Hey folks! Did you know that today is Social MEDIA Day? Well it is. And you have to say it with extra emphasis on the word "media" - preferably also with a voice crack if you can muster one.
That's actually pretty much all I have to say about that, except that I promise to commemorate this momentous and joyous day by spending the entire day shirking responsibilities in favour of surfing facebook and blogs and maybe even twitter. So... basically what I'm saying here is that every day is social media day.
Also, who's got two thumbs and is tired of working 14 hour days and can't wait for this show to be over even though it's really good and everyone should see it? THIS GIRL. (I am pointing at myself with my thumbs. Actually that is a huge lie because I am typing. Okay, wait, I'm going to see if I can type and point at myself with my thumbs at the same time. I swear I will not delete or edit whatever happens. This post will simply end with whatever comes of my attempt to type and point at myself with my thumbs at one time. Got it? Good. Okay. i mad dutprising nmber of typos eil esntially tlking aout msiking ty0so ang keaimg them but i sidnt have t lewve tne o hpu'll never know.)
For people who want to learn, grow, get inspired, and stay silly.
Now the bugs are just killing themselves???
I think an insect committed suicide in my home last night. Here's what happened:
I arrive home from a work function and go to the bathroom the commence pre-bedtime hygiene rituals.
Upon entering the bathroom I see a creepy beetle-like insect on my ceiling. Automatically assuming it has already pledged its allegiance to Lucifer, as it has planted itself right above the sink where I need to be to engage in the majority of my hygiene rituals, I curse it under my breath and do the only logical thing: brush my teeth in the kitchen.
It is still there when I'm done brushing.
So I floss in the kitchen.
It is still there.
All that's left to do now is wash my face and I hate the idea of washing my face in the kitchen sink because it just feels so wrong. Like eating a peanut butter sandwich without first buttering the bread with actual butter (or margarine - I'm not picky). Wrong.
With renewed vigor and an old toilet paper roll as a weapon, I go on the offensive. I plan on victoriously taking back my bathroom and swat the beetle-like insect off the ceiling.
Here's where things get weird - instead of scurrying away or flailing or doing other things one would expect and insect to do when it's been swatted off a ceiling, it just makes a thunky noise and doesn't move at all.
It was already dead y'all.
Which means that it was sitting on my ceiling and just died. It just sat there and let itself die. It didn't even try to run or anything. It's so sad - it pretty much just gave up which is like committing suicide. This means I can no longer associate it with Lucifer because it was probably all emo and depressed, which definitely means that it was incredibly annoying, but does not mean it actually deserved to die. In fact, it was in such an open and visible location that it was probably attempting suicide as a cry for help but then all its friends were like "DUDE we are so sick of you and your whining, just give it up already!" and then later they realized that it wasn't whining, but was actually dying and they felt like big jerks.
Either that or it was an insect suicide-bomber but accidentally died too early. In which case I totally hate it because it was probably going to dive-bomb my head while I was crouched over the sink washing my hair.
I arrive home from a work function and go to the bathroom the commence pre-bedtime hygiene rituals.
Upon entering the bathroom I see a creepy beetle-like insect on my ceiling. Automatically assuming it has already pledged its allegiance to Lucifer, as it has planted itself right above the sink where I need to be to engage in the majority of my hygiene rituals, I curse it under my breath and do the only logical thing: brush my teeth in the kitchen.
It is still there when I'm done brushing.
So I floss in the kitchen.
It is still there.
All that's left to do now is wash my face and I hate the idea of washing my face in the kitchen sink because it just feels so wrong. Like eating a peanut butter sandwich without first buttering the bread with actual butter (or margarine - I'm not picky). Wrong.
With renewed vigor and an old toilet paper roll as a weapon, I go on the offensive. I plan on victoriously taking back my bathroom and swat the beetle-like insect off the ceiling.
Here's where things get weird - instead of scurrying away or flailing or doing other things one would expect and insect to do when it's been swatted off a ceiling, it just makes a thunky noise and doesn't move at all.
It was already dead y'all.
Which means that it was sitting on my ceiling and just died. It just sat there and let itself die. It didn't even try to run or anything. It's so sad - it pretty much just gave up which is like committing suicide. This means I can no longer associate it with Lucifer because it was probably all emo and depressed, which definitely means that it was incredibly annoying, but does not mean it actually deserved to die. In fact, it was in such an open and visible location that it was probably attempting suicide as a cry for help but then all its friends were like "DUDE we are so sick of you and your whining, just give it up already!" and then later they realized that it wasn't whining, but was actually dying and they felt like big jerks.
Either that or it was an insect suicide-bomber but accidentally died too early. In which case I totally hate it because it was probably going to dive-bomb my head while I was crouched over the sink washing my hair.
Basic Instructions for ROCKING MY WORLD
How have I not known about this website for my entire life? And yes, I do mean my entire life, including the parts of my life when the internet had not been invented yet (or when it hadn't become a part of household life yet, whichever statement is more accurate).
http://basicinstructions.net/
I know what's keeping me up way too late tonight.
http://basicinstructions.net/
I know what's keeping me up way too late tonight.
Fear Itself
I get scared super easily. I mean super duper easily. When I was a kid (and by kid I definitely do not mean teenager) I slept with a night light because I got scared in the dark. Then once my friends came over and for some reason I didn't have enough warning to hide my night light and they saw it and it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life, but I tried really hard to play it off like "yeah, don't YOU have a night light?" and I think it almost worked.
Anyways, I definitely do NOT sleep with a night light anymore unless you count all the LED lights from various electronics in my room but I actually rarely even have those because the only electronic item I own these days is my laptop and I try to remember to unplug it because I am an environmentally good person and the environment is more important than my fear of the dark. Which doesn't exist anymore. Except that my fear has pretty much just transferred from being of evil spirits roaming around my bedroom to being of human night prowlers roaming around my bedroom. Which is probably an improvement and if I was in therapy they would probably say that I have made excellent progress.
As a sign of my excellent progress, I check under my bed for a prowler pretty much every single night before I go to sleep, even nights where I have been in the house for hours and hours before going to bed. My logical brain always says that if someone had broken into my house I probably would have noticed already and they probably would not have been able to move all the crap that's under my bed out of the way, hide it somewhere else, and then hide themselves under there without me hearing something. Also, I'm pretty sure your average bandit doesn't have the patience to wait quietly under a bed for hours and would just go about their bandit-y activities immediately upon entering the home.
Unfortunately, no matter how much my logical brain tries to tell me these things in calm, dulcet tones, the rest of my brain gets really loud and screechy and shows me pictures of psycho killers with samurai swords under my bed waiting to stab me through my mattress, which is really counterproductive because it only makes the loud screechiness even worse. (I'm pretty sure I saw that in a Quentin Tarintino movie which makes me hate him and hate myself for loving his movies and filling my subconscious with their colourful yet brutal imagery.) No matter how hard I try to listen to the logic brain, soon my loud-and-screechy-with-colourful-yet-brutal-imagery brain wins and I check under my bed.
So basically what I'm trying to say is that I've replaced evil spirits with patient, clever, mastermind criminals who carry samurai swords. So what I'm really saying is that I do not need to be medicated, thank you very much, and I do not like that jacket and do not want to wear it. It clashes with my shoes.
Anyways, I definitely do NOT sleep with a night light anymore unless you count all the LED lights from various electronics in my room but I actually rarely even have those because the only electronic item I own these days is my laptop and I try to remember to unplug it because I am an environmentally good person and the environment is more important than my fear of the dark. Which doesn't exist anymore. Except that my fear has pretty much just transferred from being of evil spirits roaming around my bedroom to being of human night prowlers roaming around my bedroom. Which is probably an improvement and if I was in therapy they would probably say that I have made excellent progress.
As a sign of my excellent progress, I check under my bed for a prowler pretty much every single night before I go to sleep, even nights where I have been in the house for hours and hours before going to bed. My logical brain always says that if someone had broken into my house I probably would have noticed already and they probably would not have been able to move all the crap that's under my bed out of the way, hide it somewhere else, and then hide themselves under there without me hearing something. Also, I'm pretty sure your average bandit doesn't have the patience to wait quietly under a bed for hours and would just go about their bandit-y activities immediately upon entering the home.
Unfortunately, no matter how much my logical brain tries to tell me these things in calm, dulcet tones, the rest of my brain gets really loud and screechy and shows me pictures of psycho killers with samurai swords under my bed waiting to stab me through my mattress, which is really counterproductive because it only makes the loud screechiness even worse. (I'm pretty sure I saw that in a Quentin Tarintino movie which makes me hate him and hate myself for loving his movies and filling my subconscious with their colourful yet brutal imagery.) No matter how hard I try to listen to the logic brain, soon my loud-and-screechy-with-colourful-yet-brutal-imagery brain wins and I check under my bed.
So basically what I'm trying to say is that I've replaced evil spirits with patient, clever, mastermind criminals who carry samurai swords. So what I'm really saying is that I do not need to be medicated, thank you very much, and I do not like that jacket and do not want to wear it. It clashes with my shoes.
I have had so many babies
I have officially decided that hosting events is just like giving birth. Now, before all you women out there who have given birth start throwing placentas at me, hear me out. According to my only close friend who has given birth it was pretty much the worst experience of her life. I mean, totally worth it and meaningful and blah blah she has a baby now blah blah motherhood is amazing blah, but really a truly painful experience. A statement like this is saying something because she is by far the strongest woman I know. For reals - she is the female Chuck Norris, meaning that she's the only person on the planet tougher than Chuck Norris because Chuck Norris doesn't have ovaries that get filled with babies.
Anyways, the thing with childbirth is that it's super painful and horrible and EVERYONE who does it swears over and over again that they will never do it ever again because why would anyone put themselves through that intentionally? But then a couple of years later (or a couple of months in especially insane people) they start talking about doing it again! Why? Because there's some brain chemical thing that happens that makes ladies forget just how horrible it actually was. I mean, they still remember that it was painful and have terrifyingly detailed stories to tell about things stretching and ripping (and why again do people do this? Oh yeah, populating the planet, gross.) But the visceral, salient memory of just how horrible it was and how much they swore to never do it again fades into memories of never sleeping or eating properly and crying and puke all over everything (and why again do people do this? Oh yeah, populating the planet, gross.) and suddenly being pregnant seems fun again because everyone is really nice to you when you're pregnant.
And that's pretty much exactly what it's like to host an event. You start off thinking that it will be great to bring people together and have a party or put on a play or whatever. The initial planning phase is super fun and exciting and all possibilities and how cool the event will be. Then things slowly get more and more stressful until all of a sudden it's the day of the event and nothing is going right and there's no time to eat and you're spending all this extra money on last minute stuff and you're TERRIFIED that no one's going to come and everything's going to be horrible and nothing will work and you swear under your breath way more often than usual and hey, maybe you'll just get hit by a car on the way to the venue and not have to deal with this anymore but of course no one ever hits you with a car when you really need them to.
So you're stuck hosting because nobody had the common decency to hit you with their car. And then even if it goes well there are things that weren't how you hoped they would be and people who you really wanted to see didn't come and people you are awkward around did come and you suddenly remember all the ways you could have done things differently and it's just never quite how you imagined it would be.
The only real difference between child-bearing and hosting events, I think, is the quick turnaround time. Nearly immediately after an event, or even while an event is happening, I'm already mentally preparing for the next. Thinking of how I could do it differently, how the next event will be even better than this one. I guess we can only hope that's a second difference between childbirth and event planning - I would like to think my parents didn't decide to have my little brother to see if they could improve on what they got when they had me.
Oh great, now I've activated my middle-child syndrome again. Thanks a LOT.
Anyways, the thing with childbirth is that it's super painful and horrible and EVERYONE who does it swears over and over again that they will never do it ever again because why would anyone put themselves through that intentionally? But then a couple of years later (or a couple of months in especially insane people) they start talking about doing it again! Why? Because there's some brain chemical thing that happens that makes ladies forget just how horrible it actually was. I mean, they still remember that it was painful and have terrifyingly detailed stories to tell about things stretching and ripping (and why again do people do this? Oh yeah, populating the planet, gross.) But the visceral, salient memory of just how horrible it was and how much they swore to never do it again fades into memories of never sleeping or eating properly and crying and puke all over everything (and why again do people do this? Oh yeah, populating the planet, gross.) and suddenly being pregnant seems fun again because everyone is really nice to you when you're pregnant.
And that's pretty much exactly what it's like to host an event. You start off thinking that it will be great to bring people together and have a party or put on a play or whatever. The initial planning phase is super fun and exciting and all possibilities and how cool the event will be. Then things slowly get more and more stressful until all of a sudden it's the day of the event and nothing is going right and there's no time to eat and you're spending all this extra money on last minute stuff and you're TERRIFIED that no one's going to come and everything's going to be horrible and nothing will work and you swear under your breath way more often than usual and hey, maybe you'll just get hit by a car on the way to the venue and not have to deal with this anymore but of course no one ever hits you with a car when you really need them to.
So you're stuck hosting because nobody had the common decency to hit you with their car. And then even if it goes well there are things that weren't how you hoped they would be and people who you really wanted to see didn't come and people you are awkward around did come and you suddenly remember all the ways you could have done things differently and it's just never quite how you imagined it would be.
The only real difference between child-bearing and hosting events, I think, is the quick turnaround time. Nearly immediately after an event, or even while an event is happening, I'm already mentally preparing for the next. Thinking of how I could do it differently, how the next event will be even better than this one. I guess we can only hope that's a second difference between childbirth and event planning - I would like to think my parents didn't decide to have my little brother to see if they could improve on what they got when they had me.
Oh great, now I've activated my middle-child syndrome again. Thanks a LOT.
Party like it's 2008. April 8, 2008, that is.
Remember waaaay back when I discovered a plethora of unfinished posts in my drafts tab? Of course you don't. I forgot too, until now. Well, I have nothing to say right now, so I'm pulling another one out. I don't even know if those links work anymore. Have fun, kids!
Originally written on April 8, 2008 at 11:42am
News tidbits I've picked up throughout the morning:
-We really don't need to drink that much water
-Green tea can help fight bacteria (which is awesome, because I drink it allll the time)
-Smitherman is an a-hole, although he kind of sort of has a good point, but still is being an a-hole about it
Originally written on April 8, 2008 at 11:42am
News tidbits I've picked up throughout the morning:
-We really don't need to drink that much water
-Green tea can help fight bacteria (which is awesome, because I drink it allll the time)
-Smitherman is an a-hole, although he kind of sort of has a good point, but still is being an a-hole about it
Reasons for Grump
Today's mood: Grumpy Gus.
The culprit? Food.
Today food is the bane of my existence. It is my achilles heel. It is the thorn in my side. I AM SO SICK OF FOOD!!! (To be more accurate I should I say that I AM SO SICK OF THE FOOD I CAN AFFORD AND THAT IS CONVENIENT TO ACCESS!!! but that has less impact, if you ask me.)
You know what starving people don't appreciate enough? The simplicity of their lives. They don't have to try to decide if they're going to eat or not, what time they should eat, if they have time to eat, where to get food, what quality of food they can afford to buy, or what they are in the mood to eat. These decisions are all made for them, and I bet they do not appreciate just how DAUNTING they can be. They should count their lucky stars.
Today the box office was busy like a mo fo, so that the normal time when I could sneak out and buy some pre-show dinner came and went with me working up a storm. Now it's too late for me to go get food, even though I could if I really wanted to, but the problem is that I really don't want to because the only dinner I can really afford is a $2 slice of pizza and I am SO SICK OF EATING PIZZA ALL THE TIME JUST BECAUSE IT'S CHEAP AND FILLING but I really don't have any other options, and this is why poor people have more occurrences of obesity and diabetes than the rest of the population. Also, it gets embarrassing when the dudes at the pizza place know you and call you "girlie" all the time.
I almost just didn't eat at all out of spite against the universe for making me just wealthy enough to have to make these decisions, but not wealthy enough to actually be able to afford real food or a servant to bring me gourmet meals full of flavour and scurvy-evading vitamins. Then I realized that not eating out of spite is almost as stupid as choosing anorexia, and we've already gone over how stupid that is. Then I remembered I have some intensely unsatisfying granola bars that are all organic and healthy in the green room. I took one of those and a bag of concession chips. I am currently eating them while trying to look as grumpy as I possibly can, just to show the universe that it has not won and I am not enjoying this.
Also, just to drive the point home that I am GRUMPY I stopped listening to The Yeah Yeah Yeahs (because they make me happy) and have begun listening to Tori Amos. The album I used to listen to in high school to make myself more depressed. It's totally working.
I am so unhappy right now.
Take that, universe.
The culprit? Food.
Today food is the bane of my existence. It is my achilles heel. It is the thorn in my side. I AM SO SICK OF FOOD!!! (To be more accurate I should I say that I AM SO SICK OF THE FOOD I CAN AFFORD AND THAT IS CONVENIENT TO ACCESS!!! but that has less impact, if you ask me.)
You know what starving people don't appreciate enough? The simplicity of their lives. They don't have to try to decide if they're going to eat or not, what time they should eat, if they have time to eat, where to get food, what quality of food they can afford to buy, or what they are in the mood to eat. These decisions are all made for them, and I bet they do not appreciate just how DAUNTING they can be. They should count their lucky stars.
Today the box office was busy like a mo fo, so that the normal time when I could sneak out and buy some pre-show dinner came and went with me working up a storm. Now it's too late for me to go get food, even though I could if I really wanted to, but the problem is that I really don't want to because the only dinner I can really afford is a $2 slice of pizza and I am SO SICK OF EATING PIZZA ALL THE TIME JUST BECAUSE IT'S CHEAP AND FILLING but I really don't have any other options, and this is why poor people have more occurrences of obesity and diabetes than the rest of the population. Also, it gets embarrassing when the dudes at the pizza place know you and call you "girlie" all the time.
I almost just didn't eat at all out of spite against the universe for making me just wealthy enough to have to make these decisions, but not wealthy enough to actually be able to afford real food or a servant to bring me gourmet meals full of flavour and scurvy-evading vitamins. Then I realized that not eating out of spite is almost as stupid as choosing anorexia, and we've already gone over how stupid that is. Then I remembered I have some intensely unsatisfying granola bars that are all organic and healthy in the green room. I took one of those and a bag of concession chips. I am currently eating them while trying to look as grumpy as I possibly can, just to show the universe that it has not won and I am not enjoying this.
Also, just to drive the point home that I am GRUMPY I stopped listening to The Yeah Yeah Yeahs (because they make me happy) and have begun listening to Tori Amos. The album I used to listen to in high school to make myself more depressed. It's totally working.
I am so unhappy right now.
Take that, universe.
In further news - JESUS BURNED DOWN!!!
Oh my WORD. Jesus burned down.
A bolt of lightning came down from heaven and Jesus burned down. I'm not going to post the picture of him burning because that would be blasphemous. For the record I would like to say that this is probably not the result of God getting back at Jesus for some fight they had in heaven, and probably actually the result of God being sick of people making his One and Only Son look so freaking tacky all the time. I mean, come on. This statue was nicknamed "Touchdown Jesus" for pete's sake. If someone did that to my son I would burn it down too. Except since I'm not God I wouldn't be able to be all cool with the lightning, but instead would be forced to be all sneaky with a black ninja outfit, douse it in gasoline, accidentally spill a bunch on myself, and then be too afraid to light it on fire lest I set myself on fire too. Then I would go back home and my car would reek of gasoline for months as a cruel reminder of the fact that I am not God. I GET IT, OKAY???
BEFORE
AFTER
A cost-benefit analysis of anorexia
Note: I started this post earlier this week and then didn't finish it. Technically because I ran out of time or fell asleep on my keyboard or something, but also probably because deep down I knew that this is a very touchy subject. Then yesterday I hardly had time to eat all day because I was busy working and coordinating a flash mob and going to acting class and remembered how sucky it is to be hungry all the time and figured why the heck not finish this sucker up. For the record, however, let me state that I am not trying to make light of real anorexia, and that what I am calling anorexia here is sort of like someone saying that they are "depressed" when they're in a bad mood. It's called hyperbole. Also, DON'T BE ANOREXIC. You will probably die or at least lose all your hair, and how attractive is that?
True story: anorexia is hard work. I was anorexic once by accident. Basically, I got kind of really sick and so I didn't really eat anything for a few days because a) throwing up all the time is NOT FUN and b) it was my first time being sick after I moved out of my parents' house so I didn't have my Mom bringing me tea and toast, and that's just really depressing the first time that happens. Then I got not sick anymore and realized that I had lost a whole bunch of weight in a really short time, and since I had not yet realized how AWESOME I actually am, I figured that somehow losing weight made me a better person. That's when I thought these exact words: "If I could keep not eating and become kind of anorexic I would probably lose more weight! Awesome!"
To anyone who knows me out there reading this (meaning, to the the one person who is reading this because I have gone from having a staggering 4-15 readers a day to having one because the internet hates me and not because I have been too busy to write every day it's all the INTERNET's fault and I know that I'm just demonstrating a cognitive bias but I DON'T CARE because I need protect my frail psyche somehow!) let me just point out that YES, I know that I am thin and always have been thin. DON'T WORRY. I am telling this story about how DUMB I once was.
So basically this story progresses with me trying to be all regimented about my eating and doing things like drinking diet pop a lot because the fizziness made me feel full so that now I still can't stand drinking pop with real sugar in it because the concentrated high-fructose-mutant-x-strong-sugar makes me feel nauseous. This super-regimented period is where I learned that anorexia is really hard work. Especially because I was trying to be "healthy" about it (I mean come on, I'm not just going to stop eating ALL TOGETHER because THAT would be stupid) by eating little tiny meals of fruits and veggies throughout the day spaced by no more than 4 hours because after 4 hours your body goes into starvation mode and is more likely to store whatever you eat as fat.
Here's where the tricky bit comes in: our bodies DON'T WANT TO DIE. They are very good at staying alive and will keep trying to stay alive up until they actually die, and who knows? Maybe the really persistent ones just keep trying to stay alive after that and maybe that's where ghosts come from. Or zombies. Or zombie ghosts.
The point is that this story ends with my body not wanting me to systematically starve myself to death and my brain getting exhausted in its battle against my body, so I gave in and started eating like a normal person again. That's when I realized that it's not worth being hungry all the time to be 10 pounds lighter! For REALS! In the grande scheme of things, 10 pounds doesn't really mean all that much.
It is important to note that this logic also works if you're British and 10 pounds is referring to money - in the grande scheme of things 10 pounds of money also doesn't really mean all that much. So please, British people, if my story has touched your heart in any way, send me 10 pounds in money. If it hasn't, then you especially should send me 10 pounds so that you will learn this valuable lesson about not being anorexic.
IT'S A LOT OF WORK AND IT'S NOT WORTH IT, Y'ALL.
PS: Maybe I actually stopped writing this post because it kind of went no where and I had to end it by asking for money and that's a little lame. Whatever, I don't care. I'm POSTING this.
True story: anorexia is hard work. I was anorexic once by accident. Basically, I got kind of really sick and so I didn't really eat anything for a few days because a) throwing up all the time is NOT FUN and b) it was my first time being sick after I moved out of my parents' house so I didn't have my Mom bringing me tea and toast, and that's just really depressing the first time that happens. Then I got not sick anymore and realized that I had lost a whole bunch of weight in a really short time, and since I had not yet realized how AWESOME I actually am, I figured that somehow losing weight made me a better person. That's when I thought these exact words: "If I could keep not eating and become kind of anorexic I would probably lose more weight! Awesome!"
To anyone who knows me out there reading this (meaning, to the the one person who is reading this because I have gone from having a staggering 4-15 readers a day to having one because the internet hates me and not because I have been too busy to write every day it's all the INTERNET's fault and I know that I'm just demonstrating a cognitive bias but I DON'T CARE because I need protect my frail psyche somehow!) let me just point out that YES, I know that I am thin and always have been thin. DON'T WORRY. I am telling this story about how DUMB I once was.
So basically this story progresses with me trying to be all regimented about my eating and doing things like drinking diet pop a lot because the fizziness made me feel full so that now I still can't stand drinking pop with real sugar in it because the concentrated high-fructose-mutant-x-strong-sugar makes me feel nauseous. This super-regimented period is where I learned that anorexia is really hard work. Especially because I was trying to be "healthy" about it (I mean come on, I'm not just going to stop eating ALL TOGETHER because THAT would be stupid) by eating little tiny meals of fruits and veggies throughout the day spaced by no more than 4 hours because after 4 hours your body goes into starvation mode and is more likely to store whatever you eat as fat.
Here's where the tricky bit comes in: our bodies DON'T WANT TO DIE. They are very good at staying alive and will keep trying to stay alive up until they actually die, and who knows? Maybe the really persistent ones just keep trying to stay alive after that and maybe that's where ghosts come from. Or zombies. Or zombie ghosts.
The point is that this story ends with my body not wanting me to systematically starve myself to death and my brain getting exhausted in its battle against my body, so I gave in and started eating like a normal person again. That's when I realized that it's not worth being hungry all the time to be 10 pounds lighter! For REALS! In the grande scheme of things, 10 pounds doesn't really mean all that much.
It is important to note that this logic also works if you're British and 10 pounds is referring to money - in the grande scheme of things 10 pounds of money also doesn't really mean all that much. So please, British people, if my story has touched your heart in any way, send me 10 pounds in money. If it hasn't, then you especially should send me 10 pounds so that you will learn this valuable lesson about not being anorexic.
IT'S A LOT OF WORK AND IT'S NOT WORTH IT, Y'ALL.
PS: Maybe I actually stopped writing this post because it kind of went no where and I had to end it by asking for money and that's a little lame. Whatever, I don't care. I'm POSTING this.
A sinkhole to hell?
This thing scares the crap out of me.
I really hope it doesn't turn out to be the opening into a hellmouth where uber-vamps will come out and kill us all with their uber-vamp strength. Seriously, those guys are unstoppable. Except for when Buffy gets really really mad and needs to prove a point the the wannabe slayerettes. Then they are stoppable.
You know, I've never really understood why it is that so often Buffy will almost be killed by something over and over again, and then all of a sudden she'll be like "this stops now" and then kills them really easily. I mean, I know that anger boosts adrenaline and focus and can certainly help in a fight, but it's just a really drastic turning point, don't you think? In an otherwise seamlessly realistic world, this is a glaring flaw.
PS: If you have no idea what I'm talking about here, watch season 7 of Buffy. But first slap yourself in the face a few times and run around your block screaming "MY BRAIN IS SO STUPID FOR NOT WATCHING BUFFY ALL THE TIME!" and then watch all 7 seasons of Buffy and become totally obsessed with it until you refer to it constantly in day-to-day conversations. If you feel awkward about doing this, ease yourself in by comparing people you see or interact with to various characters. For example, someone who's mean could be called a Cordelia. Someone who's really smart is a Willow, and a guy who's really really smart but also really cool and succeeds despite his slackerly attitude is an Oz. Get it? Good.
PPS: Oh yeah, and if you actually want to do something to help the people affected by this Guatemalan sink hole that's actually pretty serious and shouldn't be used as an in to stories about Buffy, go here to learn more and give some money. Or really really sharp stakes for dusting those uber-vamps.
A lesson on sleeping
Last night I went to bed around 11pm and fell asleep sometime before midnight. For some reason I was/am amazed at how early I was able to fall asleep when I didn't bring my laptop to bed with me. Perhaps there's a lesson to be learned here...
That is all. Goodnight.
That is all. Goodnight.
Mosquito lasers, zombie lions, and subtext
Today at work I came up with the best idea for a screenplay EVER. It's based on the real-life (because all the best screenplays are based on real-life events) invention of a laser that targets and kills mosquitos but nothing else. Like a phaser set to "kill" but only for the only insect God let Satan create.
A coworker was telling me about this and how awesome it would be in his native Saskatchewan (aka: The Pointless Province - sorry, but it's true) because there are so many mosquitos there. Then I was all - that would make the best laser light show ever because it would just constantly be going and it would be like a civic installation art piece, while at the same time serving a vital function to the people! Sort of like a metaphor for all art, in the wake of all the arts cuts of Grand Canyon-sized idiocy happening in BC. Then Coworker was all "yeah, and then they would all die and feed the earth and out of the earth would come lions!" and then we sang The Circle of Life because we are awesome. Then, if you can believe it, the conversation became even better, because I am quite literally a storytelling genius. Here is a direct transcription of the rest of our conversation:
Me: OMG! The lions would totally be zombies!
Coworker: What?
Me: Of COURSE they would be zombies! Anything that claws its way out of the earth has to be a zombie.
Coworker: You are mistaken, my friend. Zombies have to be dead first.
Me: But they came from dead mosquitos.
Coworker: I'm listening.
Me: Dead mosquitos that were killed by lasers that PERMANENTLY ALTERED THEIR MOLECULAR STRUCTURE so that when they died and decomposed in large groups they morphed into zombie lions!
Coworker: You are a genius.
Me: I know - this will be the best zombie movie ever made.
Coworker: That is the most brilliant thing I've ever heard, I think I'm in love with you.
Me: I know. Everyone is. Maybe I'll let you co-write the screenplay with me.
Coworker: To even breath the same air as you is a gift.
Me: I know. I know.
Coworker: But seriously, it's actually a good idea.
Me: For reals.
PS: It's possible that everything between "they morphed into zombie lions" and "it's actually a good idea" was subtext. By that I mean, not actually said in words but crackling beneath the surface. The fact of the matter is that I get subtextual declarations of love constantly - way more often than the kinds of declarations that use actual words, which is okay because those ones are boring. If there's anything I've learned from acting it's that the subtext is always the best part of a scene and the actual text of what someone says is totally irrelevant. Seriously! You just have to pay attention - most anything someone says has a completely different subtext beneath it and it's probably "I'm in love with you" because that is (according to a really bad awesome acting teacher in my imagination) the most interesting choice of subtext you could insert into any scene. So next time you're talking to anybody about anything, just remember that there is subtext and that subtext is probably that they are in love with you.
A coworker was telling me about this and how awesome it would be in his native Saskatchewan (aka: The Pointless Province - sorry, but it's true) because there are so many mosquitos there. Then I was all - that would make the best laser light show ever because it would just constantly be going and it would be like a civic installation art piece, while at the same time serving a vital function to the people! Sort of like a metaphor for all art, in the wake of all the arts cuts of Grand Canyon-sized idiocy happening in BC. Then Coworker was all "yeah, and then they would all die and feed the earth and out of the earth would come lions!" and then we sang The Circle of Life because we are awesome. Then, if you can believe it, the conversation became even better, because I am quite literally a storytelling genius. Here is a direct transcription of the rest of our conversation:
Me: OMG! The lions would totally be zombies!
Coworker: What?
Me: Of COURSE they would be zombies! Anything that claws its way out of the earth has to be a zombie.
Coworker: You are mistaken, my friend. Zombies have to be dead first.
Me: But they came from dead mosquitos.
Coworker: I'm listening.
Me: Dead mosquitos that were killed by lasers that PERMANENTLY ALTERED THEIR MOLECULAR STRUCTURE so that when they died and decomposed in large groups they morphed into zombie lions!
Coworker: You are a genius.
Me: I know - this will be the best zombie movie ever made.
Coworker: That is the most brilliant thing I've ever heard, I think I'm in love with you.
Me: I know. Everyone is. Maybe I'll let you co-write the screenplay with me.
Coworker: To even breath the same air as you is a gift.
Me: I know. I know.
Coworker: But seriously, it's actually a good idea.
Me: For reals.
PS: It's possible that everything between "they morphed into zombie lions" and "it's actually a good idea" was subtext. By that I mean, not actually said in words but crackling beneath the surface. The fact of the matter is that I get subtextual declarations of love constantly - way more often than the kinds of declarations that use actual words, which is okay because those ones are boring. If there's anything I've learned from acting it's that the subtext is always the best part of a scene and the actual text of what someone says is totally irrelevant. Seriously! You just have to pay attention - most anything someone says has a completely different subtext beneath it and it's probably "I'm in love with you" because that is (according to a really bad awesome acting teacher in my imagination) the most interesting choice of subtext you could insert into any scene. So next time you're talking to anybody about anything, just remember that there is subtext and that subtext is probably that they are in love with you.
Worst post ever.
I just wrote a whole post about trying to figure out what to eat for breakfast and how I spend 10 minutes every morning walking back and forth between my fridge and cupboard trying to materialize food like they do in Star Trek and cursing myself for not grocery shopping more often. Then I realized that it was really boring and EXACTLY the kind of thing people make fun of blogs and social media for: people writing about what they eat.
So now I can only hang my head in shame that I embody the stereotypical criticism of social media and am making us all look bad. QUICK! Someone give me something actually hilarious to write about...
Okay, I'm sitting in a coffee shop and there is literally nothing interesting happening here. At all. An employee just came in the door and walked behind the counter to report for his shift. Or at least that's what I can assume he's doing since he greeted the counter folks like he knew them and then walked back there like he was supposed to and they didn't look like they thought it was weird at all, and if he wasn't an employee chances are pretty good that they would have at least shot a glare in his direction or something.
So there's that.
I'm at the Blenz in Yaletown so it's just a bunch of business people coming in here and being all efficient with their orders and then leaving. Oh, and a girl in a matching designer track suit and fancy handbag. I didn't know people made matching designer track suits anymore. Or at least not ones that don't say "JUICY" on the bum, and hers didn't. Maybe she's an uber hipster and instead of ironically wearing clothes that are kind of unflattering, she is being so ironic that she is dressing like a yuppie from 5 years ago? That would be like the ultimate statement of irony, right?
That's got to be it.
So now I can only hang my head in shame that I embody the stereotypical criticism of social media and am making us all look bad. QUICK! Someone give me something actually hilarious to write about...
Okay, I'm sitting in a coffee shop and there is literally nothing interesting happening here. At all. An employee just came in the door and walked behind the counter to report for his shift. Or at least that's what I can assume he's doing since he greeted the counter folks like he knew them and then walked back there like he was supposed to and they didn't look like they thought it was weird at all, and if he wasn't an employee chances are pretty good that they would have at least shot a glare in his direction or something.
So there's that.
I'm at the Blenz in Yaletown so it's just a bunch of business people coming in here and being all efficient with their orders and then leaving. Oh, and a girl in a matching designer track suit and fancy handbag. I didn't know people made matching designer track suits anymore. Or at least not ones that don't say "JUICY" on the bum, and hers didn't. Maybe she's an uber hipster and instead of ironically wearing clothes that are kind of unflattering, she is being so ironic that she is dressing like a yuppie from 5 years ago? That would be like the ultimate statement of irony, right?
That's got to be it.
I'm pretty sure this post makes me sound like a really terrible pedophile, and I swear I'm NOT, I just want sweet music in my life all the time!
Normally I HATE it when people expect you to watch videos for random things online. I will waste hours of my life reading hilarious things online, but somehow videos are just annoying to me. However, I will be forever grateful to my friend who showed me this:
And by grateful I mean really disturbed because now I think I'm actually in love with this kid. In fact, if watching this does not make you fall in love with him, then there is seriously something wrong with you. I know that the general wisdom of life states that the something that could be seriously wrong in a situation like this is the notion of adult people falling in love with 12 year old people, but I think that this kid has single-handedly turned the tables.
I swear I'm not being inappropriate. I mean, all I want is for him to live in my home and constantly play Lady Gaga songs for me, and then if I ever get tired of that, to cuddle and croon some Backstreet Boys gently in my ear. Maybe some Spice Girls once and a while. What on EARTH is inappropriate about that? It's sort of like how Rosie O'Donnell used to always talk about being in love with Tom Cruise but she didn't want to have sex with him, she just wanted him to walk around in her yard shirtless with a lawn mower. Then it turned out that she was a lesbian all along, so there's no WAY she was sexually attracted to Tom Cruise, she was just in love with him in a lesbian way. This is exactly that situation. Greyson Chance is the Tom Cruise to my closeted Rosie O'Donnell.
Besides, when I posted on my facebook that I was in love with a 12 year old, the first response was "You'd better not be talking about Justin Bieber because he is MINE and I will cut a bitch!" (Note, they actually said "If it's Justin Bieber, you and I are going to have to have a little chat", but that pretty much means the exact same thing.) So obviously it's not THAT weird, since at least one other non-creepy person is in love with a 12 year old.
Then my other friend on facebook was all "just wait, his voice will change and then you won't be in love with him anymore" and I realized that if I am going to have him as my in-house musician I will need to do something to preserve his voice the way it is right now. I'm pretty sure cryogenic freezing is bad for the vocal chords, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know.
And by grateful I mean really disturbed because now I think I'm actually in love with this kid. In fact, if watching this does not make you fall in love with him, then there is seriously something wrong with you. I know that the general wisdom of life states that the something that could be seriously wrong in a situation like this is the notion of adult people falling in love with 12 year old people, but I think that this kid has single-handedly turned the tables.
I swear I'm not being inappropriate. I mean, all I want is for him to live in my home and constantly play Lady Gaga songs for me, and then if I ever get tired of that, to cuddle and croon some Backstreet Boys gently in my ear. Maybe some Spice Girls once and a while. What on EARTH is inappropriate about that? It's sort of like how Rosie O'Donnell used to always talk about being in love with Tom Cruise but she didn't want to have sex with him, she just wanted him to walk around in her yard shirtless with a lawn mower. Then it turned out that she was a lesbian all along, so there's no WAY she was sexually attracted to Tom Cruise, she was just in love with him in a lesbian way. This is exactly that situation. Greyson Chance is the Tom Cruise to my closeted Rosie O'Donnell.
Besides, when I posted on my facebook that I was in love with a 12 year old, the first response was "You'd better not be talking about Justin Bieber because he is MINE and I will cut a bitch!" (Note, they actually said "If it's Justin Bieber, you and I are going to have to have a little chat", but that pretty much means the exact same thing.) So obviously it's not THAT weird, since at least one other non-creepy person is in love with a 12 year old.
Then my other friend on facebook was all "just wait, his voice will change and then you won't be in love with him anymore" and I realized that if I am going to have him as my in-house musician I will need to do something to preserve his voice the way it is right now. I'm pretty sure cryogenic freezing is bad for the vocal chords, so if you have any suggestions, please let me know.
Mascara FAIL
I have been wearing mascara every day for the past little while because of The Rules.
The Rules, if you didn't know, is an entirely offensive and ridiculous set of rules that some desperate women imposed on themselves so that they could get husbands. Then they wrote a book about it and a whole bunch of other women were all like "We want husbands TOO! GIVE US THE RULES!!! If we don't have a husband yet the only thing that can be blamed is the fact that we have been too busy selfishly having a career and a life of our own and dumping our neuroses* on men instead of being beautiful roses for them to carry around on their arm! THANK YOU RULES, YOU'VE SAVED MY LIFE FROM THE HORROR OF NOT BEING MARRIED!!!" And they followed the rules and all got married. Or at least bought the book and talked about it a lot and made it really famous.
Then 15 years passed and it's today and I am trying to follow the rules as a sort of personal challenge/project that wasn't supposed to be an exercise in masochism but probably will become one. There's an explanation but right now you'll just have to trust me that I am not trying to hustle a man into marrying me by crushing my personality, because there are greater issues at hand: The Rules is making me go blind and ruin my eyelashes.
Here's how: one of the rules is that you're supposed to always wear make up. Specifically, they say to wear lipstick all the time, even when you go jogging. Problem #1 with this rule is that I don't jog and never will and they can't make me because this is not supposed to be a masochistic project. Problem #2 is that I hate wearing lipstick because it makes my lips feel all greasy and it always rubs off the middle of my lips and gets gummed up around the edges of my mouth making me look like some kind of slack-jawed crack stumpet. Not pleasant. So I have chosen to wear mascara instead of lipstick, since, you know the eyes are the window to the soul and all that crap.
It's been a couple of weeks of daily mascara-wearage (as opposed to my usual a-few-times-a-week mascara habit) and suddenly my eyes are getting all itchy towards the end of the day, but not in the usual-for-this-time-of-year allergenic kind of way. More like when you are wearing a bodysuit with sequins around the arm holes for your dance recital and it's the dress rehearsal and you've been dancing in it for 3 hours and you can't take it off so the sweaty skin and sequins are combining into a scratchy/itchy death and you spend all the time when you're not actually dancing trying to pull the sequined arm holes away from your skin for some momentary relief. That's how the tender edges to my eyelids feel right now, and the problem is that there is nothing I can do to get relief! There is no arm hole to pull away from my skin - what am I supposed to pull away in this scenario? I'm pretty sure the end result here will be crippling blindness.
Also, I'm pretty sure that my eyelashes have gotten thinner, weaker, and more sparse since I've started wearing mascara daily. This smacks of a conspiracy theory.
I may have to take a day off mascara tomorrow. Sorry Rules, I may be dedicated enough to my project to risk driving away any guys that I might actually like by acting like an idiot around them because I'm doing what you say, but I will draw the line at a blindness/skinny eyelashes combo. That is TOO FAR.
*The Rules seems to assume that every woman is neurotic and has all these psychological problems and anxieties to weigh a man down with. It's constantly telling me not to plague a beau with my neuroses or burden him with my abandonment issues or phobias or problems that I should be talking about with my therapist. They're one scalpel short of just cutting out my uterus and taking care of the root of the problem. Probably the only reason they don't is because the husband they help me find will inevitably want me to have his babies, and a woman without a uterus, while joyously relieved of her natural hysteria, is an empty and useless shell unable to bear children.
The Rules, if you didn't know, is an entirely offensive and ridiculous set of rules that some desperate women imposed on themselves so that they could get husbands. Then they wrote a book about it and a whole bunch of other women were all like "We want husbands TOO! GIVE US THE RULES!!! If we don't have a husband yet the only thing that can be blamed is the fact that we have been too busy selfishly having a career and a life of our own and dumping our neuroses* on men instead of being beautiful roses for them to carry around on their arm! THANK YOU RULES, YOU'VE SAVED MY LIFE FROM THE HORROR OF NOT BEING MARRIED!!!" And they followed the rules and all got married. Or at least bought the book and talked about it a lot and made it really famous.
Then 15 years passed and it's today and I am trying to follow the rules as a sort of personal challenge/project that wasn't supposed to be an exercise in masochism but probably will become one. There's an explanation but right now you'll just have to trust me that I am not trying to hustle a man into marrying me by crushing my personality, because there are greater issues at hand: The Rules is making me go blind and ruin my eyelashes.
Here's how: one of the rules is that you're supposed to always wear make up. Specifically, they say to wear lipstick all the time, even when you go jogging. Problem #1 with this rule is that I don't jog and never will and they can't make me because this is not supposed to be a masochistic project. Problem #2 is that I hate wearing lipstick because it makes my lips feel all greasy and it always rubs off the middle of my lips and gets gummed up around the edges of my mouth making me look like some kind of slack-jawed crack stumpet. Not pleasant. So I have chosen to wear mascara instead of lipstick, since, you know the eyes are the window to the soul and all that crap.
It's been a couple of weeks of daily mascara-wearage (as opposed to my usual a-few-times-a-week mascara habit) and suddenly my eyes are getting all itchy towards the end of the day, but not in the usual-for-this-time-of-year allergenic kind of way. More like when you are wearing a bodysuit with sequins around the arm holes for your dance recital and it's the dress rehearsal and you've been dancing in it for 3 hours and you can't take it off so the sweaty skin and sequins are combining into a scratchy/itchy death and you spend all the time when you're not actually dancing trying to pull the sequined arm holes away from your skin for some momentary relief. That's how the tender edges to my eyelids feel right now, and the problem is that there is nothing I can do to get relief! There is no arm hole to pull away from my skin - what am I supposed to pull away in this scenario? I'm pretty sure the end result here will be crippling blindness.
Also, I'm pretty sure that my eyelashes have gotten thinner, weaker, and more sparse since I've started wearing mascara daily. This smacks of a conspiracy theory.
I may have to take a day off mascara tomorrow. Sorry Rules, I may be dedicated enough to my project to risk driving away any guys that I might actually like by acting like an idiot around them because I'm doing what you say, but I will draw the line at a blindness/skinny eyelashes combo. That is TOO FAR.
*The Rules seems to assume that every woman is neurotic and has all these psychological problems and anxieties to weigh a man down with. It's constantly telling me not to plague a beau with my neuroses or burden him with my abandonment issues or phobias or problems that I should be talking about with my therapist. They're one scalpel short of just cutting out my uterus and taking care of the root of the problem. Probably the only reason they don't is because the husband they help me find will inevitably want me to have his babies, and a woman without a uterus, while joyously relieved of her natural hysteria, is an empty and useless shell unable to bear children.
My Landlord, the Robot
Has anyone else ever noticed that landlords are always sort of weird people? Like slightly off their rocker in some way or another? I don't know if it's that weird people choose to be landlords or that being a landlord makes you weird, but they really always are a bit bizarre. Take, for example, my current landlord: he never sleeps. Seriously. And he's not even a vampire! I know this because he is out in daylight all the time (and doesn't sparkle, if you buy that b.s.), his eyes never change colour, and has none of the otherworldly grace or charm all vampires get upon cheating death. So he's definitely not a vampire. I can't rule out all forms of undead - he may be a zombie. I'm pretty effing sure he's not, but I can't guarantee that he wasn't raised from the dead by a shaman who is now controlling his every move, except by pointing out that this must be the most bored shaman ever. So basically what I'm saying is that I am 90% sure that my landlord is not undead. Yet he never sleeps. Ever.
How do I know this, you ask?
The fact is that my home is devoid of any form of soundproofing. Not only in my suite where Roomies and I could have normal-voiced conversations in different rooms if we wanted to, but between floors. I can hear every footstep, many conversations, and all music and TV shows watched upstairs. Not to the point where it's annoying, I actually barely notice it, but it's there. (Further evidence in favour of my landlord's humanity: I almost never hear victims whimpering up there whilst he sucks their blood.)
Now, Roomies and I are on different life-schedules. I work in theatre and am generally up later at night and sleep a little later in the morning, whereas they are often in bed before 11pm and get up voluntarily before 8am on a regular basis (I know, it is so weird, I feel like Jane Goodall amongst the chimpanzees). They used to get up even earlier when Girl Roomie worked in a coffee shop and had to leave the house at 5am or something ridiculous like that. So what I'm saying is that there is often someone awake in my house 19-21 hours out of the day.
No matter what time of day it is, we can hear him upstairs. No matter how late I'm up, I hear footsteps, movies, and music upstairs. No matter how early I or the Roomies get up, there are more footsteps and often conversation happening upstairs.
Further evidence is that this kindly older retired man has told me several times that he doesn't care how many parties we have and how much noise we make late at night. This runs against every single stereotype I can think of for older retired men.
So my only question now is, if he is probably not undead, then is he a robot? Is it possible that he will revert to his original programming and try to kill me?*
*Robots that look and behave like humans are always invented by evil masterminds who try to take over the world. Then they are reprogrammed to be used for good (meaning they do household chores for us), only to eventually revert to their original programming and try to take over the world, killing a whole bunch of nice people until one renegade cop figures out how to stop them. Or they were invented by the porn industry, and I don't even want to think about THAT original programming.
How do I know this, you ask?
The fact is that my home is devoid of any form of soundproofing. Not only in my suite where Roomies and I could have normal-voiced conversations in different rooms if we wanted to, but between floors. I can hear every footstep, many conversations, and all music and TV shows watched upstairs. Not to the point where it's annoying, I actually barely notice it, but it's there. (Further evidence in favour of my landlord's humanity: I almost never hear victims whimpering up there whilst he sucks their blood.)
Now, Roomies and I are on different life-schedules. I work in theatre and am generally up later at night and sleep a little later in the morning, whereas they are often in bed before 11pm and get up voluntarily before 8am on a regular basis (I know, it is so weird, I feel like Jane Goodall amongst the chimpanzees). They used to get up even earlier when Girl Roomie worked in a coffee shop and had to leave the house at 5am or something ridiculous like that. So what I'm saying is that there is often someone awake in my house 19-21 hours out of the day.
No matter what time of day it is, we can hear him upstairs. No matter how late I'm up, I hear footsteps, movies, and music upstairs. No matter how early I or the Roomies get up, there are more footsteps and often conversation happening upstairs.
Further evidence is that this kindly older retired man has told me several times that he doesn't care how many parties we have and how much noise we make late at night. This runs against every single stereotype I can think of for older retired men.
So my only question now is, if he is probably not undead, then is he a robot? Is it possible that he will revert to his original programming and try to kill me?*
*Robots that look and behave like humans are always invented by evil masterminds who try to take over the world. Then they are reprogrammed to be used for good (meaning they do household chores for us), only to eventually revert to their original programming and try to take over the world, killing a whole bunch of nice people until one renegade cop figures out how to stop them. Or they were invented by the porn industry, and I don't even want to think about THAT original programming.
Mama Spiders are WAY worse than Mama Bears. Just think about it.
I just got home from watching Godspell at Pacific Theatre (mini-review: loved it, died inside for not being able to be in that amazing cast) and some post-show hangouts to find a spider nesting above my bed. WHY OH WHY IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN WHEN I'M HOME ALONE????? I have no roomies or burly men to take care of this for me! CURSES! It's times like these I think I need to get married now just to have someone to take care of all the evil insects that want to destroy my life. Because it is an ongoing problem.
I dealt with this particular insect in the only way I knew how: I vacuumed it and its little egg-nest of destruction to death. Although I've heard that vacuuming up spiders doesn't actually kill them because they're tough sons of guns, but at least I probably killed all the baby spider eggs. Although that really just means that I've just murdered the entire brood of this Mama Spider which can only mean horror, pain, and untimely death.
Oh eff.
I dealt with this particular insect in the only way I knew how: I vacuumed it and its little egg-nest of destruction to death. Although I've heard that vacuuming up spiders doesn't actually kill them because they're tough sons of guns, but at least I probably killed all the baby spider eggs. Although that really just means that I've just murdered the entire brood of this Mama Spider which can only mean horror, pain, and untimely death.
Oh eff.
Lindsey Lohan, why?
I am literally awash in shame.
First of all, I'm watching Just My Luck, that horrible horrible Lindsey Lohan movie that (I think) was the last one she made before descending into that sad alcoholic stupor where she kept bleaching her hair. If that wasn't bad enough, I actually just teared up. Don't worry, as soon as I felt the tears welling up I punched myself in the face so I could pretend that was the reason for my tears. I think I fooled any ghosts in the room with me.
Oh crap, now I'm imagining ghosts in the room with me. This night just keeps getting worse and worse.
Okay, now Lindsey is all torn up because she loves the man and can't kiss him, lest she mess with luck. It's so hard for her because she can't kiss him and she can't not kiss him either. I am feeling the comfortable, old judgmental attitude come rushing back and am ready to face the world once again. Unfortunately, with a shiny new black eye.
First of all, I'm watching Just My Luck, that horrible horrible Lindsey Lohan movie that (I think) was the last one she made before descending into that sad alcoholic stupor where she kept bleaching her hair. If that wasn't bad enough, I actually just teared up. Don't worry, as soon as I felt the tears welling up I punched myself in the face so I could pretend that was the reason for my tears. I think I fooled any ghosts in the room with me.
Oh crap, now I'm imagining ghosts in the room with me. This night just keeps getting worse and worse.
Okay, now Lindsey is all torn up because she loves the man and can't kiss him, lest she mess with luck. It's so hard for her because she can't kiss him and she can't not kiss him either. I am feeling the comfortable, old judgmental attitude come rushing back and am ready to face the world once again. Unfortunately, with a shiny new black eye.
Joe Cantari is a Jerk
Actually, he's a douche-toque.
Actually, he doesn't exist. I just wanted to write a post about a fictitious person, saying that they're a jerk. That way if this person actually does exist then they'll google themselves and be all "Oh no! Someone thinks I'm a jerk!"
Hopefully he won't actually read the post and find out that I made the whole thing up.
Actually, he doesn't exist. I just wanted to write a post about a fictitious person, saying that they're a jerk. That way if this person actually does exist then they'll google themselves and be all "Oh no! Someone thinks I'm a jerk!"
Hopefully he won't actually read the post and find out that I made the whole thing up.
My name is nobody's name but mine, you can touch your name, I will touch mine (wait, does that make sense?)
Know what's awkward? Going to one of those cafes where they call out your name with your order. The first time I went to one of those I was 15 years old (I actually have no idea how old I was, but that seems like a good age to admit to being super socially awkward), and when the dude asked me my name I totally momentarily thought he was hitting on me and got all stuttery. I mustered myself to tell him my name with the best romantic flair I could summon, and all he did was write it on a stickie along with the rest of my order, and then make eye contact with the hussy behind me to take her order.
I was totally crushed. I mean, we had a connection! Who moves on that quickly? Talk about rebound.
THEN I had to sit and wait for a perfect stranger to call out my name with my food. It felt all invasive and weird. My name is for friends, family, and writing on bathroom walls in hopes of a date - not for total strangers to call out in the middle of a crowded cafe while holding up my ridiculously anti-healthy food order. I mean, come on.
I was totally crushed. I mean, we had a connection! Who moves on that quickly? Talk about rebound.
THEN I had to sit and wait for a perfect stranger to call out my name with my food. It felt all invasive and weird. My name is for friends, family, and writing on bathroom walls in hopes of a date - not for total strangers to call out in the middle of a crowded cafe while holding up my ridiculously anti-healthy food order. I mean, come on.
A moment of self-indulgence, if you will.
I just want to say, at the complete risk of being one of those unbearable actor-types who spouts on and on about their craft an how liberated they are and blah blah blah, that I love acting. I just came from acting class this evening, and seriously, it's a good thing to do. I am a person who is constantly overanalyzing everything, reliving the past, and dreaming of the future, so it's just peacherrific when I am able to force myself to exist only in a specific moment. Where all I'm thinking about is another human being that I am having a conversation with.
So awesome.
*heart*
Okay, moment over. I'm back to being cynical and analytical and obsessive and ranty. That is, after all, what I do best.
So awesome.
*heart*
Okay, moment over. I'm back to being cynical and analytical and obsessive and ranty. That is, after all, what I do best.
Andrea's Advice II
The second in my series of stealing questions from other peoples' advice columns and then answering them! This is from Dear Mrs. Web.
Option number two is that you make yourself indispensable to her. Become her manager and personal assistant. Wrangle her back up talent. Do whatever it takes so that she CAN NOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU. Then she will stick with you forever. The downside is that your life will become meaningless and unbearable and revolve completely around her. You will no longer be friends, you will be her frustrated subordinate.
The third option is to trust that time will do its thing and she will become complacent and downtrodden. She might dip her toe into trying to be a singer, but don't worry, she will give up at the first sign of resistance. She will be plagued with insecurities that will prevent her from ever really trying.
Or you will slowly drift apart as inevitably happens with childhood friends and neither of you will do any of the amazing things you currently plan on doing with your lives. Your life may end up being boring and a disappointment, but rest assured hers will too. And it will be even worse for her because then she'll always think about the fact that she wanted to be a singer and now she's a receptionist who writes a blog to pass the time. Take comfort in that.
My best friend wants to be a singer and she is really good. I 'm afraid that when we grow up, she might become famous and not remember me. What do I do?You want to make sure your friend doesn't forget about you? You have a couple of options. The first is to pretend to support her career and subtly sabotage it. This is easier than you might think. Whenever she has a performance make sure to talk to any influential people who might be there about how great it is that she pulled it together to get onstage when just 5 minutes ago she was throwing up her Prozac overdose, but it doesn't really matter that the bulimia has blown out her vocal chords because she has a pretty solid back up track for when she performs. Of course, that might actually convince someone to sign her faster... so then you're on to option number two.
Option number two is that you make yourself indispensable to her. Become her manager and personal assistant. Wrangle her back up talent. Do whatever it takes so that she CAN NOT LIVE WITHOUT YOU. Then she will stick with you forever. The downside is that your life will become meaningless and unbearable and revolve completely around her. You will no longer be friends, you will be her frustrated subordinate.
The third option is to trust that time will do its thing and she will become complacent and downtrodden. She might dip her toe into trying to be a singer, but don't worry, she will give up at the first sign of resistance. She will be plagued with insecurities that will prevent her from ever really trying.
Or you will slowly drift apart as inevitably happens with childhood friends and neither of you will do any of the amazing things you currently plan on doing with your lives. Your life may end up being boring and a disappointment, but rest assured hers will too. And it will be even worse for her because then she'll always think about the fact that she wanted to be a singer and now she's a receptionist who writes a blog to pass the time. Take comfort in that.
Oh, Hair. Why dost thou torture me so?
Dudes, back off for a second here, you're not going to understand this. Unless you're a dude with long hair, although still probably not because I don't think dudes ever have the same relationship with their hair ladies have. Ladies with short hair, feel free to move on as well. Ladies (or dudes) with long, curly hair - YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! Oh, wait, I should probably tell you what I'm talking about first, shouldn't I?
It happened again tonight. The dastardly thing my hair does when it's been up in something resembling a "do" all day and then I take it out before getting ready for bed, and lo and behold, my hair looks amazing. Better than ever. All bouncy curls and major body and total beauteousness.
It's like my hair is taunting me. It's saying "I'm capable of looking really really really good - like good enough for a hair commercial and that's not bragging, it's just the truth - but I choose not to do so until you are home and by yourself and getting ready to go to bed so that you can torment yourself wondering if you maybe could go out again but that would be ridiculous because it's 11:29pm and by the time you met up with your friends (who you turned down on hanging out with in favour of a ride home and non-restaurant-priced food) it would be like midnight and they would be all 'why did you come all the way back here, we're all getting ready to go home!' and you'd be all '...because my hair looked really good?' and you'd feel like a fool for two whole reasons. The first being that everyone knows it's silly to go home and then go back out again just because your hair looks good, even if everyone secretly wants to do it. The second being that it's raining out and so your hair would totally be ruined by the time you got there. So now your stuck inside with amazing hair and NO ONE to see it, and you can't take pictures of it to post online either because only 15 year old girls who are insecure do that, and you don't want everyone to think you're an insecure 15 year old, do you? Do you??? HA! Take THAT!"
To make matters worse, this amazing looking hair that emerges when I take it out of an updo is not consistent. It's not like I can just put my hair up all day and then take it out before going out somewhere in the evening and know it will look good. No - because that would be too easy and my hair can't make things easy for me. Not when it is trying to ruin my life. Yeah, that's right, I said it, my life is ruined because my hair won't make me look like a hair commercial on command. It's not vain - you know you all think the same thing and are just too afraid to admit it out loud! Well I've SAID IT!
Okay so... I'm going to bed now. With amazing hair. Stay tuned for horrible morning hair and possible weeping that I will try to cover up as hysterical laughter, because somehow laughing hysterically all alone in my room is better than uncontrollable weeping.
It happened again tonight. The dastardly thing my hair does when it's been up in something resembling a "do" all day and then I take it out before getting ready for bed, and lo and behold, my hair looks amazing. Better than ever. All bouncy curls and major body and total beauteousness.
It's like my hair is taunting me. It's saying "I'm capable of looking really really really good - like good enough for a hair commercial and that's not bragging, it's just the truth - but I choose not to do so until you are home and by yourself and getting ready to go to bed so that you can torment yourself wondering if you maybe could go out again but that would be ridiculous because it's 11:29pm and by the time you met up with your friends (who you turned down on hanging out with in favour of a ride home and non-restaurant-priced food) it would be like midnight and they would be all 'why did you come all the way back here, we're all getting ready to go home!' and you'd be all '...because my hair looked really good?' and you'd feel like a fool for two whole reasons. The first being that everyone knows it's silly to go home and then go back out again just because your hair looks good, even if everyone secretly wants to do it. The second being that it's raining out and so your hair would totally be ruined by the time you got there. So now your stuck inside with amazing hair and NO ONE to see it, and you can't take pictures of it to post online either because only 15 year old girls who are insecure do that, and you don't want everyone to think you're an insecure 15 year old, do you? Do you??? HA! Take THAT!"
To make matters worse, this amazing looking hair that emerges when I take it out of an updo is not consistent. It's not like I can just put my hair up all day and then take it out before going out somewhere in the evening and know it will look good. No - because that would be too easy and my hair can't make things easy for me. Not when it is trying to ruin my life. Yeah, that's right, I said it, my life is ruined because my hair won't make me look like a hair commercial on command. It's not vain - you know you all think the same thing and are just too afraid to admit it out loud! Well I've SAID IT!
Okay so... I'm going to bed now. With amazing hair. Stay tuned for horrible morning hair and possible weeping that I will try to cover up as hysterical laughter, because somehow laughing hysterically all alone in my room is better than uncontrollable weeping.
Monday, Monday - the best looking day?
It looks like the notion of Casual Fridays has really taken ahold. All the "working women" out there put about 19 minutes into their appearance (that includes washing, y'all!) on Fridays, as opposed to an average of 76 minutes on Mondays. So does that mean we should start officially calling it Sexy Mondays?
PS: Before you get all cocky, dudes, you're even worse. You can only manage to put an effort into your looks for two days before moving into sloth-ville.
PPS: I tried google-imaging "sexy mondays" to get a picture for this post but only got REALLY SCARY THINGS. Don't do it, y'all! I'm warning you!
http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20100531/od_uk_nm/oukoe_uk_britain_appearance
A letter to my toothbrush
Dear Toothbrush,
Please stop being a dirty slut-face. These words may sound harsh, but you totally know what I'm talking about. Every time I walk into the bathroom you are making out with the other toothbrush, and you don't even have the decency to stop when I walk in. I mean, COME ON! Whenever I'm making out with someone (which is all the time, by the by, I totally get a LOT of action just please don't ask me who from because I don't like telling too many lies at once) and someone else walks in on us, I totally stop. Or at the very least I acknowledge their presence with a wave of my free hand (or foot, or whatever is free at the moment). You don't even acknowledge my presence! You just sit there, making out with the other toothbrush and this makes me feel very uncomfortable.
I know you probably can't even imagine what it feels like. I mean, when have you ever walked in on two people making out? Probably never. Or at least it has been a very long time and you've forgotten what it's like. So let me tell you. It feels awkward, like my face is being rubbed with cheese. I mean, I thought I was going to the bathroom to brush my teeth and suddenly I find myself having to witness a never-ending make out session that doesn't even acknowledge my presence! I mean, come on, if you're going to do it right in front of me you could at least, I don't know, offer for me to join. I'm not actually going to join you, it's just a polite thing to do, toothbrush.
To make matters worse, when I use you we are pretty much making out, but against your will. So I have to pull you apart from your slutty toothbrush lover and then stick you in my mouth and rub you all over the cracks and crevices of my mouth? That just feels dirty. And it makes me feel like I'm some super needy girl who needs to force toothbrushes to make out with her against their will, which I totally do NOT need to do because, as I said earlier, I totally make out all the time with people who want to make out with me. Nonetheless, nobody likes to be forced to feel like the needy girl, okay? That's just MEAN of you.
So the next time this happens, could you please, I don't know, stop making out with the other toothbrush so that I don't feel like a vindictive and needy pathetic-o-tron of a girl. Okay? I know you're busy making the third toothbrush feel really left out, but I would really appreciate it.
Cordially,
Andrea
Please stop being a dirty slut-face. These words may sound harsh, but you totally know what I'm talking about. Every time I walk into the bathroom you are making out with the other toothbrush, and you don't even have the decency to stop when I walk in. I mean, COME ON! Whenever I'm making out with someone (which is all the time, by the by, I totally get a LOT of action just please don't ask me who from because I don't like telling too many lies at once) and someone else walks in on us, I totally stop. Or at the very least I acknowledge their presence with a wave of my free hand (or foot, or whatever is free at the moment). You don't even acknowledge my presence! You just sit there, making out with the other toothbrush and this makes me feel very uncomfortable.
I know you probably can't even imagine what it feels like. I mean, when have you ever walked in on two people making out? Probably never. Or at least it has been a very long time and you've forgotten what it's like. So let me tell you. It feels awkward, like my face is being rubbed with cheese. I mean, I thought I was going to the bathroom to brush my teeth and suddenly I find myself having to witness a never-ending make out session that doesn't even acknowledge my presence! I mean, come on, if you're going to do it right in front of me you could at least, I don't know, offer for me to join. I'm not actually going to join you, it's just a polite thing to do, toothbrush.
To make matters worse, when I use you we are pretty much making out, but against your will. So I have to pull you apart from your slutty toothbrush lover and then stick you in my mouth and rub you all over the cracks and crevices of my mouth? That just feels dirty. And it makes me feel like I'm some super needy girl who needs to force toothbrushes to make out with her against their will, which I totally do NOT need to do because, as I said earlier, I totally make out all the time with people who want to make out with me. Nonetheless, nobody likes to be forced to feel like the needy girl, okay? That's just MEAN of you.
So the next time this happens, could you please, I don't know, stop making out with the other toothbrush so that I don't feel like a vindictive and needy pathetic-o-tron of a girl. Okay? I know you're busy making the third toothbrush feel really left out, but I would really appreciate it.
Cordially,
Andrea
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