And I was all like:
But then later, I saw this:
And then I was like:
The End.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Personal Log, Stardate 64569.1
OMG so today I saw this:
And I was all like:
But then later, I saw this:
And then I was like:
And I was all like:
But then later, I saw this:
And then I was like:
Monday, January 24, 2011
Dorothy
On the day I turned six, I got a new neighbor. By the profound levels of logic innate in all six year olds, I had deduced that because this new person arrived on my birthday, she somehow belonged to me. She wasn't exactly what I would have asked for as a birthday gift, but she was new and therefore I had to investigate.
My new neighbor wasn't just old...she was ancient, like grandmother ancient. She came from a time when televisions had hand-cranks and cars were made mostly of wood. Had I known what a hobbit was at six years old, she would have reminded me of one; short, round, with rosy cheeks and a Rankin Bass cartoon smile.
She came included with 2 cats, an old man in a recliner, one of those old wooden hand-crank televisions, and her very own set of furniture. As soon as the moving truck was unloaded, the empty apartment next to mine instantly transformed into the largest doll house known to mankind, and I wanted to play with it.
After the quick introductions which involved my mom's half embarrassed apology for my intrusion into our neighbor's new domicile, and my neighbor's unwise decision to say I was welcome to visit any time, I quickly set about making interior design suggestions and asking the million questions that any six year old would ask when surrounded by unopened boxes on her birthday.
Dorothy and I quickly became the best of friends, which was not as surprising as one might think. Dorothy was not like most adults who have arbitrary rules for how children must behave indoors. In fact, Dorothy had almost no rules. I could
Blow bubbles in her house:
Bring my friends over any time:
Color with crayons and eat lunch *at the same time*:
put doll clothes on her cats:
AND, most importantly, turn her dining room furniture into barnyard animals using cut up pieces of construction paper.
This last part stands out most in my mind. My best friend helped me to create the most amazing creature in the world using Dorothy's dining room chair and construction paper. We cut out paper horse parts, taped them to the chair,
and named the chair "Poopsie." The name came from the fact that attached to Poopsie's rear end with tape was an abstract clump of brown construction paper. I'm sure you can make your own deductions from there. Poopsie resided in Dorothy's house for as long as I can remember. Years went by and still there was faithful old Poopsie, ready for adventure, and for sitting on when food was served at the table for her creators. Poopsie's co-creators remain best friends to this day, and we still reminisce about Dorothy and Poopsie.
Later on I would find out that Dorothy never married, never had children, and the creepy man in the recliner was not her husband, but in fact, her older brother. In retrospect, this would explain why she allowed me, a child, to do all sorts of crazy things in her house. She had no idea of the consequences of giving a child arts and crafts supplies and an unchecked freedom of her home.
Still, I don't think Dorothy minded any of the crazy things I would do in her home. In fact, I think she was proud of me because she was always happy with everything I did, and often rewarded me with sandwiches made with Miracle Whip. Even as a small child I was too fond of Dorothy to ever tell her that I hated Miracle Whip. I ate the sandwiches as though they were laced with crack.
I lost touch with Dorothy a few years after I moved to a galaxy far far away. Hey, the distance between five states can be measured in light years to a kid that regularly fell asleep on the ride to Wal-mart.
Boys and school got in the way I suppose, but I never forgot about her. Eventually the letters just stopped coming, and me being the naive person I can sometimes be, figured that she was just as busy as I was. (As if old people in assisted living homes have booked schedules). I put it out of my mind, but a few years back, when I remembered that the interweb is all powerful, I looked her up in the social security death index. Lo and behold, Dorothy had died at age 79 in 2004 just 2 weeks before my birthday.
Dorothy was an awesome lady. I could feel all guilty about having lost touch with someone to the point of not knowing they had died five years prior, but I'm pretty sure she would just come back as a zombie and scold me for being so negative and hard on myself. She would do that too, because that's just how freakin cool she was. Poopsie zombie would be with her, but instead of telepathically begging me for construction paper carrots, Poopsie Zombie would want construction paper brains instead.
And Dorothy, well...she'd probably invite me over for a brain sandwich with cheese and Miracle Whip, and I would probably oblige. You never turn down an undead person's invitation for lunch when you're not actually on the menu. Besides, I don't have the heart to tell her I still don't like Miracle Whip.
My new neighbor wasn't just old...she was ancient, like grandmother ancient. She came from a time when televisions had hand-cranks and cars were made mostly of wood. Had I known what a hobbit was at six years old, she would have reminded me of one; short, round, with rosy cheeks and a Rankin Bass cartoon smile.
 |
| This would be Dorothy. But with white hair. Minus the furry feet. And the pipe. |
She came included with 2 cats, an old man in a recliner, one of those old wooden hand-crank televisions, and her very own set of furniture. As soon as the moving truck was unloaded, the empty apartment next to mine instantly transformed into the largest doll house known to mankind, and I wanted to play with it.
After the quick introductions which involved my mom's half embarrassed apology for my intrusion into our neighbor's new domicile, and my neighbor's unwise decision to say I was welcome to visit any time, I quickly set about making interior design suggestions and asking the million questions that any six year old would ask when surrounded by unopened boxes on her birthday.
Dorothy and I quickly became the best of friends, which was not as surprising as one might think. Dorothy was not like most adults who have arbitrary rules for how children must behave indoors. In fact, Dorothy had almost no rules. I could
Blow bubbles in her house:
Bring my friends over any time:
Color with crayons and eat lunch *at the same time*:
put doll clothes on her cats:
AND, most importantly, turn her dining room furniture into barnyard animals using cut up pieces of construction paper.
This last part stands out most in my mind. My best friend helped me to create the most amazing creature in the world using Dorothy's dining room chair and construction paper. We cut out paper horse parts, taped them to the chair,
and named the chair "Poopsie." The name came from the fact that attached to Poopsie's rear end with tape was an abstract clump of brown construction paper. I'm sure you can make your own deductions from there. Poopsie resided in Dorothy's house for as long as I can remember. Years went by and still there was faithful old Poopsie, ready for adventure, and for sitting on when food was served at the table for her creators. Poopsie's co-creators remain best friends to this day, and we still reminisce about Dorothy and Poopsie.
Later on I would find out that Dorothy never married, never had children, and the creepy man in the recliner was not her husband, but in fact, her older brother. In retrospect, this would explain why she allowed me, a child, to do all sorts of crazy things in her house. She had no idea of the consequences of giving a child arts and crafts supplies and an unchecked freedom of her home.
Still, I don't think Dorothy minded any of the crazy things I would do in her home. In fact, I think she was proud of me because she was always happy with everything I did, and often rewarded me with sandwiches made with Miracle Whip. Even as a small child I was too fond of Dorothy to ever tell her that I hated Miracle Whip. I ate the sandwiches as though they were laced with crack.
I lost touch with Dorothy a few years after I moved to a galaxy far far away. Hey, the distance between five states can be measured in light years to a kid that regularly fell asleep on the ride to Wal-mart.
Boys and school got in the way I suppose, but I never forgot about her. Eventually the letters just stopped coming, and me being the naive person I can sometimes be, figured that she was just as busy as I was. (As if old people in assisted living homes have booked schedules). I put it out of my mind, but a few years back, when I remembered that the interweb is all powerful, I looked her up in the social security death index. Lo and behold, Dorothy had died at age 79 in 2004 just 2 weeks before my birthday.
Dorothy was an awesome lady. I could feel all guilty about having lost touch with someone to the point of not knowing they had died five years prior, but I'm pretty sure she would just come back as a zombie and scold me for being so negative and hard on myself. She would do that too, because that's just how freakin cool she was. Poopsie zombie would be with her, but instead of telepathically begging me for construction paper carrots, Poopsie Zombie would want construction paper brains instead.
And Dorothy, well...she'd probably invite me over for a brain sandwich with cheese and Miracle Whip, and I would probably oblige. You never turn down an undead person's invitation for lunch when you're not actually on the menu. Besides, I don't have the heart to tell her I still don't like Miracle Whip.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Resolutions Schmesolutions!
Yay, 2011 is on like donkey dongs! I'm still not entirely over the fact that I can't say "oh-ten" like I could with the years "oh-seven," "oh-eight," and "oh-nine." Perhaps this will be the year of spite where I refer to it as "oh-eleven" just to watch people as they nod and slowly realize that there's a possibility my math skills are not as they should be.
I don't have a new year's resolution. I gave up on that practice several years ago when I discovered that motivation was not something I have an abundance of. Why? I've yet to figure that out. It's not laziness, for sure. If I'm asked to do something like move a 300 lb television across the room, I hop to it like Captain Responsibility to save the day!
If I'm left to my own whims to do simple things like make my bed, I'll get around to it...eventually (not really.)
So here's a list of things I *might* get around to this year:
Moar bullets, please!
Quit smoking. I smoke. This is a fact. Yes, I know it's bad for me. No, I don't need to see more pictures of cancer infected lungs. I am aware of the consequences.
Sadly, my biggest motivator is money. Five dollars a pack just sucks. I could use that money to promote the illusion that I'm a responsible adult, by doing things like paying back school loans.
Get a job. This one is difficult. I have a couple factors working against me. As a general rule, I hate people. Sorry people. Nothing personal. It's just that a lot of you are dumb and scary and your presence causes me to get headaches and to do this thing where I twitch and palpitate and eventually lose the ability to use my native language in an intelligent manner. Dealing with me in a work environment is much like going through the Dead Marshes with Smeagol/Gollum as your guide to Mordor.
I'm quite happy to do things in order to make my master happy, until I find out he's been fondling his ring of power and letting his fat and stupid assistant manager talk shit about me behind my back.
Lose weight. This is a silly one. I don't even know why I put that here. I'm 135 pounds (9.6 stone, if you're British). Still within a healthy range, but I'm rather squishy.
I used to weigh barely 100 lbs, which is pretty freakin' skinny, but not for lack of eating. I love food. The downside is, I'm unaccustomed to being squishy, and I've become pretty squishy. The upside - boobs and butt. On second thought, let's pretend this resolution never happened.
I'm going to attempt to delude myself into thinking I'm totally freakin' awesome. Why? Why not. I'm an awkward person. I've tried pretending to fit in with people, but for some reason, they're able to sniff me out like a bunch of 18th century sailors on a boat with a cross-dressing female stowaway. I got into a debate with my manperson today about my inability to accept criticism from strangers. Even though I still view the argument as a stalemate, we each made one valid point.
Me: People are assholes.
Him: People are assholes.
Why we disagreed about this, I'm not sure. But one thing became clear: Assholes' opinions don't count. So, if you don't think I'm totally freakin awesome, I think you're an asshole. In my universe, assholes would vanish in a magical puff of smoke.
In a universe where assholes vanish, I'm left with only people who think I'm awesome. There. Delusion accomplished!
Take my meds! I know this should be a no brainer, but, I'm really bad about remembering to put *anything* in my stomach on a regular schedule.
Like I've said before, I have more good days than bad days with my bipolar, but...just because I'm obliviously happy in my little world doesn't mean I'm stable. Quite the contrary. Some days I'm about as stable as a two legged bar stool on dollar margarita night.
I would add "attempt to procrastinate less," but seeing how I started writing this last week and I'm just now getting around to finishing, editing and adding my artwork of DOOM....yeah, that is so not happening.
I don't have a new year's resolution. I gave up on that practice several years ago when I discovered that motivation was not something I have an abundance of. Why? I've yet to figure that out. It's not laziness, for sure. If I'm asked to do something like move a 300 lb television across the room, I hop to it like Captain Responsibility to save the day!
If I'm left to my own whims to do simple things like make my bed, I'll get around to it...eventually (not really.)
So here's a list of things I *might* get around to this year:
Moar bullets, please!
Quit smoking. I smoke. This is a fact. Yes, I know it's bad for me. No, I don't need to see more pictures of cancer infected lungs. I am aware of the consequences. 
Sadly, my biggest motivator is money. Five dollars a pack just sucks. I could use that money to promote the illusion that I'm a responsible adult, by doing things like paying back school loans.
Get a job. This one is difficult. I have a couple factors working against me. As a general rule, I hate people. Sorry people. Nothing personal. It's just that a lot of you are dumb and scary and your presence causes me to get headaches and to do this thing where I twitch and palpitate and eventually lose the ability to use my native language in an intelligent manner. Dealing with me in a work environment is much like going through the Dead Marshes with Smeagol/Gollum as your guide to Mordor. 
I'm quite happy to do things in order to make my master happy, until I find out he's been fondling his ring of power and letting his fat and stupid assistant manager talk shit about me behind my back.
Lose weight. This is a silly one. I don't even know why I put that here. I'm 135 pounds (9.6 stone, if you're British). Still within a healthy range, but I'm rather squishy.
I used to weigh barely 100 lbs, which is pretty freakin' skinny, but not for lack of eating. I love food. The downside is, I'm unaccustomed to being squishy, and I've become pretty squishy. The upside - boobs and butt. On second thought, let's pretend this resolution never happened.
I'm going to attempt to delude myself into thinking I'm totally freakin' awesome. Why? Why not. I'm an awkward person. I've tried pretending to fit in with people, but for some reason, they're able to sniff me out like a bunch of 18th century sailors on a boat with a cross-dressing female stowaway. I got into a debate with my manperson today about my inability to accept criticism from strangers. Even though I still view the argument as a stalemate, we each made one valid point. Me: People are assholes.
Him: People are assholes.
Why we disagreed about this, I'm not sure. But one thing became clear: Assholes' opinions don't count. So, if you don't think I'm totally freakin awesome, I think you're an asshole. In my universe, assholes would vanish in a magical puff of smoke.
In a universe where assholes vanish, I'm left with only people who think I'm awesome. There. Delusion accomplished!
Take my meds! I know this should be a no brainer, but, I'm really bad about remembering to put *anything* in my stomach on a regular schedule. 
Like I've said before, I have more good days than bad days with my bipolar, but...just because I'm obliviously happy in my little world doesn't mean I'm stable. Quite the contrary. Some days I'm about as stable as a two legged bar stool on dollar margarita night.
I would add "attempt to procrastinate less," but seeing how I started writing this last week and I'm just now getting around to finishing, editing and adding my artwork of DOOM....yeah, that is so not happening.
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