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. 

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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.

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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.