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.