It's raining cats and dogs. And rain. Minus the cats and dogs.

That's right. Atlanta is getting soaked. I love the rain, mostly because it cools everything off. I get really pissy when I'm too hot. It makes me lazy, too. And feel all gross and sticky. When I'm too cold, however, it motivates me to get up off my ass (until I find a big, fluffy blanket and a giant sweater that is in no way attractive but is so comfortable I don't give a shit, and then snuggle up with Lucy and nap).

And there's your Atlanta weather report.

In other news, work has been interesting as of late. It's great, because work is always going to be interesting. It's owned/run by open-minded, easy going, unconventional people, and they're all stellar. I take for granted the fact that I don't have to worry about saying, "shit!" if I drop something on my foot, and that I can bring my 130 lbs Great Dane to work to play with the owners' basset hounds, and that everyone here (well, the Fab 5 at least) supports and encourages everyone else. Plus, the damn place is a zoo, and there's always something going on at the complex.

All of this hilarity is creatively motivating for me. I haven't been painting as much anymore, but I have been trying to sketch and play with color and all that nonsense. And when I say "nonsense," I really mean it. My random little doodles are in no way the work of... well... I wanted to say "a master", but they're really not even student-caliber.

Despite the amateur nature of my little doodles, they're occasionally amusing. So it was no surprise the other day when I had a spark of inspiration, and grabbed my pen for a 5 minute sketch break.

What happened next was terrifying. For some reason, what I imagined in my head was WAY less bizarre and creepy when in my head than it was once on paper. I swear to god that there's a story surrounding this, um, thing. But that's not important. What is important, is that you say hello to MissBeard.

Why isn't it called a platinum lining?

Insomnia can be a huge pain in the ass. Whether it's brought about because of overwhelming worries, or because of nightmares, or because of your obnoxious dogs barking at invisible, late-night pedestrian trolls, insomnia is widely viewed as an all-around bitch.

It's a funny thing, though. As irksome, as frustrating, and as terribly dull as late nights spent by your lonesome can be, I do (every so often) find my evenings spent awake to be somewhat refreshing. Clearly I don't mean refreshing in the "well-rested" sense, but more so in the "I've spent this forced consciousness being at least a little bit productive, which has to be far more productive than laying in bed drooling on myself and having occasional, nonsensical mumble-conversations with my own subconscious brain" refreshing. Which is pleasant, I suppose.

Now, don't be fooled. There are times in which you'd love nothing more than to use your insomnia to be the teensiest bit productive, but you're not quite able. For example, I have this insatiable desire to start working on a concept I recently came up with. I want to sketch with graphite and felt tips and charcoal and colors, and maybe even paint. I want to put these ideas onto paper. And, in a strange but positive turn of events, I'm here, awake and in my house, with not a shred of an obligation on my schedule.

And then... oh, how the gods must laugh maniacally... and then my fucking wrist decides to act like a douche. I occasionally have joint troubles, by the way. But the most ridiculous time for me to have issues with my right wrist is, of course, the exact time I have sudden inspiration to try my hand (har, har) at sketching again, and fleshing out a new concept, and creating motivated ART.

So I'm sitting here, staring at my miscellaneous art supplies as they taunt me, wearing a wrist brace that makes me feel retarded, and slowly tapping each key on my macbook, one at a time, using only my left index finger.

Insomnia fucking blows.

At least SOMEONE in this house is getting some sleep.

We're painting the roses red, we're painting the roses red!

You know that part in the beginning of Alice in Wonderland (the real one, from 1951) when Alice falls down the rabbit hole, and she finds herself bored because her skirt puffs out and allows her to lazily float to the ground? Well, I've been feeling like Alice lately, but more like a pants-wearing Alice. Everything is rushing around me, and I find myself regretting my metaphorical attire more and more each day.

It probably doesn't help that I'm currently making a giant Alice in Wonderland homage for a friend of mine. I've been nose-deep in the images from the Disney film. It's nostalgic, though. And I've forgotten how much I freaking LOVE some of the creatures from the movie. My all time favorite, though, has to be the broom-faced dog. What a brilliant concept. Was the dog all Disney, or was he in Through the Looking Glass, too?

Aside from the Alice piece, I have more art to work on that usual. Actually, that's not true. Classes have been out for a week or so, so the time I would usually spend on projects for my drawing class, I now spend on other miscellaneous work. **Shameless plug: That being said, I'm always looking for new art to make, and have incredibly reasonable pricing for commissioned pieces. If you're interested, drop me an email and we'll figure out how to go things.**

I managed to finish up my finals unscathed, and now I'm keeping busy with my silly, creative nonsense and with some serious job hunting. I'm not wildly fond of job hunting (I know, I know, everyone usually LOVES job hunting... hahaha), but it has to happen. School resumes in August, and my social life, hopefully, will resume once I find some steady income. I have a few bartending interviews lined up, so things are moving in a positive direction, I suppose (a negative direction being something like being charged with a felony, or losing an important limb, or finding out your face is going to melt off over the course of the next 30 days).

I'm going to post some art in the next week or so. It isn't only because of my shameless plug (though, well, that is partially why), but because I'm also an horrendous show-off. Because I'm terribly talented. And modest, too, probably not.

Love to all most ....

Undead P.S.

While I'm here (here being "online, playing with the blog", not "on the planet" or "still alive" or anything like that) I ought to go ahead and post the zombie painting I did of my dad (if you're confused, I'm talking about THIS).

It turned out fairly badass. I dangled my actual, from-my-mouth-to-your-art adult tooth from some black yarn that I painted red, and then pulled the yarn through the canvas and tied a knot in the back.

So here it is, with my dad, in all its glory.

 

Okay, now I seriously have to go get ready for my evening of debauchery. 

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!

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.