This Contains Shameless Self-Promotion and Also Dinosaurs.

Just found the song I'm going to dance to at my wedding! Who wants to marry me? I'm not married enough.

Guys, I discovered something really exciting while talking to Bestfriend on Facebook the other day. If you're an avid user of this :D emoticon, prepare to get your face blown off your face. If you add an extra D to it, like this: D:D, it's actually a siamese twins emoticon, and one is happy and one is sad. Wait for it, though. It gets funnier if you actually picture two baby siamese twins attached by the tops of their heads with one set of eyes and one is crying hysterically and the other one just saw its first cupcake or boob. It's funny, right? Maybe it's only funny after three sodas and a five hour marathon of America's Next Top Model.

I hung out with my little sister tonight. She's seven. She told me that dinosaurs are cute and awesome and also that I'm really weird, so pretty much she's right on base. If you were wondering how dinosaurs came up in the conversation (which you probably aren't, but I'm all prepared to tell you anyways, so I'm just going to do it), we were eating dinosaur chicken nuggets. Good news, they were actually chicken and not BREADED FUCKING TURKEY like they were in This Post! Also, I just really like to talk about dinosaurs. Probably disc one of my life will just be 18 years of me impersonating dinosaurs and begging for fruit snacks in the grocery store (I outgrew that phase. My mom told me to quit it yesterday, so I've moved on); the director's commentary is just going to be me sitting there, repeatedly saying, "Yeah, I don't know."

This post isn't about anything in particular. It was kind of just a clever attempt to make you guys like me more before I tell you that I got a TWITTER and my username is SKlones and you should totally FOLLOW ME or else I'll cry and probably throw a dinosaur chicken nugget at you or something. Click here for more dinosaurs. I'm like, all about dinosaurs tonight, aren't I? That's cool. Just to thank you for putting up with me, here's a picture of a funfetti cake that Bestfriend and I made with the full intention of making it as ugly as possible:

It says "Happy Birthday Floyd from Accounting!"

We made up Floyd from Accounting.

All of my Cooking Equates to Cat Vomit. Roughly.

HEY GUYS. Blogger is being an ASSHOLE and it won't let me show you the picture of how I mutilate my seven year old sister's coloring books by turning Barbie into Medusa.

Anyways, I learned some valuable lessons last weekend. Number one: Reading is hard because TV. I'm sorry, professor, I understand that I was supposed to start reading chapter 10 of the Intro to Film book, but the TV was staring at me and how could I say no to just one little tiny short six hour marathon of America's Next Top Model? I couldn't do it; I gave in. (Heads up, I didn't try that hard to resist the temptation.) The second lesson that I've learned is that when thinking to myself "Maybe I should cook something," the appropriate response is always "DON'T." Nothing good could possibly come out of this. Here's where my traumatizing experience began. Bestfriend and I decided "Hey, let's make some homemade mac & cheese to go with this mysterious chicken we found in the freezer." Good start, already, I know.
     So we find this mac & cheese recipe with the pasta, and it seems good and legit, so we take out the salt, and pepper and dried mustard (by the way, have you SEEN dried mustard? It looks like cat vomit, guys! STAY AWAY!) and all this other shit, and put it in the pan. Then we pour in the milk. Oh WAIT, we were supposed to pour in the milk GRADUALLY? Shoot. So I was all "I'm sure it'll be fine, just mix it really well," and a minute later, Bestfriend is all "Hey, all this other stuff is stuck to the bottom of the pan, and it smells like it's burning." I tried to scrape it off the bottom of the pan while telling Bestfriend, "It's fine!" Bestfriend grated some cheese, which may I add, was the wrong kind (we used two kinds, and both of them were WRONG), and it got stuck in the damn cheese grater and EVERYTHING. DAMN IT. I had to mix the two kinds of cheese together, which absolutely enraged Bestfriend when I tried to mix it in a cup with a knife because she's really fucking weird or something. "A BOWL, Sara! A BOWL!" she exclaimed, angrily happily. We put the cheese in the burnt-milk-and-other-disgusting-things mixture, and watched it become a masterpiece! Just kidding, it smelled like burnt glue and sour milk.
      So we stupidly decided to continue trying to make this mac & cheese, and poured the burning-glue-and-milk-and-cat-vomit mixture into the other pan with the already cooked pasta in it. Yeah, Bestfriend and I destroyed one of the pans. GUESS WHICH ONE. Nevermind, I'll tell you, since I know you're all dying to know. It was the one with the burnt-milk-dried-mustard-cat-vomit shit in it. Dried mustard burns really fast and it really sticks to the bottom of a pan, I found out. So we poured our sad attempt at mac & cheese into a glass pan, put some more cheese over it, and put it in the oven for 30 minutes or something. Halfway through, I looked in the oven and asked Bestfriend if it was supposed to be bubbling, to which she replied "I don't KNOW, Sara, IS IT?" She wasn't very happy with me at this point, after the mixing-the-cheese-together-in-a-cup-with-a-knife ordeal. Ugh, WHATEVER.
     Our mac & cheese was a failure. If you were wondering what it tasted like, you should probably stop wondering, because it would ruin your appetite imagination is fun. Oh, and that mysterious chicken I mentioned earlier? It was fucking turkey. TURKEY. Who breads turkey and makes it look like chicken nuggets? Breaded turkey is like chicken nuggets for people who don't understand anything that is happening. So if I'm ever all "I think I'm gonna cook some lasagna," Please, SOMEONE, be like, "Hey, Sara, you can't cook for shit, and also, you don't even like lasagna, so what are you thinking?" Thank you. I can cross "Successfully cooking a meal," off the list of 'Things that will someday happen to me." It's right under winning American Idol. I crossed that off, too.

I'm Feeling Like Being a Jerk Today...

God, I hate when I'm watching America's Next Top Model, and I change the channel during commercials, and flip back just in time to hear Tyra calling me a loser. Also, look at the cool cake made out of magic and fairy dust (my mom told me cakes can't be made of these things. I definitely remember putting them in the bowl, but WHATEVER) Bestfriend and I made:

I'm sorry, what? Why yes, that IS the coolest cake that's ever been made in the history of ever. I'm waiting for the job offers to roll in from all those shows about cake. I mean, I understand that the cakes on there have actual moving parts and helicopters (made of cake) that fly, and little men (made out of cake) that want my hand in marriage wave at you, and little business executives in suits (made out of fucking CAKE) that want to hire me carry briefcases, but this cake is rainbow. I'm sorry, I don't know if you heard me correctly. It's fucking RAINBOW. The frosting is ALSO rainbow, so there's that. I'm gonna tell you how to make a rainbow cake as awesome (and rainbow) and special (and also rainbow) as Bestfriend and I's.

 STEP ONE: Get your cake mix. Make sure it's vanilla or white. It can NOT be chocolate. That just won't work and you'll feel stupid, so don't do that shit.

STEP TWO: Mix that shit up with eggs (not hard boiled), water, vegetable oil, and whatever else the damn box says; just read the box, okay? I'm very busy. Hey, guess how many cheetos fit in my mouth?

STEP THREE: Separate the cake batter into six different bowls. Don't ask questions, okay? Add food dye to each one. You want red, yellow, orange, green, blue, and purple; the colors of the rainbow, since it's going to be a rainbow cake and so youI'm gonna stop explaining now.

STEP FOUR: Pour the purple batter into the bottom of the pan, and then pour the blue batter into the center of that. Do the same with the green, yellow, orange and red, but keep it in rainbow order, or else you suck! I love you, don't leave. It should look like this:

STEP FIVE: Bake your cake for whatever time the box tells you.

STEP SIX: Take your cake out of the oven, and let it cool. Then, carefully flip it out onto a large plate, platter, cooling rack, whatever you want. Also, don't do a shitty job flipping it onto the cooling rack and break it in half like we did a dumbass.

STEP SEVEN: Frost it if you want to, or if you don't want to, then you're boring. If you do, then buy or make some white vanilla frosting or icing or whatever you like to call it, and separate it into six different bowls, and use food dye like you did for the cake batter. Then figure out the rest of the damn thing.

So that's how you make a rainbow cake. Don't say I never give you anything. Also, this was pretty much the worst recipe/baking tutorial/blog post ever, so I deeply apologize.

Also, I'm still working on my Lady GaGa costume, so keep liking Pork on a Fork on Facebook. You can do that from the sidebar right here on my beautiful, spiffy, average-looking, horrible, embarrassing blog. Do it so I don't look like a loser.
Also, look at this picture of me eating a fake bagel and drinking fake coffee inside of a furniture store!

 

I'm so, so sorry.

Beware the Serpent-Eyed Girl With Twelve Heads.

Be careful what you send me. If it says "FWD:" anywhere in it, I will automatically erase it, and I will judge you. Wanna hear more? The answer is yes, you do. You have no choice. Actually, in reality, you could just stop reading, which would be a pretty good alternative if you were a cruel, heartless person who hates laughter and humor of any sort, and wants to break my heart by not reading this. Did I make you feel bad? Good. Read on, please.

My mother likes to send me all the forwards that I saw six years ago, like "OMG SO CUTE, A LITTLE KITTEN SLEEPING NEXT TO A BABY DEER ON SOMEONE'S RATTY OLD COUCH WITH UPHOLSTERY FROM THE '40s! WHO LET THAT DEER IN THEIR HOUSE?" or maybe "LOLZ FUNNY PICTURES OF DOGS EATING OFF THE TABLE AND WEARING HALLOWEEN COSTUMES!" with the exception of the ones that say "SEND THIS BY MIDNIGHT TONIGHT, OR ELSE A LITTLE GIRL WITH TWELVE HEADS AND SERPENTS COMING OUT OF HER EYE SOCKETS WILL SHOW UP IN YOUR BEDROOM AND HIT YOU OVER THE HEAD WITH A SHOVEL UNTIL GOPHERS INHABIT YOUR BODY AND YOU HAVE TO DRINK BATTERY ACID WITH SATAN FOR ETERNITY," or something like that.

I've started erasing my mother's emails if they have "FWD:" in the subject. Am I a mean daughter? Possibly. Thanks anyways, mom.

I have friends that still send me forwarded text messages. Do other people still do this? I have no idea. Either way, if you're sending me a text message about what a good friend I am to you, write it yourself, bro. If, when I open said forwarded text message, it plays the theme to Titanic, just stay home and talk to your cats, instead. Thank you. I'm sorry, that's a little harsh. I'm sure Fluffy would love to hear about your problems. P.S. The same goes for those of you who think you can sneakily post the same sappy message on my Facebook wall. Stop. Thank you.

P.S. I want this:

 

Another P.S.I never showed you guys my amazing sock...

 

*Sigh.* It's so anatomically correct...

UPDATE: If you go like Pork on a Fork on Facebook, I will... take pictures of myself in Lady GaGa's next outfit. How's that for motivation? Done and done. Also, I won't look like a loser will be very appreciative. You can tell whenever I put up a new post right from your news reel on Facebook. Fancy.

UPDATE AGAIN: Okay guys, here's the thing. I want your ideas on what I should write about, because during the Summer, I turn into a hermit with no human interaction, so my inspiration/intelligence is out the window hanging from a telephone pole I care. Tell me what pisses you the FUCK off. Sorry I said fuck. I might even decide to make it into a video, if I have enough motivation to make myself look presentable. Write it in the comment box. E-mail it to me. Post it on my Facebook page. Send it with a carrier pigeon, if you would like, as long as I get to keep the pigeon. I will name him Ronaldo.

Also, sorry this post looks like a bowl of Alphabet soup. If you continue to read my blog after you read this, I will be forever yours.

Thank you, Dear Hater Bitch.

Recently, I have discovered the joy of having haters. These incredibly insightful individuals can look at my posts and find hidden meanings that even I was not aware of when I wrote them. To thank one of my favorite haters, in particular, I decided to respond to him or her in this here post, just to show my appreciation. Here is their comment to me, regarding This Post I had written about why I dislike the beach, and underneath is my response.

you're so wrong. I really liked yur blog because you're really funny and clever but now you've seriously offended me. I've gone to the best everyday over the summer my entire life, it's a really awesome place and holds a thousand happy memories for not just me, but everyone who goes there. I always though you were really great, but now you just seem like an ignorant little pussy whose tiny brain can't comprehend the vastness of the ocean. it is the source of such inspiration for artists like who you claim to be, and the vastness of it's depth makes it THE wonder of the world. I'm sorry it is far from "large wading pool for little kids to pee in" pools are the gross things, all those chemicals are harsh and unnatural, the ocean has been here long before you and will be here long after you. and yes, you can be " hit in the yapper with a -10 degree wave every thirty seconds" but thts because the ocean is vast and powerful and much stronger than a weak little thing like you. I wouldn't make jokes and disrespect something that can kill you in half a second. you think you're being funny and offbeat with your hilarious outlooks on the greatest body of water ever, but really? you're a whiny immature little kid who thinks it's funny to complain. I'm absolutely not going to 'make you famous' you smartass little cretian who knows nothing about life. say hello to your first hater bitch

Dear Hater Bitch,

      That is what you would like to called, is it not? You stated "Say hello to your first hater bitch," so I can only assume that this is what you would like to be called. First of all, I would like to thank you for the delightful compliments. They truly warmed my heart. However, I became somewhat confused at the point where you told me, "It's a really awesome place and holds a thousand happy memories for not just me, but everyone who goes there." For me, personally, I've been to the beach quite a bit over the span of my life, and I can most likely count the amount of happy memories I've had on one hand. One time, I found a bra stuck in a vending machine and laughed over it for a minute or two. This memory did, in fact, occur at the beach. Another time, I found a dollar near the beach; I bought a chapstick with it. I believe that this would also count as a "happy beach memory." Other than that, I am unable to recall other said "happy memories" occurring at the beach.
      Also, your statement, "It is the source of such inspiration for artists like who you claim to be, and the vastness of its depth makes it THE wonder of the world," confuses me quite a lot. Firstly, I cannot seem to recall claiming that I was an artist anywhere in this blog of delicious porkage, but one time I had to make a wire sculpture for an art class which sent me into a state of rage that I'd never experienced before in my life. After many attempts at forming the basic shape of a dog, and then a rabbit, and then a worm, I decided to make said wire sculpture resemble an iPod. In other words, it was a square. Made of wire. If that would constitute as "art," then yes, I am indeed an artist. Second, I would like to point out that there are seven wonders of the world, including The Great Wall of China, Petra, Christ the Redeemer, Machu Picchu, Chichen Itzu, the Colosseum, and the Taj Mahal. If you were perhaps looking for the seven natural wonders of the world, these would include the Grand Canyon, the Great Barrier Reef, the Harbor of Rio de Janeiro, Mount Everest, Auroras, the Parícutin volcano, and Victoria Falls. Not the ocean.
     I would like to thank you for your concern about my well-being, as you warned me that pools are full of harsh and unnatural chemicals, but if the ocean is in fact strong enough to "kill me in half a second," (which as my friend has stated, is untrue, as drowning technically takes ten minutes) I think I will take my chances with all of the chemicals. Thank you for the concern, though. Also, thank you very much for the kind comment, and I hope my response clears up any possible confusion or hard feelings. Please do not hesitate to comment if you decide to check in and read this. I would love to hear back from you, dear Hater Bitch.
                                                                                  -Sara

P.S.- Apparently this is what people are interested in when they find my blog on Google...

 

P.S. Again- Go like Pork on a Fork on Facebook. I'll give you Oreos. Not really, but you'll help me not look like a loser. There's a super easy and awesome Facebook widget thingy on my sidebar here ------------------------------------------------> 

UPDATE: Suppose I were to create a Tumblr where I post pictures I've found or drawn or whateva when I don't have time to write a whole blog post. How many of you wonderful people would be interested in following this?

UPDATE: Said Pork on a Fork Tumblr has been created. Check it out Here. The URL is just porkonafork.tumblr.com, in case you're like, morally against clicking links or something or if you want to get it tattooed on your forehead or whateva, so... Go check it out so I look awesome. Thanks.

Dumbledore wants his damn pork fried rice.

Sometimes I'm really judgmental of people. And I look at them like this:

Or this:

Or maybe even this:

But only on special occasions. I like to think I'm generally a pretty nice person, though, so I try to keep an open mind. Some people, though. If you:

• Wear pajama pants out in public, I will judge you. Especially if you're over the age of eight, because that shit ain't cute, man. It's not that hard to throw on some pants, dude wearing ratty old South Park pajama pants in Newbury Comics. I know pants are just a major hassle enforced by society to prevent public indecency; I feel ya. Hell, if you refer back to This Post, you'll see that even in my own list of Things That Shouldn't Be Necessary But Are, wearing pants is in there, but do I look in the mirror when I'm wearing my fuzzy Mickey Mouse pajama pants and think, "Gee, I look totally presentable right now?" Absolutely not. What if you see like... your future mother-in-law or something out in public while you're sporting those super classy pajama pants with penguins all over them? No way are you marrying her daughter, now, buddy. You. Are a bum.
• Wear Crocs anywhere but in your garden, and you are over the age of ten, I will judge you. There's holes in them, pal. Miss, there are holes in your shoes. What are you supposed to do with that? Shoes are not meant to be rubber and lime green... or shaped like that... Ever. And if you put those little rubber button whatever-they-ares on your Crocs, go stand in a corner; no one likes you anymore. I'm sorry, that's a little harsh. Go home. Please.
• Look like Albus Dumbledore, I will judge you. I'm talking to you, old man eating Wonton soup in that Chinese restaurant. Please don't cast a spell on me.

• Have a picture of Edward Cullen or Jacob Black on your shirt, I will judge. Actually, if you have a Twilight shirt of any kind on, I will judge you. Don't advertise that shit, man. It's already popular enough; wouldn't you agree? Oh, what's that? You're team Edward? Well then, I'm team Jacob. Yeah, I love werewolves. They're sooo cool. I'm sorry, what? You're team Jacob? Oh, that's cool; I just remembered that I hate all of them. Every last person in Twilight. That's right, I'm talking to you, Kristin Stewart. 

P.S.- Super big thanks to my pal Rafa over at The RudeBlog for putting Pork on a Fork in his list of bloggity blogs that he likes to read. Check out his blog. Now. It's funny. Guaranteed laughs or your money back; just kidding, I have no money for you. It's funny, though.

Another P.S.- Pork on a Fork has a Facebook page, now. You can like it on Facebook from the sidebar right here on this crappy looking snazzy blog of mine. Go like it, so I don't look like a loser.

Excuse Me, Waitor, There's Flies in My Everywhere.

Beach? I'd rather just swim in a pool, thanks. Honestly, I don't understand the appeal of beaches at all. I mean, sure, it's (sort of) fun to build things out of sands... like piles, or "mountains" as I like to call them, because I'm so innovative and artistic and also because I can't build anything else because the damn sand falls apart every twenty seconds. Other than that, the only things that stand out to me are flies all over the fucking place (sorry I said fuck), hairy old men in uncomfortably small speedos, and five hundred pound women in floppy sunhats and Crocs flailing their flabby underarm skin every time a wave hits them... Okay, that was kind of funny, but still mostly just disturbing. Why I hate the beach the most:
1. Sand... Everywhere
It's on my towel. It's on my feet. In my hair. In my bathing suit. In my everywhere. Who the HELL designs women's bathing suits? I would like a word with them, please, because putting a pocket area in the crotch of women's bathing suits is just super unneeded. What are YOU keeping there? I don't know about you, but I'd like to keep my important belongings out of the water and away from that area, thanks. I don't care how innovative and ingenious it seems to you when you come up with it. Don't do it... bitch. Oh, and those "convenient" openings in bathing suit tops that the padding comes out of? No. Negatory, you fucking moron creative gem of a person, you. Stop doing this. I don't need sand in those areas. Thanks, but no thanks.
2. Salt Water in My Eyes and in My Ears and Up My Nose
Why would I want to swim in an oversized body of dirty salt water that has basically turned into a large wading pool for little kids to pee in when I can swim in a normal sized, clean pool? I understand that some people say a pool doesn't "give you the same experience as the beach," or whatever they like to say to defend their choices, and if getting hit in the yapper with a -10 degree wave every thirty seconds is your thing, I apologize. However, I'll pass on the getting tangled in seaweed and stepping on what I can only guess is countless numbers of rotting corpses and rusty nails laying on the ocean floor. I'll swim in a pool, where I can see what's in the water right in front of me, thanks.
3. People... I Hate Them More at the Beach
There's always the same crowd of people every time I go to the beach. There's:
-The leather lady who's been out tanning way too long... About fifteen years too long.
-The older, aspiring Arnold Schwarzenegger with peeling sunburn, flabby skin and tan lines from his "super cool" sunglasses wearing a speedo two sizes two small. There's just some things I wish I could unsee.
-The group of seven year olds screaming and throwing sand at each other three feet away from your towel. Have fun laying on piles of sand all day.
-The previously mentioned five hundred pound woman wearing bright blue Crocs that match her unflattering sunhat, flapping her arms like she's trying to take off every time a wave knocks her down.
-The group of obnoxiously disgusting teenagers who think blasting Lil Wayne from their crappy iPod speakers makes them the greatest thing on the planet. Unless you're listening to that one song that says, "Bitch, real G's move in silence like lasagna," I don't want to hear it... That one line is really friggin' clever, though.

My Favorite Least Favorites

You know those people who you purposefully try to avoid conversation with? I want to discuss this, momentarily. I can’t cover them all. It would take too long. Considering the fact that I actually really hate people about half the time, this post would be ridiculously long if I didn’t narrow it down a lot. Really, there could just be one massive group called “People” that would sum up the type of people that I try to avoid like a virus, and I end up seeing them everywhere, so I put an extreme amount of effort into staying away from them, and I end up going as far as hiding behind shelves of donuts in the grocery store, or darting into the nearest bathroom and counting to a million, hoping they’ll be gone when I finish counting and emerge from my cave bathroom. Here's one of my favorite least-favorites. It's one of the more least favorite favorites of all of my least favorite people. They may not be my favorite favorite people, but they're definitely some of my favorite least favorite people. I'll stop.
They are: The Stink Bomb
They ALWAYS smell. Whether it’s because they haven’t showered in one or six weeks, or because they have apparently never heard of toothpaste or breath mints, they smell terrible. I know a few people like this, and whether they’re a good person or not, I don’t know. Probably because I’m always trying to stay away from them. They could be the nicest person in the world. Maybe they read to the blind, and help old ladies across the street, and a lot of other nice things that I can’t think of right now because I don’t do that many nice things unless they involve eating chocolate or getting the opportunity to adopt a unicorn. Maybe I can eat chocolate with the blind, and adopt a unicorn that old ladies can ride across the street, instead. Who knows. Anyways, I’m not sure whether they’re actually nice people or not. A good indication would probably be the words that come out of their mouth, but I can’t really pay attention to the words because the only thing I can focus on that is coming out of their mouth is their terrible breath. So here’s what I try (maybe I can help you all out, too.): I try to put a little distance between myself and the person who I’m going to label Dumpster, because they smell a bit like that. Stand a few more feet away. If they’re one of those leech-like people, and decide to move closer again, and invade your personal space, move back again. They should get the hint. If not, I recommend something like this:

Try standing too close to me now.

Idiots: The Best Places to Find Them

There's always an abundance of things you don't want.


One of these things are idiots. Morons. Imbeciles. You can find them almost anywhere, but some places seem to be breeding grounds for these Einsteins. I don't know why you'd WANT to find idiots, since they're actually very irritating, but just in case you do, go to these places:
1. Fast Food Restaurants/Drive-Thru
I ordered a medium chocolate milkshake, and you gave a jumbo Dr. Pepper with fries. I'm sorry, but there's NO way you misheard that. I'm not really a fan of fast food, because deep fried chicken intestines isn't really my thing, but I can confidently say that the few times I get fast food a year, it takes much longer than it should. First off, if you work in a fast food restaurant, do all of your customers a favor and have a general knowledge of what's on the menu. (Is it even considered a "menu?" It sounds too classy.) Oh, and also, learn how to count money and give change. Just a suggestion here, too, but maybe whoever works the drive-thru shouldn't sound like they just had a root canal and have cotton shoved in their mouth.
2. Facebook
This is a little different, because whatever idiots you find on here are still throwing their stupidity in your face; it's just not in person. If you're patrolling Facebook for idiots, look for the following:

• Individuals who talk about Jersey Shore too often. Exhibit A: "Watching Jersey Shoreee, bitches! Text the celly. Love yaaa. xoxoxo." Bite me.
• People who tag their significant other in every status message, with a paragraph about how amazing they are. Exhibit B: "I. Loooove. Joe Imgonnaspamyournewsfeed. Sooo much. He's sooo amazing nd he's so cute. his eyes are the beautiful color of a rotten blueberry smashed on the bottom of my white sandal. He kills bugs for me because he's sooo brave and he's more jacked than Hercules and Beowulf combined." He's Steve Urkel in a polo shirt. Shut up.

3. Walmart
If you don't agree with this, you're probably one of the many Walmart idiots. When I say that Walmart is like the main hall in the castle overlooking the land of idiocy, I really mean that 99.9% of the Walmart population is fucking STUPID. Either that, or terrifying. Sorry I said fucking; don't hate me. Also, if you shop at Walmart, I'm sorry. I have this constant nagging feeling during every second I'm forced to spend in this Godforsaken store that: A. Some idiot is going to ram their cart into the back of my legs and then glare at me like I ran over their pet shih tzu and then got in their way, or B. I'm going to get raped and/or murdered in the dressing room/middle of the store in broad daylight. Actually, just the latter. I've never been in a Walmart dressing room. It's probably frightening and resembles a bathroom more than their actual bathroom.

On a separate note, I would like to know from all of you... Would you rather be attacked by fifty duck-sized horses, or one horse-sized duck? I want to know. I don't know why.

I would pick the duck-sized horses...

Unicorns Are Better Than Ponies... And You Know It.

I'm sure you'll all be delighted to know that the reason I haven't written a blog post in quite a long time is not because I am dead. I've actually been busy doing nothing and also putting off work. I also got my wisdom teeth ripped out of my face on Friday, to put it lightly. I'm sort of disappointed that I didn't act like a moron when I woke up from my surgery. Like this: My New Best Friend. She's mainly my new best friend (After BestFriend, because she always comes first, which makes my new best friend... Second BestFriend) because of her extreme fascination with unicorns, and also because she has come up with a fantastic rap about Jesus Christ, himself, but mostly because I think she owns a unicorn, and I want in on that. I won't settle for a pony. I want a unicorn, and that's that.
I hate when people compare ponies to unicorns. They are NOT the same thing. Unicorns are one hundred times better, and I have actual scientific data to back that up.
1. Unicorns Have Horns
Do ponies have a horn protruding from their forehead? No. Actual scientific data. That's that.
2. Unicorns Can Be Pink
Or purple. Or blue. Or green. Or whatever color your heart desires. Can you have a blue pony? No. It's just not possible, unless you try using hair dye on your pony, but then it wouldn't be legitimately blue, so basically, you're a lying cheater. How do you feel about yourself now? Here's what my unicorn is going to look like:
That's glitter around it. My mother told me it was scary looking. I think it's perfect, but that could be my pain medication. I'd like to applaud my (in)capability of drawing a unicorn while simultaneously being drugged up and resembling a chipmunk.

3. Unicorns Are Just Better

They just are.

This is the worst list I've ever made. Whatever. What was I talking about? Right, I don't know. So basically, my medication for my surgery/teeth getting ripped out of my face turns me into a delusional, rambling idiot, and I'm incapable of writing anything more intelligent. Sorry this is the worst blog post I've ever written. If anyone returns to this blog after I publish this, I will literally love you until the day that I die.

My name is Olga, and I am a Water Buffalo...

Hey guys, so first off, I recently wrote a guest post, which is pretty exciting. It was featured on Caroline Clemmon's blog, and you can check it out Here. My New Year's Resolutions need some work. I can live with that, though, and still not make any revisions to them. I'm quite content with mediocrity, thank you very much.

I hate when I say something stupid and make everything uncomfortable. Don't make me seem weird; you know you've done it, too. Everyone does, except maybe unicorns, because they don't talk, but if they did, I'm fairly sure they would never say anything that wasn't one hundred and ten percent relevant, or ingenious, or hysterically funny. Here's my favorite awkward situation to create:
Me: Oh God, you know what name I hate? Olga; it's horrid. It sounds like warthogs molesting chimpanzees in a construction zone.
Other Person: Olga was my great aunt's dead cat's name. She was an orphan and my great aunt adopted her. Her hind legs got run over by a doughnut truck when she was living in the projects, and now she uses a motorized power scooter to get around, and my great aunt brings her to kitty therapy to get over her fear of doughnuts, too.
Me: Oh, well it's a delightful name for a cat... I just meant that it's a terrible name for people.
Other Person: It's my middle name, too...
Me: Did I say people? I meant water buffaloes... So, uhh, I'll talk to you later...

And this is how I unintentionally offend people. Please tell me I'm not the only one who does this... Anyone? Well, in case you do, here's one possible way to get out of it:

Maybe they won't notice?

Illogical Thoughts That I Still Think

I vastly over think everything that ever happens. People have actually asked me what's wrong with me, because someone asks me how I am, and I spend ten minutes thinking, "Did they know I was mad? How did they know? I bet they know WHY I'm mad. Wait, that's impossible. What if I'm being really obvious? I should act like nothing is wrong... just in case." I'm a whack job, and I am one hundred percent aware of this, so no need for reminders. Most of the thoughts I have are completely illogical, and I know perfectly well that they could never happen, but that won't stop me from thinking it. I could go on for days about my reoccurring illogical thoughts, but I'll narrow it down to just a few.
1. I'm Going To Die When The Satellite Signal Is Lost
I'm not addicted to television, despite how this sounds. It's those times when I lose the satellite signal at three AM and I'm up by myself and the TV screen goes black. I can only assume the girl from The Ring will appear on my TV, leaving me with only one week left to live. This thought remains in the back of my mind until The Nanny comes back on TV, and I will realize that I've never been so overjoyed to hear Fran Drescher's voice before that moment. Thanks for the false alarm, DISH.
2. People Can Hear My African Tribal Music/Ke$ha
Just because I like Marilyn Manson doesn't mean Ke$ha isn't allowed on my iPod, and if you look in my direction one more time, I'm going to assume you can faintly hear me listening to her through my headphones, and I'll have to go through my entire explanation of why I have TiK ToK on my iPod even though I can't stand Ke$ha. When my teacher permits iPods during an exam, I keep my music at such a low volume that I'm not sure whether I'm listening to The Beatles, or Japanese bubblegum pop. When everyone in the room is that silent, I can only think that maybe they can hear me listening to Tahitian tribal music, and now they think I'm weird. I mean, I already have the volume so low that I can't even hear anything but the bass drum, but the person sitting six feet away from me might know that I'm listening to Amy Winehouse, so I should turn it down some more.
3. People In Stores Think I'm Incapable Of Shopping
I understand that asking "Can I help you?" is just common courtesy, and also required for store employees, I would think, but just tell me one thing. What makes you think I need help finding a CD when there's a one hundred year old lady ten feet away from me trying to figure out how to turn on a laptop? Do I just seem like the kind of person who's incapable of finding a certain CD in a perfectly organized, alphabetized aisle? Because I am, but I won't let you know that. I'll find it myself, because if I tell you I need help, I'll have another three employees searching for that one CD five minutes later, and calling every other store in the area to order it, when it would actually just be quicker for me to go buy it somewhere else. I'm perfectly capable of being a dysfunctional young adult without the help of four employees. Maybe if the "Can I help you?" question had never come up that time at McDonald's, Bestfriend and Bestfriend's brother and I wouldn't have spent ten minutes standing at the cash register trying to figure out how to use coupons for a Big Mac... That never happened, actually...

Fine. It did.


P.S. Look! I found Michael Cera in animal form! I thought you might be interested...





















The resemblance is striking, really.

Birthdays Come And Go Too Fast For Me To Post On Time

I am aware that my birthday was all the way back on November ninth, and this is very delayed. You should be aware of the fact that I have nearly crippling ADD, especially if I don't take my meds, so shit does not get done. Sorry about that, guys. Now that we're all squared away with the facts, let's get this post going...

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.

Toilet-Swimmer and Freddy Krueger Cat: The Bane of My Existence.

Cats are some of the most interesting creatures on the planet; defeated only by unicorns... and velociraptors. There's always two kinds of cat owners. There's the ones who say, "Oh my GAWSHH, my cat is SOOO adorable and cute and fuzzy and he sleeps in my lap every day!" On the other hand, there's the people who say "MY CAT IS THE SPAWN OF SATAN. GOD, TAKE HIM AWAY," but secretly, they still love the holy bejeezus out of their cat, and would hurt anyone who tried to take their precious death kitty.

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.
You're welcome.

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.

How All of You Will Make Me Famous

I decided when I was about 11 years old that I was going to be famous. Almost every week, I would change my mind on what I would be famous for. Mostly, I changed my mind this often because I would realize that I sucked at all the skills needed to acquire my new-found goal. For example, first, I wanted to be an actress. Maybe I would be on some sort of sitcom, or even have my own show. A little while after I decided on this, I realized that I actually sort of suck at acting. Bestfriend and I were going to make a Youtube channel, and be witty and hilarious, like Nigahiga , or Charlieissocoollike. However, Bestfriend was all, “I don’t want to. I’m bored,” and I was all, “Shut the hell up. I’m acting. I’m trying to get famous here, jack ass.” And then I was like, “I wonder why Bestfriend puts up with me?” Then I remembered that it’s because I’m awesome… just not at acting.

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 because I have no life and nothing better to do with my time because I care, and it told me that I should strongly encourage all of my readers to subscribe and tell their friends about me, but I don’t want to be an annoying blogger, so consider yourself strongly encouraged. Now you may be thinking, “Hey, Sara, what’s in this for me?” and my answer is, “Nothing.” Just kidding. See what I just did there? You got kind of angry there for a second, right? Well don’t worry, my friends. You will make me famous, and we will all reap the benefits of said fame. Here’s what you’ll get out of this nifty plan o’ mine:
-The satisfaction that you made me famous
-My extreme gratitude for you making me famous
-A unicorn
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...

What the hell is that?! That is NOT cool.
Apology not accepted.

Do you know what you need? Cupcakes...

Writing letters to inanimate objects is really fun and sort of makes me feel like wack-job, but I enjoy doing it anyways, and I always thought, "Hey, you should do whatever makes you happy, even if it does land you in a padded room." I've actually never had that thought until this moment, but it sounds sort of smart and dignified to me... or the opposite. Oh well. Here's my latest letter.

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.

Sincerely, Sara

UPDATE: Hey guys, I drew you a picture!
You're welcome.

UPDATE: I showed the picture to my mother. She thought it was stupid. What does she know about humor anyways...?

Dear Computer Mouse,

I love you. I understand that we have had our differences; like that time when I was trying to click on a link and you clicked on an ad that said "OMG YOU WIN A FREE IPOD AND LAPTOP AND ROLL OF TOILET PAPER, AND AN ENTIRELY UNDISCOVERED ISLAND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN! CLICK HERE AND GET IT ALL FREE AND YOU DEFINITELY WON'T GET A VIRUS!!!....." Yeah. Whatever. You get the point. I understand that it must be a struggle for you to follow my directions as to what I want to click on while I'm simultaneously running iTunes, Youtube, Facebook, Microsoft Word, Windows Live Messenger, and editing pictures, as well. You try, you really do. I greatly appreciate that, and while I detest the fact that you are an OCD clean freak, and make me clean you out every two weeks so you won't rebel to make a point, I still feel that we have grown to be very good friends. I also apologize for the many times that I may have blamed you for technical difficulties, when in actuality, you had nothing to do with it; it was all on the shoulders of your less competent relative, the computer. When I asked my mother to buy me a laptop, I figured that your services would no longer be needed. I regret this with every fiber of my being. I deeply apologize for feeling this way. I did not appreciate your greatness, dear computer mouse.

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.

Sincerely,
Sara

How I Know That Bestfriend is a Velociraptor in Disguise

I've known Bestfriend for almost thirteen years, so most would say I know her pretty well. I thought I knew nearly everything about her; however, based on my recent realizations, I have been proven wrong. For most of my life, Bestfriend has been my best friend, and up until recently, I believed that she was a regular human being with regular human-like characteristics and abilities (in other words: super powers.) However, I was terribly incorrect. Bestfriend is actually an extreme master of disguise and trickery. She is also a velociraptor. I am fairly sure of this; like 99% sure. Here's why:

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...

Maybe.

Infants and Lobsters are NOT interchangeable

So as you all know, Halloween is this Sunday, and I’m eagerly waiting for my mom to open up the bags of candy for the Trick-or-Treaters so I can swoop in and steal half before she puts it in the bowl for the little ankle-biters. Just kidding, I like kids. Kind of. So, in light of the candy-bingeing, potential-pedophiles-handing-out-candy-to-little-kids, verging-on-Satanic holiday that is Halloween, I’ve attempted to come up with some fantastic costume ideas. Here they are:

A Sexy Feather Duster

Thanks, Lady GaGa, for this gem of a costume idea.

The Potential Baby Killer Holding the Pot

Really? Who does this?

A Very Clever Sexual Innuendo

You know you thought that, too.

A Cat

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?

A Douchebag

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?!