I was walking down the street today, obviously to an amazing place where awesome people such as myself hang out, when I started coughing like an angry... fucking angry porcupine was jammed all up in my throat and trying to shit its way out. I reached into my pocket for the pack of Halls (the freshmaker! or wait, no, the, something else, what?) I had the foresight to carry with me in order to avoid a situation where I hack up a lung onto a very busy road, possibly causing major property damage.
Instead of the Halls, I felt three thin pieces of plastic that hadn't been there previously. Curiously, I pulled them out and squinted at them. There was a driver's license, a St. Catherine's library card, and a Meridian Credit Union card. The middle-aged lady on the license looked entirely unfamiliar to me. I ran a hand over my face quickly, just to ascertain I hadn't entered a parallel universe in which I'm a harried-looking white woman. Nope, still pretty old me. Who was this mysteriously lady that had appeared in my pocket?
Google didn't know her. Neither did Facebook. It was as if she had disappeared from this world - as everyone knows, if you don't exist on the internet, you don't exist, period. Unless you're over 40, in which case no one cares anyways. I even asked my dear friend 4chan, but all I got in return was a beautifully framed picture of a horse raping a man. No luck.
Three cards. Three questions. Who. How. Why. As Horatio Caine would say, "Sometimes... the truth is in the cards," YAAAAAAOOOOOOOWWWWW!!!
Eventually I calmed down and thought of a logical course of action. I tried calling Batman, but I kept reaching this 'Mrs. Davidson' person instead. She told me I had the wrong number... but I suspected a coverup. I analyzed the cards carefully. Unfortunately, unlike Nicholas Cage, I'm no treasure hunter, and couldn't find a single clue hidden deep within the numbers and letters. I did, however, find a small piece of popcorn hidden in my navel.
After three hours of puzzlement and worry, I decided to give it a rest. The only logical, reasonable explanation is that aliens did it. Thank goodness for Mulder and Scully, those brave, entirely non-fictional people keeping our planet safe from the invaders.
I mysteriously stopped peeing later that night. WHAT IS HAPPENING?!
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
D-Bag
I was served lunch by a D-Bag today.
I knew he was a D-Bag when I approached the counter. The collar on his Subway ("Eat Fresh!") uniform was popped, as if he was trying to say, "My shirt is having an erection from touching my skin." He had his work hat tipped at an angle that seemed random, but one he probably spent 4 hours in front of the mirror calculating, while snapping his fingers at his reflection.
I watched as he attempted to hit on his coworker who was like, twice his age. "That's a dirty sub," he commented, trying to catch her eye as she steadfastly ignored him, a vein twitching in her temple. "You're wrapping it wrong," he continued, using the tried-and-true kindergarten method of "Annoy her, like, shove a frog down her dress, and if she cries it means she likes you."
A bitter feeling rose up my body as I suppressed the urge to vomit all over the counter. I tried not to meet his gaze, but I could still feel his D-stare piercing the top of my head. "Yo man," he said lazily, which provoked my mouth into foaming like a rabid dog. I quickly looked up with wide eyes, trying in vain to crack the blank, dead look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who spends too much money on hair gel and drives a 'pimped-out' Honda Civic. This is coming from me, someone who recognizes that his entire racial identity revolves around driving dressed-up shitty cars.
I handed over my debit card with the tip of my fingers, afraid that, like a virus, the D-Bagatitis would jump from his skin and colonize my body, turning me into a shambling wreck of a man who only buys pink, undersized clothes from American Eagle. Unfortunately, he seemed unable to work the machine, an obvious display of technological ineptitude and general incompetence. It took a good minute before the card was eventually returned to me.
As I turned to leave, he said, "See you next week, or whatever." See me next week?! I've never seen the guy before, and I go to Subway once every two months, if ever; so the inanity of that statement popped three blood vessels in my brain, a very important factor since I have an exam tomorrow. I could only assume he had mistaken me for every other Chinese person on the planet. I spun around, rage in my eyes, and leaped onto the counter with my teeth bared. I grabbed a pile of hot peppers and threw them into his face, and as the capsaicin burned his eyes out, I maniacally pelted him with pieces of steaming bacon.
Eventually, he dropped to the ground, covering in crumbled pieces of cookie and potato chips. His collar had wilted from the constant barrage of deli meats, and his sculpted hair had been completely destroyed by a well-placed shot of sweet onion sauce. Triumphantly, I punched my fist into the air, screaming, "LIBERATED PEOPLE! REJOICE, FOR D-BAGGERY IS NO MORE! YOU ARE FREEEEEEEE!!!" before running breakneck out of the sandwich shop, dodging the terrified stares of the other customers.
On the way back to school, I saw a girl across the street in a horribly orange tan, wearing sandals with socks. My mouth began to foam. Oh, the pathos.
I knew he was a D-Bag when I approached the counter. The collar on his Subway ("Eat Fresh!") uniform was popped, as if he was trying to say, "My shirt is having an erection from touching my skin." He had his work hat tipped at an angle that seemed random, but one he probably spent 4 hours in front of the mirror calculating, while snapping his fingers at his reflection.
I watched as he attempted to hit on his coworker who was like, twice his age. "That's a dirty sub," he commented, trying to catch her eye as she steadfastly ignored him, a vein twitching in her temple. "You're wrapping it wrong," he continued, using the tried-and-true kindergarten method of "Annoy her, like, shove a frog down her dress, and if she cries it means she likes you."
A bitter feeling rose up my body as I suppressed the urge to vomit all over the counter. I tried not to meet his gaze, but I could still feel his D-stare piercing the top of my head. "Yo man," he said lazily, which provoked my mouth into foaming like a rabid dog. I quickly looked up with wide eyes, trying in vain to crack the blank, dead look in his eyes, the eyes of a man who spends too much money on hair gel and drives a 'pimped-out' Honda Civic. This is coming from me, someone who recognizes that his entire racial identity revolves around driving dressed-up shitty cars.
I handed over my debit card with the tip of my fingers, afraid that, like a virus, the D-Bagatitis would jump from his skin and colonize my body, turning me into a shambling wreck of a man who only buys pink, undersized clothes from American Eagle. Unfortunately, he seemed unable to work the machine, an obvious display of technological ineptitude and general incompetence. It took a good minute before the card was eventually returned to me.
As I turned to leave, he said, "See you next week, or whatever." See me next week?! I've never seen the guy before, and I go to Subway once every two months, if ever; so the inanity of that statement popped three blood vessels in my brain, a very important factor since I have an exam tomorrow. I could only assume he had mistaken me for every other Chinese person on the planet. I spun around, rage in my eyes, and leaped onto the counter with my teeth bared. I grabbed a pile of hot peppers and threw them into his face, and as the capsaicin burned his eyes out, I maniacally pelted him with pieces of steaming bacon.
Eventually, he dropped to the ground, covering in crumbled pieces of cookie and potato chips. His collar had wilted from the constant barrage of deli meats, and his sculpted hair had been completely destroyed by a well-placed shot of sweet onion sauce. Triumphantly, I punched my fist into the air, screaming, "LIBERATED PEOPLE! REJOICE, FOR D-BAGGERY IS NO MORE! YOU ARE FREEEEEEEE!!!" before running breakneck out of the sandwich shop, dodging the terrified stares of the other customers.
On the way back to school, I saw a girl across the street in a horribly orange tan, wearing sandals with socks. My mouth began to foam. Oh, the pathos.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Hello
This is my new blog.
I am going to stop being emo right now.
... unfortunately, that doesn't leave me much to write about. I don't really have many interesting stories that aren't depressing. Sometimes, it just seems like everyone likes the dirty stuff.
Fortunately, I'm also a Plumbline Editor. For those of you out of the loop, that's my school's joke newspaper, made from recycled paper and the tears of infants. I wrote an article about trying to run while shitting, and it was terrifying enough to make my sphincter clench in fear. Don't worry, I was fine after taking some Metamucil.
So why the new blog? Well, if you've ever seen my other one, it's dark, black, full of woe, and just all-around depressing. I used to convince people the black was for functionality - it's easy on the eyes! - but the content just kept getting more and more depressing until I couldn't even stand it myself. Just looking at my blog made me want to (figuratively) cut open a few veins and cry in a corner.
Not to say that I've changed at all. No, I just think that I could do with two blogs. That way, the happy posts are separate from the depressing ones, like salt from pepper, or Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards. It reduces the chance of an odd overlap, like, "what is this happy post doing on such a depressing website?", or "oh my Gandhi they are killing each other now there is so much blood!"
I think I'm going to start off with something recent. I just got my cousin's wedding invitation in the post, alongside the multiple bills and usual junk mail, which of course made it stand out like a diamond in a bucket of fish urine. I haven't seen my cousin for a good 10 years, not counting that time we ran into each other at a restaurant in Malaysia, and we were both too awkward to say a word to each other (me because I was a teenage hormonal volcano, with the constant threat of my voice cracking like I just got sacked, and him because he was sitting next to a teenage volcano whose voice was liable to start sounding like Mickey Mouse with every word). Unfortunately, the wedding is on Valentine's Day (how sweet), which coincides with the beginning of my midterm hell week. We'll see how it goes. Perhaps my school will be swallowed up by the uprising of the mole men, who thereafter invade the surface world, enslaving us all and breeding with our women.
People need to start mailing letters more. I know it's hypocritical of me, since I'm the biggest tech geek you will probably have the misfortune to meet, but I like getting snail mail. It's the surprise at receiving a personal message in the midst of the taxes, then the anxiety as you carefully (or haphazardly) tear away at the flimsy envelope (although some nowadays seem to be made of titanium; must be that anthrax thing), and extract the letter, possibly containing money, from inside. Personally, I use a letter opener, one shaped like a tiny samurai sword, since it makes me feel sort of cool - and if you've ever met me, you'll agree I need all the cool I can get. If I manage to get the letter out unscathed by wild ninja chopping, it's actually a pretty cool feeling reading it, knowing someone took their sweet time to write, instead of typing up an email.
I also sniff the letter sometimes. All that air has been sealed up from when the sender wrote it, and depending on where that was, the air contains a certain smell. A lot of the letters I get, for example, are from Malaysia, so all the envelopes smell like humidity, fruit, and open sewers. Hey, I never claimed it was a pleasant smell, just interesting. Also note that I never claimed I was entirely sane. I have it on good authority that sane people don't usually sniff their letters. Just be glad I don't eat it. Unless it's from my contacts in the government and I'm required to dispose of the evidence. No, I don't have to eat it, it self-destructs eventually, but they use a really special kind of official document paper that tastes uncannily like spaghetti.
Oooookay! I think it's time for me to pass out in my bed. Remember people, tomorrow is another day, and with another day comes another sunrise, and hopefully the sun won't explode and fry us all, leaving everyone exposed to burn while the survivors cower in the arctic circle, forever fleeing from that fiery line of destruction that comes with the day... yeah, I don't know where I'm going with this. PEACE OUT (as that popped-collar douchebag on YTV would say).
I am going to stop being emo right now.
... unfortunately, that doesn't leave me much to write about. I don't really have many interesting stories that aren't depressing. Sometimes, it just seems like everyone likes the dirty stuff.
Fortunately, I'm also a Plumbline Editor. For those of you out of the loop, that's my school's joke newspaper, made from recycled paper and the tears of infants. I wrote an article about trying to run while shitting, and it was terrifying enough to make my sphincter clench in fear. Don't worry, I was fine after taking some Metamucil.
So why the new blog? Well, if you've ever seen my other one, it's dark, black, full of woe, and just all-around depressing. I used to convince people the black was for functionality - it's easy on the eyes! - but the content just kept getting more and more depressing until I couldn't even stand it myself. Just looking at my blog made me want to (figuratively) cut open a few veins and cry in a corner.
Not to say that I've changed at all. No, I just think that I could do with two blogs. That way, the happy posts are separate from the depressing ones, like salt from pepper, or Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards. It reduces the chance of an odd overlap, like, "what is this happy post doing on such a depressing website?", or "oh my Gandhi they are killing each other now there is so much blood!"
I think I'm going to start off with something recent. I just got my cousin's wedding invitation in the post, alongside the multiple bills and usual junk mail, which of course made it stand out like a diamond in a bucket of fish urine. I haven't seen my cousin for a good 10 years, not counting that time we ran into each other at a restaurant in Malaysia, and we were both too awkward to say a word to each other (me because I was a teenage hormonal volcano, with the constant threat of my voice cracking like I just got sacked, and him because he was sitting next to a teenage volcano whose voice was liable to start sounding like Mickey Mouse with every word). Unfortunately, the wedding is on Valentine's Day (how sweet), which coincides with the beginning of my midterm hell week. We'll see how it goes. Perhaps my school will be swallowed up by the uprising of the mole men, who thereafter invade the surface world, enslaving us all and breeding with our women.
People need to start mailing letters more. I know it's hypocritical of me, since I'm the biggest tech geek you will probably have the misfortune to meet, but I like getting snail mail. It's the surprise at receiving a personal message in the midst of the taxes, then the anxiety as you carefully (or haphazardly) tear away at the flimsy envelope (although some nowadays seem to be made of titanium; must be that anthrax thing), and extract the letter, possibly containing money, from inside. Personally, I use a letter opener, one shaped like a tiny samurai sword, since it makes me feel sort of cool - and if you've ever met me, you'll agree I need all the cool I can get. If I manage to get the letter out unscathed by wild ninja chopping, it's actually a pretty cool feeling reading it, knowing someone took their sweet time to write, instead of typing up an email.
I also sniff the letter sometimes. All that air has been sealed up from when the sender wrote it, and depending on where that was, the air contains a certain smell. A lot of the letters I get, for example, are from Malaysia, so all the envelopes smell like humidity, fruit, and open sewers. Hey, I never claimed it was a pleasant smell, just interesting. Also note that I never claimed I was entirely sane. I have it on good authority that sane people don't usually sniff their letters. Just be glad I don't eat it. Unless it's from my contacts in the government and I'm required to dispose of the evidence. No, I don't have to eat it, it self-destructs eventually, but they use a really special kind of official document paper that tastes uncannily like spaghetti.
Oooookay! I think it's time for me to pass out in my bed. Remember people, tomorrow is another day, and with another day comes another sunrise, and hopefully the sun won't explode and fry us all, leaving everyone exposed to burn while the survivors cower in the arctic circle, forever fleeing from that fiery line of destruction that comes with the day... yeah, I don't know where I'm going with this. PEACE OUT (as that popped-collar douchebag on YTV would say).
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