Big girl place

Today was a sublime day of excellence.

I will be moving in a week and due to some inconvenient, albeit fortuitous circumstances, (see previous post) I now have a 4G phone. This will come in quite handy to keep me from getting bored while I sit in my shiny new apartment, cold, in the dark, alone. (I will probably have to wait a week to turn on utilities because I am perpetually busy and their hours are TOTAL HORSESHIT.)

I am super happy about this move because, and I know this is weird, I don't like ham flavored ice cubes.


Yes. That is definitely what I said. Ham. Flavored. Ice. Cubes.

EWW.

You see, in my previous living situations, I have never come out on top. I seem to be magnetically attracted to liars, messy and/or skanky girls and those who are chronically lunatic-meltdown-prone. And they all look and sound normal. No one is safe. Most recently though, I have been living with 2 dudes.

The dudes have decided to pack the freezer with what can only be described as "man food". "Man food" seems to consist of meat and cheap popsicles. (The kind that taste okay until you realize the plastic pouch is murderously bad since it is made out of RAZORS OR SOME SHIT and slices your mouth.)

Delicious, right?

Clearly there is no room in such a masculine freezer space for feminine 'crap' (like vegetables or non-pork scented consumables) so I've basically been starving to death.

Anyway. Since I'm pretty sure ham is not meant to be frozen for a period of years, that would explain the  nasty flavor in the ice cubes. Considering the facts, I guess that really isn't too terrible but still, nothing makes cold beverages less refreshing than a strange ham aftertaste.

Murphy's Law apparently dictates that the lack of clean drinking water should result in absurd and perpetual thirst rivaling a rabid diabetic. Which it does.

I don't really know how to draw diabetes. Just use your imagination.

Other than the ham-cubes, life has only been slightly unbearable in small increments. That's what you get for living with dudes. From my understanding, dudes are smelly creatures with questionable hygiene and poor social skills. They play video games 24/7, eat, scratch in increasingly grotesque ways, make bad smells and monopolize basically everything.

Inconvenient.

 Sleeping at nighttime, when the outside is dark makes sense to me. For real.

Apparently, dudes prefer to use this time (especially before finals) to make smelly messes, really loud noises and scare Boyfriend's beloved cat into oblivion. Which I am positive, is conditioning her to become even more angry and unsettled. And clingier. And bite-ier.

Fantastic circumstances, really.


So when a big-girl-place fell into my lap, all I could think about was all the annoying boy crap I won't have to deal with anymore. And possibly a microwave NOT covered in unidentifiable substances all the time.

Instant. Love.

How much for an extra G?

About a month ago, my dad got bored and decided to give me a 3G phone. Since my phone at the time had only 2 G's, (or however many godforsaken G's normal phones have - I'm not a rocket scientist) I thought; "this seems like a fabulous idea."

So I went down to the phone-place and paid them a vast amount of money to give me cellular service. It very well may have been fabulous plan at one point. Unfortunately, it didn't last real long. Damn thing died immediately. (This conclusion came from my observation that usually, when buttons are pressed, things should happen.) So back to the phone-place went I, spewing curses and making awkward and unnecessary hand gestures.

I slapped it on the counter, scowled fiercely, pointed and grunted. (Obviously, I meant business). However, this merely resulted in me being informed by a lady with the longest fingernails I've ever seen telling me nonchalantly that it would only cost me about a bajillion dollars to fix my new phone or I could buy a new one for a slightly discounted price. (Read: save $2.)

I don't know why, but sales people like to make us feel bad about ourselves. As if I am just a lame sack of bones and hair unless I sign my life away to own whatever useless crap they are peddling at an inflated price. Lady Long Nails was no exception and she happened to be an excellent salesperson.

As I sat there, partially consumed with rage at the insanity of paying for a new phone twice and partially weirded out by the nails...

...my eye caught on something shiny.

I think one of my biggest flaws is that I am easily swayed. I am a telemarketer's wet dream. All that lady had to do was place something shinier and more expensive in my general vicinity and I was on that shit like the Grinch on Christmas. (Except I'm not green, or hairy or Christian. So...bad example...but you get the general idea.) I was all about poking a screen with my fingernail and knowing the weather in South Dakota in under two seconds. It made sense. I was home.

So instead of just yelling at her, bursting into a frustrated fit of tears or otherwise arguing until I got my way, I somehow managed to give her half of my bank account, my soul and my dignity and I left with a shiny new 4G phone.

So far I know how to poke it enthusiastically and yell.

Mystery drink

The last known occurrence of a 'mystery drink' situation was at a bar in New Orleans during Mardi Gras.

The"bar" was actually a glorified pit of despair hole in the wall that would have completely blended into the wall if not for the red pepper lights hanging around the door post and the enormous gentleman sitting next to the door in a dirty plastic chair that could only have managed not to splinter under this gigantic man with the aid of magic. The tiny bar was packed bar full of costumed (some guy was wearing what I still believe to be an actual, deceased moose's head) patrons.

That place was like this: Lots of people. Lots of alcohol. Lots of obnoxious sounds. It felt kind of like this:

It's beautiful, yet intriguing.

 

We ended up in a small corner where we yelled at our friends over the blasting music coming out of the speakers located roughly three inches from our heads. Boyfriend went over to the bar while I stood huddled in the corner, trying to prevent unnecessary touching from strangers. He reappeared a minute later and handed me a small plastic cup.

I sniffed it. I couldn’t smell any alcohol (this should have been a red flag). I sipped at it. It kinda tasted like fruit cocktail - this sent a signal to my brain that it must be as benign as watered down Kool-Aid. So I drank it. All of it. (In hindsight, this entire thing was my own damn fault.)

I felt fine for the first thirty seconds. Then all of a sudden, everything became ridiculously funny. After that it was all kind of a blur.

To be honest I'm not really 100% on what happened, but I do know that Boyfriend had to lovingly carry and/or drag my drunk self all the way home.
 

Here is this entire post in a nutshell:

...Maybe I should have just posted the diagram? Oh well.

Quick trip down memory lane: eating paste

Most parents think their kid is already hot shit once they start making coherent noises. Everyone likes to imagine that their offspring really is a genius, but let’s be honest; why would the most gifted child on the planet be so concerned with eating paste? You know, a lot more kids are paste-eaters than you think.

"Want a nickle?" "Hell yeah, I do!" "Eat this paste!" "Sounds like a great idea!"

Just sayin'.

This leads me to a story: In the first grade, we occasionally paid a girl named Mandy a nickel to eat paste. I guess we got some twisted satisfaction out of this. (Don't judge me, she totally liked it.)

Every day we gave her the pocket change our parents gave us to buy child-sized cartons of juice and Mandy ate glue. (Man, I really hope it's not actually made out of horses. SNL said it was made out of horses.)

I wonder where Mandy is now? And more importantly, I wonder if she still likes paste?

Yeah. That was the whole story.

Why a book by me would never sell

People always tell me (with exasperation/superiority complex), "everything always happens to you." *insert irritating eye roll*

Things happen to me all the time. Things happen to everyone. Most people just don't feel a need to illustrate them poorly.

So for all of you who say that...you should know I picture you like this:

I happen to be a little bit of a drama queen - somehow, I feel like it is necessary to share my experiences through story telling, poorly executed attempts at art and interpretive dance.

Okay, so not interpretive dance. I'm a terrible dancer.

Regardless.

A book by me would be random and distorted with a poorly constructed plot. I lose interest quickly and go off on random tangents about nothing. Sometimes I surprise myself by completing what I start, but honestly, that is incredibly rare. Like unicorns.

In the hypothetical that I ever did successfully write a book, people would flock to their neighborhood book peddlers and snatch up every copy. They would read the first few pages and giggle a high pitched giggle of excitement and glee. And then they would realize how random and distorted it was. And how poorly the plot was constructed.

They would hold my book, staring lamely at my masterpiece with discontent. They would flop around like dying fishes. I'm pretty sure that they would eventually succumb to a feeling of helplessness and general malaise - too depressed to do anything but lie on the floor and wait for the world to end.

I can't sit idly by and watch all of you regret a purchase like this.

It's because I care.

Cat terrified of larger cat.

My sister dressed up as a cat for Halloween. (Not that creative but a crowd pleaser.)

That is not important. What is important is that my actual cat was scared shitless of her.

The cat fluffed up to double her size, her ears went down and she was backing away slowly while hissing,  spitting and gnashing her teeth.

 It was awesome.

My sister kept saying "oh it's okay, I'll pet her and it'll be fine!" but that was not the case. The cat had sensed competition in another, larger feline and she knew she stood no chance. She ran away and hid under the living room furniture. And that's totally fine because she can't bite me from there.

Once again, I would like to reiterate. It was awesome.

Stealing Halloween candy from children

So on Halloween, the most awesome holiday ever, I went to the store and bought candy for trick or treaters. (I live with two dudes who are very unlikely to think that far ahead.)

My roommates were continuously warned not to consume said candy. I pointed and gestured. I raised my voice so they could hear me over the TV. I threatened them with bodily harm. I repeated myself.

 

 

They promised. I forced them to make eye contact with me and promise. They promised again with eye contact.

They lied.

They never turned on the outside light and they ate all the candy before 7pm.

For lack of better options, I silently raged.

That's all I've got.