See, that's me...under the weather. I think it's a pretty accurate depiction, don't you? I mean, those gold things that look like the letter z on crack are obviously lightening, and those blotches of blue that look like confetti rejects are rain. Oh, and obviously there's gray inside the blue clouds to show two different kinds of weather, like good weather and bad weather while bad weather pours down on me. It's a deep piece of art, you guys. And don't even let me get started on how I look exactly like that in real life.Yeah, guys, I can't use Paint to save my life. I know.
Just because I'm under the weather and extremely punny does not mean that ridiculous things stop happening to me. In fact, the worse I feel the more I think happens, mostly because it hopes it can slide under the radar and I'll forget to put it on my blog. It's sneaky, you see, but this time I decided to creep up on it like it was hunting season and ridiculous was my target, and take notes. Therefore, this blog is full of lots of things that don't go together in any way, shape, or form, but that happened to me in the last two days. You're jealous, I know.
But before I go there, I would like to interrupt this blog to touch on something Zoe said. My last blog post confused her. At first I was confused about why she was confused, but then I realized if you know nothing about MGG and how his sense of humor is possibly more off color than mine, that was probably a damn confusing blog post. I'm sorry, you guys. But my Australian friend and I are still laughing. If you want to laugh, too, YouTube Matthew Gray Gubler. That post will suddenly be hundreds of times funnier and make sense. I promise. If it ends up being an empty promise, you can't sue me for lying. I have nothing to give you but a piece of dryer lint and a snoring cat.
* Last night I came across this. As an aspiring author, there's several things that disturb me about this. One, how can you write shit like that and think it's okay? Unless you have brain damage, I'm not sure there's another reason to ever think that's okay. The second is, if the original writer has mental patient worthy issues, what in the hell is wrong with the editor? How can you read all those lines of shit and come out with it still sounding like absolute shit? It's your job to fix the stupid. Actually, let's just back that up and question what is wrong with the person who gave her a book deal and actually passed it on to an editor? In this case, I think I'm going to let the editor go. With writing still this bad post being edited, it's safe to say the editor is now probably in mental health facility mumbling gobbledygook and something about the end of the world coming on the date synonymous with the release of this book. Forget what religious groups and people with too much time on their hands are saying about the end of the world, this lady is the only one who's right. And even if the world doesn't end in the traditional, bye bye world, you will be missed, enjoy floating merrily into the atmosphere while everyone finds their way through the afterlife, kind of way, stupid will immediately inherit the earth and everyone's brains will instantly fry. For those of us who don't read that crap and our brains are still in tact, the former is looking pretty good now that I put it that way, isn't it?
Also, I'm fully convinced Kanye is just going to interrupt the end of the world anyway, so we're good.
* In other Jersey Shore book news, and news in the real world where those words should never be uttered without making sure everyone is completely lit first, The Situation has apparently written what is being categorized as a self help book. However true this is, it is, of course, an oxymoron, because you can't write a self help book when you can't help yourself.
* Earlier my mom and I were watching the news. By news I mean we were watching sports with a tad of useful information on the side, because ninety percent of our news is about sports. Apparently deaths, shootings and missing people aren't important when Ben Roethlisberger may or may not be engaged. Gees. Give me a break. Anyway, the newscasters were talking about how Steelers' Coach Mike Tomlin is the fourth highest paid coach in the NFL, making something like 5.75 million a season. This conversation followed.
Mom: "Who deserves that kind of money?"
Me: *Slams down french fry container* "GOD!"
* I'm convinced Pittsburgh has single-handedly lowered the national IQ level by at least one hundred and eighty million points. Apparently, a demolition crew had orders to tear down a house in Pittsburgh. Instead of tearing just that house down, they went on ahead and tore down the house beside it, which was being renovated by someone as he was in the process of purchasing it from the city. Then, as the guy who was renovating the house pulled up to what was now just grass, he noticed all his lumber that he spent hundreds of dollars on for renovation, was on the back of the demolition truck and the company who demolished his house was just taking it to keep for themselves. When he approached them and told them he wanted his brand new lumber back, he also inquired about where his hundreds of dollars of tools were and they claimed they found no tools. You would think I was kidding, but no.
* This came out of my mouth at one point today.
"It's like wiener with an M."
* Protesters in Seoul Korea are so polite. Instead of running cops over, breaking things, screaming, and doing things that American protesters do, they just stand there in a group, all in neat little lines, hold up their signs, and chant while throwing their fists in the air politely and at the exact same time. You can't just fake that kind of polite organization.
* I had to call the cemetery today to find out how much my plot was worth for Social Security, because apparently if I'm receiving Social Security, that means I'm never allowed to die. An old lady that sounded like she was eighty billion, give or take a week or two, picked up the phone. My first thought was, aww, a cute little old lady. Then she gave me gems like these.
"Did you call the right place?" It was tempting to tell her no, but considering I told her I called the number on the card of the man who my grandmother dealt with for all her burial needs, and they happened to be a cemetery at the exact same address and with the exact same name as the place I was calling, I figured I better tell her yes and not confuse her more.
I told her my great-grandparent's last name. Look, don't even ask how we got into this. I just answered whatever I was asked and didn't bother to argue or question it. I gave her the name and she asked me to spell it, so I started out by saying "L," for some crazy reason having to do with it being the first letter in their last name. She then counters back with, "R." I say no, "L." She tells me the name I'm giving her starts with an R. We go around like this about six times before she realizes I'm right and know how to spell my own great-grandparent's last names. I was annoyed, but starting to feel bad that she was obviously half deaf and totally senile and no one at her office noticed yet. I'd hate to hear their water cooler conversations.
I told the lady three times that I only needed the value on my cemetery plot. Not my mom's, not my grandparent's, who are using their plots, or my third cousin twice removed and three times jailed. Just mine. At the end of the conversation I settled for telling her she was correct, I wanted to know the total for mine and my mom's plots. I just couldn't argue with the deaf any longer. It was counterproductive and, quite frankly, she had exhausted any common sense out of me by now.
I spent several minutes playing Who's On First with this lady. Ultimately, she decided she had to talk to someone else about the price of the plot and have them call me back. Naturally, she asked for my phone number. My phone number ends in the last same two numbers, let's say 1212. So I say to her, 1212. She says 12...I say 12. She says 12...I say 12. You can see where this is going. It finally ended up with her going 12, me saying 12, and her going, "I GOT THAT PART OF IT. I NEED THE LAST TWO NUMBERS!" I told her the last two numbers were also 12. We went in circles about ten more times before she finally got the last four numbers were 1212, not 12 and I needed to give her two more numbers.
After about eight years on the phone, and having to apply aging cream and heavily consider what nursing home I'm going to have to immediately admit myself to when the conversation was over, she repeated the reason for my call back to me, plus my information, getting everything wrong except the phone number. Go figure. I told her it was right and prayed someone else called me back. Someone else called me back. Turns out the little old lady couldn't remember what I called for, despite writing it down and giving the lady my phone number which I assume was on the same paper, so I had to go through the whole schmiel again. Luckily this lady was not hearing impaired and I had my answer in a sixteenth of the time that it took me to give the first lady my phone number.
Also, I don't actually know if the old lady was deaf. I think she was just old and senile. She seemed to get confused easily. I wonder if she goes home at night, or if she just stays there to cut down on confusion and they can't get rid of her, therefore, they've fired her ten times, but every morning she's still there answering phones and they don't know how to make it stop. I like to think that's the case and they're just too nice to put her in a home.
* The other night I was happily attempting to sleep in my room when I heard a ruckus. Since Greta and I were the only two in the room and I knew I wasn't making the noise, it had to be her. I turned on my light, crawled to the edge of my bed and peered over to where the noise was coming from. What I saw could be described as nothing other than mass stuffed animal mayhem. Yes, guys, I still have stuffed animals, which could not possibly why I'm single, I know. They are usually in a nice little row organized by which are friends, and separated by which do not get along. Now they were all in several orgy like piles all over the side of my room. No stuffed animals were injured in the process, yet I couldn't figure out what in the world she was doing. And then I saw it. She moved all my stuffed animals in a helter skelter way of her liking so she could creatively hide one of her cookies. I guess she figured if you were focused on the stuffed animal orgies, you would never see her cookie hiding in plain sight where the stuffed animals once were.
Also, did you know the term helter skelter wasn't actually popularized by The Beatles song? It was actually Charles Manson and his family that made the term become mainstream. I realize Manson has been held responsible for "high jacking" The White Album because of his use of the term Helter Skelter, but it wasn't a widely used or known term until he did so. I told you I had random serial killer knowledge. However, Charles Manson also isn't considered a serial killer because he never actually did any of the killings. He convinced his "family," otherwise known to everyone else in the world as a cult, to do it for him. Even still, he is imprisoned for life and has stopped showing up for his parole hearings. Even he knows snowballs have a better chance in hell than he does of getting released. However, they did release Squeaky Fromme in 09 after being sentenced to life in prison for trying to assassinate Ford. That's still a mystery to me, because apparently what the government is saying is that it's okay to try to off a president, have prior arrests, and join a murderous cult, but it's not okay to be the leader of that cult and never kill anyone. No doubt Manson should never be released from prison, but I don't think she should have either. And if the former is the case, I think there's several religious sects the feds should be visiting. I'm just saying.
* The neighbors. I know I've mentioned them before. They are seriously the nicest people in the entire world, but there's no common sense there. I think they truly believe they are the only people in the universe. Every night at ghastly, obnoxious hours when even insomniacs have given up and conked out, and every morning before dawn's ass cracks above the clouds, they let their dog out. This would be fine if their dog didn't immediately fly out the door, come over to our fence, and bark its little head off for ten or fifteen minutes, while they go inside, never watch it, and pretend it doesn't exist. This also happens when they let it out during the day. I also can't mention how many times the dog has been in our yard or down on the road and they've had no clue. It's not that hard to watch your dog or ask it to stop barking, but I digress.
My bedroom window is approximately ten feet from the property line, where their dog comes to bark every single time they let it out, so of course it wakes me up. And of course it's useless to talk to them about it because they don't care. I'm tempted to buy life size cut out of The Wicked Witch of the West that says "I'll get you, my pretty...and your little dog too," and place it on the part of the fence where the dog immediately runs to. That way, when I call the county because I'm sick of being woken up, and report not only their dog, but them by violating township laws and not keeping their dog on a leash or contained while it's outside, they can't say I didn't warn them.
* My mom is doing an open house on Sunday for another agent in her office, and I've fallen in love with the house through pictures. I decided I want to live there for free...because you all know I can't afford it. I know this will never happen because you have to pay for things, but I thought I'd throw it out there. My mom said that the only way I could live there was if I lived with the current owners' son until the house was sold. I answered in the only way I knew how.
"Is he cute?"
No one knows. No one's met him. I'm highly disappointed, because this means the difference between living in that house for awhile and not living in that house. I kid, you guys, I kid...about the living in the house or not living in the house part, not the part where I want to know if he's cute or not.
* Last night, there was a lottery drawing for something like 224 million, which means after taxes you should get about four dollars and some change. One of our newscasters was interviewing people buying lottery tickets, and then she herself bought some. She says that if she wins, we will never see her again. She's quitting. Then she signs off with, "Reporting from Pittsburgh and possibly never to be heard from again." When she kicked it back to the regular newscaster he said this:
"We'll see you tomorrow."
I love our newscasters. They're so unprofessional and hilarious. It's like watching a family reunion stuck in the middle of television cameras and a studio with lots of sports, and a little bit of news mixed in by accident.
* If there's one thing I learned from my great-grandfather, it's that if you leave food on your face, you were obviously saving it for later. Yesterday my mom pointed out that I had Oreo on my face, to which I repeated the adage. It would be important to mention that he died when I was around twelve and it took me this long to pull that card. Oh, and I never actually heard him say it. I was just told about it. The lengths I will go to to not admit I apparently rivaled a pig with my eating skills.
* Although I live at home, it's obvious I should be living in an old person's community. I'd fit in there. At seven last night my mom and I were watching court shows. I'm twenty five people. 25. TWENTY FIVE!
* On this television show last night, a guy brought a sex book in from the forties to a pawn shop to be pawned. This reminded me of a story I've been wanting to tell you guys. When my mom and Aunt Bev were cleaning out Aunt Bev's parents house, she invited my friend Becky and I to come and take what we wanted. Becky is a bookworm like myself, so she was going through books. In it we also found a sex book from the forties. I don't know what you all know about sex books from that era, hopefully not much, but they were very open, while still very prude sounding. Needless to say, we did not have the maturity for words like intercourse and fellatio. And for anyone keeping score, yes, we did manage to basterdize sexual terms so badly that we can't maturely handle the actual words for sex and blow jobs.
* Last night I was watching The Millionaire Matchmaker. This show should be on The Learning Channel, because it's very educational and makes me never want to date again. Let me share the crowning moments.
If someone tells you they are a "party motivator," this is classy code for exotic go-go dancer. The ironic part of this being the classy term for it is that apparently "party motivators" will forgo their pants and shirts so fast you won't even know what happened until ten minutes after it's over, and go-go dance at will no matter how public the place. And in case you're wondering, I totally thought a party motivator was like a party publicists or DJ. Fail.
Patty was interviewing potential dates for a size 24 woman. I'm not sure why size matters, but apparently it did and she had to make sure every man was okay with her size. This makes me want to bang my head off of pointy things, but I get it. People are shallow. In doing that, this conversation occurred:
Patty: "Do you like larger girls?"
Very Physically Fit Black Guy: "I'm black, so...."
I would date that guy so fast...
* I pulled my attention from the computer just now long enough to hear someone singing this, "I'm not your daddy, I'm your grandpa! I'm not your daddy, I'm your grandpa!" I didn't look at the television quickly enough to see what it was all about, but I think I'm thankful for that.
Also, I feel like I need to come up with a name for the few amazing people reading this blog. Keltie Colleen has her army. What can I have? May I simply call you friends? Is there another super awesome term you can all suggest? It feels so impersonal saying "Hi guys." I want to be able to say something cool and you approved like "Hello Squirrel Monkeys." Only, I don't think you all want to be squirrel monkeys, so throw some ideas out there, please.
To the anonymous reader who posted a comment on my "Fearless Heart" post - You do have a fearless heart; everyone does. Sometimes it just takes awhile to find out who you are and be secure in that, to find out when to cry uncle and when to stand strong. Your fearless heart is in there and it teaches you something new every single day. It takes years and years to come to the place where you can stand up beside that fearless heart and just let go. And even after you get to that place, there will still be times where you stuff your heart back in your pocket and you let it cower there. That's human. But being human is a beautiful, wonderful thing and one day you will be able to say the things your fearless heart wants you to say, and you'll know that, no matter what, you felt that way at that time and you will never regret it. I applaud your fearless heart and the time when you rise to it and show it that you have what it takes to be more incredible than you ever thought you could be.
Zoe - I am totally emailing you on Facebook after I post this. I have a million things to say to all your wonderful comments.
Vivi - I love that you know the Elmo song. I actually didn't even realize there was one until my friend sent me the link. I'm so out with the cool kids...and by kids, I mean three year olds. Happy New Year to you, too. I hope it brings you love and light and leaves out all the rest. Thank you for the layout love. I found it on a website and I, too, fell in love with it and would have its illegitimate children.
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