Monday, December 27, 2010
I got a Rubik's cube on a chain for my birthday. Hell yes, it's snazzy. The only thing I could wear around my neck that could possibly be any better than that is a unicorn egg (and don't tell me unicorns can't lay eggs just because they're mammals. Unicorns can do anything). I also got some other awesome stuff, and a lot of "Happy Birthdays." Now, don't get me wrong; I always appreciate a birthday wish of any kind. However, there's always four different types of Happy Birthdays. I'll give you a rundown.
1. The "It's Your Birthday?"
Thanks. You put a lot of thought into what to do for my birthday, didn't you? You're too kind. Really, though, I don't expect for everyone who's ever learned my name to know my birthday. I find this particular scenario amusing, though. You've all seen it, or done it before. One person says "Happy Birthday!" This is the Happy Birthday Wisher, or the HBW. The person whose birthday it is is the Happy Birthday Reciever, or the HBR. The HBR thanks them, graciously, and immediately after, the person next to them, the "It's Your Birthday?" Person (the IYBP) notices the exchange that just occured between the HBW and the HBR. Then, the IYBP speaks up, and says, "It's your birthday?" (Who would've guess it, right?) The HBR nods, and waits a few milliseconds before hearing the famous, "Oh... Happy Birthday!" Then, the HBR puts on a happy face and thanks the IYBP, who is still pretending to slightly care that it is their birthday. This "thanks" that is said to the IYBP is not a genuine "Thank you for caring about my birthday even though it does not affect you in the slightest way!" It sounds like it, but really, it's a "Thanks for only saying Happy Birthday to me because it is the polite thing to do and you don't want to look like a jackass!"
2. The "Facebook Told Me It's Your Birthday!"
This is a small step up from the "It's Your Birthday?" You know that they at least took the three and a half milliseconds to the read the birthday section on their Facebook homepage, so that counts for something. Maybe. Although wording it "Facebook told me it's your birthday," is not the best choice. At least for me, it really rubs me the wrong way. It's like, "Really? Facebook personally came to you and told me it's my birthday? I didn't even know! Thank goodness Facebook is here to tell us all this crap!" Hey, next time my birthday rolls around, congratulate me on the big one-eight without mentioning Facebook in the same line, okay? Thanks a bunch.
3. The "Happy Birthday! I Remembered!"
These people like to make sure you know that they remembered your birthday all on their own... about fifteen times. I will admit, I feel pretty special when I'm greeted with a "Happy Birthday, Sara!" with no mention of Facebook. After about five more Happy Birthdays from the same person, though, I feel more like a trophy displaying their extreme consideration and remarkable memory for birthdays. It's okay, though. They're proud of their competence; let them think that remembering your birthday make them some sort of winner, because deep down inside, they are one. Maybe.
4. The "I'm More Excited For Your Birthday Than YOU!"
I love these people; kind of. I like getting a text at 6:00 AM that says, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU BIRTHDAY PERSON OF HAPPY BIRTHDAY-NESS! I LOVE YOUR BIRTHDAY, AND YOU, AND GLITTER, AND FROSTED MINI WHEATS, AND ALSO YOUR BIRTHDAY!" It's fun, and kind of creepy knowing that someone is more excited about your birthday than you. The only way this could get any better is if they were to give me a unicorn, too, but I'll take the "Happy Birthday" in caps lock, anyways. There's also that one person who tackles you at 7:30 AM and practically punches you in the face with their enthusiasm for your birthday, and makes you open their "super awesome amazing present that you're just going to LOVE!" in fifteen seconds flat. Good times...
Thanks everyone, for all the Happy Birthdays, whether Facebook told you, or the person sitting next to you, or your neighbor, or second cousin twice removed, even though I'm fairly sure they don't care about my birthday. If you knew it all by yourself, congrats. There should be a medal for that.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Growing up, I had two cats. There was the Alley Cat that my mother decided would be a great cat to tame. So we had a twenty something pound cat with a smashed in looking face and a meow that sounded like the equivalent to a chain smoker's voice living in our house. Great idea, mom. But hey, I can't complain. He was alright; he let me drag him around the house by his head without hurting me. (I was three, don't judge me.)
So we had Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat, and this moody, PMS-y princess cat who liked to scratch me whenever she didn't get her way. Gosh, can't an innocent three year old little girl pull her pissy little cat's tail without it giving her a permanent scar right down the middle of her nose? True story... even though you can't really see the scar anymore... Whatever. The difference between Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness, is that Butch Cat would actually let me drag him by his head. PMS Kitty made this big fuss over everything, just because I might have tried to give her a haircut one or twelve times. Calm yourself, cat, I was just trying to make you beautiful. Don't get me wrong, though, I loved Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness with all of my little three year old heart. I loved chasing them around and pulling their fuzzy little tails. It was especially fun making them cards and running after the little fluffballs, reading their cards to them, because deep down, I know they truly cared what I had to say.
Don't laugh at me. I was eight or something, there, with my morbidly obese dog, and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness. PMS Kitty loved me that day.
So moving on from my early childhood fluffballs, I'm now going to tell you about my two homicidal muffins on legs
just in case you haven't given up on me yet, and you're actually still reading because you and I both know you're loving this entire run-down about all of my cats.
So because of the fact that I was deprived of a fun, playful cat when I was a child (our cats pretty much just slept a lot and then ate food and went back to sleep), I decided I wanted a super fun kitten of playfulness and adorableness and maybe glitter or something. Instead I got Satan kitty. I kid you not, this cat is Freddy Krueger in feline form. Granted, while he was a kitten, he did play a lot. He also destroyed my hands, which ended up looking like they'd gotten stuck in a sinister, diabolical paper shredder. He used his looks to reel me in, and then use his claws and teeth of death to destroy me. I'm now firmly convinced that he's trying to kill me. Just to give you an idea of how big this cat is, I've been told multiple times that Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness looks like a wolf. He sits under the chair in my room every night and watches me go to sleep. Is that creepy enough for you? If that's not good enough for you, we decided one hell-blazing cat wasn't enough. So we adopted this kitten who likes running into walls, and eating the branches of our Christmas tree when we're not looking. I spent about forty-five minutes one day trying to teach her her name; no success. She stills responds to "refrigerator" and "pickle jar" better than her actual name. So as I was reading Allie Brosh's post "Dog" at Hyperbole and a Half, where she discusses how her dog is most likely mentally retarded, I began to wonder "Is my cat mentally retarded, too?" The answer is yes. I Googled, "How to tell if your cat is retarded," as suggested by Allie Brosh, as well, and looked at some of the possible signs of mental retardation in cats. She shows all of them.
She not only runs into walls, but she also chases her own tail about six hours a day, total, and falls into the toilet. She sleeps on the back of the couch and falls off about five times a day, and trips over her own feet. For a dog, this would all be fairly average behavior, but cats are expected to be more coordinated and behave more intelligently than this. So I have come to the conclusion that my cat is, in fact, at least slightly retarded. I feel bad for her when she runs into the mirror twelve times and then turns around and realizes I'm watching and laughing at her, though, so I humor her and try to make her feel intelligent.
So as the holiday season approaches, we've been decorating our house for Christmas. We have two Christmas trees (don't laugh. I love Christmas more than a five year old does. Maybe) that the cats thoroughly enjoy destroying. We discovered two years ago with Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness that a tree stand isn't enough to keep our Christmas trees standing. No, instead, we've been forced to use heavy duty rope to tie our trees to the nearest windowsill, or desk, or whatever other sturdy object is readily available for tying rope to. This year, not only do we have to worry about Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness destroying everything that is good and holy and of baby Jesus and his birthday and all that. We also have Low-IQ-Toilet-Swimming-Tail-Chasing Feline to look out for.
Together, Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness and Low-IQ-Toilet-Swimming-Tail-Chasing Feline have formed an evil duo whose main goal is to tear apart our Christmas trees in any way possible. Toilet-Swimmer sits on the floor and attempts to eat branches off of the Christmas tree until I chase after her, telling her to stop. Freddy Krueger Cat tries to reach the ornaments that are much higher up on the tree (preferably the extremely fragile ones), and pulls them off so that him and Toilet-Swimmer can chase them around the house until they all end up hidden under the radiators and bookshelves so we have no idea where they are. I swear, I decorated the bottom half of my Christmas tree, too. The cats took it all off...
Somehow, I still love these cats to no end. Why? Because no matter how satanic and irritating and ridiculously stupid they get at some times, they still prove to me that they are far superior and much more intelligent than the majority of the human race.
UPDATE: Just to clarify, I'm not a crazy cat lady in the making. I only have two cats (Mr. Freddy-Krueger-Adorableness and Low-IQ-Toilet-Swimming-Tail-Chasing Feline). Overweight-Butch-Alley-Cat and Kitty-Princess-of-PMS-and-Bitchiness were my childhood cats... just to clarify.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
After I had the great misfortune of watching myself back attempting to act, I gave up. My next genius idea was that I was going to be a singer. I was going to audition for American Idol and wow the judges with my fantastic-but-actually-mediocre-in-reality singing, and win the whole competition, and go on world tours and be awesome. It didn’t work out. Of course, you always sound better in your head than in reality. So while I tried to sing Mariah Carey like a champ, my dogs hid in another room to avoid my very unpleasant attempt at breaking the sound barrier. Now, let me just point out that I’m not actually a bad singer; I’m actually pretty okay at it. However, I’m pretty sure, had I tried out for American Idol, that Simon Cowell would have made a fool of me in my mediocrity.
So once I gave up on that, I decided that maybe I would be a famous dancer. Now, I’ve danced pretty much since I was born, and I think I’m pretty good at what I do, which would be tap, contemporary, and jazz. However, as an obsessed So You Think You Can Dance fan, each time I watch that show, my confidence in my own dancing shrivels up into a tiny, pathetic raisin of hopelessness (And this is the little reject raisin at the bottom of the box that you avoid touching at all costs, let alone putting it into your body and digesting it.) At first, I thought, “Hey! I’ll try out for So You Think You Can Dance! I can do it!” but I’ve pretty much given up on that goal, as well, although there’s still a tiny sliver of hope in me that says, “You can do it!” I can’t. Maybe.
So now, I’ve decided that instead of becoming a famous actress, or singer, or dancer, I’m going to be a famous blogger. Everyone is going to know what Pork on a Fork is, and I’m not talking about a piece of oily pig flesh with a four-pronged eating utensil shoved through it. I’m talking about this blog. So I googled, “How to be a successful blogger,” because Google knows everything, and also
-The satisfaction that you made me famous
-My extreme gratitude for you making me famous
Just kidding. You don’t get a unicorn. But if you all subscribe, I’ll know you like me, and I’ll continue trying way too hard to make you laugh. Oh, and I'll definitely mention you in my internet acceptance speech.
P.S.- I was bored and decided to type my name into Urban Dictionary...
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Dear Agenda Book,
I try to give you a purpose in life. I really try. You seem like a great idea in theory; sort of like communism, only more agenda-y, and book-like. Whenever I actually decide to write something in you, though, it does no good. I go through phases where I religiously write down every school assignment and reminder in you, so you won't feel unappreciated. I know it makes you overjoyed when I write my French assignment and drama club reminder in you, but I can't always keep up with this strenuous job of putting you to use. It gets to the point where I have thirty seconds left in class, so I just end up writing my Sociology assignment on my book cover, rather than opening you up and finding the right date before actually even writing down the assignment. I'm sorry that I don't appreciate your extreme willingness to help me become a more organized person.
I'd also like to apologize for all the abuse you have put up with. It must be so embarrassing being carried around everywhere with my school logo on your cover that I tried to color in with purple gel pen that smudged all over the place. I know I must have really hurt you when I etched my name into your back cover with the end of a paper clip, too; I know I wouldn't want someone to do that to me. I'm also pretty sure you're angry at me right now, because you hid from me in the bottom of my bag this morning. Probably because my friend decided it would be hilarious to draw a penis on every page of you; don't blame me. Blame him. I tried to tell him not to, I swear.
Either way, I'm sorry that you probably feel vastly unimportant and useless; you really aren't. You actually have a lot of potential, agenda book. You just need to consider a little bit of self improvement. I have a few suggestions. First off, I find that even if I take the time to write my assignments in you, I end up forgetting them, because I don't look at you once I get home. No worries, my friend; we can fix this. Here's an idea: cupcakes. I open you up to check for any assignments, you give me a cupcake. Just a thought. Maybe you could even make it better by offering me a unicorn after so many times of opening you at home. I would definitely use you more often.
You know what's funny about that previous sentence is that if when I say it to you, it sounds acceptable; if I said that to a friend, or a man, or a prostitute, or something of the sort, the reaction probably wouldn't be so great. (By putting those three categories of people into one sentence, I am neither insinuating that I associate with prostitutes, or that any of my friends are prostitutes.) Either way, I'm very sorry, agenda book. I don't deserve you, but still, you stick around and over zealously try to make me a more organized person. Thank you for the eff0rt, and please consider my cupcake/unicorn idea. It would really help.
UPDATE: Hey guys, I drew you a picture!
UPDATE: I showed the picture to my mother. She thought it was stupid. What does she know about humor anyways...?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
I can now say that I have had the extremely unpleasant experience of collaborating with your moody, stubborn cousin, the trackpad. Either he doesn't understand the difference between clicking a link and scrolling down a page, or he's just trying to piss me off. I know that in the past, I have also stated that you piss me off. The difference between you and your cousin, however, is that you actually try your best to please me, while your son-of-a-bitch cousin laughs in my face and clicks on the ad that says "CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU'RE THE 209750681604TH F*CKING WINNER! HERE'S YOUR DAMN PRIZE!!!" (Sorry I said f*ck. Don't hate me.) I miss you, computer mouse. Although I've only been without you for a little less than a day, it feels like it has been a lifetime. I understand that my mother does not comprehend the dynamics of your OCD mindset when it comes to being cleaned out biweekly, so just say the word, and I'll happily help you out, ol' pal.
So basically, computer mouse, thank you. I love you and miss you. Please come back to me. It wasn't you, it was me, and I promise you, we will be together once again. Here's what I have planned out: I'll ask my mother for a cheap computer mouse that knows nothing about proper cursor etiquette to use with my laptop. This computer mouse will serve as a decoy (I'm fairly sure I used the word 'decoy' in the wrong context, here, but you get it). Once I get this said computer mouse, I'll discretely switch it for you when my dear, oblivious mother isn't watching. That way, you and I can be together once again, leaving my mother with the young, naive computer mouse. She doesn't understand your dynamics and appreciate you like I do, so the decoy mouse should be sufficient for her computer usage. Let me know if you're in. I miss you, dear computer mouse. F*ck the trackpad.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
1. Stealing My Food
It doesn't matter what it is. If I'm eating any sort of food, all of a sudden, it becomes Bestfriend's. Now, most of you would think, "Okay, so she's just really hungry and a master of food theft." This may be true, since velociraptors obviously have a larger appetite than humans. The problem with this theory is that, from my own observations, Bestfriend actually eats a relatively small amount of food. What she's trying to do is starve me. She takes my food as an attempt to do so. Starvation makes you weaker, and velociraptors detect any kind of weakness and immediately use it to their advantage. She's trying to kill me.
2. She Hates Climbing Stairs
Anyone who has seen Jurassic Park knows that velociraptors hate stairs. (Actually, I haven't seen Jurassic Park, but I've heard about this, I think.) Whenever I very nicely demand that Bestfriend go upstairs and get my whatever-I-currently-want, she whines, and says something about "being lazy." Hell no. You sure aren't lazy when you're diving for the bag of chips in my hand. You don't want to climb the stairs because you're a velociraptor, and velociraptors aren't good at stairs, I think.
3. She Carries a Big Shoulder Bag
That's where she keeps her firearms, I think. Although velociraptors don't need firearms, because they're already terrifying enough. Whatever. She has something suspicious and velociraptor-y in there. Besides the fact that she carries around her laptop, a book, her phone, a bottle of Snapple (probably doubles as velociraptor fuel or something), and other various thing, why else would she need a shoulder bag of this volume? Because she's a velociraptor, that's why.
4. She Tolerates Me
It's not just that. She chooses to hang out with me... all the time. Now, I understand that most people would say, "It's because you're her best friend!" You are sadly mistaken, my friends. I am her prey. She spends her weekends around me so that she can gain all of my trust and kill me when I least expect it. She's done a pretty good job with this task, too, since she knows almost everything about me... but I'm putting my guard up, now. I'm onto you, Bestfriend. I know what you're up to. You can't trick me.
P.S.- I felt it necessary to add something here. For real, Bestfriend is the greatest person I know. She's known me since I was four. From my perspective, most of what I say about her is fairly accurate. At times, I may accentuate some of her weird qualities to make my posts more interesting, but for the most part, it's true. Either way, Bestfriend is a pretty normal girl, only much more amazing and hilarious. However, by saying this, I am not dismissing the possibility that she still may be a velociraptor. I have my doubts, but you never really know, right? I'm about 99.9% sure she doesn't want to kill me, though. I hope. In case you thought she was some socially unacceptable, totally freaky chick/suspected raptor with serial killer-like qualities, you've been proven wrong...
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
A Sexy Feather Duster
Thanks, Lady GaGa, for this gem of a costume idea.
Really? Who does this?
A Very Clever Sexual Innuendo
You know you thought that, too.
Just kidding. If you look really closely, you can tell this isn't actually a cat costume. It's a real cat. But I totally got you for a second, right?
That's right. A big bag of douche.
See anything you like? I know, they're all brilliant. I try. Just for you guys. I don't have to try that hard to be awesome though, since it just kind of comes to me. Actually, I try way too hard. Coming up with ideas for blog posts isn't so easy. It's actually kind of challenging; especially for an extremely ADD person like me. See, here's a step by step on how I write a blog post:
Step #1: Sit down at computer.
Step #2: Applaud your extreme talent and sheer skill displayed while completing Step #1 and reward yourself with Oreos.
Step #3: Realize that you have no milk to go with your Oreos and go into the kitchen to fix that.
Step #4: See your iPod on the counter and realize that it needs charging.
Step #5: Plug your iPod into computer to charge it, and realize you haven't listened to your current favorite song in 3 hours and immediately play it.
Step #6: Hear a good line in the song and set it as your status message on Facebook. Check your newsfeed. Check your notifications. Respond to every one.
Step #7: Go to you blog, and click "New Post."
Step #8: Restart favorite song, and realize that you haven't played Pocket Frogs in about 2 hours.
Step #9: Play Pocket Frogs for an hour.
Step #10: Begin writing your new post.
Step #11: Spell check the first three sentences of your post, even though you know all of it is right.
Step #12: Pet your cat.
Step #13: Feed your cat.
Step #14: Dress up your cat.
Step #15: Laugh hysterically and take pictures of your cat and post them on Facebook with the caption: LOLZ My cat is totally hilarious in this Jester costume! HAHA MY CAT LOOKS LIKE A DOUCHEBAG AND I'M LOLING SO HARD.
Step #16: Tell everyone on Facebook that your new blog post is going to be hysterically funny, and they better read it or else you'll kick their ass.
Step #17: Have a 10 minute argument with three different people through Facebook Chat about how you COULD, in fact, kick their ass.
Step #18: Give up.
Step #19: Realize that you totally bragged about having an awesome upcoming blog post.
Step #20: Tell yourself that you can't get up until you finish your new blog post.
Step #21: Work your ass off coming up with an idea for your new blog post.
Step #22: Spend 20 minutes reading it over.
Step #23: Hit "Publish post."
Step #24: Go eat pizza with your mother, and think about the life that you totally need to get.
Come on now, REALLY? What is this?!
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Dear Saran Wrap,
Stop being so stuck on yourself. Stick to the plate, damn it.
Dear Lollipops That I Buy From Bed Bath and Beyond,
You're delicious, but I can't fit you in my mouth. (That's what she said.) You should do something about that.
Dear Michael Jackson,
Just kidding. You're dead.
Sorry about the Michael Jackson joke. I couldn't help myself. But you must admit, it was kind of funny, but also disrespectful, but also kind of funny, I think. Sorry again.
Stop procrastinating and make me famous, already. We all know it's destined to happen.
That last letter was just terrible. I'm pretty sure no one want to see or hear you on TV. Or on tabloids. Or on the radio. Or anything else for that matter. You're completely ridiculous. Oh, and good job leaving your cell phone on the bus, dumb ass. I think I'm gonna go cry over some Oreos. Am I making you feel bad? Good. See what you do to me?
Are there skylights in Heaven? If there are, where do they lead? Aren't you already in the sky? Just wondering...
P.S.- Sorry about the Michael Jackson joke. Oh, and sorry about lying to my mom about not eating Oreos when I actually did...
Sorry about calling you inanimate objects in the beginning of this post. I didn't think that one through. But I did say "And some other stuff," so that kind of counts, right? Sorry about calling you guys "stuff." You mean much more to me than that.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Technically, though, if I were to do something with my hair (as in make myself look like a normal human without my hair tied up in a ponytail on top of my head because it starts making the back of my neck itchy when I'm obviously just trying to lay on the couch like a lazy person and watch TV without any distractions) and put on some actual pants that aren't made of fleece with tiny Mickey Mouses all over them that my mom gave me as a Christmas present, I would be perfectly capable of going to school for the rest of the day. However, this plan is majorly flawed in my book, considering that it largely conflicts with my list of Things That Shouldn't be Necessary But Are, which includes:
Basic social skills
Doing anything productive in life
So obviously, spending the rest of today at school is not an option for me. Well it is, but I'm incapable of going but really because I'm lazy but also because I'm incapable, kind of. But anyways, just because I get to sit at home for the rest of the day watching TV doesn't mean I get to do whatever I want. Whenever my mother decides to stay home from work when I
Another things that is off limits is eating junk food. So you can imagine that this is challenging for me when there's two boxes of Oreos in my house just calling for me to eat them. (You must understand that Oreos are the single greatest thing to grace this sad excuse for a planet since Jesus or sliced bread or whatever you happen to think is great.) So when your mother goes out to get the mail, it always seems like a good idea to sprint to the pantry and totally binge on Oreos with marshmallows (It's delicious. Try it.) So there I am, sitting on the floor outside my pantry, stuffing my face with as many Oreos as possible before my mother gets back, my eyes darting between the front door, and the TV in the family room that I can just barely see over the counter from the kitchen floor.
When I finally got thirsty enough, I got up to get a drink, (directly from the jug, of course, because there's no time to pour it into a cup before my mom gets back), and I got totally dizzy, immediately remembering the reason that my mother doesn't let me eat crappy junk food when I'm sick. Needless to say, I hope my mother doesn't look in the box of Oreos, because she will be sadly disappointed...
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Awesome, right? I thought so too... I'm not sure, though. It still seems a little suspicious sounding. Oh well, maybe I'll come up with a catchier catchphrase, instead. So I was going through the documents on my computer, and I found some stories my friend and I had written that make me wonder what goes through my head. (You'll probably have to click on this picture so you can read it. It's pretty small.)
There are absolutely no words I can use to sum up the confusion I felt by the end of this. By the way, if you aren't aware of who Dwight K. Schrute is, you should be. It's this guy:
Not really sure why my friend and I decided it would be such a great idea to label this guy as our God, but we did, and the fact of the matter is, I think he's brilliant. Slightly frightening in an I-watch-you-sleep-from-outside-your-bedroom-window-at-night kind of way, and unattractive in probably every possible way, but brilliant. You know how that goes...
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Is it bad that I thought it would be a great idea to microwave my ice cream so I wouldn't have to chew it? I can't decide what's worse: the fact that I am now basically eating mint chocolate chip yogurt (which I still have to chew, by the way... Stupid chocolate chips), or the sheer stupidity and laziness behind my actions. Really, is there an actual disorder that causes laziness? Because I think I have it.
Around 8:30 tonight, I realized I was thirsty. Two hours later, I still hadn't done anything about it. I guess I figured if I ignored my thirstiness long enough, it would just sort of go away, because I think I've done that in the past and it's worked. Although there's a lot of stuff that I think I've done, like succesfully do a load of laundry without my mother's help, or cook any sort of food without it coming out tasting at least faintly like cat litter; neither of which have actually happened. Anyways, this ignoring my thirsiness tactic sadly did not work... but gosh darn it, I was going to keep trying... That is, until I got to the point where my thirst was actually beginning to feel painful. I'm not sure how that works, but it does. So I decided to finally overcome my laziness (for the time being) and go get a drink. I think I swallowed a half gallon of juice in under a minute. And that is the exact moment when I realized that juice can, in fact, change your life.
So now it's 2:14 am, and I'm sitting up by myself, eating mint chocolate chip yogurt ice cream soup, watching an episode of That 70's Show that I've seen at least 4 times. This also involves watching the same Degrassi commercials every 10 minutes since I'm watching this oh-so-exciting rerun on TeenNick (which puts me in such a foul mood that I feel the need to run over every 10-13 year old girl.) ...Anything to avoid the commercials for horror movies on any other TV channel... So you can imagine how awesome I feel sitting here alone in the middle of the night, eating microwaved ice cream, watching 25% That 70's Show and 75% Degrassi commercials. Meanwhile, I could be doing something productive, like working on my senior demo project, or writing up my Human Biology lab, or sleeping, perhaps. Sleep would help, since Bestfriend is coming over tomorrow morning, and will literally come over with an airhorn and a megaphone if I'm not ready by then.
All this talk of sleeping makes it sound pretty appealing, so I think I'm going to attempt to try this whole "sleeping thing" that most normal people do, so I'll post this tomorrow (Since I'm writing this on my iPod which won't let me online, currently. And sorry if there's any spelling mistakes... it's challenging attempting to write entire blog posts on an iPod, but once again, laziness sort of takes over, and laying on my couch trying to write a whole blog post on a little iPod screen seems a whole lot more appealing than typing it at the computer, where I have to sit up in a chair and everything... Life is hard.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Kay, so I was just outside, walking my Chihuahua (or rather, standing in one place, yelling “GO TO THE BATHROOM!” very impatiently.)
(That’s how pretty I looked today.) So I’m just standing there, minding my own business, verbally harassing my dog as he’s attempting to find a spot to pee, and all of a sudden… BOOM! Out of nowhere, a HUGE leaf just nails me RIGHT in the face. And this was no ordinary leaf. It was GIGANTIC.
It was quite terrifying, actually. So don't laugh. I was scared for my life for just a second there. It's like this... Imagine you're just sitting in your room, eating a taco, daydreaming about the future, where you take over the world single-handedly (well, sort of. It's a robot hand, so you can shoot lazers and fire out of it, and it can turn into a chainsaw, or whatever. No big deal.) All of a sudden, out of NOWHERE, a MASSIVE leaf attacks your face. So of course, you're going to think, "OH MY GOD, WHAT'S HAPPENING, AND WHY THE HELL IS THERE A LEAF FALLING FROM THE SKY WHEN I'M IN MY ROOM?!? WHERE DID MY ROOF GO?!" You'd be pretty terrified. So it's like that, only I wasn't eating a taco, and I wasn't in my room... and there was no roof... and I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to miraculously grow a robot hand that can sporadically turn into a chainsaw... although things would have been exponentially better if I could. I could have chainsawed the shit out of that leaf. But whatever. I was terrified.
So it took me a good 8 seconds or so after it hit me to figure out what just happened. I mean, I guess I should have figured it out... It was windy. It's Fall (the time of year where all the trees decide to get naked... except for conifers... they're shy.) Wind+Fall=Leaves Plummeting Out of the Sky and Onto My Face. I wasn't immediately able to figure that out, though, so I stood there paralyzed in fear for about 5 seconds before realizing that I wasn't going to die.
It was an interesting experience, to say in the least. So I'm pretty sure that my neighbors think I'm insane. I might spend the rest of Fall in my house, going insane, just to avoid being nailed by giant leaves.
UPDATE: Told a few people about this later... Got laughed at by every single one. Yup. That's cool...