Hoverround

So far, today has been a good day. My teacher is letting me miss my class next Friday, I managed to fall asleep last night and I'm laminating all day at work a.k.a. sitting in the copy room listening to Pandora and acting as greeter for people filing in and out retrieving faxes, making copies, etc. The bald black man that very closely resembles Michael Jordan is my most frequent customer, which I don't oppose by any means because he's a very entertaining individual.

I watched the Oscars last night and was mildly disappointed. Other than being the only awards show I've ever watched in its entirety, it's also the only awards show I've watched where one of the hosts was clearly higher than a kite. Watching James Franco was more like riding an a roller coaster with the stomach flu. You're whipped in every direction imaginable and at the end you wonder why you decided to do that as you vomit into the trash can at the exit. At first I thought he was drunk because he giggled uncontrollably at everything. But as the night progressed the circles under his eyes darkened and it began to look as if he were wearing brown eye shadow. So either a long-lost member of the Addams Family hit it big in Hollywood or he was popping Opiates backstage. Either way I felt bad for Anne Hathaway who was forced to carry his load... while at one point also wearing what looked to be an electric blue space dress. I also think Gwenyth Paltrow may be the worst singer in America. If that performance were an American Idol audition I don't think she'd even make it to Hollywood. And Simon would have verbally abused her to the point of tears. I guess anything is possible with autotune.

I did, however, enjoy the plethora of adorable elderly people. Kirk Douglas can mumble inaudibly all he wants, I will squeeze his wrinkly little cheeks and tug on his oversized earlobes just the same. Okay, the earlobe thing was weird. But I am thoroughly freaked out by the fact that my ears and nose will continue to grow my entire life. Being old is hard enough without looking like a Dumbo-Pinoccio Hybrid creature with saggy skin and a Hoverround. Actually, the Hoverround is one reason I'm looking forward to aging. I'm planning on replacing the motor with that of a Mack truck and taking the streets by storm. Fast and Furious meets Death Race... pun intended. I plan on enjoying my old age by using my senility as an excuse to say whatever the hell I want. People always brush off the ridiculous things old people say and call them senile. I, on the other hand, think that most elderly folk are more than aware of the things they say and do and are merely having a little fun with old age. Can't hate the players.

Accidental Robbery

Some weirdo sitting at the table to my right at the library has headphones in and periodically will look up from his book, stare into oblivion and use his index fingers as imaginary drumsticks, waving his arms around in what looks to be a fit of epilepsy. Meanwhile the fuckwad to my right is sucking the life out of her starbucks straw making slurping noises as the bottom of the cup tries to communicate to this brainless twat that there is no actual liquid left in the cup for her to suck. I'm one slurp away from balling up a wad of paper with a note inscribed on it saying "I THINK YOU FUCKING GOT IT ALL" and then peg her in the weave with it.

I'm actually grateful for the morons that I come into contact with on a daily basis because they always provide amusement along with writing material. Not to mention some wonderful mobile uploads if I'm sneaky enough. The fact that my phone takes ten minutes to reboot goes to show just how many mobile images I have stored in that thing. For instance, last night my friends and I ventured to a bar scene in a different part of town. We'd heard that it was an older crowd and being that we're graduating, we figured we would leave the drunken cretins at the college hot spots and surround ourselves with a more mature audience. Well, 'mature' is an understatement. Between the pretentious artsy fartsy assholes with their pixie cuts and five year old boy bodies and the middle aged single crowd preying on naive college kids, it was a real treat.

A grizzly bear wearing a Canadian tuxedo actually ventured up to me and asked if he and I could take a picture together because (I quote) "My wife just left me and I want pictures with pretty girls."So I take the picture with him and then instruct my friend to take a picture of the two of us together, so I have documentation that I met Sasquatch and that he is under the impression that grown men in jean jackets is a sexual magnet for attractive college girls. So I end up making a face that illustrates my disgust that this sweaty denim beast is touching my lower back and the next thing I know I have a furry eyebrowed hobbit trying to convince me that his friend isn't creepy. His argument was something along the lines of: "we have children of our own at home, we're not trying to be creepy. Do you believe me?" My response: "No. I don't." Newsflash, Bilbo Baggins, the fact that you were somehow able to convince some semi-concious woman to have consensual sex with you before she passed out on the bathroom sink does not affirm your belief that you are indeed harmless and not about to shove a chloroform dipped washcloth down my throat. Crackheads can procreate. But it doesn't mean that they aren't going to sell their kids for a pipe.

Speaking of crackheads, I met an interesting one at the gas station the other night. My underaged roommate asked if I could get she and her friends some Four Lokos. For those of you who have been hiding under a rock for the past year, Four Lokos are energy drinks that some idiot decided to put an insane amount of alcohol in and market to college kids looking to get really fucked up. They taste like battery acid and in pretty sure some of the same ingredients are used to make A-bombs. Anyway, they pretty much have the effect of a roofie. So it's about 11:30 and we go to the sketchy Chevron where my favorite Indian man works and I grab 6 of these asshole-coladas. I walk to the counter trying to balance these huge cans and then set them down next to a black man wearing an all black jumpsuit at the counter. He turns to me and says...(I quote).... "Awww sweetheart you don't wanna do that, them things are bad for you." I tell him they aren't for me and he responds with the single most ridiculous statement I've heard in my twenty-two years of life:

"My homie, he drank one of those things then ACCIDENTALLY went and robbed a Circle K."
       "Uhm...How do you accidentally rob a Circle K?"
He points at the cans, "Dem thangs. Sweetheart, you's a pretty girl, I don't want to see you get in trouble cus of them thangs."
       "Thank you but I'm not going to rob anyone tonight."
"You never know. Those things make you crazy."

Sir, your friend didn't rob a Circle K because he drank a Four Loko. He robbed a Circle K because he was a ghetto man with a gun and a hankering for a Slurpee. I don't even have the equipment necessary to commit a robbery right at the moment. But I sincerely appreciate your advice.

I'm not sure how these people find me. But they do. And I appreciate these little gifts from God. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Mambo Numba Five

I’d like to start off this post by saying that just because you can manage to squeeze that space station you call an ass into it, doesn’t mean it fits. That being said, I think your FUPA just waved at me.

Speaking of unhealthy habits, this week is Eating Disorder Awareness Week. In reverence to such a meaningful awareness week, I decided to cut my caloric intake down to water and a celery stick. In all seriousness, it’s day three of my diet and I’ve already contemplated shanking the guy in the cubicle behind me for a bite of his Chinese food. Being hungry does crazy things to your sanity. I now understand all the turmoil in Africa. I mean, I’m 99% sure I’m bordering on the point of pillaging and plundering for a McD’s Happy Meal. I’d set this town ablaze if it meant Chik-fil-A nuggets in my mouth. But at the end of the day, I’m hungry my choice, so it’s hardly a comparison.

As I signed onto Twitter today I read the “Breaking News” updates regarding the awful things that have transpired within the last 48 hours. A 6.3 magnitude earthquake in New Zealand, Americans taken hostage then murdered, another police officer shot and killed in the line of duty and the most shocking and appalling of them all: that Justin Beiber got a haircut. Yes folks, apparently the Biebs’ haircut constitutes breaking news in the eyes of US magazine. And it got me thinking about how disgusting it is that many people of my generation will have heard about a 16 yr old pop star’s grooming habits long before learning of the earthquake in New Zealand or the turmoil in Libya. It’s pretty unnerving.

On a lighter note, I’ve got Spring Break inching toward me at a rapid pace. Less than two weeks until I’m basking in the Key West sun with my best friends. If last year was any indication, this year should be pretty weird. But considering that weird things tend to magnetically find me, it would be no shock to wind up dancing the mambo in an underground Spanish nightclub with a group of Cuban dwarves. A girl can dream can’t she. 

Insomnia

I've counted sheep, sang lullabyes and even drugged myself and yet I still cannot sleep. I'd pop another Tylenol PM but they have a tendency to give me the cool power of sleeping through my alarm. So I'm just laying in bed contemplating how effing hungry I am. This no carb diet is about as much fun as sticking my arm in a meat grinder while Nickleback's Greatest Hits plays on repeat and John Stossel lectures me on fiscal responsibility. I want to dive face first into a bowl of Cheetoes and snort 75 Reeses cups. I'm pretty sure I actually dreamt about a giant TCBY ice cream chasing after me last night. I've never identified more with the entire cast of Biggest Loser and Jared from Subway. I can physically feel a battle in my stomach as the last speck of chicken breast struggles to hold on amidst the evil forces of digestion forcing it into a dark demise. It sounds a bit like the Little Drummer Boy trying to drone out a thunder storm.

At least I have the sounds of the neighbors' television to keep me occupied. Im fairly certain they're watching something along the lines of Star Wars or the Steve Wilkos Show. I'm very fortunate to have such respectful neighbors that leave their doors open and crank the volume on the television so that I can be a part of their movie night. It's almost as thoughtful as when the neighbor drives his loudasstruck into the neighborhood blasting the ultra-manly ice cream truck horn in the middle of the night. If I wanted to wake up to "Do your ears hang low" I'd fucking buy it on iTunes, cockbox.

For the longest time, I couldn't figure out why Facebook insisted upon taunting me with images of dead rodents and forest dwelling creatures, then I realized that I have "Taxidermy" listed as my sole interest. Another grand idea from the mind of Alex Faubel. Well, I may have taxidermy as my interest but at least I didn't change my last name to Sparklefire or McDoodleton "because I don't want potential employers to see it." Yeah... well considering you changed your last name to Skywalkertatertot, I seriously doubt you have the mental capacity to merit the reward of employment. So you continue living your cyber life as Robert Smithenburgerista and I'll take the job when your potential employer decides he'd rather hire an ex-binge drinking college student rather than some shitknuckle who thought he could outsmart the man by turning his surname into a Mary Poppins song.

And that's just another reason Twitter is better than Facebook. You can already pick a dumbass name, so automatically no one expects you to adhere to professional guidelines of the social networking world. For instance, by Lebron James using the name "King James," I instinctively expect him to post douchey things around the clock... and like magic it happens. And Oprah chose the ultra-original Twitter name of....drumrolllllllll..... 'Oprah.' This tells me a number of things. 1. Her assistant was too busy buffing BigHead Winfrey's toenails to think of an amusing Twitter name. 2. Jesus didn't need a last name and neither does Oprah. And finally: 3. Anything she tweets will instantaneously spark a reaction of projectile vomit onto my computer screen.

Can It Twitchsta

After a long weekend of bronzing, reading and eating, I’m back in the bus depot. But today I felt a little rebellious and decided to give an F U to The Man and go to work sans brassiere. Unfortunately, I’d like to keep my job so I couldn’t pull a Tara Reid and actually appear to be braless. So other than the fact that you completely cannot see that I have no upper undergarment on, I feel more free than Polly in her windbreaker tracksuits.

In other news, I awoke this morning to the feeling that some madman had violently bludgeoned me in my sleep. Then I remembered that I played two intramural soccer games last night and it all clicked. I had forgotten just how intense playing an actual sport is considering I haven’t done so in about four years. My ass feels as if a family of midgets took turns bouncing on it like a trampoline. And I use midgets in this analogy not only because they fascinate me, but also because of the fact that my ass is so non-existent I doubt any normal size human could make use of it. Actually, I should probably replace midget with primordial dwarf. Not to mention their high-pitched voices are ideal for the “WHEEEEE!” sound I imagine them making as the fly through the air bouncing on my derrière.

I would like to take this moment to give significant gratitude to the inventor of headphones. I thank you for being the smartest human alive. You obviously foresaw that I would one day need a sound barrier between myself and every other person in this office. Having headphones in makes people talk to me less. 

Clubs, tracksuits and elephants...Oh my.

The woman in the cubicle next to me is singing 'the club can't even handle me right now.' Considering she is about 200 lbs overweight, I really don't think most buildings- let alone nightclubs- are structurally equipped to 'handle' her. Regardless, I keep picturing her in a pink shiny unitard doing the robot while enclosed in a dancing circle of Usher's posse. I'm hoping this image is entertaining enough to at least carry me through my lunch hour. Wishful thinking. She's now moved on to Sara Barreilles and I can't for the life of me come up with anything funny about an overweight, middle-aged woman singing depressing songs about unrequited love. Nevermind, that's pretty funny. Especially when I throw a house full of cats and a plastic-covered sofa into the mix.

In other news, I'm a bit baffled as to the reason I'm required to dress business casual, while Polly- the old lady in the finance department- can come to work dressed in colorful, 80s style track suits. Maybe I'd like to experience the comfort of wearing windbreaking pants and jacket while I do my work. And last week she even came in wearing a Christmas sweater - in February. Now that's just irresponsible. Underdressed AND too senile to realize that particular holiday style is about a month (and 20 years) expired. I guess that's mostly my jealousy speaking.

On the upside, I think my dreams of putting the real world on hold are finally coming true. I have been looking at Graduation trips to go on with mom, when I realized that I really don’t want to do a Europe trip at this point in my life. I don’t want to stay in nice hotels and eat nice dinners and spend a butt load of money just to have some nice pictures and good memories. So I’ve been researching a volunteer trip for the summer when I found an organization that coordinates internships and volunteer trips. So it was between Uganda and Thailand but I really couldn’t decide. Both places would allow me to work with children in orphanages, but in Thailand I would be spending two weeks at an elephant camp where I’d care for the animals there. Then I read a book and one of the main characters was an amazing elephant named Rosie. I feel in love with the creature in the book and took it as a sign that I should go to Thailand. So that is what I’m doing. Thailand here I come!

Space Cadet

I've returned to the land of the living this week and started off sleeping through my 8 am alarm and waltzing into work an hour late. It might have something to do with the three Tylenol PM I took in a futile attempt to drone out the lovely lullaby playing as I laid my head down to sleep last night. The beautiful sound of a broken piece of aluminum siding smacking against my window. It was much like falling asleep to the soothing sound of Freddie Kruger's metal appendages scraping against a glass barrier at a violent rhythm. But I guess that was more soothing than the cat fight that was also occurring outside. And I use the term 'cat fight' very rigidly - two angry felines tearing each other apart in a fit of rage. One second it would sound like the cries of an infant, followed by the sounds of every Jersey Shore episode I've seen this season. Calming, really.

The excessive dose of over the counter sleep aid has made work quite the challenge this morning. I've been caught staring space cadet style at the wall on two separate occasions, one of which I'm 97% sure I was drooling. Hopefully my boss thinks I'm just a bit slow, rather than suspecting her marketing assistant has picked up smoking Opium in her spare time. Regardless, I'm currently running on the fumes of old coffee and the dim flame of hope that I can perhaps regain some collateral in my social life by being seen outside my home tomorrow night.

In case any human other than myself actually reads this thing, I'm going to provide some good reading material to quell the aches of real life by escaping into a world much better than the real one. (That was a bit dramatic, but you get the point.) Anyway, I read "Water for Elephants" by Sara Gruen. I was quite impressed with this book and finished it within a day and a half. It was a good escape from reality and I now want to join a circus. I'm not easily impressed, so take my word for it and read the damn thing. Okay, I should get back to pretending to be engrossed in some type of scathingly dull press release.

Greetings from my Cave

Being cooped up in a quarantined area for three days does awful things to your social life-- and hygiene. Somehow over the weekend I managed to contract pink eye and the worst case of bronchitis I've had in a long while. I'd rather not look into the ways I managed to contract poop eye, so we'll just leave that be. But as I look around at the piles of dirty clothes and dust balls strewn about the dark dungeon that is my bedroom, I can't help but remain baffled as to how I always end up coughing up green shit in my spare time. But really, I should be taking better care of myself. And apparently 'better care' does not include 48 hour drinking binges celebrating the life of a pirate (So my mom tells me...).

Nonetheless, I think I may need to invest in some vitamins and replace some of the valentines day candy my stepmother sent me with actual food. Frankly, as shitty as I feel, I'm just happy that my eye is better so I can stop looking like a creature of the deep. I managed to get a whopping 5 hours of sleep last night amidst hacking up a lung. I'm hoping to venture out today to a CVS far from civilization-- as to not bump into anyone-- and get myself some cough syrup to make a nice robo-drank before bed-- Weezy style.

I guess instead of holing away watching reruns of the exhilarating 'Dog the Bounty Hunter,' I should try and do something more productive-- like my taxes perhaps? Maybe I'm just thinking crazy. I should probably shower before anything, considering I've woken up sweatier than a whore in church for the past three nights. Yeah, shower sounds like the best bet. Baby steps.