Don't worry; I don't understand it, either. <3
....
Play it Again, Beast Jesus!
You probably remember this image from last month. I thought I'd post it again, though. You know. Since it's being featured in the NEW YORK MAGAZINE. How cool is that? ^_^
A new post is coming soon, but I just had to share the joy with you beautiful people. Please be sure to follow the baker, if you haven't already: @amy_easton
And, you know, me too, if you wanna.
@meteoroflgy
Cheers!
...
Voting Day!
We made it, friends! It's going to be over one way or the other soon enough, and then we can stop tearing each other's throats out.
I'm sure by now you all know who I voted for.
I'm proud to say I made my own way to the polls, thank you very fucking much Google maps...
...and because they ran out early, I even had to make my own sticker with this one I've had laying around (for some reason...)
...but dammit, my civic duty is DONE. I hope you do the same. I will now spend the duration of the day listening to riot rock and envisioning a new American Revolution.
...
I'm sure by now you all know who I voted for.
I'm proud to say I made my own way to the polls, thank you very fucking much Google maps...
 |
| I guess I was supposed to fly around the closed road, like a majestic Bald Eagle... |
...and because they ran out early, I even had to make my own sticker with this one I've had laying around (for some reason...)
...but dammit, my civic duty is DONE. I hope you do the same. I will now spend the duration of the day listening to riot rock and envisioning a new American Revolution.
...
99 Problems, But My Friends Solve Some
And by some, I mean a lot.
So, for those who may or may not have picked up on the "subtleties" of my personality by now, I do have, all joking aside, some stupid, little emotional problems that get the best of me sometimes. The doctors have their fancy names for it, but I like to call it "The Weepies." It's cute, and it usually downplays my bad days enough to avoid undue concern from friends and family. But mostly, it's just cute.
Basically, all these fancy brain dysfunctions mean, is that when things are a little wrong, I usually think they are very, very wrong. And unfortunately, that means when things are legitimately, very, very wrong, I look a little something like this:
The most legitimately very, very bad thing that happened to me lately hit me right in the heart, the trust bone, and the wallet.
Very long story short, due to another legitimate bad thing involving insurance, I was short on rent money for October, and had to borrow some from my Marmie to make rent. I also couldn't get to the bank in time the day I paid rent, and subsequently left half cash, half check, secured in a sealed envelope, inside of their safety deposit box. (Key word: Safety. I have, since this incident, gone back to test it. There is no way into this box without a key.)
Not the smartest move, I know, but allow me to explain myself: I've rented from my current landlord for about 3 or 4 years now, and have absolutely adored them. I recommended them to all of my friends, never had any issues with any of the staff, and had all maintenance requests (no matter how large or small) always resolved within a timely manner. They're even nice enough to not really care about late fees, on the occasions I pay past due. Maybe it's because I've been there so long or something, I don't know. In any event, I've established a certain trust and fondness for this place over my stay here.
So... you can imagine my surprise when my check takes longer to clear, and upon calling to make sure they received my rent, they "magically" have no record of it arriving.
Since I dropped it off by hand, and made sure it went securely into their deposit box, and since there is absolutely no way into that deposit box without a key... that obviously leaves only one option as to what happened to my check, and the cash that accompanied it: Someone in my landlord's office pocketed my borrowed cash, destroyed my check and all the other evidence, and left me high and dry.
Suffice to say, I'm a little heart broken. This house I've come to love over the past few years seems so much less like a home, now. Not only that, the office refused to absorb a portion of the cost. I mean, I can't say I blame them; As a manager, I suppose you have to side with your staff, and if the customer has no evidence, they also have no means of retribution. It's still just hard to believe that people can be so shameless, especially this close to the holidays. Personally, I feel bad if I take an extra mint while leaving a restaurant. What kind of person can take what they obviously know is someone's rent money from a stranger, just like that?
This situation would stress and depress just about anyone. But remember, kids. I'm not just anyone. I have The Weepies! So, to be honest, there has been a lot more crying, hiding, sobbing, sleeping, and generally hiding from the world than I'd like, as of late.
Today, unfortunately, was another rotten day. My new (new-new-new insurance, since we've had to switch four motherfucking times at work this year) got rejected at CVS for the medicine that keeps The Weepies in check. I only had the temporary card, though, and was hoping to come home and find my new card in the mail, so I could go fill my Rx. No dice.
I sat in the car, crying, holding my other pieces of mail and feeling overwhelmed. Without insurance, anti-Weepie pills cost $200 out of pocket. I already had to do this once last month when my company let our insurance lapse. I was looking at my third strike in one month's time (in financially-getting-screwed-over terms,) and just broke down, right there in my parking lot. After a minute, I looked down at the mail I was still holding, and noticed a larger number of envelopes than usual. One looked like the invitation, another, possibly some sneaky attempt to get my attention by a bill collector of some kind.
But then, I started noticing the addressees.
Some came with a card or a note, others just a happy reminder in the "memo" section to keep my chin up, and to remember I had friends. Oh, what "memo" section, you ask? The memo section of the checks these friends sent me, to help me recoup my losses from my dishonest landlord.
I was already teary-eyed before I opened these correspondences over my insurance nonsense. But with each envelope I opened, I became more and more hysterical, but in a good way. (Though my neighbors, who were outside and watching the scene unfold, looked quite frightened.) I have a way of associating with wonderful people, who have done some amazing things for me over the years... but this was simply too much. It was so desperately needed, not only in the financial sense, but in the sense that I was reminded - and it couldn't have happened on a better day- that I'm not alone. It's the biggest dose of mental, emotional, financial, and spiritual help I've receive in recent memory from my friends, and possibly ever.
I don't know how to end this post. I don't know how to thank my friends enough, for their generosity, their concern, and their friendship. I don't know when my insurance bullshit will go away, or if karma will visit my landlord, or when the Weepies will gtfo of my face. (Yeah, I know they're kind of adorable, but fuck them, seriously.) But I do know that I have amazing friends, who have always been supportive of me, whether I wanted to accept that support or not, and I can't thank them enough for reminding me of this important fact.
Share this story with your friends, will you? Spread the feels. <3
Update: And apparently, this was all organized by another sweet, amazing friend of mine, Shane's brother, Rob. His heart is as big as his hair is curly, and that man has some beautiful, curly locks, let me assure you. Bobert... I'm beyond blessed to have you as a friend. I've always thought that you're one of the sweetest gentlemen I know, and now, I have proof for the world to see. I seriously, seriously love you. <3
((Also - If there's anything else in the mail, and you haven't been mentioned, I will provide updates accordingly. This is just what I had in the mailbox for today.))
Another update: It's so crazy and flattering to me that people are still thinkin' about me and wanting to help defeat the powers of landlord evil.
Myyyyyy bologna has a first name, it's A-N-G-I-E
My bologna has a second, name, it's (privacy censor)
Angie (Censored) has a way
With whisking all my bluuues awaaaayyy.....
(Thanks, buddy. <3 )
...
(Warning: You're going to have to allow me some emotional self-indulgence, here.
I want to share a touching experience with you.)
I want to share a touching experience with you.)
So, for those who may or may not have picked up on the "subtleties" of my personality by now, I do have, all joking aside, some stupid, little emotional problems that get the best of me sometimes. The doctors have their fancy names for it, but I like to call it "The Weepies." It's cute, and it usually downplays my bad days enough to avoid undue concern from friends and family. But mostly, it's just cute.
 |
| Worst cartoon pitch ever, right here. Your move, Fox Network... |
Basically, all these fancy brain dysfunctions mean, is that when things are a little wrong, I usually think they are very, very wrong. And unfortunately, that means when things are legitimately, very, very wrong, I look a little something like this:
The most legitimately very, very bad thing that happened to me lately hit me right in the heart, the trust bone, and the wallet.
Very long story short, due to another legitimate bad thing involving insurance, I was short on rent money for October, and had to borrow some from my Marmie to make rent. I also couldn't get to the bank in time the day I paid rent, and subsequently left half cash, half check, secured in a sealed envelope, inside of their safety deposit box. (Key word: Safety. I have, since this incident, gone back to test it. There is no way into this box without a key.)
Not the smartest move, I know, but allow me to explain myself: I've rented from my current landlord for about 3 or 4 years now, and have absolutely adored them. I recommended them to all of my friends, never had any issues with any of the staff, and had all maintenance requests (no matter how large or small) always resolved within a timely manner. They're even nice enough to not really care about late fees, on the occasions I pay past due. Maybe it's because I've been there so long or something, I don't know. In any event, I've established a certain trust and fondness for this place over my stay here.
So... you can imagine my surprise when my check takes longer to clear, and upon calling to make sure they received my rent, they "magically" have no record of it arriving.
 |
| "Magically....." |
Since I dropped it off by hand, and made sure it went securely into their deposit box, and since there is absolutely no way into that deposit box without a key... that obviously leaves only one option as to what happened to my check, and the cash that accompanied it: Someone in my landlord's office pocketed my borrowed cash, destroyed my check and all the other evidence, and left me high and dry.
Suffice to say, I'm a little heart broken. This house I've come to love over the past few years seems so much less like a home, now. Not only that, the office refused to absorb a portion of the cost. I mean, I can't say I blame them; As a manager, I suppose you have to side with your staff, and if the customer has no evidence, they also have no means of retribution. It's still just hard to believe that people can be so shameless, especially this close to the holidays. Personally, I feel bad if I take an extra mint while leaving a restaurant. What kind of person can take what they obviously know is someone's rent money from a stranger, just like that?
This situation would stress and depress just about anyone. But remember, kids. I'm not just anyone. I have The Weepies! So, to be honest, there has been a lot more crying, hiding, sobbing, sleeping, and generally hiding from the world than I'd like, as of late.
Today, unfortunately, was another rotten day. My new (new-new-new insurance, since we've had to switch four motherfucking times at work this year) got rejected at CVS for the medicine that keeps The Weepies in check. I only had the temporary card, though, and was hoping to come home and find my new card in the mail, so I could go fill my Rx. No dice.
I sat in the car, crying, holding my other pieces of mail and feeling overwhelmed. Without insurance, anti-Weepie pills cost $200 out of pocket. I already had to do this once last month when my company let our insurance lapse. I was looking at my third strike in one month's time (in financially-getting-screwed-over terms,) and just broke down, right there in my parking lot. After a minute, I looked down at the mail I was still holding, and noticed a larger number of envelopes than usual. One looked like the invitation, another, possibly some sneaky attempt to get my attention by a bill collector of some kind.
But then, I started noticing the addressees.
(It should be noted that these are old, dear friends who I do not see nearly as much as I'd like.
Some live closer, some live as far away as Texas. Some I haven't seen in months, and some, in a couple years.
But generosity and amazing friendships know no boundaries... )
- One was from Paul, one of my oldest, dearest friends since highschool, with whom I've been through many a trial and tribulation, and also a good friend of mine, Lacey, who is one of the funnest, most huggable people you could ever meet. (Also, she has one hell of a beautiful singing voice.)
- One was from Hannah and Shane. I met the former through the latter, and simply put, she's an absolute sweetheart. I've rarely seen her without her signature warm, sincere, award-winning smile. And Shane, my tall, wonderful, hysterical, intelligent friend is so amazing, that I once named a cat after him.
- The invitation-looking deal was from my married friends: Kristin, with a beautiful voice and a heart of gold, and Brian, who is very close to being a male equivalent of myself in terms of humor and random fun, but kicks much more ass than I do at being a grown-up.
- The last one - my bill collector suspect, as there was no name in the addressee area- came from Lacey's mom, Janet, who I've gotten to know better over the past couple of years. She might be my biggest, or at least my personal favorite fan, for the simple fact that she reminds me to stay creative. (And when you stress like I do, that can be easy to forget, especially as of late.)
Some came with a card or a note, others just a happy reminder in the "memo" section to keep my chin up, and to remember I had friends. Oh, what "memo" section, you ask? The memo section of the checks these friends sent me, to help me recoup my losses from my dishonest landlord.
I was already teary-eyed before I opened these correspondences over my insurance nonsense. But with each envelope I opened, I became more and more hysterical, but in a good way. (Though my neighbors, who were outside and watching the scene unfold, looked quite frightened.) I have a way of associating with wonderful people, who have done some amazing things for me over the years... but this was simply too much. It was so desperately needed, not only in the financial sense, but in the sense that I was reminded - and it couldn't have happened on a better day- that I'm not alone. It's the biggest dose of mental, emotional, financial, and spiritual help I've receive in recent memory from my friends, and possibly ever.
I don't know how to end this post. I don't know how to thank my friends enough, for their generosity, their concern, and their friendship. I don't know when my insurance bullshit will go away, or if karma will visit my landlord, or when the Weepies will gtfo of my face. (Yeah, I know they're kind of adorable, but fuck them, seriously.) But I do know that I have amazing friends, who have always been supportive of me, whether I wanted to accept that support or not, and I can't thank them enough for reminding me of this important fact.
I needed this end, to this day, more than anyone can possibly know. ♥
Share this story with your friends, will you? Spread the feels. <3
Update: And apparently, this was all organized by another sweet, amazing friend of mine, Shane's brother, Rob. His heart is as big as his hair is curly, and that man has some beautiful, curly locks, let me assure you. Bobert... I'm beyond blessed to have you as a friend. I've always thought that you're one of the sweetest gentlemen I know, and now, I have proof for the world to see. I seriously, seriously love you. <3
((Also - If there's anything else in the mail, and you haven't been mentioned, I will provide updates accordingly. This is just what I had in the mailbox for today.))
Another update: It's so crazy and flattering to me that people are still thinkin' about me and wanting to help defeat the powers of landlord evil.
Myyyyyy bologna has a first name, it's A-N-G-I-E
My bologna has a second, name, it's (privacy censor)
Angie (Censored) has a way
With whisking all my bluuues awaaaayyy.....
(Thanks, buddy. <3 )
PS: I'm on the Twitter, and the Book of Faces.
...
Successful Disgusting Bachelorette Frog
Totally just happened. Gross/whew.
...My heart is still racing from this brief, yet epic battle. Hooray for apartment life, amirite? -_-
(And for those wondering, I have no idea what kind of bug it was. But it went to "The Great Afterlife Waterslide," if you catch my drift.)
(And for those wondering, I have no idea what kind of bug it was. But it went to "The Great Afterlife Waterslide," if you catch my drift.)
((And if you don't catch my drift, he went into the latrine, and I pooped on him, and he's dead now. Or gaining the worst super power ever.))
...
Ugh.
I'm pretty convinced that this day is never going to end and may, in fact, be out to kill me.
That is all.
...
That is all.
...
Commercial Confusion
I've been enjoying an unusually large amount of television lately. I think I might be hitting winter hibernation mode a little early this year. Whatever the cause, with much television comes much advertising. And I feel like commercials are making less and less sense as time goes by. Allow me to cite a couple examples:
3.) 5 Hours of energy, 30 seconds of bullshit
I don't even know where to start with you, 5 Hour Energy. First of all, you didn't say anything in this commercial. At all. Did the doctors ever say to you, verbatim, "Yes, I would recommend your product to my patients?" Did they tell you they approve of what you sell? I have no fucking idea. I'm not sure what part of this commercial screams "clarity" to you, but someone on the 5 Hour Energy staff most definitely got an "F" in marketing. Let me shorten and rephrase this commercial for you: We asked a bunch of doctors if they would recommend our product, despite the fact that it tastes like sour cat piss. What they said is AMAZEBALLS OMG. They said that they would recommend something like our product! But at no point, did they mention our specific product. So... yeah. Aside from the fact that the doctors they asked never even endorsed the fucking thing, only 73% liked the idea at all. Why are you so impressed with this statistic, 5 Hour Energy?? Where I come from, a 73% is considered a solid D letter grade, and a week without video games.
This is the only commercial I can remember seeing which makes me want to stop buying something I use. Good job, guys. *golf clap.* And speaking of energy drinks with shitty commercials...
2.) Arby's promotes cannibalism
Now, while I'm all for delicious, steamy, thinly-sliced turkey goodness... I'm confused by this particular choice of messenger. Chik-fil-a has those infamously unfunny cows holding up crudely painted signs, asking potential customers to eat more chicken, which makes sense. As cows, anything they can do to steer the masses away from eating beef is a good thing for them. But what the fuck, pigeon?? I know pigeons aren't turkeys, but it seems kind of odd and evil for a bird to go to such great lengths to have fellow feathered friends slaughtered for sammiches.
Shit, pigeon. What the fuck?? Do you just not like turkeys? Are you a self-hating bird?? I mean, I don't like Justin Beiber, but I'm not going to slam myself into a window over and over again, for years, until someone agrees to roast, thinly slice, and serve him at a reasonable price. And for that matter, let's look at the number of years you've been at this. Forty eight? Really? Aside from the fact that you've more than likely missed out on many great facets of pigeon life due to your vendetta, (such as your son's graduation and pooping on statues) after a little research, I've learned that even the oldest, strongest pigeons only live to be about 35, tops. And considering you're slamming yourself into windows every other day trying to be an awful person/pigeon, I seriously doubt you're in the best of health. And all these things considered, my friend, add up to one simple truth: You have secrets. Terrible secrets. What's your game? What are you hiding? Do you... do you like eating turkey sandwiches?? Do you eat turkeys because they add to your life force, allowing you to live eternally?? Because that's really fucked up.And fuck you, Arby's, for not only allowing this to happen, but exploiting it for your own financial gain.
1.) Red Bull(shit)
First of all, boar, you're chasing a hunter, and you've caught him. FINISH HIM, you sadistic sow! Why on earth would you fuel him up to keep running? Have you considered that he might actually escape, and continue his killing spree? He could kill your drinking pals, or your parents, or your lady friend if you let your pride get the better of you. It's a well-known fact that boars are illogical creatures, but surely even they understand the basic concept of finishing what they've started, or efficiency. (And speaking of efficiency, worst hunter ever, right? You take two steps in the woods, fire one shot, and give up? Fuck you. You're a bad role model for aspiring hunters everywhere.)
That isn't really what bothers me the most here, though. Was it just me and my over-active imagination, or... does the boar seem a little... how shall I put this... rape...y? Re-watch, if you must, but the inflection of the boars voice is nothing but down-right seductive. Additionally, if this hypothesis is accurate, it might explain away the first inconsistency. Maybe this is all part of his sick, twisted boar love game. Red Bull ads are always a bit racey, but I think man-boar lovin' is definitely crossing the line.
Not okay, Redbull. Not okay.
I'm sure there are others, but those particular three caught my attention. You can do better, ad execs. I believe in you!
...
3.) 5 Hours of energy, 30 seconds of bullshit
I don't even know where to start with you, 5 Hour Energy. First of all, you didn't say anything in this commercial. At all. Did the doctors ever say to you, verbatim, "Yes, I would recommend your product to my patients?" Did they tell you they approve of what you sell? I have no fucking idea. I'm not sure what part of this commercial screams "clarity" to you, but someone on the 5 Hour Energy staff most definitely got an "F" in marketing. Let me shorten and rephrase this commercial for you: We asked a bunch of doctors if they would recommend our product, despite the fact that it tastes like sour cat piss. What they said is AMAZEBALLS OMG. They said that they would recommend something like our product! But at no point, did they mention our specific product. So... yeah. Aside from the fact that the doctors they asked never even endorsed the fucking thing, only 73% liked the idea at all. Why are you so impressed with this statistic, 5 Hour Energy?? Where I come from, a 73% is considered a solid D letter grade, and a week without video games.
This is the only commercial I can remember seeing which makes me want to stop buying something I use. Good job, guys. *golf clap.* And speaking of energy drinks with shitty commercials...
2.) Arby's promotes cannibalism
Apparently, this video has been removed by Arby's because they, too, realized how awful it was. You probably have seen it, though: Throughout the decades, dating all the way back to the 70s, a suicidal pigeon lunges himself at the window of Arby's HQ time and time again, in an attempt to share his idea. Unfortunately, no one opens the window for a good 40 years. UNTIL NOW. (gasp) The pigeon's grand idea? Turkey! Of course!
Now, while I'm all for delicious, steamy, thinly-sliced turkey goodness... I'm confused by this particular choice of messenger. Chik-fil-a has those infamously unfunny cows holding up crudely painted signs, asking potential customers to eat more chicken, which makes sense. As cows, anything they can do to steer the masses away from eating beef is a good thing for them. But what the fuck, pigeon?? I know pigeons aren't turkeys, but it seems kind of odd and evil for a bird to go to such great lengths to have fellow feathered friends slaughtered for sammiches.
1.) Red Bull(shit)
First of all, boar, you're chasing a hunter, and you've caught him. FINISH HIM, you sadistic sow! Why on earth would you fuel him up to keep running? Have you considered that he might actually escape, and continue his killing spree? He could kill your drinking pals, or your parents, or your lady friend if you let your pride get the better of you. It's a well-known fact that boars are illogical creatures, but surely even they understand the basic concept of finishing what they've started, or efficiency. (And speaking of efficiency, worst hunter ever, right? You take two steps in the woods, fire one shot, and give up? Fuck you. You're a bad role model for aspiring hunters everywhere.)
That isn't really what bothers me the most here, though. Was it just me and my over-active imagination, or... does the boar seem a little... how shall I put this... rape...y? Re-watch, if you must, but the inflection of the boars voice is nothing but down-right seductive. Additionally, if this hypothesis is accurate, it might explain away the first inconsistency. Maybe this is all part of his sick, twisted boar love game. Red Bull ads are always a bit racey, but I think man-boar lovin' is definitely crossing the line.
Not okay, Redbull. Not okay.
I'm sure there are others, but those particular three caught my attention. You can do better, ad execs. I believe in you!
...
Behold!
Ladies and gents, behold the best cake I've ever had the good fortune to know in person. My dear friend Amy made this for a small Halloween get-together I hosted last night, and it's simply too beautiful not to share with the world.
I particularly love the glistening, slightly-protruding lower lip. And I assure you, he tasted just as good as he--- HOLY SHIT I JUST ATE THE BODY OF CHRIST. Mind = blown.
Thanks again, friend!
UPDATE: I submitted this masterpiece to Reddit, and it climbed its way to the front page within about 6 hours or so! Which means it also made its way to a website Amy and I are addicted to called Imgur! That's freaking incredible. :D Hi, Reddit & Imgur friends! Thanks for your support and for your love of sacrelicious confections!
Another UDATE: Oh, and now it's on The Daily What, as well. Crazy! SPREAD THE GOOD WORD OF BEAST JESUS TO ALL THE LAND!
...
I particularly love the glistening, slightly-protruding lower lip. And I assure you, he tasted just as good as he--- HOLY SHIT I JUST ATE THE BODY OF CHRIST. Mind = blown.
Thanks again, friend!
UPDATE: I submitted this masterpiece to Reddit, and it climbed its way to the front page within about 6 hours or so! Which means it also made its way to a website Amy and I are addicted to called Imgur! That's freaking incredible. :D Hi, Reddit & Imgur friends! Thanks for your support and for your love of sacrelicious confections!
Another UDATE: Oh, and now it's on The Daily What, as well. Crazy! SPREAD THE GOOD WORD OF BEAST JESUS TO ALL THE LAND!
Come, join the shenanigans...
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meteoroflgy
Twitter: @meteoroflgy
ALSO, follow the aritst/sculpter/magician behind this particular post and glorious confection,
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meteoroflgy
Twitter: @meteoroflgy
ALSO, follow the aritst/sculpter/magician behind this particular post and glorious confection,
my good friend AMY EASTON!
Twitter: @amy_easton
...
Winner winner, booze for dinner..
So, Amerian Horror Story (one of my favorite shows on TV right now) is having a Polyvore contest. Polyvore, if you're unfamiliar, allows you to view fashion trends, create collages, and allows companies and shows and other famous whoevers with more fucking money than me to have contests like this, providing images from their site and/or images provided by the contest holder to the entrants. I hope that makes sense. I'm kind of wastey-faced.
Anyway... I decided to enter. I'm pretty sure my design is going to win, so you can all stop trying now.
...
Anyway... I decided to enter. I'm pretty sure my design is going to win, so you can all stop trying now.
...
5 Day Forecast: Kickin' it Oldschool
For those who haven't followed my shenanigans since the beginning of this blog, you may have wondered to yourself, "Why is this shit called Meteoroflgy? She never talks about weather things..."
Well, Negative Nancy, a) You could have found the answer up in one of those lovely tabs at the top of the screen, and b) I actually did use to talk about weather things. Lots of weather things. I'd draw pictures and mock meteorologists and all kinds of good stuff.
But then came the drought, and material was lacking. My imagination was bursting with a plethora of non-weather things, so I kind of switched gears. Thus, Meteoroflgy became the wonderful clusterfuck of a melting pot of topics you know and love/tolerate today.
That said, however, I've not forgotten my roots. The weather dude this morning said we were in for a "soggy week," and upon checking the forecast for the upcoming days, it looks like he was right. Allow me to break down our five day forecast for you, oldschool Meteoroflgy style:
As you can see, Monday will start off with a rather large boxing glove, punching its way from Billings all the way down to Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Tuesday will bring us two separate weather systems full of rain, one in the Great Plains area, and the other, off to our west.
As you can see, the boxing glove will slowly morph itself into a flamingo. A new system will form over the plains all together, transforming the weatherman into a crude caveman, with his long beard billowing in the southwest breeze.
Wednesday, we'll still be enjoying two main weather systems across the country, though once again, the shape of the systems will change quite a bit.
The eastern patch of rain will transform itself into the mystical, magical Luck Dragon Falcor, of The Never Ending Story fame. Tail to front paw, Falcor has the potential to expand his length across the whole country, but in this instance, will only dominate the tip of Maine through Minneapolis. The beautiful flamingo, unfortunately, will begin dissipating. and will break down into a broken Cool Ranch Doritos chip. Looking closely, the weatherman appears to have Doritos dust on his face; a rather unprofessional display, in my humble opinion.
Thursday, rain systems across the country will diminish, overall, resulting in three main, less-powerful areas of precipitation.
Disturbingly, all systems on Thursday have a common theme: They all belong to a Hylian child called Link, who I know, for a fact, is on a quest for the Ocarina of Time. I also happen to know, through extensive research and many, many man-hours spent on the N64, that link would never go anywhere without his hat, shield, or sword.
These things in mind, I have to wonder... What are you hiding, weather guy? Is that a look of frightened constipation on your face, or are you hiding something?? What have you done with Link?! Confess your crimes!!
I'll get to the bottom of this, so help me Jeebus.
Anyway...
Friday, along with a collective smile and sigh of relief from all of my fellow corporate slaves across the States, will usher in another two systems of rain.
Obviously, as you can see, the flamingo has returned in the eastern part of the country, presumably to party, since it's Friday. The flamingo will also let his true colors shine through, as he observes (with a disturbing amount of pleasure) the weather man modeling man panties, represented by the leftmost area of rain.
Far be it from me to criticize anyone's pantsless weekend, because lord knows I enjoy the same at every available opportunity. I might recommend to this particular anchor, however, that he wait until he gets home first, next time. But, what do I know. I don't know him. I have no authority over how he lives his life. So never mind. Go ape shit, Weather guy. Wear your silken undergarments with pride, for all the world to see.
So, there you have it. A soggy week ahead, indeed.
...
Well, Negative Nancy, a) You could have found the answer up in one of those lovely tabs at the top of the screen, and b) I actually did use to talk about weather things. Lots of weather things. I'd draw pictures and mock meteorologists and all kinds of good stuff.
But then came the drought, and material was lacking. My imagination was bursting with a plethora of non-weather things, so I kind of switched gears. Thus, Meteoroflgy became the wonderful clusterfuck of a melting pot of topics you know and love/tolerate today.
That said, however, I've not forgotten my roots. The weather dude this morning said we were in for a "soggy week," and upon checking the forecast for the upcoming days, it looks like he was right. Allow me to break down our five day forecast for you, oldschool Meteoroflgy style:
As you can see, Monday will start off with a rather large boxing glove, punching its way from Billings all the way down to Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Tuesday will bring us two separate weather systems full of rain, one in the Great Plains area, and the other, off to our west.
As you can see, the boxing glove will slowly morph itself into a flamingo. A new system will form over the plains all together, transforming the weatherman into a crude caveman, with his long beard billowing in the southwest breeze.
Wednesday, we'll still be enjoying two main weather systems across the country, though once again, the shape of the systems will change quite a bit.
The eastern patch of rain will transform itself into the mystical, magical Luck Dragon Falcor, of The Never Ending Story fame. Tail to front paw, Falcor has the potential to expand his length across the whole country, but in this instance, will only dominate the tip of Maine through Minneapolis. The beautiful flamingo, unfortunately, will begin dissipating. and will break down into a broken Cool Ranch Doritos chip. Looking closely, the weatherman appears to have Doritos dust on his face; a rather unprofessional display, in my humble opinion.
 |
| ATREYUUU!! |
Thursday, rain systems across the country will diminish, overall, resulting in three main, less-powerful areas of precipitation.
Disturbingly, all systems on Thursday have a common theme: They all belong to a Hylian child called Link, who I know, for a fact, is on a quest for the Ocarina of Time. I also happen to know, through extensive research and many, many man-hours spent on the N64, that link would never go anywhere without his hat, shield, or sword.
These things in mind, I have to wonder... What are you hiding, weather guy? Is that a look of frightened constipation on your face, or are you hiding something?? What have you done with Link?! Confess your crimes!!
 |
| Fuck you, Ganondorf. |
Anyway...
Friday, along with a collective smile and sigh of relief from all of my fellow corporate slaves across the States, will usher in another two systems of rain.
Obviously, as you can see, the flamingo has returned in the eastern part of the country, presumably to party, since it's Friday. The flamingo will also let his true colors shine through, as he observes (with a disturbing amount of pleasure) the weather man modeling man panties, represented by the leftmost area of rain.
Far be it from me to criticize anyone's pantsless weekend, because lord knows I enjoy the same at every available opportunity. I might recommend to this particular anchor, however, that he wait until he gets home first, next time. But, what do I know. I don't know him. I have no authority over how he lives his life. So never mind. Go ape shit, Weather guy. Wear your silken undergarments with pride, for all the world to see.
So, there you have it. A soggy week ahead, indeed.
...
Forgive me, interwebs, for I have sinned.
Writers block. Anxiety. Self-indulgent hermitism. They're ugly demons, folks. Ugly as fuck. And I feel as though I've been possessed for a few months now, for some reason or another.
However, I realize that this does not negate the fact that I have loyal readers, who crave - no, who need - precious, precious lawls and anecdotes. And I have failed you all for too long.
I'm sorry. Truly, truly sorry.
I will try harder. And in the meantime, penance. PENANCE, my precious pigeons! I must be held accountable for my crimes. No, no, I insist. Thusly, I offer to you five slightly-embarrassing confessions about yours truly; One for every other week that I've been away. Think of it as an interwebs confessional. You are the priests and priestesses. And I? I'm a filthy, deplorable, wicked heathen, for reasons not limited to, but including:
#5. I laugh way too hard at Hitler jokes.
BAM. You thought we'd ease into it, didn't you? Thought I'd start it off with something a bit more tame, did you? Like "I leave wet towels on the floor" or something? Forget that shit. We're diving in lady-balls first. And straight up, I enjoy a good Hitler joke. I think it stems from my sincere, deep love of uncomfortable and inappropriate situations, coupled with my habit of using humor to deal with undesirable thoughts or ideas.
In some small way, I think turning Hitler into a meme, a chuckle, a joke, is a small way of pissing on his proverbial grave. Why let Hitler continue to invoke a sad, somber atmosphere at the mere mention of his name, when you could instead, draw a stick figure of him banging your coworker's mother whilst bending her across "Mein Kampfy Chair?"
And if you thought that was bad... I also had a crush on Richard Karn. Why does that name sound familiar, you ask? Because Richard Karn is better known as "Al Borland" from that 90s TV classic "Home Improvement."
I know, I know. Me? Not normal? Someone alert the media.
So, there's that. Penance for me, a new post for you, and hopefully, the beginning of the end of my creative blockage for us all.
Have a wonderful, three-day weekend, fellow laborers!
...
However, I realize that this does not negate the fact that I have loyal readers, who crave - no, who need - precious, precious lawls and anecdotes. And I have failed you all for too long.
I'm sorry. Truly, truly sorry.
I will try harder. And in the meantime, penance. PENANCE, my precious pigeons! I must be held accountable for my crimes. No, no, I insist. Thusly, I offer to you five slightly-embarrassing confessions about yours truly; One for every other week that I've been away. Think of it as an interwebs confessional. You are the priests and priestesses. And I? I'm a filthy, deplorable, wicked heathen, for reasons not limited to, but including:
#5. I laugh way too hard at Hitler jokes.
BAM. You thought we'd ease into it, didn't you? Thought I'd start it off with something a bit more tame, did you? Like "I leave wet towels on the floor" or something? Forget that shit. We're diving in lady-balls first. And straight up, I enjoy a good Hitler joke. I think it stems from my sincere, deep love of uncomfortable and inappropriate situations, coupled with my habit of using humor to deal with undesirable thoughts or ideas.
In some small way, I think turning Hitler into a meme, a chuckle, a joke, is a small way of pissing on his proverbial grave. Why let Hitler continue to invoke a sad, somber atmosphere at the mere mention of his name, when you could instead, draw a stick figure of him banging your coworker's mother whilst bending her across "Mein Kampfy Chair?"
 |
| Amy's mom, gone wild with the Fuhrer. |
Turn that motherfucker into a joke. Give him a hearty "fuck you" with your laughter. He would have hated it. Join me in this first of my five confessions. Hell, join me in the next one too, if you want to get weird.
#4. I hate pants.
Know what? Guilty. And I won't apologize for it. I have a ritual when I get home from work: Drag ass up the stairs, hit the light switch, lock the door, and kick those fucking jeans across the room with a vengeance. Sometimes I do a little dance afterwards, sometimes I don't. Sometimes I put on shorts afterward, and sometimes. I. don't. Does that shock you, America?? I break ALL the rules. I am on the edge. It's sheer pandemonium (pantsdemonium?) that can't be contained. Deal with it. You cannot tame the wild phoenix that is my pantsless desire. I will never stop enjoying this sweet, sweet freedom, which one can only enjoy in the privacy of their own home. Their own, pantsless home.
#3. I'm pretty sure I have fun-size Tourette's Syndrome.
I think we all have those moments where we reflect on something particularly idiotic that we did, either as a kid or a young adult or a couple months ago at Goodwill, and can't help but cringe at ourselves and at our own stupidity. Some people reflect on this with a chuckle, some just shake it off and try to ignore their regret. Me? For some reason, I become ridiculously embarrassed, to the point where I usually stomp my foot or hit my desk, followed quickly by a couple exasperated and colorful expletives. It's okay when I'm by myself, but out in public, it has been known to incite some offended or frightened glares from the locals. I can't blame them, though. They don't know that I'm reflecting on something humiliating. All they see is a random girl at Kroger, reaching for a can of cranberry sauce, stopping midway, shaking her head angrily and muttering "fucknuggets." But, since I have more control over this than someone with legit Tourette's, I've decided it's just fun-sized. And no, you don't need to point out the irony that, in these moments, I'm usually creating additional moments which I'll reflect on later. It's a vicious and hilarious cycle.
#2. I had really bizarre celebrity crushes as a child.
Don't get me wrong; I also had normal crushes for girls my age, like all the members of N'Sync and Backstreet Boys (except for Howie and Lance.) But I also had a couple which, reflecting back, were kind of fucked up. The first that comes to mind is Jeff Goldblum. Yes, Jeff Fucking Goldblum.
 |
| Yeah, I don't get it either, Jeff. Look at your hair. Dafuq. |
Like... I don't understand it. Look at him. What the hell kind of tween sees that smug mug, and hears that stuttering persona he portrays in every movie, and thinks "Yep. That's the man of my dreams, alright." I can maybe, maybe understand an adult finding him attractive in a nerdy sort of way, but your guess is as good as mine, as far as what compelled me to be attracted to him as a kiddo.
And if you thought that was bad... I also had a crush on Richard Karn. Why does that name sound familiar, you ask? Because Richard Karn is better known as "Al Borland" from that 90s TV classic "Home Improvement."
 |
| Dramatic reenactment. |
Yeah.... my confusion over Jeff Goldbloom doesn't hold a candle to my not understanding this bullshit. What power this pudgy, bungling, bearded side-kick held over my adolescent self, I'll never know. And I don't particularly want to know. But I do know this: No normal girl my age had a crush on Al Borland. *shrug*
I know, I know. Me? Not normal? Someone alert the media.
#1. Sometimes, when Mr. Biffles is snuggling under the covers with me in bed, I let out a lengthy, wall-trembling fart, just to remind him who (begrudgingly) wears the pants (sometimes) in this relationship. Then I laugh myself to tears as he tries to escape his dungeon of flatulence.
I don't think this one really needs a description beyond that, except to say I'm a terrible person.
So, there's that. Penance for me, a new post for you, and hopefully, the beginning of the end of my creative blockage for us all.
Have a wonderful, three-day weekend, fellow laborers!
...
Driving Drama
My neck hurts from shaking my goddamned head for the past ninety minutes.
Mr. Biffles eats like a beast, and as such, I decided to take a trip to Kroger this afternoon, to buy him some more Tasty Vittles 'N Shit, or whatever the name brand I get is called. I tried to pull down the main lane, and was met with this:
"....and?" you may be thinking to yourself. "Just a normal Ford truck pulling out of a parking spot."
Wrong-o. This self-entitled jackass actually invented a parking spot, which blocked in a handicapped car. This new, magic parking spot happened to be right in the middle of the fucking lane.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
There are so many unanswered questions.
1) How did this turd bandit even get out of his vehicle without being beaten to a pulp by every other patron in the parking lot, who followed the rules of common sense, and didn't invent their own fucking parking spot?
2) Are you fucking kidding me?
3) K, I guess there are only two questions. But still.
I mean, this guy didn't even come close to not sucking dick. There is no way to give him the benefit of the doubt. The entire cab, and part of the "bed" portion were sticking well past the line.
All of my fellow parking lot patrons were staring and scowling in awe; even the cart jockey, and you know those guys have probably seen some weird shit in their parking lots. I decided that justice must be served, even if it was a small amount. I even wrote a song about it:
Hey, I didn't meet you,
And this is lazy,
But you're a fucking idiot.
So here's a note:
Someone saw me walking cautiously around the truck for a moment, and asked if I was the one blocked in. I replied, "Nope. Just leaving him a note telling him he's a douche canoe." The guy laughed pretty hard and asked if I was serious, to which I replied with sticking this note under Fuckface Fordguy's windshield wiper, and going about my business.
Oddly enough, that wasn't the end of my adventures this afternoon.
I didn't know my town had an ice cream truck, but apparently we do. And by "we do," I mean "We kind of do. We have an ice cream windowless van. Does that count?" I would have taken a picture of this, but I was driving behind him, and that would have been unsafe. Especially considering that he started to make a left-hand turn in front of oncoming traffic.
Yeah.
Instead of flipping the bird and swerving around the ice creamchild abductor truck windowless van -- which he totally had room to do -- the man leading the oncoming traffic decided, in rush hour, on the most annoying street of my drive home, that he should stop his car (and traffic) and yell at the ice cream guy. Traffic was stopped both ways, mind you, because the ice cream windowless van wanted to turn left exactly where this dude was stopped.
Yes, it sucks when someone cuts you off, but for fuck's sake. Don't punish dozens of people during rush hour traffic to bitch about an every day occurrence.
Being front and center to the action, I decided it was my duty to do everything in my power to speed things along. I blasted the horn continuously, making it more difficult for Fartknocker to converse with his new best friend. (Oncoming traffic guy will henceforth be referred to as Fartknocker, for brevity's sake.)
Finally, when enough people joined in the honking and screaming, he began to move. But not enough to unblock that road for ICWV (Ice Cream Windowless Van) to make his left turn. Instead, guess who he pulls right up beside?
Yours truly.
Me: Are you even kidding me right now?
Fartknocker: Dude. The man almost hit me.
Me: So, you're going to stop rush-hour traffic to sit and fight with strangers?? Really?
Fartknocker: He almost hit me!
Me: And?? Move on already. There is no reason for you to still be here.
Fartknocker: He almost HIT me!!
Me: .... You're kind of a little bitch, aren't you... (yes.. I really said it. And yes, he totally was.)
Fartknocker: *flips me the bird and drives off, WHICH HE SHOULD HAVE DONE TO ICWV IN THE FIRST PLACE*
I don't really know of a good way to tie these two stories together, other than to state the obvious, which is that people need to put on their fucking thinking caps before they make themselves look like idiots in public. Or, in the case of these two morons, one might recommend not only a thinking cap, but also a brain-bustier and a brand spankin' new pair of grow-the-fuck-up galoshes as well.
Shaking. My. Head. Forever. -_-
Drive safe, friends.
...
Mr. Biffles eats like a beast, and as such, I decided to take a trip to Kroger this afternoon, to buy him some more Tasty Vittles 'N Shit, or whatever the name brand I get is called. I tried to pull down the main lane, and was met with this:
"....and?" you may be thinking to yourself. "Just a normal Ford truck pulling out of a parking spot."
Wrong-o. This self-entitled jackass actually invented a parking spot, which blocked in a handicapped car. This new, magic parking spot happened to be right in the middle of the fucking lane.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
There are so many unanswered questions.
1) How did this turd bandit even get out of his vehicle without being beaten to a pulp by every other patron in the parking lot, who followed the rules of common sense, and didn't invent their own fucking parking spot?
2) Are you fucking kidding me?
3) K, I guess there are only two questions. But still.
I mean, this guy didn't even come close to not sucking dick. There is no way to give him the benefit of the doubt. The entire cab, and part of the "bed" portion were sticking well past the line.
 |
| Pro: You won't forget where you parked. Con: You're a fucking ass-hat. |
All of my fellow parking lot patrons were staring and scowling in awe; even the cart jockey, and you know those guys have probably seen some weird shit in their parking lots. I decided that justice must be served, even if it was a small amount. I even wrote a song about it:
Hey, I didn't meet you,
And this is lazy,
But you're a fucking idiot.
So here's a note:
 |
Someone saw me walking cautiously around the truck for a moment, and asked if I was the one blocked in. I replied, "Nope. Just leaving him a note telling him he's a douche canoe." The guy laughed pretty hard and asked if I was serious, to which I replied with sticking this note under Fuckface Fordguy's windshield wiper, and going about my business.
Oddly enough, that wasn't the end of my adventures this afternoon.
I didn't know my town had an ice cream truck, but apparently we do. And by "we do," I mean "We kind of do. We have an ice cream windowless van. Does that count?" I would have taken a picture of this, but I was driving behind him, and that would have been unsafe. Especially considering that he started to make a left-hand turn in front of oncoming traffic.
Yeah.
Instead of flipping the bird and swerving around the ice cream
Yes, it sucks when someone cuts you off, but for fuck's sake. Don't punish dozens of people during rush hour traffic to bitch about an every day occurrence.
Being front and center to the action, I decided it was my duty to do everything in my power to speed things along. I blasted the horn continuously, making it more difficult for Fartknocker to converse with his new best friend. (Oncoming traffic guy will henceforth be referred to as Fartknocker, for brevity's sake.)
Finally, when enough people joined in the honking and screaming, he began to move. But not enough to unblock that road for ICWV (Ice Cream Windowless Van) to make his left turn. Instead, guess who he pulls right up beside?
Yours truly.
ROUND ONE:
 |
| Because this seems appropriate for both of us, that's why. |
FIGHT!
(This is about as verbatim as I can remember. The adrenaline was high.)
(This is about as verbatim as I can remember. The adrenaline was high.)
Fartknocker: Dude. The man almost hit me.
Me: So, you're going to stop rush-hour traffic to sit and fight with strangers?? Really?
Fartknocker: He almost hit me!
Me: And?? Move on already. There is no reason for you to still be here.
Fartknocker: He almost HIT me!!
Me: .... You're kind of a little bitch, aren't you... (yes.. I really said it. And yes, he totally was.)
Fartknocker: *flips me the bird and drives off, WHICH HE SHOULD HAVE DONE TO ICWV IN THE FIRST PLACE*
I don't really know of a good way to tie these two stories together, other than to state the obvious, which is that people need to put on their fucking thinking caps before they make themselves look like idiots in public. Or, in the case of these two morons, one might recommend not only a thinking cap, but also a brain-bustier and a brand spankin' new pair of grow-the-fuck-up galoshes as well.
Shaking. My. Head. Forever. -_-
Drive safe, friends.
...
I probably can't go back to Goodwill anymore...
I had a pretty delightful weekend last week. Lots of the three Rs were enjoyed at Casa de Biff/Amanda: Rest, relaxation, and really shitty movies.
Yes, it was a great weekend indeed. At one point on Sunday afternoon, I decided that daytime was bullshit and closed all the curtains and windows, and sat via candle/computer light for the duration of my "day." Awesome, right? It was kind of like camping, except there was no tent and no goddamn s'mores, and also no excuse, because I'm almost 27 years old. It also might be called something other than "camping" at this point, like "depression" or "quarter-life crisis," but I can't be sure just yet.
Anyway, you know what else it was, in retrospect? Kinda creepy. And the sad part about that, is that it wasn't even the creepiest thing I did last weekend! Which brings me to the title of the post:
It all started with sushi.
For those who don't know, I'm a gal who loves her sushi. I mean, I really, really, really love it, in unnatural and possibly sexual ways. If I could roll myself inside a delightful California roll and just live there for the rest of my life, guess who you'd never fucking see again?
Yeah, I was too lazy to Photoshop my face into sushi. But it'd look something like that. Out of context, I suppose that saying, "Guess who you'll never see again! Buahaha!" then posting a picture of a small child is probably not okay... but I digress.....
Anyway, sushi. I love it. I ate it last weekend. All was right with the world. And then...
Stomach: Blurgalfrag
Me: I beg your pardon?
Stomach: You're going to poop soon.
Me: Ah. I see.
Considering what a fabulous job the waitress and the sushi Chef did preparing a delicious lunch for me, I felt it would be ungrateful to burden them with my twosie.
What? Are you laughing? Have you never really thought to yourself, "I don't want to poop here. I don't want them to know my shame." I'll bet you have. And if you haven't, you should. There is a time and a place for dookie.
I walked out to my car, which was filled with bags for Goodwill. Since I had to go to there anyway, and since Goodwill always makes me feel surrounded by grossness and dust and forgotten dreams, I decided I should take the Browns to their Super Bowl instead. Alas, I parked, dashed inside, and wouldn't you know, the ladies room was occupied.
You know why? Because the ladies room is always fucking occupied. Why bitches feel the need to check themselves out for 10 minutes every single time they see a mirror, or even a reflection, is beyond me.
But this time, this mirror obsession (or whatever it was) was interfering at a very, very dire time. On a scale of one to ten, one being freshly flushed and ten being imminent volcanic eruption, let's just say the K in Amanda K pretty much stood for Krakatoa.
Then, a tricky, conflicted ray of light shone upon my poor asshole:
The men's room was not occupied.
There was no other alternative. Time had run out. I knew I risked embarrassment and judgement and ridicule should anyone else need the facilities after me, but considering the people of Goodwill are usually only a half step up from the People of Walmart, I decided it was worth the risk.
And, of course, no sooner had I felt the warm embrace of relief, when Tommy Dipshit, Child Wonder, decides to start pounding on the door.
Tommy Dipshit: *knock knock* Merrrrrrm, I need to gooooooo..... *bang bang*
Bad mother: I know, Tommy Dipshit, I know. Just keep banging on the door. It will make that horrible man's sphincter slam shut more quickly for you. Brb, I'm going to see if they have a noose.
Tommy Dipshit: Okay, mom. *BANG BANG BANG BANG FOREVER*
I held my ground for a couple minutes, hoping he might wander off or get abducted or something, but no such luck was to be had. My embarrassment took a back seat to my annoyance, though. This kid was on my last fucking nerve. And since there was no chance of escaping this situation with any shred of dignity, I decided to go balls-out crazy-pants on this kid.
How Not to Make Friends With a Small Child
Somehow, despite the fact that I was now being watched by several people, every fiber of self-consciousness was completely gone by this point. So much so, that I even turned back around, to continue laughing at the child, as he slowly shut the door, eyeing me with much-deserved suspicion, almost as if he expected me to come running back at him or something. That probably would have been hilarious, but I've come this far without a criminal record. No need to make waves now.
As I approached the front door, I was laughing so hard that I ran out, for fear someone might actually think I was insane. I mean, I am, but I'm talking dangerous insane, not Gary Busey insane. And in this rush... I sped from the parking lot, car still full of Goodwill donations.
I did finally return a couple days later to give them my wares, but by then, my invincible creepiness was long gone. I was so concerned someone might recognize me that I just kind of left them outside the drop-off door, despite several employees being clearly visible just inside. So instead being some crazy lady who used the wrong bathroom, and borderline harassed a child, and was recognized, I was, instead, the crazy lady who used the wrong bathroom, and borderline harassed a child, and returned several days later, with several ominous black bags, which I dumped suspiciously before promptly speeding away once again. I think it was the lesser of two evils.
And that's why I probably can't go back to Goodwill anymore.
Oh well. It was worth it. That sushi was delicious!
Have a great Memorial Day weekend, everyone!
.....
 |
| We meet again, you frightening, frightening bastard. Oh, and you have an alien, now? That's cool, I guess. |
Yes, it was a great weekend indeed. At one point on Sunday afternoon, I decided that daytime was bullshit and closed all the curtains and windows, and sat via candle/computer light for the duration of my "day." Awesome, right? It was kind of like camping, except there was no tent and no goddamn s'mores, and also no excuse, because I'm almost 27 years old. It also might be called something other than "camping" at this point, like "depression" or "quarter-life crisis," but I can't be sure just yet.
Anyway, you know what else it was, in retrospect? Kinda creepy. And the sad part about that, is that it wasn't even the creepiest thing I did last weekend! Which brings me to the title of the post:
It all started with sushi.
For those who don't know, I'm a gal who loves her sushi. I mean, I really, really, really love it, in unnatural and possibly sexual ways. If I could roll myself inside a delightful California roll and just live there for the rest of my life, guess who you'd never fucking see again?
 |
| Stranger danger. STRANGER DANGER. |
Yeah, I was too lazy to Photoshop my face into sushi. But it'd look something like that. Out of context, I suppose that saying, "Guess who you'll never see again! Buahaha!" then posting a picture of a small child is probably not okay... but I digress.....
Anyway, sushi. I love it. I ate it last weekend. All was right with the world. And then...
Stomach: Blurgalfrag
Me: I beg your pardon?
Stomach: You're going to poop soon.
Me: Ah. I see.
Considering what a fabulous job the waitress and the sushi Chef did preparing a delicious lunch for me, I felt it would be ungrateful to burden them with my twosie.
What? Are you laughing? Have you never really thought to yourself, "I don't want to poop here. I don't want them to know my shame." I'll bet you have. And if you haven't, you should. There is a time and a place for dookie.
 |
| Example of neither |
I walked out to my car, which was filled with bags for Goodwill. Since I had to go to there anyway, and since Goodwill always makes me feel surrounded by grossness and dust and forgotten dreams, I decided I should take the Browns to their Super Bowl instead. Alas, I parked, dashed inside, and wouldn't you know, the ladies room was occupied.
You know why? Because the ladies room is always fucking occupied. Why bitches feel the need to check themselves out for 10 minutes every single time they see a mirror, or even a reflection, is beyond me.
 |
| Do these earrings make my teeth look like big, stupid donkey teeth? |
But this time, this mirror obsession (or whatever it was) was interfering at a very, very dire time. On a scale of one to ten, one being freshly flushed and ten being imminent volcanic eruption, let's just say the K in Amanda K pretty much stood for Krakatoa.
Then, a tricky, conflicted ray of light shone upon my poor asshole:
The men's room was not occupied.
There was no other alternative. Time had run out. I knew I risked embarrassment and judgement and ridicule should anyone else need the facilities after me, but considering the people of Goodwill are usually only a half step up from the People of Walmart, I decided it was worth the risk.
And, of course, no sooner had I felt the warm embrace of relief, when Tommy Dipshit, Child Wonder, decides to start pounding on the door.
Tommy Dipshit: *knock knock* Merrrrrrm, I need to gooooooo..... *bang bang*
Bad mother: I know, Tommy Dipshit, I know. Just keep banging on the door. It will make that horrible man's sphincter slam shut more quickly for you. Brb, I'm going to see if they have a noose.
Tommy Dipshit: Okay, mom. *BANG BANG BANG BANG FOREVER*
I held my ground for a couple minutes, hoping he might wander off or get abducted or something, but no such luck was to be had. My embarrassment took a back seat to my annoyance, though. This kid was on my last fucking nerve. And since there was no chance of escaping this situation with any shred of dignity, I decided to go balls-out crazy-pants on this kid.
How Not to Make Friends With a Small Child
at Goodwill.
Step One: Use the wrong restroom. (check)
Step Two: Drop a big, stinky, sushi dook. (double check.)
Step Three: Before opening the door to leave, switch the lights off. (checkity check)
Step Four: With wide, horrifying eyes, slowly emerge from the darkness, staring unblinkingly at the small child. (Aaaand, Yahtzee.)
Step Two: Drop a big, stinky, sushi dook. (double check.)
Step Three: Before opening the door to leave, switch the lights off. (checkity check)
Step Four: With wide, horrifying eyes, slowly emerge from the darkness, staring unblinkingly at the small child. (Aaaand, Yahtzee.)
I can only assume that what is unnecessarily creepy and wrong by adult standards, can only be amplified through the eyes of a child. That said, I'll bet you think that was the end of it. But it wasn't. My creepy ass didn't stop there.
 |
| Or there. |
Tommy Dipshit looked at me with a mixture of sadness, confusion, and fear, the likes of which I've not encountered since I called my mom a jizz trough several years ago. (She deserved it.) With tones of youthful skepticism and arrogance, he put his hands on his hips and asked "Aren't..... aren't you a girl?"
I probably should have just walked on. Instead, my reflexes took over, and I mayor may not have just started laughing at the little tyke. Still laughing, I began to walk away, and managed an "Uh, YEAH" to him sarcastically, which of course, made me guffaw even more. By this point, a couple of the senior citizens who inhabit every furniture section of every Goodwill on the planet were watching as well. They were about as concerned as you'd expect them to be.
I probably should have just walked on. Instead, my reflexes took over, and I may
As I approached the front door, I was laughing so hard that I ran out, for fear someone might actually think I was insane. I mean, I am, but I'm talking dangerous insane, not Gary Busey insane. And in this rush... I sped from the parking lot, car still full of Goodwill donations.
I did finally return a couple days later to give them my wares, but by then, my invincible creepiness was long gone. I was so concerned someone might recognize me that I just kind of left them outside the drop-off door, despite several employees being clearly visible just inside. So instead being some crazy lady who used the wrong bathroom, and borderline harassed a child, and was recognized, I was, instead, the crazy lady who used the wrong bathroom, and borderline harassed a child, and returned several days later, with several ominous black bags, which I dumped suspiciously before promptly speeding away once again. I think it was the lesser of two evils.
And that's why I probably can't go back to Goodwill anymore.
Oh well. It was worth it. That sushi was delicious!
Have a great Memorial Day weekend, everyone!
.....
Hypocritical Douche-Canoe
Today, I interacted with a hypocritical douche-canoe. Upon making this fact known, I was asked for the definition of "hypocritical douche-canoe," and subsequently, have decided to illustrate the definition for clarification's sake.
Before you ask me why the hypocritical douche-canoe has been depicted wearing a bowler hat, you should as yourselves why he wouldn't be.
Case closed.
(And yes, I'm working on an actual post still. But I've decided that, in the meantime, maybe one-panel shticks are better than month long sabbaticals. Maybe. Right?)
....
Before you ask me why the hypocritical douche-canoe has been depicted wearing a bowler hat, you should as yourselves why he wouldn't be.
Case closed.
(And yes, I'm working on an actual post still. But I've decided that, in the meantime, maybe one-panel shticks are better than month long sabbaticals. Maybe. Right?)
....
Touching Base
Hello, my beautiful, precious ducklings!
I know it's been a bit longer than usual between posts, and you're all probably starved to the core for a witty yarn to be spun.
I think there comes a point in every Blogger's life where blogging, enjoyable though it is, gets a little overwhelming. Especially if life's being a big ol' poop rag. And friends, my April has been a little less than homicide-provoking. But not much less. Not much less at all. o_o
My list of April Atrocities include, but is (unfortunately) not limited to: A death in the family, a hacked bank account, a broken tooth, my bestie moving away, and my rent being raised. No more tears, Johnson & Johnson. I'm fine. I just seem to be on an involuntary sabbatical from socializing and creativity as a result of all the hullabaloo. Oh, and sanity. Let's not forget sanity.
.......
...Anyway.
I just wanted to let you guys know that I am, indeed, still here. I have a couple posts half-way done, and am just waiting for the time, energy, and/or inspiration to find me, so that I can finish them. Apparently, staring at the computer dejectedly for hours doesn't really do anything except run down my battery. *shrug*
I'll be back soon, I promise. <3 Thanks as always, for your support and encouragement. And your patience. I like that, too.
...
I know it's been a bit longer than usual between posts, and you're all probably starved to the core for a witty yarn to be spun.
I think there comes a point in every Blogger's life where blogging, enjoyable though it is, gets a little overwhelming. Especially if life's being a big ol' poop rag. And friends, my April has been a little less than homicide-provoking. But not much less. Not much less at all. o_o
My list of April Atrocities include, but is (unfortunately) not limited to: A death in the family, a hacked bank account, a broken tooth, my bestie moving away, and my rent being raised. No more tears, Johnson & Johnson. I'm fine. I just seem to be on an involuntary sabbatical from socializing and creativity as a result of all the hullabaloo. Oh, and sanity. Let's not forget sanity.
.......
...Anyway.
I just wanted to let you guys know that I am, indeed, still here. I have a couple posts half-way done, and am just waiting for the time, energy, and/or inspiration to find me, so that I can finish them. Apparently, staring at the computer dejectedly for hours doesn't really do anything except run down my battery. *shrug*
I'll be back soon, I promise. <3 Thanks as always, for your support and encouragement. And your patience. I like that, too.
...
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