Few things are worse than a gummy eraser covered in hair

Actually, that's not true. A gummy eraser that's covered in hair and also has rogue bits of tobacco in it would be much worse. Is much worse. Believe me. I know.


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I've been thinking a lot about life, lately. Not really in the existential, "why do we exist in the universe" way, though. I never really had the time for all of that lofty nonsense. Nor the energy, or even the patience for it, honestly.

No, I've been thinking about life in terms of what it means to have it, what people choose to do with theirs, if anyone under the age of 50 is actually aware that it has an expiration date, and why I feel as though mine is pulling that bullshit where it seems to go so much faster, the less there is, like sand in a (... shit. What the fuck are those called? Sand clocks? Curvy desert watches? The things that tell you when everyone has to stop in Scattergories?).... I'm sure it'll come to me eventually....

But yes. Those are my current dilemmas surrounding the vague as hell concept of "life" (also, I can't possibly express how nice it is to type the word "hell" and not have to delete and then retype it at least three times before I'm able to keep it from becoming "he'll,").

You know, I spend so much time worrying about grades, or money, or the fact that I've been procrastinating on getting my car's alignment taken care of, that I-

HOURGLASS. It's hourglass. That's the word. That's what I was trying to come up with. Haha, fucking "sand clock".

.... As I was saying, I spend so much time stressed to the nines about pointless(ish) bullshit that I end up taking far too many things for granted. But my awareness of that doesn't change the fact that every time I get into my car, I pause to consider if I'm able to take her to the shop that day, decide that I'm far too busy and will do it tomorrow, and then have a brief but well-deserved guilt party because of it. Yes, I know that I have somewhere to live, am getting a college education, have amazing friends and family and a reliable car and a gas stove so I can make s'mores from my kitchen. My life is somewhat stellar, usually. So why is it that I can be both grateful and super stoked about all of those wonderful things, but still have mild moments of panic and frustration because an extra (and quite unexpected) bill or two showed up at my door and my bank account was quite precariously balanced already?

I mean, shit, there are so many people (it's tragic, there are so many people that I know personally) that are in crisis mode, or at least have their foot in the door of a meltdown. I feel for all of them, and am glad to help or offer support in any way that I'm able. Unfortunately, my unconditional offer of support for the people that are important to me won't keep me from worrying about Honda pulling a little to the left, or from feeling like a total dick immediately after my guilt party.
Love, love, love.
-L

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.

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.

Oh, The Clermont Lounge.

Last night was a huge first for me. I went to The Clermont Lounge (okay, so that wasn’t a first. I’ve been there a few times….though usually I go with my dad. Wait, that doesn’t make this better). Well, I ended up there at the tail end of an awesome, monthly figure study for Dr. Sketchy’s (the reason Daddy and I attend a strip club together, on occasion) which usually consists of 20-30 people with cigarettes and cocktails, situated with their creative implement of choice (sketch pads, spiral notebooks, easels, paint, graphite, oil pastels, charcoal, markers, whatever) around a beautiful burlesque model that would still be too hot to strip at the Clermont if her teeth fell out and she gained 50 lbs. It’s good times.

There’s also a dancer that’s always there, and she’s heavy and older, but she’s well-proportioned and is absolutely hysterical (as she took off her top, she looked back at the three of us and whispered, "I need my Geritol,"). She looks like a 40 year old Bette Midler, and has the cutest little, black, Mary Jane kitty pumps. I’m not sure if anything in that sentence other than the phrase “Mary Jane” is an accurate way to describe shoes, but I figured they ought to sound every bit as cute as they looked. And I think that’s right, anyway. Maybe. Probably not. Chances are most people weren't looking at her shoes, or I would've asked. Thanks a lot, nudity.

Despite missing the art class, Shana, Ariel, and I decided to sit down at the bar and have a drink. I thought to myself, "Self, Shana has the strange ability to get you more drunk than you're used to. So just have one sex on the beach, because it's late and you're already tired. Plus, work with a hangover sucks almost as much as sleeping through your alarm and missing work with a hangover." Well, after the first drink (that Shana kept picking up when I wasn't looking) I went ahead and bought one more. Two drinks shared between two people equals one drink each. It's basic math. As I finished that drink, the three of us were bought a round of shots. And then I was bought another drink. And then we were bought another round of shots. And then I was bought yet another drink.

Now, I am aware that I’m not an extremely unattractive person, but I have never in my life had a stranger buy me a drink. Ever. And ESPECIALLY never had the bartender drop off a drink and say, “This is from the guy over there,” while pointing at some wanna-be frat boy who is doing his best to look suave, like they do in really bad romance movies where the girl thinks the guy is totally lame and then he woos her after she splashes the drink in his face and they ride off to be happy and free on his private jet because he's also a secret millionaire.

I felt like there was some giant joke being played on me, or something. But then the trashy, 5’1”, 190 lbs stripper that was onstage crushed a beer can with her boobs, a move their #1 stripper (named Blondie) is known for, and I was distracted and forgot to worry about why I had two drinks and a shot waiting eagerly to be downed by my suddenly thirsty face.

The moral of this story? If you let your friend cut your hair quite short, and then go to the sleaziest strip club you can find, guys will buy you drinks. And when you start to feel self-conscious, backwoods dancers will crush an empty PBR can with their tits, just for you.

And nothing calms an anxious mind like a smushed can of PBR glistening with stripper boobie sweat.