Sickness and Responsibility

Every now and then Karma decides that the regular everyday bullshit in your life is just not enough. That you have taken for granted all of the mundane things that are driving you insane. That you have forgotten that all of the gifts bequeathed unto you by the Universe are to be appreciated, and you are now in need of a reality check to remind you that in the grand scheme of things you are pretty fucking lucky. How did this happen? What was the final straw on the camel's back that has driven the Universe to remind you ever so gently (and with congestion that won't allow you to sleep in your favorite position) that you have it pretty fucking good? (You whiner.) Perhaps you have bitched about not getting a good parking spot one too many times or that you complained a little too loudly about the way that a co-worker always runs the copier out of paper. To punish* you for having taken these daily frustrations for granted, for not realizing that these mundane things could be so much worse than your Capitalistic, self-centered, First-World problems, Karma does not strike you with lightening. Oh no, that would be too quick. Too conspicuous. Instead on a day when you have to give attention to the priorities and responsibilities in your life it will turn you on yourself.
"What do you mean?" You ask. I mean that my immune system has turned against more than this streptococcus infection, and I am pretty sure that it is just trying to kill me from the inside out on a day that I have no choice but to go out into the world and deal with shit that I barely want to give attention to on a standard day. There is nothing worse than having to go to work, or today in my case, school when you are sick. Everyone is loud, even though my head is pounding. I still have to get work done, even though I am so doped up on anti-snot meds that I can barely form a thought. Let me tell you, for this girl, there is no such thing as discrete nose blowing. And I pretty sure that I could be trailed by the tissue that I am leaving in my wake.** Likewise, I have officially become a mouth breather, because my nostrils are officially bricked up with carefully stacked green, sticky...you know where this is going. And I hate mouth breathers. That drives me nuts. Shut your damn mouth; that is why you have more than one orifice in your face in which to take in air. You can see why
Karma chose this one with which to condemn me.
The worst part really is that you know that you are diseased and as though the medicine head and general symptoms of your sickness were not enough you can feel the eyes of everyone on you as you sneeze and cough and blow your nose and drop to your knees in the hallway to beg for forgiveness from your higher power. "All I am asking for is to be well again! Why?! Why have you forsaken me?!" Okay. Maybe that would be something that would warrant staring on any given day, but you see my point. It is all too clear that you are sick, and everyone knows that your dripping red nose and dry consistent coughing are spreading armies of germs into the atmosphere around you contaminating everything that you come in contact with. Meanwhile, that one asshole that thinks they are helpful when they so clearly are not says something like, "Don't you think you should have stayed home?" What and miss all the fun of carting around a box of tissues and straining to hear the professor out of my one unplugged ear, while I try to manage the buzz of the cold medicine long enough to form linear thought? No, I live for this shit. 
 And then it comes to you, like the wave of excitement when your nostrils clear for no apparent

reason and you believe in that split second before they reseal themselves, that Karma is not punishing you. You are not the one who is being targeted. It is Mr. Helpful. You have been chosen by the Universe to smite those that are in need of their Karmic comeuppance. For all of his stating the obvious Mr. Helpful has been sighted, judged, and can now serve his sentence for being the pain in the ass that he is and for never filling the paper in the copy machine and parking his gas guzzling SUV in your parking spot. With one perfectly timed sneeze or strategic freshly coughed on hand placement you could reign down the fury that is this hellacious virus onto him like the fiery blade of an Archangel....and just as you are about to pat his back with a damp hand and that look on your face that says that you so appreciate his concern for your well being you sneeze-- shooting a glob of snot out of your nose that shocks and awes you both. As you reach in a panic for a tissue to cover the disgusting-ness that you have just fired out of your face your realize, that the Karmic justice was yours all along. Maybe you should have let your significant other watch that stupid fucking TV show last week or bought that over-priced, poorly made toy for your child. Or maybe, just maybe, you should wash your hands more diligently it is fucking cold and flu season. 

 



*I realize that in the world of Karmic understanding that this is not meant as punishment, but as a tool from which you should learn from your mistakes....I assure you I feel punished. As such I will try from now on to refrain from complaining about that girl at the coffee shop that fucks up my Iced Carmel Macchiato with no whip every time I order it as though she has a personal order from corporate to do so...in case that is the constant bitch that I have pushed the limit with.
 
**Okay, not really. I am not a savage. Sick or not, I know how to use a trash can. Unless I am at home. In which case, missed tissues next to the trash can while trying to make 3-pointers from bed is close enough. Whatever. You do it too. Don't judge. That is what got us into this mess to begin with.

SuperZit and His Trusty Side Kick The Over Plucked Eyebrow

I have no idea what has been going on with me lately, but it would seem that I have gotten myself
into a bit of a situation. I have been lucky my entire life (knock on wood) to never have had bad acne or problems with pimples of which to speak. Having said that, in the last week I have managed to grow the largest, ugliest zit of my life, and it doesn't seem to be disippating anytime soon. I was under the assumption that most of a person's pockmarked problems came during puberty. Apparently, I was wrong. We have all had the occasional stress, sweat, PMS, or special-occasion-to-go-to-so-let's-grow-a-crater-on-my-face zit. You just deal with it. But this one, oh this one has panache.Truthfully, this would not be an issue if it were not directly in middle of my face, planted strategically on the bridge of my nose so that it is clearly visible to everyone within a hundred yards of me. Also, I can see the edge of it in my line of vision without having to cross my eyes, so I am under constant reminder that my face is being invaded. I can't even comfortably wear my sun or reading glasses without angering the beast (which means that it swells and gets redder, yay!). This morning as I stood in front of the mirror pleading with it to go away, I am damn sure that I heard it laugh and saw it

flip me the bird (proverbially, it hasn't yet developed hands, but I think it is only a matter of time). I might as well name it and give it a hat, because it has taken on a life of its own. As such, for the last 5 days as I have watched this monster take over my face I have decided to dub this thing SuperZit.
SuperZit doesn't seem to have an arch nemesis (in fact I think it is safe to say that it is mine) or an Achilles's heal; as nothing seems to deter its growth. Everything that I have tried to do to this thing seems to be totally ineffective. I have poked, pinched, proded, begged, pleaded, dabbed toothpaste, crushed an aspirin to put on it, tried sworn-to-work potions, and tried to cover it with makeup.*As if this were not enough I realized a couple of days ago that my eyebrows were beginning to snuggle in the middle of my forehead again. This is nothing new. I am of Hungarian and Scottish decent, I was born to grow inappropriate facial hair and cook potatoes. But as I got to looking at the eyebrow situation I realized that apparently my left eyebrow has progressively gotten shorter in the process of separating the two lovebirds in the last few months. So to accompany SuperZit on the right side of my face, I now have its sidekick The Over Plucked Eyebrow regrowing on the other. I couldn't feel more put together right now if I tried.
Just to give you a real idea of the situation, I cannot put makeup on SuperZit because it makes it look as though it is painted up for Mardi Gras, and I have to draw in just part--not all of--my left eyebrow so that it matches the other while I let the wily little hairs grow back in. All the while I have to wonder if SuperZit has come to a head yet looking like an Egyptian plague, and I have to wonder if I have yet made an unrealized wipe of the eyebrow smearing pencil across my forehead and/or eyelid. Good times. I look like a bi-polar beauty school drop-out who doesn't have the attention span to put together her whole face. This is not my shinning cosmetological moment, let me tell you. Why don't you just go without the eyebrow pencil, you ask? Because the way that the hair is currently growing in it looks like I have some kind of rare eyebrow mange, and the short little hairs that are growing back in look as though they are waving to everyone. And let's just say if they are waving to people they might as well be holding up a neon sign that directs everyone's attention right to SuperZit. I really thought that this awkward stage was long gone. What I didn't know was upon finding a tiny village of chin hair that I didn't have on the last day of my 29th year but found and evacuated on my 30th birthday I would again be dealing with teenage pimple-style problems again. So for now I will just take the hits as they come. Keep on keeping on. And try to find the kryptonite to the god-forsaken SuperZit on my face so that I can put on my oversized sunglasses to hide the disaster that is The Over Plucked Eyebrow.

*Which I might add is like putting lipstick on a pig: neither practical or effective.

The Art of Bumbling Ballet or The Demolition of Go-Go

Gracefulness. Women are supposed to have it inherently. I am here to tell you that it skips a generation...or maybe two (as two of my nieces are just as helplessly uncoordinated as I am). I am hopelessly clumsy. I have run into walls, fallen up and down stairs, fallen out of and into chairs, as well as a number of other calamities. I have on separate occasions cracked a rib waxing a truck, rode my bike into the only pole in the yard, fell out of an apple tree with a root-beer float in my hand, burnt my finger lighting a candle in a bathtub full of water, and never once I have I met a patch of ice that my ass did not directly meet. I am sure that this often looks like something that could only be performed by a cartoon character, and I can assure more than once I have rang my bell and heard the birds tweet and seen stars. But I have to laugh at it. If I didn't I would probably slip on a puddle of my own tears, step on the cat's tail, and knock out my front teeth trying to get cookie dough out of the fridge.

Perhaps the most famous of my butterfingered casualties is that of Go-Go the Walking Pup. The year was 1990, and all that most any little girl wanted for Christmas that year was this delightful, white-furred, walking, barking ball of joy. My cousin actually got one. She was such a beautiful little robotic lhasa apso with her pink bow and leash. That year Go-Go was truly the crown jewel of our Yuletide loot. It overshadowed not only my Koosh ball and Troll Doll, but also my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle actions figures. Okay, maybe she wasn't better than the turtles, but I as the tomboy of the bunch (at the time) I was the only one that really appreciated how cool Donatello was with his storage shell or how stealthy wind-up Splinter could be. So of all the toys the four of us got that year Go-Go was the shit. We were all delighted. Unfortunately, three days after Christmas, before she even lost her new toy smell Go-Go would have a tragic accident from which she would never recover.
The three of us had gathered upstairs at my aunt's house around our bounty. We coudn't decide what to play with, but it was clear that there simply wasn't enough room in the bedroom to properly walk Go-Go. After all she needed to be able to really stretch her mechanical legs. So my cousin handed her to me. "I will grab this stuff," she said pointing to a pile of Barbies, coloring books, and other yet-unused toys, "You take Go-Go downstairs." I was speechless, and her baby sister was jealous I could see it in her eyes (or maybe I am making that part up). I cradled her in my arms, spellbound by the luck of the draw. I was going to be "walking Go-Go." It was only moments, however, before everything went array. My pant legs we too long*, and I tripped. As my toes became just as quickly untangled I was tossed into the railing, banging my elbow into the banister, and the rest is history. She flew out of my arms; there was no stopping her. As I watched this ill-fated ball of white plasti-fur tumble ass over teakettle down the stairs I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Go-Go was smacking into a number of steps. I had crushed all hopes of her ever walking anywhere, but my child's innocents gave me hope. Upon descending the stairs as my cousins ran onto the landing to see what the commotion was I screamed, "She is fine! She's okay!" They raced down the stairs after me. We picked up the now disheveled toy. It was clear that Go-Go would never walk again. I had single-handedly ruined Christmas. To this day when ever my ability to stand up or walk straight is hindered by natural arrhythmic predisposition this is the story they tell. Something like: "Remember what happened to Go-Go?" Or, "If you piss her off she will just throw you down the stairs like poor Go-Go." Is what I usually hear. Way to forgive and forget ladies.
To add insult to injury, I not only killed Go-Go, but today I nearly took out this same cousin's flat screen TV. In other incidences with this particular family, I have also broken one of her mother's plates from her wedding china, chipped her little sister's front tooth, and dropped her older sister's eye-shadow in the toilet.** Upon thinking about it, I am beginning to wonder why it is exactly this woman lets me anywhere near her stuff or her children. Weird. Anyway, today I was innocently walking across the living room when without warning I was accosted by a plastic lemon that was left on the floor by some negligent child that didn't put it back into the kitchen set as it should have been. Just another example of children's disregard for the importance of fruits and vegetables, if you ask me. As I teetered first left and then right, putting my arms out for balance, trying not to topple directly into the entertainment center I banged into the television. As though the whole thing was happening in slow motion I reached out for the doomed electronic to stop its decent to the floor. I caught the idiot box just as I sank to my knees in a very odd kid of broken puppet position: one arm on the television, the other on the floor, one leg stretched out right, the other pinned underneath me, neck bent at an angle similar to that of a baby in a car seat. The laughing began before we had even righted the TV, and before she asked if I was alright she exclaimed, "Not the TV! Just like Go-Go!"***

*This is a chronic short girl problem.
**Calm down, GG. It was 20 years ago, you obviously lived.
***She might not have actually said this until we were laughing about it later, but I could hear the inflection of such in her voice. 

Don't Poke the Bear

I don't like to be woken up. I don't like to be talked to in the morning. If I am hungover (which is a very real possibility) just shut up; you are already breathing too loudly. I don't want to hear what a beautiful morning it is, and if you are standing in front of the coffee pot blocking my path you are likely to get shived. I am all about that first, fragrant, warm caress of coffee. The real nectar of the Gods. Sheer unadulterated bliss can be found every day in your first cup of coffee. You just have to learn how to appreciate it, and never, ever take it for granted.  Now this is not news to anyone that knows me. All of my friends know that you make a wide berth around me in the morning for fear of punishment worse than death.
I am simply not good at getting up. I am not really all that personable anyway, morning just compounds that dislike of others. As such it is possible that I will not roll out of bed until 15 minutes before I have to walk out the door, and it is very, very likely that I will hit the "Snooze" button on my alarm clock 17 times before I actually raise from my death-like sleep.* In short, I am not a morning person, and it is not in the cutesy way that woman who roll out of bed looking like a perfectly groomed Pajama Barbie aren't morning people. I am so cantankerous in the morning that even the cat waits patiently for me to pull it together and fill his bowl. In fact, he is such a good sport about it that he has been known to push the phone off the bed when it begins to sing the song of its people (which is the song of sadness and sleep deprivation, I might add). It is a similarly hateful, awful song as that of the lone Bluejay that has moved into the tree next to the bedroom window with the soul purpose of making sure that you never sleep past daybreak again. Isn't he an adorable, feathered little son-of-a-bitch?!

There is however, one single person that doesn't seem to think that this unharnessable wrath doesn't apply to her. And I guess she is right. That is only because I spent 36 hours tormenting her with my grand entrance into this world; which was promptly followed by 12 years of adorableness...which was followed by 6 years of unrelenting, pure evil, teenage angst. But I think that the last 12 years of being a relatively good person (in the grand scheme of things) should warrant a little understanding from the one that I call "Mother." Sadly, this is not so. Mother doesn't seem to think that at 30-years-old I am capable of setting my alarm clock or getting up when I need to. This from the woman that is late to everything. So much so that often the family tells her that functions are starting an hour before they actually are so that they only have to wait for her for 20 minutes. There is always an evening line of questioning about what time I need to get up. She then follows this up with the standard, "What time are you setting your alarm for?"** No matter the time that I state or the task that I have planned her response is always that she will set her alarm for at least 30 minutes earlier than mine...to make sure that I am up in time. Really? Thank you? True to her word, without fail she is on it. At the ass-crack of dawn Mother comes through my bedroom door like the Terminator! Bang! "You better get up! It's 7 o'clock!" "Startled" doesn't begin to describe what happens to me when this happens. My eyes snap open so fast that I am sure that my eyelids get whiplash. My whole body jerks and jolts as though it has been struck by lightening. Now this would all be fine...if I didn't need to be up until 9 a.m. My life has flashed before my eyes, there was a split second that I thought the house was on fire and we all need to run, and I am pretty sure that I don't usually wet the bed, but I'm awake....Thanks, Mother.

Then, bless her heart, she begins to talk. Not just talk...yammer. Endlessly about anything and everything that comes to her mind. She is on my heals all the way to the bathroom--where the door means nothing to her. Uneffected by the obviously irritated "Mother!" that I growl at her as I sit on the porcelain thrown and the roll of toilet paper sailing past her head she continues her blissfully happy, morning-person tirade. I don't even think that she realizes how incredibly unimpressed I am. I can never help but wonder how it is that I can possibly be her daughter. She is excited about the morning...Is that even a thing? Ugh!
I am not saying that I don't understand that there are occasions that one needs to be woken up. Like when there are Margaritas at Midnight or money is falling from the sky. Or when someone is dead. By all means, if these things are happening, wake me up. I will be much more pissed if I miss it. Also, it is acceptable to wake me up for unplanned sex, but keep in mind that I am not going to cuddle. This girl is going right back to sleep; we don't need to spoon. Get a grip. My point is this if you want to win my affection let me sleep.  I have very strategically surrounded myself with people that understand this. I have a couple of places that I visit specifically so that I can play house cat. I sleep in the spare room, get up, rattle around in the kitchen, someone feeds me, and I go back to bed. It is really a beautiful thing. If only there were more people that understood: just don't poke the bear.

* You will be able to recognize these days when you see me in yesterday's jeans, an inside-out shirt, and a bandana on my head. Just don't make eye contact. If you want bonus points tell me that I look nice. We will both know that you are lying, but I will feel better about it.
**Yes, I know that these seem like the same question. Yes, they are the same question. Yes, she really asks one followed by the other. Yes, she really uses prepositions at the end of sentences.

When You're Not Home I Use Your Bathtub

I have to start this post by reminding you all that I live a very neo-gypsy kind of life. I wrote about it awhile ago in Living Like a Gypsy. I think it is safe for me to consider myself a Gypsy of the Twenty-First Century, if you will. I have a number of places that I call home. This does not mean that I am a hopeless wanderer by any stretch. I have a mailing address and am a functioning member of society. However, neither does it mean that I will be featured on that Big Fat Wedding Show, or that I am buying children for gold coins. Likewise, I do not gaze longingly into crystal balls to tell your future, nor will I place a curse on your arch enemy. Though I do believe in the Evil Eye. What it does mean: I have a number of places that I can leave my stuff, because I know that it will be there when I come back. I have a network of people that let me hang on their couches, in their spare rooms, and they even often give me opportunities to house sit. Let me tell, you when you are always in the house with people (which ever hideout, BatCave, or bomb shelter you have been in recently) you are most willing to take the chance at a weekend or a night or a couple hours alone.

Now, I know that some of you are thinking that is a party opportunity or a chance to hold up for a few days with your significant other, but the most beautiful part of this is the by myself part. There is a reason that I have been known to cancel plans and rearrange an entire week's events to jump at the opportunity to house sit...and it has very little to do with sitting on the couch Al Bundy style with my hand in my pants watching TV.* I have even snuck into my most loving and amazing cousin's house and gone on a cleaning rampage while she and her family were on vacation for the opportunity to shamelessly take advantage of her house. For me the greatest gift given to me by the people that allow me to veg in their house, eat their food, and spoil their animals is found in the bathroom. No, it is not found in the medicine cabinet. It is the bathtub. I have been surrounded by people that have large (often self-bubbling) bathtubs, and it is to all of you that I take my hat off, get down on one knee, and say thank you.
I am a giant fan of taking a bath, and when you are staying with people someone is always in need of the bathroom or shower so you just never get the time to really take a bath. When I have bathtub carte blanche it consists of me, bubbles, tunes, beer, and no fucks. I can stay in the tub for hours. Doesn't the water get cold? Not if you let half of it out after the first hour and refill it with more hot water. Amateur. And no (to those of you wondering), I am not above floating a rubber ducky in there if your kid has left it on the edge of the tub. Ducks are meant to be in the water. I am really doing your yellow, plastic friend a favor. On a similar note, while I bring all of my own shampoo, luffas, body wash, razors, and other bath time accoutrements to this bath-time fiesta (when it is an expected perk of the visit I am making) I will most defiantly use your bath potions. Because bringing my own would just be nonsensical. So yes, your bubble bath is less full than you had originally intended.
Being the tub-time ninja that I am, you might not always know at first glance that there has been a bath taken. For example (if you were to monitor my appearance), my hair might not be wet, and I am likely to be in the same super-hero pajama pants and band t-shirt in which you have last saw me. You might wonder if you left your shampoo on the top shelf. You might wonder where that extra towel came from when you do laundry. You may even get pissed at your dog as you wonder how they got

the rug wet, because you are convinced that they must be responsible. After all, who would just sneak into your bathroom and get water all over the rug. Just let me tell you, if you have left me in your house for more than an hour while you were gone and you have clean towels, I have been in your bathtub. No, I do not feel guilty about it. The kind of peacefulness that is accomplished when a good bath has been had just does not warrant the negativity that would allow me to feel guilty about this. It is kind of like the babysitter that racks up a giant long-distance bill courtesy of your dime, they don't feel bad about it either.If you have ever said the words "make yourself at home" you have set yourself up for someone doing just that.
So there you have it, that is my dirty little secret that isn't so dirty after all. I am a bathtub junkie. I am likely to develop a close personal relationship with your bathtub. Chances are if you are an asshole but you have a jet tub I will remain a person in your life in hopes of spending time with your bathroom fixtures (and I don't mean the shower head). I will take my hair down, turn on the hot water, sing at the top of my lungs, and unfold my fins like Daryl Hannah in Splash whenever I get a chance. However be it known, if I have used your tub I have redeemed myself by yelling at your kids, sneaking people food to your dog, giving catnip to your cat, drinking your beer, and changing the channel on your TV when you go to the bathroom. It is also likely that I will do your dishes, because you have to pay the rent. Even when you are just renting a moment of relaxation suspended in hot bubbly water.

What's a blog post about bathtubs without 

The Rubber Ducky Song

*Although, it should be known by all those that have left in the care of their homes, I have not neglected your high-speed internet, microwave, or Netflix account while you are gone. I like to give all of my vises equal play time.

Oh, Valentine's Day...Don't Be a Sucker...

Okay, I know that this is coming a couple of days early, but I wanted to give you time to return all of that red and pink, heart-shaped, Hallmark stamped, over-priced, chocolate covered bullshit that you just bought for your significant other to honor them and "show your love" on Valentine's Day. We are going to start with a little history lesson, because it seems that this is a holiday of wonderfulness...not so much.
St. Valentine was a Roman priest that aided in the persecution of Claudius I and provided marriages for Christians* that were not allowed to be legally married under Claudius's reign. The ban was put on marriage as a necessity to gain more soldiers after having a hard time rallying troops that didn't want to leave their wives and children. Claudius declared marriage illegal so that the troops would consist of single men that were not obligated to families. For his crimes St. Valentine was jailed, beaten with clubs, and beheaded on the 14th of February. While jailed, it is said that Valentine befriended Claudius' daughter and left her a note prior to his beheading that read "From Your Valentine." This being the note that has perpetuated the giving of cards or Valentines. Until the 3rd-century February 14th had been celebrated by the pagan Feast of Lupercalia, which is a festival for celebrating love. However at that point the Pope at the time declared the 14th of February the day in which to celebrate Valentine's efforts to aid young lovers while combining the love festival. You mean the Christians adopted a date and celebratory idea from the pagans and turned it into their own holiday in an effort to comfortably convert the heathens? Yep, surprise surprise.**While it is not clear whether or not St. Valentine was one man or two ,it is clear that the holiday that is supposed to recognize the martyrdom of a man that fought against oppression or a pagan celebration of love is sorely misrepresented by our possession thirsty Capitalist mentality. It is not about a fat, winged baby*** shooting lovers with arrows and going to the place where you can kiss and get diamonds while packing on 10 pounds with that giant box of caramels. Like we needed another holiday that perpetuated gift giving and over eating. Get a grip.

Now that we have gotten that out of the way let's talk about the copious amount of money that will be spent for Valentine's Day. It is projected that there will be $18.5 billion spent on Valentine's Day this year. That is $18.5 BILLION!! Just take a minute to think about all of the need that amount of money could have an effect on. And what are people spending this amount of money on? Candy, cards, food, stuffed animals, flowers, animals (oh yeah, because puppies and kittens are hot ticket items), and of course diamonds or jewelry. This projection of dollars spent doesn't include alcohol, contraception, or the vats of lube that will be gone through this weekend. Because nothing says thanks for the jewelry and chocolate like a Pearl Necklace, right fellas?

Lets breakdown the absurdity of these gift items (not the Pearl Necklace all the shit I mentioned before that). Candy. While I do love candy, I will never understand why the exact same peanut butter cup is supposed to be better and more heartfelt because the wrapper is red and the candy heart shaped. Think about it. Cards. Unless they are full of money or from your grandmother why do you really need them. Think about all of the trees that have been chopped down to print all of that "Roses are Whatever, Violets are Better" shit. And all for the greater good of an industry that is already raking it in daily. Literally sickness, health, weddings, anniversaries, birthdays all that shit happens daily, folks. These card companies have one hell of a racket.  Food. We eat all the time. If you think that taking your significant other to dinner once a year is romantic, think again. Making dinner for your exhausted wife (or husband) after dealing with screaming children all day, and then doing the dishes afterward without being asked...that shit is sexy. And you didn't have to make reservations or pay $75 for a steak the size of a sticky note to get laid. Stuffed animals. Is your Valentine under the age of 12? No? Need I say more? Flowers. Ornamental plant vaginas. They smell good, look good, and die. There is $100 you will literally see no return on. Animals. ANIMALS!!! Animals are not gifts. They are living creatures. They should not be exploited as viable gift giving options. ****If an animal is adopted it should be because you are looking to give love to something, not prove your love to someone. Diamonds. Aren't there countries whose people are being oppressed and methodically murdered for the diamond trade? Aren't there people dieing daily of black lung and the like from working in mines? Aren't these same people getting screwed out of prescription and medical coverage by companies that are making money hand over fist in the trade of precious metal? Jewelry. See Diamonds.
My point is this: if you love someone and want to show them do it ANY day of the year. Don't wait to jump on the band wagon of doing it one day a year. I assure you, you have the same chance of getting lucky on any day of the year where you show interest and give presents to your partner. Anyone would rather be surprised to get something that you thought about getting them on a random Tuesday. Don't be a lemming, be an individual. You are not boosting the economy by buying into the holiday, you are padding the already bulging pockets of big business. Sometimes less is more. Sometimes holidays are propaganda to part you with your money. Know the difference.


*Now keep in mind that I am not a bible thumping, hard-core Catholic or Christian by any stretch of the imagination. I don't care what you believe; you don't care what I believe. That isn't why we are here. You pray to your god, and I will do the shit I do. This commentary isn't about religion as much as it is about propaganda. That isn't just a word that applies to the lies that the government tries to feed you. Big business has their own special blend of propaganda.

**Take a look at Christmas and the Yule celebration or May Day  celebrations if you don't think that this is a possibility. 

***Cupid: Son of Mercury and Venus, a grown man with wings (not a baby), Roman god of love. Roman god, oppressive Roman emperor....you see how this got tied in right?

 ****This thought process could go on for awhile talking about the death rate of Easter chicks, but I think that you get the picture.

References: (Because I don't want you to think I made this up or used Wikipedia)
Catholic Online:St. Valetine
CBN.com: St. Valentine, The Real Story
History.com: 6 Surprising Facts About St. Valentine By. Elizabeth Hanes
History.com: St. Valentine Beheaded
Encyclopedia Britannica: Cupid

Guilty: Not Giving a Fuck in Public

Okay, so I realize that I am by no means a ray of sunshine. In fact most of the time I ride a fine line between rain cloud and bitch. Then there are days like today. Days that make me wonder if I will be the bitch or the butch after I am sentenced for Not Giving a Fuck in Public.
I don't mean to be a people hater. There are just some days that make dealing with other people on the planet less tolerable than others*. As soon as I got out of bed this morning I was ready to climb back in and hide from the world. So here I sit, writing this blog and blaring Death Metal into my ear holes and silently hating the blond girls across from me that are sucking all of the air out of the room with their unnecessary "...like, oh my God..." talk. I am guessing that they must take all of those deep breaths between sentences to refill all of the empty fucking space in their heads.  I wonder how many times they used the word "like" in there admittance applications.
What is really strange is the way that the anger and inability to tolerate everyone really can progress during the day. It started out that I just wasn't feeling like sitting through another Statistics class, and it has progressed into a full on hate fest.
Don't worry though this rage didn't come out of no where; I'm not a sociopath. Well at least I don't think so. That is the conundrum though isn't it: if you're crazy do you know it. The progression of my discontent unfolded something like this. Stats offered information that I am never going to bother with as soon as I walk out the door of this Capitalist  fucking boot camp for the middle class. Keep swallowing the Kool-Aid kids! Then onward we marched to the cafeteria where, while microwaving my lunch, some douche bag with no decorum took my lunch out of the microwave to heat his own. Seriously!!! What are you the king of the microwave? Step back and wait your turn. Dick. Then, to perpetuate the infuriation, they were out of my favorite soda in the canteena. Which means that I had to pick a full calorie soda (because fuck water) which is against my diet plan (don't even get me started on my diet). Fuck today!
This type of interaction with a select few people that are either emotionally or socially** inept drives me right up the wall. They are the same d-bags that stop in the middle of a hallway to text their significant other, throw paper at each other between class (yeah, because this is fucking grade school), and use "oh my god" in a sentence the way most people use a comma. What kind of mouth-breathing helicopter parents created these fuckers? Don't even get me started these "they all need trophies" parents that are too worried about Little Johnny's delicate psyche to cuff their kid in the back of the head when they are being an asshole.

In two long and excruciating hours I am finally going to be done with this damn place for the day. As a matter of fact, I will probably get a great deal of this anger out while yelling at the penises that don't know what a speed limit is (because back-seat road rage is one of my personal strong suits). But if that doesn't do the trick I might just go home take a shower, crack open a bottle of whiskey, and have one fuck of a hangover in the morning. I guess we will just have to see how this thing plays out.

*And the first motherfucker that asks me if I am PMS-ing is going to get shived!!!
**Coming from someone that is social uncouth that is really saying something.