison.

Me, being drunk at karaoke.

P.P.S. Do you remember that part in Crocodile Dundee (you have to pronounce it "dun DEE") where that kid pulls out a knife, and Crocodile Dundee says, "That's not a knoife. This is a knoife." And then he pulls a machete out of his boot? I can't get that out of my head, because I keep hearing, "That's not a drunk. This is a drunk." Except that I'm not going to pull a cosmopolitan out of my boot because 1) I'm not wearing boots, I'm wearing really cute sandals that are not conducive to hiding liquor; and 2) I'm at work, and it would be a bit really unprofessional to hide a cosmo in my boot while at work, and probably worse to drink said shoe-cosmo. Hear that, Hand-Eye Coordination? That's called keeping my job.

STICK your pun up your ass

I spent today being a total puss nostalgic. Somehow, I ended up telling someone about Spidey (oh, my sweet, adorable piece of shit car). Spidey died last year, actually. Talk of Spidey brought up the fact that he had the only super lame transmission automatic transmission I've ever owned, which steered the conversation toward how I learned how to drive a stick to begin with.

My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It had a manual transmission, which is great if you know how to drive it. Or, you know, drive at all. The most traumatic learning-to-drive-a-stick story I can recall happened when I was forced to take Honda to rehearsal because my dad went somewhere retarded with his car. My first journey (for which I was not prepared. Like, at all) went like this:

Me: Okay, Honda. Now, we're going to leave the neighborhood. Are you okay with that? Please don't die please don't die please don't die..... K?

Honda: *grumble*

Me: Hey, Honda? How's it going? Look at you, in second gear. Way to go. Now we're going to try third. Are you ready for third gear? Yeah? Okay, here we go.

Honda: KKRRRAAAAAA (that's how you spell what you hear when metal and metal are grinding)

Me: OH, HOLY FUCK. SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE. I'MGOINGTODIE. Oh. Clutch needs to be in. Sorry, Honda. Okay, ready this time? No, really, I'm sorry. Okay, clutch in.... shift to third... clutch out...

Honda: *bucking like a bull with its nuts in a noose*

Me: No. No, no, no, no, come ON you piece of SHIT.

Honda (clearly insulted): *stalls*

Me (with angsty, emotional, teenage tears falling from my eyes): FUCK. I am NEVER GOING TO LEARN THIS. Where the HELL DID DAD TAKE THE OTHER CAR?! GOD DAMN IT! SHIT!

Everyone else in the entire world: *HONK* "LEARN TO DRIVE!"
"Hey, KID! Get OUT OF THE ROAD."
"This ISN'T a parking lot!"
"What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

I could hear my dad's voice in my head, saying, "User error, Linds," over and over again, like he does anytime something that clearly isn't broken chooses not to work. So I took a deep breath, started the fucking bastard piece of shit engine, and put the car in first gear while trying to stab people with my almost tangible anger. I think the only reason I couldn't was because the tears water I got in my eyes (it was raining) deflected the sight-daggers/ machetes/ a-bombs.

This drive (that was supposed to be 5 miles or so from start to finish) took me 30 minutes. When I FINALLY arrived I turned into the first driveway I saw that was part of the rehearsal halls property. Having never been there before, I was unaware that this particular "driveway" was actually just a bunch of dirt with miscellaneous clumps of grass clinging to it. And it was still raining, so the dirt was actually some weird, cake-batter-thick mud. Seriously. It was wicked (and not the British "oh, that's so neat but I'm British and have to be all posh so I'll call it wicked," wicked). I'm talking the kind of mud your neighbor's miniature poodle gets into one day, and then the poor bastard is stuck being a hard brown lump for at least a week, even though your neighbor is a prim and obsessive-compulsive gay man, and the dog has a dog show in three days and the neighbor's lover is getting back into town in a week so everything has to be spotless and perfect and the dog is immune to bleach and is washed 24/7, because that shit is so sticky and oozy and gross that bleach is all, "Uh, I'm gonna pass on that one, man," and the neighbor is like, "But I spent a fortune to get a bleach-immune poodle specifically for this reason. Oh, fuck it all." And then he loses his mind because of his OCD and his muddy poodle. Yeah. That mud.

So I end up in the mud, entirely unable to get the car to move because I give it too much gas in first gear, sobbing my angry, hate-filled eyes out, and 30 minutes late for rehearsal. Getting out of the car was just as much trouble as trying to get the asshole to move, and by the time I had escaped my 4-door hell and made it to the front porch I was covered in mucky mud mixed with good ole' Georgia red clay and sweat, I had red, puffy eyes from crying allergies, my hair was tangled and soaking wet and attempting, unsuccessfully, to be windswept, and I was panting like a chow chow during a summer in Buenos Aires.

As I threw open the door to the building, thunder clapped and lightning flashed behind me (it was probably the most epic entrance I've ever made, and it was unfortunate that I was so pissed upset exhausted frustrated dirty distracted that I didn't notice it), and every single person in the entire cast gasped and looked at me as though I were the lovechild of the witch from Left4Dead and their worst nightmare, personified. Their horrified, shocked expressions registered to teenage Lindsey as looks of disgust and embarrassment, and I broke down.

Me: *sobbing* D-d-does anyone... *sob* know.. uh, know how *sob* to drive a- a- *sob* sstttiiickkk shiiifffftttttt *crying and wailing*

Everyone in the room: "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"What happened?"
"Jesus Christ, I thought you were here to murder us!"
"Will someone get her a towel? And a box of tissues?"
"Where the hell did you park?"
"You don't know how to drive a stick shift??"

After I calmed down and dried off (but before the PTSD that was caused by the whole experience kicked in) a friend of mine went out to move my car. She walked through the mud, though it seemed to have no interest in clinging to her clothes or shoes. She started the car on the first try. She had absolutely no problem getting Honda to leave the mud-field-driveway-thing, and that was that.

So, you know, when I offer my friends the opportunity to learn how to drive a stick, they may be wise to decline. I honestly doubt that anything would have taught me as well as the trauma of that afternoon. Fucking bastard Honda. I don't think I could possibly inflict that much trauma on another human being, though. I mean, come on. I'm not that driven by the misery of others.

Well, fuck.

I thought that maybe writing about my craptastic phone experience would make me feel better. I then realized that it would mainly consist of me whining even more about how pissed I am at myself. And now I'm here, whining about trying not to whine about my phone. The bullshit has been resolved, but I would have rather given my first-born than go through this again (even though I don't want kids... which, I suppose, means I'd give my first- AND second-born).

My phone was either left at The Clermont Lounge, or at a diner we went to after our appetites were crushed by the dancers at the Clermont, and then picked up by someone who called Santa Barbara for, like, 5 minutes Saturday morning. It is now gone forever, to the place where things stolen by fucking douche bags that lack the manners to just fucking take that shit to the register end up. I hope that my stolen phone explodes, impaling their stupid face with shards of Apple Certified glass, disfiguring them to the point that people mistake them for Mel Gibson in that movie about that guy whose face was all gross. The Man Without a Face. Or Man with a Face of Guilt and Sin for Being a FUCKING THIEF. Or something.

So the phone is gone. It was synced with my computer, so I didn't really lose anything. Just my faith in humanity. And the ability to go out drinking with any kind of purse that doesn't zip closed entirely. And the technology needed to call anyone, locate or orient myself in relation to my surroundings (I am ALWAYS lost, even with the GPS, and now I'm totally on my own. In fact, I'm typing this from my MacBook in the middle of an unfamiliar city where it's -14 degrees and the street signs are written in Russian or some shit, and I was just trying to get to the park that's MAYBE 15 minutes away from my house), check my email, check my account balances, take photos.... The horribly tragic and unfair and slightly whiny list goes on.

Fortunately for me, it was time for an upgrade. I managed to order the iPhone 4 online the day after my phone was left and then stolen. Then I discovered that it would take THREE WEEKS for Apple to ship that shit. Really, Apple? You can't just, you know, get off your asses and send me a phone? Supply and demand can die in a fire, I went almost a week without any means of communication. Had my car broken down (which it wouldn't have because it's the shit) and I been kidnapped, murdered, and then decapitated, it would have been YOUR FAULT. That's right. I'm irrationally blaming you for my hypothetical KIDNAPPING. Way to go. And no, this has nothing to do with the fact that I'm usually an impatient person.

So I canceled the order (that I used a gift-card to pay for) and decided to try to get a phone at the store. Sold out. Sold out. Sold out. Apparently, EVERYONE wants one of these phones. Well, everyone except the people that go on and on about how they suck (they're just jealous). Which is basically, like, 7 people on the planet. Then, Wednesday, I was told that there were some iPhone 4's at the Perimeter store. So I scooted my happy ass over there to FINALLY reconnect with virtual civilization (and my sense of direction/ checking account balance/ bejeweled high score).

My old AP music theory teacher, Volzie, works at the Apple store, and ended up being the one to help me out. We got the phone, and then the gift card wouldn't work. I got really frustrated and said that I would kill EVERYTHING just spend the $200 cash so I could leave with a phone, but Volzie didn't want me to have to deal with selling a $200 Apple gift card that I wasn't going to use. We called this and that and eventually found out that nothing could be done. So we sighed, canceled the transaction because it couldn't be tendered properly, and started the process again.

Then, Volzie went to put the new order in and AT&T was all, "Oh, hai guyz, so you know when you just said you were trying to buy this, and then didn't? ? Well, fuck you. We've decided that you DID buy it. So that whole 'eligible for an upgrade' thing? Yeah, that doesn't exist for you anymore. We're guessing you don't want to spend $600 on a new iPhone because you're lame and broke and everyone hates you, so have fun getting lost and over-drafting your checking account. Love ya, mean it!"

So I left, after two or three hours of nonsense, without a phone. Luckily, the manager felt REALLY bad, and gave me a card saying I didn't have to wait in the queue once AT&T figured their shit out. He also said he would hold a phone there for me (which they're TOTALLY not doing for anyone anymore, due to the demand).

The next day, the money was back on my gift card and AT&T was all, "Ohhhh. See, that wasn't us that you spoke to yesterday. It was our evil twin, AT&T-with-a-mustache. So go get your pretty new phone, and we'll try to track down that jerk Bizarre-o AT&T and give him a piece of our minds." And that's exactly what I did. The guys at the Apple store even bought Apple Care for me, so there's $65 I didn't have to spend on an extended, better warranty. Though I don't know if I would sell a total of 4 hours of my life, some stress, and dealing with the mall for $65.

The lesson I learned from this is that my history teacher was a liar. There's no way in hell that people lived in a time without land lines, at least. Also, the iPhone 4 is sweet, and doesn't actually drop calls, so the naysayers can suck it.

Holy Mary mother of god, Grandpa's on the hobby horse again.

Actually, those are song lyrics. I have no idea if my gramps is on a horse, hobby or otherwise. I do know that it has been one hell of a week. I also know that I just spent 3 minutes of my life trying to inform my phone that I was TRYING to say "hell", not he'll. I'm cursing on purpose, phone. Stop trying to censor me. Damn it.

I am just posting quickly to say that no, I did not forget/abandon/choose to shun (Amish-style)/ regret and delete this blog. I'm just bring pissy and lazy, and shirking my prior interests. And while none of those things usually happen, minus the pissy/lazy bit, they seem to be out in full force lately. I'll be sure to inform you of the insanity as soon as I can figure out how to do so without inadvertently forcing you to attend my pity party. Though if you want to come, it's byob because I'm broke, and you ought to bring your own cheese, because I barely have enough for my own whine.

Look at my art. If you don't get it, you clearly aren't cultured enough.

I recently posted my hack version of a Get Well Soon card. I've decided that I ought to go ahead and post some of the other miscellaneous drawings I've made for friends, just as a way to keep them together and entertain the masses myself.

Also, I've been more exhausted than your mom after a gang bang, lately, so I'm doing this in lieu of writing anything meaningful.

And tell your mom to calm down with that crazy shit before she breaks a hip.

This was created due to some unfortunate conversation between Christo and his girlfriend, Shana. He said something about the office being "magical". This is what you get when you use ridiculous words like that to describe something everyone knows you hate.

During a conversation, a name was thrown around that, while much more... colorful, basically equated to this. It was then pondered how one could be such an oxymoron. IN YOUR FACE, SHANA. AND YOUR ASS.

For my dear heart, the Fabulous Geek. One day, the glue factory will be overstocked, and then you can finally have your soup.

Another done for The Fabulous Geek, clearly illustrating only a few of the plethora of reasons why I would run at
him with a chainsaw (none of which would involve killing him).

Upon being told that I wouldn't sell her The Television Monster painting that I love dearly, Leigh was terribly distraught. So I offered to make her a painting of her very own. She suggested Zombie Kittens. I took creative liberty and added the Outer Space part. And behold, I got to give away something I loved almost as much as The Television Monster. The pains of being an artist... le sigh.











Okay. That's all for now. God damn, my computer is being slow as hell. How irksome. Only 3 more hours until I get to go play in traffic. Fun.

"Ugh, god. They're so dramatic. They make me want to just... SET MYSELF ON FIRE."

Lucille Bluth, of Arrested Development, ALWAYS has the right thing to say. If you haven't watched Arrested Development, you're missing out. Seriously. It's like snarky, clever Pee-Wee Herman for adults. Although, that probably only makes sense to me, so ignore that unless it makes you want to go out and buy all three seasons. Of Arrested Development. Not Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Even though that wouldn't be a bad addition to your DVD collection, either. ANYWAY, I'm distracting myself from my current ANGER and HATRED, which is why I was talking about snark and insults in the first place. The only person that I feel possesses the ability to top Lucille Bluth (and shut the hell up, I don't know her real name and I am too lazy irritated at the moment to bother looking it up) when it comes to awesome things to say when you're pissed off or irked or disappointed to the point of anger or just generally rubbed the wrong way by someone would be my youngest brother, Bug. Bug (which is what the Step-Monster and Dad called him when he was in the womb, and my sister Mar was only four and trying desperately to understand how they fit an entire person in there) just turned 7 years old this month. He's blonde, and adorable, and a total ham for attention. He must have inherited his love for attention from my darling step-monster, who is an actress (she even has a theatre degree from UCLA, and enjoys bragging about how her major got her out of any math requirements.... Damn brazen hussy. Not that I'm jealous or anything okay, I'm totally jealous).  According to my step-mum, Bug and my sister were bickering at dinner the other night. Now, Mar just turned 11 (holy shit, right? It's insane! She's an entire person! When she was born, I was being a moody teenager but now it's her turn and she has opinions and thoughts and justifications for why her clearly incorrect-due-to-her-age opinions and thoughts are, supposedly, correct! What a strange thing to witness from the opposite side). She's a bit quiet around large groups, and got more of Daddy's "I'm just hanging out, I'm not into the whole 'social' thing. This isn't my forte," while still being the life of any gathering, because that's what genuine people that are just themselves have a tendency to do, while still being slightly uncomfortable (and that much more endearing) about it. With 4 years between them, Mar and Bug are no strangers to arguing with one another. Whether they're discussing the logistics of the latest 893,203-Lego sculpture-mansion-spaceship, or just talking to make noise and finding that arguing opposite points halfheartedly is the easiest way to go about that, they have certainly had more practice bickering with one another than I ever had with any of my siblings. Granted, I'm the eldest, meaning there was no argument (at least, as far as my adolescent brain was concerned), but still. You get what I'm saying. A lot of practice. Tons. EONS of practice. Despite being aware of this, and having lived with the kids for years before being deemed "not a kid" enough to move out, I am still ALWAYS surprised when Bug comes up with some of the shit he comes up with. For example, he once said to me, "Lindsey, Lindsey, guess what I can say?!?!?" I was confused, but decided to humor him because he's such an odd little kid you just never know what you may have missed were you to turn your solemn, adult back on him. Me: Um, okay. What can you say? Bug: ELLLLllllllll!!!!!!! Me: Um, what? "L"? Huh. That's, a letter of the alphabet.... Nice.  Bug: No! Mom said I couldn't say "HELL". But I can say it if I say it like Ron Weasley. (He looks at me for a good four seconds, and then busts out with it yet again.) ELLLLllllll! I think it only took a week or two of Bug going around the house, yelling the guttural, drawn-out, Ron Weasley version of "ELLLlllllll!" for Mom to go ahead and just let him say "hell," while undoubtedly rolling her eyes and half-laughing to herself about her odd children. According to Mum, the other night she, Daddy, Mar and Bug were sitting around the dining room table, having dinner. Mar and Bug were arguing about something, apparently. Finally, it was just too much for the agitated Bug, and he looked at Mar and said, with utmost seriousness and a full-ish mouth, "Mar, I wish this tomato I just ate was you." Apparently both Bug and Mar were scowl-y and angry and irritable, but in the two or three seconds that Bug's statement hung in the air, everything dissipated. And then Mum started laughing, complete with the, "Ppppfffftttt!" at the beginning (and when The Step-Monster thinks something is really, insanely amusing, everyone within 100 feet is made aware of it, because of her laugh... it's like her laugh thinks it's a stage-whisper, but it's already at normal volume, and she clearly has no control over it which is also funny as hell in its own right) and the entire table finally slowed their hysterics to an occasional giggle, and then resumed eating dinner. Not a single person choked to death that night (that's not to say you ought to choke to death right now, in order to give Bug's story merit or anything. Unless you're one of the few that have pissed me the fuck off in the past couple of days. In which case, if you feel so inclined to give a 7-year-old-boy some props, don't let me stop your windpipe.... I'm just saying). *But* my heart choked to death, with mushy, gay, lame as hell pride at my weird brother, and odd sister, and amazingly badass parents that were able to instill such bizarre, occasionally misplaced, but never dull creativity.  ..... And judging by that last sentence, I need to go make another drink, because the one I had was chugged a paragraph ago knocked over by my favorite scapegoat, Lucy's tail. Not to be confused with performance art. Well, unless that was Lucy's intention. Good fucking dog. On that note, good night. Sleep well, unless you're unfortunate enough to be one of Bug's tomatoes.

It's worse because you have TWO.

My friend Christo is obnoxious sick. He had to go to the E.R. because there's a giant calcium meteorite barreling its way through his body. It's a kidney stone. And it sucks, because if there's anything in your body you DON'T want to piss off, it's your kidney. I've had two kidney infections, and I thought I was going to die both times. I can't imagine having a rock just chilling in there, treating my kidney like a bouncy castle. Ow.

When my friends are sick, or amusing, or inspiring, or whatever, I occasionally make them super incredible comics. So I made one for Christo. Click on this, so you can actually read it (if you're illiterate, however, clicking will not give you the ability to read. Though you can't read this either, so I guess just keep doing what you're doing...):

The letter missing on the speech bubble for the kidney stoned is an "n." It's supposed to say, "The MAN."

All my drawings for Christo have to be certified by Mensa, because I was trying to prove that kittens help relationships (because his girlfriend, who is usually snarkier than anything on the planet, wanted one) and it was about a dubrillion times easier to just stamp a Mensa seal on it than it would have been to actually prove anything.

The kidney's owned is playing a video game. I was asked if that was a turn-table. I was all, "No, because it CLEARLY doesn't say, 'wikka wikka' anywhere." That's how you can tell if you're looking at a turn-table. At least, that's the word on the street.

So Christo, tell your kidney to stfu, and feel better.

P.S. I just went back to proof-read this, and realized that I said "piss off your kidneys" in, like, the first paragraph. I feel like an idiot for not realizing it when I wrote it. And I feel like the most badass person ever, because I made a pun about pee.

Opposite over adjacent (that's a MATH joke)

The past few days have been pretty horrible. Not horrible like I was kidnapped and woke up in a single-engine plane, where I had to jump to avoid the zombies that clearly weren't zombies upon takeoff, but then only the zombies were wearing parachutes so I had to grapple with one while plummeting to the earth in order to not end up splattered all over the ground, and then I had to escape the zombies and make it back to a safe zone only to find out that the only food left on the planet is black olives (blech), and that humans are now required to sleep on beds of nails because the tyrannical government that took over because of the zombies decided that nails, discomfort, and olives are the best way to keep the general public under control.

It hasn't been that bad. But almost. And I didn't get to see any good violence or gore (not for lack of trying, let me assure you), so actually my hypothetical scenario is way cooler about par with the events surrounding the past few days. I suppose the silver lining is that shit times help one discover who in their life isn't worth a shit  is a complete liar  is not worth keeping around. Oh, friendship euthanasia.

But, you know, you can't count on men boys anyone other than yourself to make you happy. And your dog(s), of course. Don't even think about counting on my your cat for happiness, though. If they know you're after something, they'll restrict access to it. Like affection, or the keyboard of the laptop, or the ability to walk without tripping over said cat. Fuzzy little jerks.

So today, I'm grateful. I'm grateful for my friends that are worth a shit. I'm grateful for my giant dog, despite the bruises her wagging tail leaves on my legs (seriously... I can't wear skirts to work, for fear of gasps and concern). I'm grateful for my spaz of a fox/puppy. I'm... appreciative of Rabs, and her endless entertainment and cat-snark. I'm grateful that it's 5 o'clock somewhere, because this waxing poetic bullshit HAS to be alcohol-induced (seriously, I'm not this gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that).

So the past few days have sucked more than a zombie apocalypse with tyrants and nail-beds and olives as the only source of food. But it's okay. Because alcohol is cheap I'm loved. And I have bruises on my legs to prove it.

Cake is only awesome when it has chocolate frosting.

At work, every day, I pick up the phone to make a call and hear a dial tone. Then, in my head, I hear, "I need your arms around me, I need to feel your touch." Then the bass kicks in. And then I find myself listening to that Cake song, against my will, in my OWN head.

And now I want cake, too. Thanks a lot, Cake the Band (because I would never talk trash about Cake the Amazing Dessert I Love Even Though it'll Make Me A Fattie Fat Fattie). Jerks. I hope you break up, and have to work at McDonalds asking people to biggie size things in monotone.

In Soviet Russia, brain scatters you.

Lately, life has found me insanely busy all the time. Seriously busy. So busy, ants see me run inside and come back outside and leave and come back and they look to one another and go, "Holy shit, that girl needs to take some time to just chill." And then they're whipped by their muscley ant superiors and forced to carry things 1000x their body weight up and down the anthill for eternity.


Because of this craziness (purging my house of priceless sentimental things that I NEED junk, working on training the "un-adoptable" puppy that was almost euthanized and has instead become Lucy's new sister, painting a giant squid mural and sculpting a bust of John Wayne [among other bizarre artistic pursuits], getting my shit together to further my education, working, being easily distracted while trying to do ALL of these things simultaneously...) I haven't really had anything interesting to discuss at length. Rather, I haven't been able to come across anything interesting, because when I do I just yell at it to get the fuck out of my way because I'm late for everything, always, and probably more late than normal at the moment. BUT I do have a million things to discuss briefly before I change the subject entirely and am accused of "rambling" (I don't ramble, for the record. It's called going off on a tangent. It's probably OBVIOUSLY a scholastically recognized literary device).
  
What I'm trying to explain is that the next few weeks' worth of posts may vary between two-sentence anecdotes, to entire novels about the fur ball of accumulated dog hair I found under my couch that resembles Chuck Norris' chin without the rage or tiny chin-fist. For now, however, I want to talk about something potentially tragic amazing.

-  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  - 

I don't think anyone will ever be able to top the excitement I felt when I realized that THE ENTIRE SERIES of The X-Files was in the instant queue on Netflix. I was certain, as soon as I stumbled upon the 1990s scy-fy science fiction goodness, that that second of realization was to be a defining moment in my life. I mean, come on. I watched sexy Fox Mulder The X-Files all throughout my childhood, and NOW I get to watch the whole series, chronologically, as an adult. Freaking SWEET. Right? Wrong. Kind of. (I mean, it still stars David Duchovny, who is one hot mo-fo. And if you disagree, I- .... Actually, never mind. No one could disagree with this).


Okay, enough drooling. Moving on. So you know when you had a show or movie that you LOVED as a kid, and then you watch it as an adult and wonder how you could have ever suspended your disbelief SO MUCH that one day in a hypothetical world where s/he exists god is sitting on a cloud somewhere and he sees something to his left and is all, "What the fuck is that?" and it's all, "I'm the disbelief of some retarded kid down there that's enjoying the shit out of the 1971 classic, Bedknobs and Broomsticks, despite the COMPLETE lack of concern for visual effects or an even SLIGHTLY realistic storyline. So if you don't mind, I'm just going to chill here for a while. Got any booze?" At which point god decides s/he's had enough and banishes this ballsy disbelief from Cloud City, but that's okay because The Empire takes it over, anyway. Thanks for the warning, Calrissian. 

Well, it would seem that that's exactly what I did with the X-Files as a kid, too. It wasn't awful or anything, but man. The pilot episode was brutal. Maybe I didn't recognize the bad 80s synthesizer because I was 6? 8? kid-aged, because if the theme song to every kid television show isn't an indication of the easily-satiated music tastes of adolescents, it'll only take 20 minutes with The Wiggles to convince you. But it wasn't just the horrendous music, either. The acting was worse than my 4th grade production of The Crazy Night Before Christmas, which was not only 50% ad-libbed thanks to an abundance of easily distracted 9-year-olds, but also included a musical number about pre-criminal Martha Stewart, as well as "Are You Ready for Some Turkey" sung to the 1995 theme from Monday Night Football (100% true story, by the way). Which also proves, yet again, that people don't develop good taste in music until after puberty. And some never develop good taste in music at all (I'm looking at you, every Country Music fan ever). 

Now, the pilot episode aired in the early, EARLY '90s, so I can cut it some slack. Bad music? To be expected. Bad clothes? I can look away (except for that long-sleeve, stone-washed, denim button down shirt. God, Mulder, what were you thinking? YOUR NAME IS FOX. DRESS LIKE IT).The poor acting I'll attribute to the Citron and cranberry being pushed to a critical mindset after being shocked by the clothes and music. However, there were some things that had me halfway between laughing at the absurdity of it, and crying because a show that held such mystery for me as a child had been reduced to an amateur attempt at a science fiction drama, complete with over-acting and a thrift-store wardrobe budget. 


The future is looking bleak for Mulder and Scully. But it has to get better. The awesomosity (and, for the record, awesomosity is, in fact, a word. Being recognized by Merriam Webster isn't the end-all be-all when it comes to legitimacy of vocabulary) of the show can't be something that only existed in my inexperienced, childish mind, right? I want to believe.


I'll leave you with this gem, straight from last night's pilot episode:


 Mulder and Scully are herded out of the ominous woods and back to their car by Cliche Town Leader and his Cliche Shotgun.
 Scully holding up something in her hand: But Mulder, what IS this? 
Mulder: I don't know, Scully. Where did you find that?
Scully: In the woods. It was ALL OVER the ground!
They exchange shocked expressions, and the scene fades out to a poorly-played, yet eerie synthesizer.


Me: Um, what the hell was that?

C.a.s.p.:Was there something in the sand she was holding?

Me: Not that I saw. I was hoping you saw something. So... it was dirt?! 

C.a.s.p.: Yeah, I mean, that's all that I saw.

Me: He was all, "It's dirt, bitch. Get that shit outta my car." Dude, Scully tries too hard. "But.. but... it was ALL OVER THE GROUND!!!!"


C.a.s.p.: Yeah she does. Wait, what? Okay, now Mulder's watch just sent them 9 minutes into the future, and he's freaking out like Doc from Back to the Future. Wow. Actually, he should do impressions. That's dead-on.


Me: You could NOT fit a flux copassitor [side note: how the HELL do you spell copassoter? copposater? cupassator?  Okay, that is not a word, even by my standards...] into that watch. Even if you could, the cool digital read-out and the calculator and the heart rate monitor clearly take up too much space. 


C.a.s.p.: I'm not impressed. My watch can do that, AND it doesn't make me look like a tool. C.a.s.p. 1. Mulder, 0. 


 So, so so very sad. I'm off to find more distractions from my distractions, in hopes that I'll end up doing something that's actually on my to-do list, thinking I'm distracting myself from said list. I'll leave you with a photo of the Sperm Whale vs Giant Squid: An Epic Battle in Sheetrock, because its awesomosity (there's that word, again) will distract you from the downfall of The X-Files. 

Llamas get a bad rap.

Today, I want to discuss the word drama (OH MY GOD, NOOOOOO). Unless referring to some theatrical event or show or film of some kind, the word "drama" shouldn't be used. Seriously, people. Come on. All you're doing is asking for drama trouble.

My distaste for the term started in high school. An occasional friend of mine (and everyone has had at least one "occasional friend". The two of you get along amazingly well, and then something happens that escalates into an all-out rivalry, and then you both decide to put it behind you and be friends before it all happens again, on and on, for eternity or until you graduate and never share more than 3 sentences with one another) proclaimed, one day, that she was "No-Drama". That was her new slogan. Also, she declared that her drama-free lifestyle was to be categorized by the term "No-Labels", which I found endlessly amusing because that, in and of itself, is a label. Ahh, high school.

Anyway, this friend would loudly proclaim "No-Drama" anytime anything around her was lacking in magical unicorns and cotton candy clouds and fluffy woodland creatures that do your laundry with a smile and a song. Because most of the rest of us were living in reality (at least, as much as one can while in high school) this mantra became annoying as all hell. And trying to discuss it would lead to more cries of, "Hey, man. I'm just trying to avoid the bullshit. No drama." It was almost like she was calling no-homo or not it, or something. "Yeah, that cup you're wearing really accentuates your junk. Uh, no homo." "Did you see the mess left in the kitchen? Someone really ought to do the dishes-Not it."

Unfortunately for her, and for a lot of people, actually, reality doesn't work that way. If it did, I would spend my days chanting No-Mosquitos, because those bastards don't even NOTICE that I'm wearing half a bottle of bug spray when I take the dogs out. I swear, it looks like I have leg herpes or something (no-STDs). (And anytime I see the word "herpes" in print, I hear it in my head as "herp-s" and it makes me think of a clan of cute, squirrel-like creatures that dance and sing in the meadows of Ireland or something. And then I laugh to myself. And then I feel guilty for laughing at herpes, because some people have been seriously affected by them it, and it's not right to laugh at an STD that does... bad things... to your sexy bits....) And I would certainly call Not-Broke, double stamp, no erase-ies (and don't even try to triple stamp my double stamp. I will punch you in the mouth, [No Joke]).

Moving on.I'm not sure if this helps the miscellaneous situations, or hurts them, but the wails and moans of People Against Drama are so fucking dramatic already that I end up giggling (more than I giggle about herpes... the fictional creature, not the disease), which totally puts a halt on the ominous drama that's about to unfold. And then the person going through/discussing/creating said drama is usually offended that I think that reacting dramatically toward the approach of drama is like a double drama whammy (which, you HAVE to admit, is hysterical) and they are all of a sudden pissed at me for being insensitive and now I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF DRAMA.

So instead of calling miscommunication, disagreements, and hurt feelings "drama", we ought to refer to them as something else. I would say we should call it "Hamburger Time", but it seems Metalocalypse stole that one and uses it to refer to dying. Though, depending upon the situation, you may wish for Hamburger Time before the DRAMA is resolved.

Glass hates me more than the printer at my office does.

I came home last week to find a HUGE, fuck-off branch in the bush in front of my house. On the ground, there were some lovely shards of glass from the top right corner of the picture window I have (I'm calling it a "picture window" because it sounds fancy, and the duplex I live in is anything but fancy, but I don't want to call it the "super cheap, but still made of glass instead of plastic even though the glass is 100 years old" window).

It had been storming worse than normal that day, and I guess the branch was first chewed to a breaking point by evil squirrels, in preparation for some upcoming battle, and then aimed poorly and launched into the window. Picture window, I mean. So I did what any responsible tenant would do. I called my creepy, potentially a serial killer of a landlord.

He had all kinds of questions (a lot of them I had to answer with the phrase, "I wasn't home when it happened, so I'm not sure,"). And then the questions became somewhat rude. "Well, did the branch of the tree just, um, fall directly into the window?" What the hell do you say to that? "No, actually the neighbors put up a trampoline, and a complicated system of pulleys and levers, and the branch fell into the bush, which was strangely coated with springs that must have bounced it into the pulleys and levers that pulled some mouse-trap type shit and caused the branch to land on the trampoline, where it was catapulted into the window. Clearly. Why would you even ask me that? You're the one who leased the front yard to the guys from Spy vs. Spy." Jerk.

He told me that he and his maintenance man, Willy, would come look at the window the next day and decide what to do about it (by the way, with my landlord being as old and bizarre as he is, I wouldn't be surprised if Willy was a cliche, darling old black man that calls the landlord Guv'nah and does his bidding. Like a mix between the stereotypical oppressed slave and a chimney sweep from old school London). Well, the note I was left after Landlord and Willy's initial inspection basically said, "Fuck you, you're full of shit, you clearly broke this window and don't want to pay the $35 for two single panes of glass and a caulk gun to fix it, you're a liar and I'll take an extra $50 added to your rent check this month, thank you."

Um, excuse me? Because I CLEARLY went outside with a ladder, bashed in the window (because according to the glass and where it fell, it wasn't broken from the inside), went looking for a giant dead branch, placed said branch in the bushes, and then decided to CALL YOU instead of fixing it myself, because I thought it would be funny?

You know what? That's totally what happened. Fucking asshole.

Atlanta summers: quenching your thirst all season long

That's right. Atlanta summers suck. There are a lot of reasons why. By "a lot", I mean "two". Heat and humidity. Because guess what.... People were not made to breathe water. Well, unless you count Kevin Costner in Waterworld, who had those gills behind his ears, remember?  It always made me think if you were to chop off his body his head would have looked like a Kevin Costner Shark, because then his gills would have been right where a shark's gills are (I had to double check this fact, because I see more sharkbears [see: below] than sharks, and they're not the same, anatomically) and his hair would be a little brunette tail, and his ears would be his flippers. And yes, I know that "flippers" isn't the right word, but I can't remember what they're called and I know it starts with an f so flippers is close enough. And I don't even know the difference between flippers and the fish version of flippers, and think that the difference is probably just something that people made up so they could be pretentious and condescending to people that don't care about the proper terminology of fish appendages. And I have something that starts with an "f" for those people, and it isn't flippers. Or the word for the fish version of flippers. Anyway, the problem with Kevin Costnershark is that it took basically forever to grow those gills because evolution is pretty much globally recognized as the slowest way to change anything about anything. And I don't have 200 million years to wait for gills like Kevin Costnershark's, so instead I'm just going to bitch about attempting to breathe water anytime I leave the air conditioning, with much _thanks_ to the "can't cut me with a knife" Atlanta humidity.

I find myself gasping in saunas and steam rooms, too, because the heat and moisture suffocates me and I freeze and can only think about the 2 minutes I have left before I either drown standing there, or get enough liquid in my lungs to give me pneumonia and kill me slowly and painfully. And none of this would have happened if I hadn't been so clever and gone into the sauna/steam room in order to avoid the elliptical. Because everyone knows that the more you sweat the better your workout was, so I figured why not skip the workout entirely because I can sweat way more in the steam room or sauna than I can on the elliptical and curse you Mom and Dad for raising me to be so clever. YOU JUST DROWNED YOUR DAUGHTER WITH A STEAM ROOM. YOU CAN'T DO CPR WITH YOUR MIND, DAD (unless you're that brain from the old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoons... but then you'd be busy being experimented on in a government lab somewhere and have no time for saunas or first aid training anyway).

I'm usually about 6 minutes into my internal monologue and 30 seconds away from dying with the expression of a goldfish on my face before I decide that I'm too young to die and anticlimactically swim walk out of the "What Hell is like Underwater" simulation otherwise known as those hot rooms at the gym. I'm certain that the weather in Atlanta during the summer is what they modeled steam rooms and the Everglades after. I'm also certain that there's really no good excuse for sucking in humid, hot Atlanta air like you ran a marathon while opening your eyes as wide as you can to try to get all the air you can, despite not being able to breath through your eyes (ew, gill eyes). Plus, people don't often understand the I-can't-breathe-water-unless-I-look-like-a-goldfish face, even with brilliantly crafted excuses....

"I'm practicing my goldfish impression so that I can lure my cat down from that tree without calling the fire department."

"You know, the 'plastic bag over my head' expression is what all the models are doing in this month's Vogue."

"My next client has a choking fetish and I'm just getting into character."

With the reactions I get, it would seem that people don't love their cats, read Vogue, enjoy hookers, or are aware of the fact that WE CAN'T BREATHE WATER, which isn't good because it's making up 79% of the Atlanta air at the moment (according to my random estimates current, and accurate, very scientific tests). When those excuses don't immediately come to mind, there is one thing that you can always use as a strange behavior scapegoat: performance art. No one questions art, because that means they clearly don't get it and must practically be neanderthals, so they just stand there and watch or stare with a look of "I totes understand and appreciate the emotion the artist is trying to convey," as they nod and hold their chin with their hand. Honest to god, as soon as you say "I'm in the middle of a street show! You can watch! It's called 'I can't breathe water, oh my god I'm dying and now I'll make this face as I skip-walk to my car and crank the a/c'," they stop looking at you in horror and confusion and start nodding and "getting it".

By the way, writing is a form of art. If you don't get it, you obviously didn't have parents as well-educated and aware as mine. It's true. Though you're probably also still alive because of your dumb parents, so point for you, I suppose.

 P.S. This is a sharkbear. It's art, too. Also, nature's most ultimate killing machine.