Showing posts with label Things that I do that normal people should never do. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things that I do that normal people should never do. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
In case anyone forgot how unproductive I am
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Mostly I can't choose a team. I'm leaning toward unicorns because they sparkle.
I bought this book called Zombies VS. Unicorns. And when I say "I bought" I mean "someone in my family gave me a gift card to Barnes and Noble" and when I say "someone in my family" I mean "I can't remember who."
So, yeah, hey family. I'm totally grateful for your gifts that enable me to buy zombie-unicorn books.
That is what this book looks like. Only better. And...more realistic. Although I don't know how that's possible, because it would appear that my MS Paint skills have only improved with time.
OMG FINE. Here. Click this link. I HOPE YOU'RE SATISFIED.
Anyway, I was at Barnes and Noble with my boyfriend, just spending the crap out of all my unused Christmas gift cards when suddenly, a shiny black cover gleamed from the recesses of the "Paranormal Teen Novel Fantasy Whatever" section. Being who I am, I instantly screamed "ZOMBIES VERSUS UNICORNS!!!" I then brushed my fingers lovingly across the cover and whispered solemnly and with all the reverence I could muster, "I must have this."
The great thing about my boyfriend is that he just expects things like this.
When I showed my step-dad he rolled his eyes and said, "Well at least you didn't waste your money," and I was like "I know! What a buy, right?!" and he rolled his eyes again. In retrospect, I think he may believe I've wasted my money.
Anyway, I thought this book would be the best purchase I've ever made in my life, and in some ways I was right. In others...I was so, so wrong. The book is basically a collection of short stories from various authors on two opposing teams. I've enjoyed most of the stories so far. However, there has been bestiality, homosexual naked special hugs, and curse words. The BAD kind of curse words.
I'm a prude. I don't swear. I'm easily shocked. But this book is about zombies and unicorns! It was MADE for me! But it's so SHOCKING. But some of the stories are SO GOOD. But THE PARTIAL NUDITY.
I don't know what to believe anymore.
I think I'll just go get a hot dog.
So, yeah, hey family. I'm totally grateful for your gifts that enable me to buy zombie-unicorn books.
 |
| Note the bird-man on top. Trivia: it's actually a poorly drawn zombie being eaten by a bird. Awesome. |
OMG FINE. Here. Click this link. I HOPE YOU'RE SATISFIED.
Anyway, I was at Barnes and Noble with my boyfriend, just spending the crap out of all my unused Christmas gift cards when suddenly, a shiny black cover gleamed from the recesses of the "Paranormal Teen Novel Fantasy Whatever" section. Being who I am, I instantly screamed "ZOMBIES VERSUS UNICORNS!!!" I then brushed my fingers lovingly across the cover and whispered solemnly and with all the reverence I could muster, "I must have this."
The great thing about my boyfriend is that he just expects things like this.
When I showed my step-dad he rolled his eyes and said, "Well at least you didn't waste your money," and I was like "I know! What a buy, right?!" and he rolled his eyes again. In retrospect, I think he may believe I've wasted my money.
Anyway, I thought this book would be the best purchase I've ever made in my life, and in some ways I was right. In others...I was so, so wrong. The book is basically a collection of short stories from various authors on two opposing teams. I've enjoyed most of the stories so far. However, there has been bestiality, homosexual naked special hugs, and curse words. The BAD kind of curse words.
I'm a prude. I don't swear. I'm easily shocked. But this book is about zombies and unicorns! It was MADE for me! But it's so SHOCKING. But some of the stories are SO GOOD. But THE PARTIAL NUDITY.
I don't know what to believe anymore.
I think I'll just go get a hot dog.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Scratch that. I am actually dying.
I am growing something. Inside of me. No, it is not a fetus. It's more like a viral plague. There is a probably unknown strain of some sort of soul-killing virus replicating inside of me and slowly sucking the life out of my body. I'm not sure what it wants. It's unclear whether it just intends to obstruct the air flow in my nose forever or whether its primary goal is to make me so woozy that I fall over and knock my head on the ground, possibly killing myself. If the latter is the case, the virus really could just wait for nature to take its course. I'm not particularly graceful, virus. Just trying to help you out here.
Either way, I'm awake because I can't breathe and if I can't breathe I can't sleep and this all is much less serious than I'm making it sound. Unless I really do die. If I die, it's much more serious than I'm making it out to be. Anyway, WANNA HEAR A STORY??
One day there was this really incredibly attractive girl named me. I had to move all of my THINGS and STUFF and ITEMS from my college dorm to my room back at home because the university I was attending generally frowns upon people leaving piles and piles of junk in random rooms. When I first moved into my dorm, I had a very reasonable amount of things.
Over time this amount grew. I would come home from the store with some lotion, goldfish, decorative foam fingers. Bags of useless stuff soon began piling under my bed. I started to get slightly uncomfortable. I was going to have to take this all back home, after all. But I dismissed these thoughts and went out to buy more things.
In college there are these things called "dining plans" that give you free food. Free food! FREE FOOD! And it's the good kind of food! From vending machines and snack things and ice cream! FREE FOOD...that I pay for every month as part of my rent, but STILL IT'S BASICALLY FREE! I started to come home from class every day laden with food. When it came time to move, for some reason I decided that the only thing I could possibly do with all of my food was pack it. Along with all my other stuff. Buy NEW FOOD? NO! IT WAS FREE FOOD! So I packed my free food. And my other things. I began packing. Things were going...okay.
I realized that I was going to need more boxes. My roommate, meanwhile, had already packed and busily cleaned her half of the room like a responsible tornado of efficiency. Oh, how I envied her ability to perform menial tasks without suffering from a total meltdown. Nevertheless, I was determined to pack up all of my stuff all by myself.
Soon, I was in the zone. A packing typhoon, I was a force to be reckoned with. My arms were a blur, tossing items in boxes with reckless abandon. Where my roommate was a well-oiled machine, stowing objects with precision, I was a flailing toddler throwing a temper tantrum. I flew across the room, cleaning walls and taping boxes and tearing down posters without any rhyme or reason. I shoved my crap into every corner of every box almost angrily. Actually, I was angry. Why did I have so many things??? What was I doing shoving three bags of potato chips into a box of clothes??? WHY COULD I NOT GET "FRIDAY" OUT OF MY HEAD??!! It wasn't long before the impossible became a glorious reality: all of my stuff was packed.
It was a lot less fulfilling than I thought it would be.
Unpacking was a miracle the likes of which have not been seen since biblical times.
The moral of the story: when you get a Happy Meal at McDonald's, throw away the toy instead of saving it and inexplicably bringing it and every other piece of useless junk that you've accumulated over the months with you when you move.
Either way, I'm awake because I can't breathe and if I can't breathe I can't sleep and this all is much less serious than I'm making it sound. Unless I really do die. If I die, it's much more serious than I'm making it out to be. Anyway, WANNA HEAR A STORY??
One day there was this really incredibly attractive girl named me. I had to move all of my THINGS and STUFF and ITEMS from my college dorm to my room back at home because the university I was attending generally frowns upon people leaving piles and piles of junk in random rooms. When I first moved into my dorm, I had a very reasonable amount of things.
Soon, I was in the zone. A packing typhoon, I was a force to be reckoned with. My arms were a blur, tossing items in boxes with reckless abandon. Where my roommate was a well-oiled machine, stowing objects with precision, I was a flailing toddler throwing a temper tantrum. I flew across the room, cleaning walls and taping boxes and tearing down posters without any rhyme or reason. I shoved my crap into every corner of every box almost angrily. Actually, I was angry. Why did I have so many things??? What was I doing shoving three bags of potato chips into a box of clothes??? WHY COULD I NOT GET "FRIDAY" OUT OF MY HEAD??!! It wasn't long before the impossible became a glorious reality: all of my stuff was packed.
It was a lot less fulfilling than I thought it would be.
Unpacking was a miracle the likes of which have not been seen since biblical times.
The moral of the story: when you get a Happy Meal at McDonald's, throw away the toy instead of saving it and inexplicably bringing it and every other piece of useless junk that you've accumulated over the months with you when you move.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Megan tries to function normally and set up her Christmas present: part one
Today I got a camera for Christmas because sometimes I want to take pictures to show you people what the heck I'm talking about instead of drawing something that we all could have lived without seeing EVERY TIME. Now I'm going to attempt to set up my camera and make it all operational and stuff. And because I’m positive that I will either irreparably damage it or some sort of hilarity will ensue, I will be live-blogging the experience! It will probably be totally boring.
PART ONE: This Is An Ominous Title About A Camera
-I don't really even remember what the context is for "WIZARD!" anymore.
PART ONE: This Is An Ominous Title About A Camera
-I just opened the box. There are 2,334 parts in here. Approximately. Hopefully the instructions say “lose 2,323 of the parts within the first 3 minutes of opening the box.”
-…The camera is wrapped in plastic. The plastic is much more difficult to open than one would generally expect. Even for me.
-Okay…so there are two cd’s here…I think one is like a guide? Yeah? And there’s a paper guide? Freak, Nikon. Way to waste resources. I’m gonna go with the paper issue because I hate trees and also I will probably ruin the CD.
-Obviously these set up instructions were made with me in mind. Step one: “Take the camera out of the box.”
-I will now attempt to “attach the camera strap.” SUCCESS! I am a camera wizard!!!
-Hmmm. What does “32MB “ mean?
-I’m supposed to “open the battery chamber” which sounds funny because I distinctly feel like this is the Chamber of Secrets, considering the fact that I cannot locate the battery chamber. Maybe I have to speak parseltongue.
-Look at that. The battery chamber is labeled, “battery.” Weird.
-“Insert the supplied battery”=oh crap. I lost it. It is not here, unless it is wire shaped and/or is made out of the User's Manual. Stupid NIKON!
-Found the battery. It was in the box.
-Inserting this battery will “damage the camera” if I do it wrong in any way. Also I must use the edge of the battery to push the orange battery latch in the direction indicated by the arrow and fully insert the battery so that it locks into place…..hahaha my camera is screwed.
-That was easier than expected. Also, I liked the orange latch. It was very orange. CAMERA WIZARD, over here!
-It came with a memory card that is water, temperature, shock and x-ray proof. At first I was tempted to say, “hey, don’t you think you’re going overboard on the protection factor?” and then I thought about the fact that I own this memory card and suddenly it seems more reasonable. In fact, they should have also made it impact proof and punch proof, because sometimes I get frustrated and lash out. Sorry, memory card.
-On the back of the memory card package there is an explanation in Portuguese and I was all, “HEY I SPEAK THAT LANGUAGE, YES, SKILL TIME!” but then I remembered that I didn’t even understand the English version. Oh. Right.
-…I have to get scissors to open this stupid thing? Whatever. I don’t mind doing all the work. Also I didn’t even just cut myself with the scissors which is a minor miracle because I have sustained two cuts on the knuckle of my left ring finger so far today in different present-opening incidents. One involved a swiss army knife. Poor left ring finger.
-It says to close the door of the battery chamber, but the door doesn’t close. It just swings out on its stupid little springs. STOP LYING TO ME, USER’S MANUAL.
-Oh. There’s a button for that. It occurs to me at this point that many may suspect that my inadequacy is feigned. Au contraire. I really am this inadequate. So take that.
-“Use the supplied Charging AC Adapter EH-68P and USB Cable UC-E6 to charge the supplied Rechargeable Li-ion Battery EN-EL 10 while it is in the camera.” Oh. Okay, I’ll do that.
-Hahahaha my battery is named “Li-ion.” I bet it has a stutter. My poor, challenged battery.
-Now I’m supposed to stick a plug adapter onto the Charging AC Adapter, which is inexplicably capitalized.
-The instructions say that if I am in Argentina, the plug adapter is not supplied. Why? I’M A PERSON TOO, NIKON. Not that I’m in Argentina, but what if I were? WHAT IF I WERE.
-Hmm. All these plastic wrapped parts appear to be about the same. Hmmmmmmm. Hmmmmmmmmm. I wonder if there was no snow outside this Christmas because the Universe was giving me a gift. Maybe it wants to be friends.
-No, don't be stupid, self.
-No, don't be stupid, self.
-Now, I can’t be positive because I’m an idiot, but I think I’m missing a piece. Maybe Santa bought me this camera in Argentina. I knew this would come up.
-Did I just have a stroke? Where is that dumb plug adapter? I CHECKED THE BOX. DON’T TELL ME TO CHECK THE BOX. IT’S NOT IN THERE.
-I did NOT lose it. I know I didn’t lose it because just because ALRIGHT?!?!
-I can only conclude that my camera was purchased in Argentina. The Argentina instructions say to move on. Does this mean that I’m a citizen now? Do I have to learn Spanish?
-So…out of this pile of wires I now need to locate the wire that will connect my half-formed chargy thingy to the camera part of the camera via a little hole in the camera thing. WIZARD!
-Why is one wire connected to yellow and white things? Do they plug into the TV? Are they for the Nintendo 64? I’m so confused. NIKON YOU ARE RUINING MY LIFE.
-Why is everything labeled with numbers and random letters, by the way? Instead of telling me to connect “EH-68P and USB Cable UC-E6” to “Li-ion Battery EN-EL 10” it should just tell me to connect Ralph the Dragon, Jermaine Stevens, and Martin Van Buren. I would totally remember that and I would also probably grow more attached to my camera and also people would relate to Nikon’s cameras better and sales would boom. Everyone wins. Nikon should hire me.
-Ha! I totes connected this all up. Probably with the wrong wire. Whatever. I have one word: WIZARD!
-Huh. The manual says that I need to charge the battery for three hours. Well the way I see it I have three options: 1. Stay up for three hours and then probably three more as I attempt to figure the rest of this crap out, 2. Go to sleep and finish this tomorrow in a part two installment, 3. Wait for the Nikon fairy to come and charge my battery for me. I choose option 2. WIZARD!
-I don't really even remember what the context is for "WIZARD!" anymore.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Excerpts from my journal part 1
Before I started blogging regularly, I kept a journal. But not a real journal, per se, more like a book consisting of every stray, unintelligible, crazy, erratic, nonsensical thought that ever bounced around in my brain. In school, if I didn't have my journal I would FREAK OUT because WHERE WILL I WRITE ABOUT THE COMPARATIVE QUALITIES OF K$SHA AND LADY GAGAWHEREIASKYOU!?!?!?!? Once, I forgot it and spent all of my theater class filling up an entire white erase board with the random mind-spewage that could not be contained. My friend Amber took pictures. I'll ask for them. THEN YOU WILL SEE HOW WEIRD I REALLY AM.
But you're about to anyway:
March 31, 2010
-You know how sometimes you have those days when you wake up and you're all, "um, I don't want to go to U.S. government," so you go back to bed and wake up half an hour later and think, "I don't really want to go to biology," so you go back to sleep but then you realize you forgot to call Morgan, so you do and then she laughs at you for being so lame, and you laugh too, and then you go back to bed, and later you wake up and finally shower, but all you really feel like doing is acting out a zombie apocalypse on facebook? Yeah. I'm having one of those days.
Friday, April 23, 2010
-I assume that you make socially awkward comments because you're obsessed with me.
-No matter how many times I tell myself I'm not going to spill, I always spill.
May 3, 2010
-Fruit salad: Banana is the gross, awkward second cousin that you include so that he doesn't feel bad, but you feel bad, cause he smells. Pineapple is the really loud, fat, obnoxious aunt. You're trying to enjoy raspberry or make out with your boyfriend strawberry, and Aunt Pineapple comes up to you and starts laughing really loudly and yelling about childbirth and how her bunions hurt. So yeah. Fruit salad is like an awkward family reunion. You could say that.
-K$sha VERSUS Lady Gaga:
Okay, first of all, K$sha spells her name like an idiot.
1. Dinner with Kesha would probably end like this: "Kesha...here, I'll take you home, put down the vodka...Hey put your shirt back on! Oh...wow you sure can vomit."
Lady Gaga would probably talk about interesting things like...well I don't know. Maybe I'll just talk about Lady Gaga herself.
2. Kesha would probably win in a fight, assuming she wasn't drunk.
Lady Gaga could outdance Kesha any day of the week. And she'd probably drive drunk Kesha home.
3. A drunk Kesha video game would be so awesome.
A Lady Gaga video game would probably just be a lot of hip thrusting.
4. "Your Love is My Drug" is kind of catchy.
Lady Gaga has about 100,025 zillion dollars worth of better songs, in comparison.
5. I wouldn't want to meet Kesha. I just want to shamefully listen to one or two of her jams where no one will find out.
Meeting Lady Gaga would be scary. But awesome.
May 4, 2010
-Apparently, it's Ke-dollarsign-ha. Not K-dollarsign-sha. So Ke$ha. Not K$sha....Whatever. She spells it like an idiot. I don't feel bad. YOU DON'T OWN ME, K$SHA!
May 8, 2010
-Would the world be better, worse, or neutral if I never cleaned my room?
May 10, 2010
-This is just like the time I asked--nay, DEMANDED that my mother extend my curfew. In that this also did not go well.
-And at this point I'm all, whatever. Just give me the freakin' alkaseltzer.
-I'm not sure how alkaseltzer would help in this situation, but it sounds up to the task.
-I realize that my desk wold be more functional if I cleaned it. But when crap covers every surface in my room--well, that really speaks to me.
-Tyler just informed me that "crap" is a swear word in England. It feels like my birthday.
May 16, 2010
-You lack life-blood.
May 25 (ish. ?) 2010
-Yeah, who needs to keep track of the days? Not me. That's who.
May 28, 2010
-Sometimes I accidentally make things awkward without noticing.
-Actually, the most awkward thing about me is probably how often I talk about being awkward.
-...Does anyone want to elope?
As you can see, my entries don't follow any sort of linear, cohesive train of thought. They consist of a lot of one-liners that confuse me when I go back and read them.
One day I will include more entries complete with the illustrations straight from the journal. Also, assuming no one is so freaked out at my insanity, I will publish MOAR ENTRIEEEZZZ!
Actually, I probably will anyway, whether you're freaked out or not.
But you're about to anyway:
March 31, 2010
-You know how sometimes you have those days when you wake up and you're all, "um, I don't want to go to U.S. government," so you go back to bed and wake up half an hour later and think, "I don't really want to go to biology," so you go back to sleep but then you realize you forgot to call Morgan, so you do and then she laughs at you for being so lame, and you laugh too, and then you go back to bed, and later you wake up and finally shower, but all you really feel like doing is acting out a zombie apocalypse on facebook? Yeah. I'm having one of those days.
Friday, April 23, 2010
-I assume that you make socially awkward comments because you're obsessed with me.
-No matter how many times I tell myself I'm not going to spill, I always spill.
May 3, 2010
-Fruit salad: Banana is the gross, awkward second cousin that you include so that he doesn't feel bad, but you feel bad, cause he smells. Pineapple is the really loud, fat, obnoxious aunt. You're trying to enjoy raspberry or make out with your boyfriend strawberry, and Aunt Pineapple comes up to you and starts laughing really loudly and yelling about childbirth and how her bunions hurt. So yeah. Fruit salad is like an awkward family reunion. You could say that.
-K$sha VERSUS Lady Gaga:
Okay, first of all, K$sha spells her name like an idiot.
1. Dinner with Kesha would probably end like this: "Kesha...here, I'll take you home, put down the vodka...Hey put your shirt back on! Oh...wow you sure can vomit."
Lady Gaga would probably talk about interesting things like...well I don't know. Maybe I'll just talk about Lady Gaga herself.
2. Kesha would probably win in a fight, assuming she wasn't drunk.
Lady Gaga could outdance Kesha any day of the week. And she'd probably drive drunk Kesha home.
3. A drunk Kesha video game would be so awesome.
A Lady Gaga video game would probably just be a lot of hip thrusting.
4. "Your Love is My Drug" is kind of catchy.
Lady Gaga has about 100,025 zillion dollars worth of better songs, in comparison.
5. I wouldn't want to meet Kesha. I just want to shamefully listen to one or two of her jams where no one will find out.
Meeting Lady Gaga would be scary. But awesome.
May 4, 2010
-Apparently, it's Ke-dollarsign-ha. Not K-dollarsign-sha. So Ke$ha. Not K$sha....Whatever. She spells it like an idiot. I don't feel bad. YOU DON'T OWN ME, K$SHA!
May 8, 2010
-Would the world be better, worse, or neutral if I never cleaned my room?
May 10, 2010
-This is just like the time I asked--nay, DEMANDED that my mother extend my curfew. In that this also did not go well.
-And at this point I'm all, whatever. Just give me the freakin' alkaseltzer.
-I'm not sure how alkaseltzer would help in this situation, but it sounds up to the task.
-I realize that my desk wold be more functional if I cleaned it. But when crap covers every surface in my room--well, that really speaks to me.
-Tyler just informed me that "crap" is a swear word in England. It feels like my birthday.
May 16, 2010
-You lack life-blood.
May 25 (ish. ?) 2010
-Yeah, who needs to keep track of the days? Not me. That's who.
May 28, 2010
-Sometimes I accidentally make things awkward without noticing.
-Actually, the most awkward thing about me is probably how often I talk about being awkward.
-...Does anyone want to elope?
As you can see, my entries don't follow any sort of linear, cohesive train of thought. They consist of a lot of one-liners that confuse me when I go back and read them.
One day I will include more entries complete with the illustrations straight from the journal. Also, assuming no one is so freaked out at my insanity, I will publish MOAR ENTRIEEEZZZ!
Actually, I probably will anyway, whether you're freaked out or not.
Monday, November 8, 2010
My brain and I are fighting again. I hope the kids don't hear us.
I have a problem. I don't know if it's me or my brain or if the distinction between the two doesn't really matter, but nonetheless, a problem I have. Observe:
Me: Let's do homework.
Brain: No.
Me: Well...okay. Study, then?
Brain: You're stupid. I'm going to get all swell-y and crap so that you'll be in pain.
Me: No not another migraine! Listen, brain, we REALLY need to start on the Portuguese workbook.
Brain: No, let's look at pictures of kittens in boxes.
Me: We did that for three hours yesterday.
Brain: I know. But this is the internet. JUST THINK OF HOW MANY MORE KITTEN PICTURES THERE PROBABLY ARE NOW! Oh, the boxes! The kittens! We must.
Me: No, brain. We can't.
Brain: GAR! I bestow upon you, pain!
Me: *Whimper* Aaaah, no...I can't let you win.
Brain: KITTENS. NOW.
Me: *Sob* ...okay. Okay. Kittens, then.
...Sigh.
PS. Your comments make me laugh and I love them. FYI, I certainly DON'T think any of you are creepy. At all. I'm so happy that you creep on me, in fact, because I'm a creep too. Word to the wise, creeps make the world go round, y'all.
PPS. I have the strange urge to say "y'all" all the time now. Whaaaa? I'm from Utah. We don't say "y'all." We say "brothers and sisters." I need a new word which refers to a large group of people collectively, with which I can address said group.
Updated: Click here to add me on Facebook. THIS is the account to add, sparkle pies.
Me: Let's do homework.
Brain: No.
Me: Well...okay. Study, then?
Brain: You're stupid. I'm going to get all swell-y and crap so that you'll be in pain.
Me: No not another migraine! Listen, brain, we REALLY need to start on the Portuguese workbook.
Brain: No, let's look at pictures of kittens in boxes.
Me: We did that for three hours yesterday.
Brain: I know. But this is the internet. JUST THINK OF HOW MANY MORE KITTEN PICTURES THERE PROBABLY ARE NOW! Oh, the boxes! The kittens! We must.
Me: No, brain. We can't.
Brain: GAR! I bestow upon you, pain!
Me: *Whimper* Aaaah, no...I can't let you win.
Brain: KITTENS. NOW.
Me: *Sob* ...okay. Okay. Kittens, then.
...Sigh.
PS. Your comments make me laugh and I love them. FYI, I certainly DON'T think any of you are creepy. At all. I'm so happy that you creep on me, in fact, because I'm a creep too. Word to the wise, creeps make the world go round, y'all.
PPS. I have the strange urge to say "y'all" all the time now. Whaaaa? I'm from Utah. We don't say "y'all." We say "brothers and sisters." I need a new word which refers to a large group of people collectively, with which I can address said group.
Updated: Click here to add me on Facebook. THIS is the account to add, sparkle pies.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
How to get an A in English
English is a hard subject for many reasons. It involves spelling, it involves words, and it involves grammar. No other language includes all three of these things, and I'm pretty sure most of them are comprised of guttural grunting noises and a series of clicks and whistles. Fortunately, I've constructed this handy guide to help you navigate and pass the rigorous course that is English.
Spelling
Spelling is difficult because it involves letters, and some letters exist only to ruin your life. The letter "P," for example, is a jerk. If it is paired with the letter "H," it sounds like an "F." If it is paired with the letter "S," it sounds like...well, like an "S." When paired with other letters, like, say, the letter "R," "P" pretends to be all innocent and crap and does exactly what it's supposed to. It is false and deceitful. "P" is such a jerk, and it never responds to my emails. Jerk.
"P" also looks a lot like the number 9, which poses difficulty for young children who happen to have fairly common first names and also have last names which start with the letter P, because maybe a certain young child is just trying to learn to differentiate between numbers and letters and the teacher hands back corrected papers to the class and loudly calls out "Megan 9? Who is Megan 9? We don't USE numbers in our NAMES, MEGAN!!" and then the poor child gets all embarrassed and remembers it to this very day and....
What? Where am I?
Anyway. The letter P. It sucks. In order to help you remember this, I've created the following illustration:
Also, something about subjects and verbs and independent clauses. (Hint: not Santa Clauses.)
Commas
I, don't know how, to use commas. ,,,,
Now go earn that A!
Spelling
Spelling is difficult because it involves letters, and some letters exist only to ruin your life. The letter "P," for example, is a jerk. If it is paired with the letter "H," it sounds like an "F." If it is paired with the letter "S," it sounds like...well, like an "S." When paired with other letters, like, say, the letter "R," "P" pretends to be all innocent and crap and does exactly what it's supposed to. It is false and deceitful. "P" is such a jerk, and it never responds to my emails. Jerk.
"P" also looks a lot like the number 9, which poses difficulty for young children who happen to have fairly common first names and also have last names which start with the letter P, because maybe a certain young child is just trying to learn to differentiate between numbers and letters and the teacher hands back corrected papers to the class and loudly calls out "Megan 9? Who is Megan 9? We don't USE numbers in our NAMES, MEGAN!!" and then the poor child gets all embarrassed and remembers it to this very day and....
What? Where am I?
Anyway. The letter P. It sucks. In order to help you remember this, I've created the following illustration:
The concept to grasp here: the letter "P" is evil.
Here are some helpful tips when you're trying to spell things:
1. Don't spell in Spanish.
2. Spell in English.
3. When in doubt, just mouth the word "Watermelon." That's a tip I learned from my fourth grade choir class.
4. If you don't remember how to spell a word, write "Watermelon" and then make it look like the word you are supposed to be spelling.
5. Pants inhibit blood flow to the brain. Don't wear them to class.
6. Only use letters that appear in the alphabet. If you cannot remember which letters are in the alphabet, make up your own letters because you are likely to be right at least some of the time.
The most important thing to remember when spelling is to believe in yourself. When you have confidence in the magical power of your inner self or whatever, you cannot fail! Try your best, kiddo. And don't forget, there's no "P" in the phrase "Good speller."
Grammar
Grammar is like the crappy math of the English world. Grammar makes you think about things like fragments, comma splices, tense shifts, and subject-verb agreement. All this stuff kind of sucks. They really aren't as hard as they sound though:
Seriously.
If you want to be a grammar wizard, there are a few things you must always do.
First, whenever you grasp a rule of grammar, cling to it like it's the holy grail of rules. Whenever anyone misuses this rule or blatantly ignores it, consider it your divine calling to correct them immediately and succinctly. Always be sure to act condescending and patronizing, because otherwise they just won't learn. It's a fact.
Second, ignore any and all changes in the structure of the English language. For example, it is now grammatically correct to use only one space after a period. This is a ridiculous rule. I grew up my whole life typing TWO SPACES. It is the only correct way. I will forever hold to what I know to be true. I will also stubbornly insist on keeping all my VHS tapes and reading books that are made of paper. In ten years no one will like me, but I will be so right. It's worth it. Keep your fancy high-definition space laser discs and your magical "e-readers."
Third, if you don't know a rule of grammar, just pretend like you do. When your friend shakes his head and says "It always bothers me when I see a 'ten items or less' checkout station. It's so incorrect," you must respond quickly, otherwise everyone you know and love will hate you forever for your ignorance. Also, kittens will explode.
Below are some statements I've created that are suitable for any situation, and are definitely applicable when you don't know the rules of grammar. Simply respond by saying:
"That was overturned at the Geneva Convention."
"That's so racist."
"I'm good at grammar."
"I love orphans."
"My whole family is dying of an incurable disease."
"Velociraptor overlords will soon be arriving from the past to take over, so it really doesn't matter."
Words
Words are just letters mushed up together to create sounds which are attached to meanings. It is all very complicated. If you have enough words together, and they all make sense in context with each other, you will have a sentence. But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves.
These are words:
Hello
Dinosaur
Applesauce
Onomatopoeia
Dyslexia
Tophat
Cannon
Cake
Genocide
Feelings
These are not words:
OMG
LOL/LULZ/LOLZ
WAT!!~?
Fantasterific
wkopghowabhpwioe
No
When in doubt, refer to this handy list. It's basically comprehensive.
Sentences
Sentences can lead to paragraphs,which in turn can lead to pointless essays (which you will inevitably encounter in your education), so it's important to know what a sentence is and how to use it.
A sentence looks like this:
The meth lab exploded into a million particles of chemical-doused rubble.
A sentence does not look like this:
Commas
I, don't know how, to use commas. ,,,,
Now go earn that A!
Monday, October 18, 2010
When I grow up to be even more awesome than I am now, this is what it will look like
I am not married, and I probably won't be married any time soon because I think I don't like being married yet. That's the idea, anyway.
Nevertheless, I have come up with some super-cool plans for my future. Dive in, shall we?
Ideas for the names of my future daughters:
Autumn
Maisy
Chloe
Bella
Twilight Bella (Just in case I want to name one of them after Twilight Bella. Wouldn't want people to be confused.)
Megaladon
Helen Keller (Too far?)
Picture Frame
Picture Frame II
Picture Frame Decorated With Butterflies
Wikipedia (Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?)
Sue
Lue
SueLue
* (Pronounced "Asterisk"
**(Pronounced "Double Asterisk")
(**) (Pronounced "Parenthesis Double Asterisk Amanda")
(\_/)
(o.o) (Pronounced "Franchesca") (Or "Robot Bunny") (Or both)
/()\
/_|_\
Ideas for the names of my future sons:
James
Asher
Dragonslayer
CrimsonRedScarletJones (His favorite color will be yellow, probably)
Cement (Pronounced See-Ment. Probably will not go over well.)
Newton's Third Law (I always forget this one)
MyMotherIsBeautifulAndNice
AAAAAH!FIRE!EVERYONERUN!!!! (Pronounced "Christopher")
Atticus Google
Atticus LeGoogle
& (I don't know how I would pronounce this.)
Voldemort
Brunhildo (See, I took a popular female Viking name and made it male. I want people to know how incredibly creative I am. SO creative. In fact, watch this next one. It's a doozy.)
Satin Oxygen Little Bird
I also have ideas for my future name. As I understand, it changes when you get married. If I get to change my name, I would like for it to be one of these:
Optimus Beyonce (This is a bit of homage to Dan Bergstein, who should probably just go ahead and create a baby naming book. It would be awesome.)
Megan Braveheart
Megan Iscool
Megan !
LeMegan Leblahbleaux (In case I marry a French guy.)
Megan Angel Miracle
The Illustrious Megan
Megan Jeremiah
Megan Megan
Megan M. Megan
Megan Sexyfacehotpants
Megan Gotareallybigdiamondring
The Wittiest, Most Charming Woman Ever To Have Lived
I also have picked out my future home.
Not pictured in the above photo representation: hot tub, unicorn stables, more more cake, and back door. Also, mailbox.
My future occupation will be one of the following:
Supreme Dictator of the State of Utah
Supreme Dictator of Any Other Place
Person Who Gets Paid To Eat Cake
Official Officiator
Person Who Writes About Random Crap And Draws Lousy Pictures
Blogger
Blogger Who Writes About Random Crap And Draws Lousy Pictures
Person Who Makes "PH" Not Sound Like "F" Anymore Because It Makes No Sense
Struggling College Student
Nevertheless, I have come up with some super-cool plans for my future. Dive in, shall we?
Ideas for the names of my future daughters:
Autumn
Maisy
Chloe
Bella
Twilight Bella (Just in case I want to name one of them after Twilight Bella. Wouldn't want people to be confused.)
Megaladon
Helen Keller (Too far?)
Picture Frame
Picture Frame II
Picture Frame Decorated With Butterflies
Wikipedia (Rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?)
Sue
Lue
SueLue
* (Pronounced "Asterisk"
**(Pronounced "Double Asterisk")
(**) (Pronounced "Parenthesis Double Asterisk Amanda")
(\_/)
(o.o) (Pronounced "Franchesca") (Or "Robot Bunny") (Or both)
/()\
/_|_\
Ideas for the names of my future sons:
James
Asher
Dragonslayer
CrimsonRedScarletJones (His favorite color will be yellow, probably)
Cement (Pronounced See-Ment. Probably will not go over well.)
Newton's Third Law (I always forget this one)
MyMotherIsBeautifulAndNice
AAAAAH!FIRE!EVERYONERUN!!!! (Pronounced "Christopher")
Atticus Google
Atticus LeGoogle
& (I don't know how I would pronounce this.)
Voldemort
Brunhildo (See, I took a popular female Viking name and made it male. I want people to know how incredibly creative I am. SO creative. In fact, watch this next one. It's a doozy.)
Satin Oxygen Little Bird
I also have ideas for my future name. As I understand, it changes when you get married. If I get to change my name, I would like for it to be one of these:
Optimus Beyonce (This is a bit of homage to Dan Bergstein, who should probably just go ahead and create a baby naming book. It would be awesome.)
Megan Braveheart
Megan Iscool
Megan !
LeMegan Leblahbleaux (In case I marry a French guy.)
Megan Angel Miracle
The Illustrious Megan
Megan Jeremiah
Megan Megan
Megan M. Megan
Megan Sexyfacehotpants
Megan Gotareallybigdiamondring
The Wittiest, Most Charming Woman Ever To Have Lived
I also have picked out my future home.
 |
| I has a rocket. Do you? |
My future occupation will be one of the following:
Supreme Dictator of the State of Utah
Supreme Dictator of Any Other Place
Person Who Gets Paid To Eat Cake
Official Officiator
Person Who Writes About Random Crap And Draws Lousy Pictures
Blogger
Blogger Who Writes About Random Crap And Draws Lousy Pictures
Person Who Makes "PH" Not Sound Like "F" Anymore Because It Makes No Sense
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Awkward things that hurt my soul.
Living away from home has brought up some serious issues in my day to day survival. As it turns out, I actually require many things to survive never before considered. Surprising things, like laundry. I wake up and say "I know exactly what I need! I need new socks to put on my feet! I shall open up my sock drawer now!" and alas. No socks are to be found. Dirty laundry is to be found, but no socks. (That whole scenario originally involved underpants, but I actually have plenty of underpants. So if you were thinking about giving me a gift, socks would be better than underpants. If enough people give me socks, I'll never have to wash the dirty ones. You should buy me socks.)
Half the time I find myself yelling "What do you mean I need money for that? Give it to me!" or "Why are you standing in the hallway where I need to walk?" or "WHY IS THERE SO MUCH SHRUBBERY??" There are no clear answers. However, regardless of all my new-found responsibility, there is one other more pressing matter.
Some day to day occurrences are so mind-bogglingly awkward, I look up at the sky and whisper "whyyyyy?!" except I don't whisper very quietly and so most people stop and look at me and hope I don't have a knife on my person because I look like the kind of unstable psycho that might have a knife and use it irresponsibly. Like for incorrect buttering. Or stabbing.
Being unable to care for myself in even the most basic of fashions has led to an apparent inability to deal with normal occurrences with any degree of fortitude. My awkwardness has increased about 3487 percent. That's a rough estimate.
Naturally, I'm an awkward person. It's one of the weapons that the Universe uses in its vendetta against my general health and well-being. Recently, however, this has multiplied with my new level of responsibility to create my current method of dealing with life. I am incapable of any kind of adult reaction. This has led to very immature, anti-adult, reactions. Such as stomping on inanimate objects. Especially stairs. I don't know why I do that. Stairs don't care if I stomp on them. In fact, that's more action than stairs have probably seen in a while. Stairs are probably all "That's right, stomp harder! Is that all you got, you little wuss?" and then stairs invert gravity for a moment and alter their molecular shape, causing me to fall.
Which brings me to point number one.
Stairs that are either too short or too long for feet.
You probably know exactly what I'm talking about. These stairs completely exacerbate my awkwardness. Stairs usually work like this:
Stairs, when properly designed, allow the user to walk comfortably downward or upward without much thought. Any falling, tripping, or various methods of pain and death are direct results of the user's own physical failings, such as clumsiness or allergies.
Meet Stairs of Doom:
The above stairs are an example of perilous death. These stairs are either a cruel joke or were built by people with extremely tiny feet and incredible balance. These stairs cause you to topple down them mercilessly. You will walk down them cautiously. You will feel the slight pitch in gravity indicating your imminent fall. You will brace yourself, and attempt to regain precious balance by flapping your arms uselessly and possibly uttering a grating shriek. You will then hurtle to the ground.
When you are crumpled into a pathetic heap of shame and imbalance at the foot of the stairs, every bystander in the area will freeze for approximately three seconds before composing themselves enough to offer assistance. You will pretend to be invisible. It will become clear that you will be unable to pretend you are invisible. You will raise your worthless carcass into a sitting position, mumble feebly that you are okay, and walk away as quickly as possible, registering the various bruises and abrasions now splashed across your elbows and knees. You will hope that no one from the "stair incident" will ever see you in any other setting. (Kind of like how I feel about Doug. Doug works in the library. Every time I see him, I wonder whether or not I should mention the fact that I almost ended his life on our first meeting. I generally talk about it until things get awkward, which is immediately, and then I regret bringing it up. Good times.)
Falling down these stairs will create a plethora of Dougs for your enjoyment.
Then there is this abomination:
These stairs are awkward and probably feel really insecure. The steps themselves are very long, making the staircase stretch on into infinity. When you use these stairs, you will not know how to walk. Should you take two short steps on each stair, or you should you take extremely long steps and try not to faceplant? Which will make you look less idiotic? The answer: neither. No matter what, you will look stupid. These stairs were specifically designed to make you look as awkward and ridiculous as possible. You will not descend with grace. It's best to get it over with quickly.
Getting locked out.
Living in a dorm isn't all that bad for normal people. You go to class, you shower in a stall, you return home and gossip with your roommate while watching various chick flicks. For the regular, socially confident, not psychotic populace, it's a pretty good deal. Then there's me. My first week living in the dorms, I was locked out twice on accident after leaving my key inside the dorm, and then once due to my inability to perform simple functions like not lose my keys. It didn't take long for every staff member who was even tenuously linked to keys to be able to recognize me on sight.
My mental well-being usually relies on the certainty that I am not burdening any strangers with my existence. I have this guilt issue. For example: Last night I had a dream that I got hit by a semi-truck, damaging the truck in the process. The driver got out of the car and yelled at me for ruining the truck and as I sat there on the street, I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt. I felt guilty for causing minor damage to a semi-truck that had just flattened me. Moments like these make me think I probably need to reevaluate my priorities.
Anyway. The point is, I've been locked out a million times, and have to choose one of two options. I either have to wait for my roommate to return, or go find someone with a master key to open the door for me. I agonize over the decision, weighing the pros and cons, seeing only cons in both options, and finally I decide to find someone to open the door for me. This always, without fail, leads to awkward conversation. I live on the third floor. The office is on the first floor. I walk up seemingly endless flights of stairs next to someone who is as uncomfortable with making small talk as I am.
Me: ...........
Helpful Key Person: .......So. Locked out, huh?
Me: Um. Yep.
Helpful Key Person: Yeah. [Silence as we continue to climb the stairs.] So. Third floor?
Me: Uh huh. Third floor.
Helpful Key Person: Okay. [More silence. More stairs.] It sure is a long walk to the third floor.
Me: Yeah, the third floor is about three floors up, I think.
Helpful Key Person: Yes I think that's about correct.
Me: ...............
Helpful Key Person: ................
Me: ...............[Still more stairs. Finally, third floor hallway. A long walk to my door.]
Helpful Key Person: Okay here we are. [Opens door]
Me: Okay, um, thanks a lot. [Worries for the rest of the night that Helpful Key Person hates me and I'll never be friends with Helpful Key Person and now the state of Utah is going to explode and it will be all my fault for losing my keys.]
Pants in general.
I often wonder what pants' problem is. What the heck, pants? Who invented you, anyway? Why are you so annoying? Especially jeans. What kind of a person decided that jeans were a good idea?
Pain is fun! Shimmying like a disabled lemur is awesome because it helps me get my pants on.
My favorite is when it takes twenty minutes.
The dreaded double-double door.
This is a double door:
This is a double double door:
In theory, these doors aren't all that difficult to use. You just walk through one set, then proceed through the next, and carry on your merry way. This concept works very well until you throw in polite people.
Invariably, some kind-hearted soul will hold open the first set of doors. "What a nice gesture!" I think to myself as I carry on through the open door, saying "thank you!" loudly to Nice Guy. Nice Guy then enters behind me, and we find ourselves at the second set of doors. Having entered first, I am closer to the second set of doors than Nice Person. I awkwardly reach for the handle. Nice Guy awkwardly reaches for the handle, intent on continuing his kind deed of the day. At this point, there's chivalry to think about. Should I let Nice Guy hold open the door for me again? If he does, do I mumble "Thank you" again? Does the first "Thank you" carry over here, or should I ecstatically say it again? Or should I hold the door open for Nice Guy? What if Nice Guy expects me to? What if he wants to be chivalrous, though? What if opening the door tells him that I didn't appreciate the first door? WHAT IF NICE GUY DOESN'T LIKE ME ANYMORE?!
At this point my face usually betrays my inner turmoil. 99 times out of 100, Nice Guy is perfectly normal and simply holds the door open for me a second time, smiles politely, and walks away. Nice Guy probably doesn't think about this at all as the day goes on. I am not so lucky.
I usually end up knocking over a desk or something later though, so that gives me something else to agonize over.
Half the time I find myself yelling "What do you mean I need money for that? Give it to me!" or "Why are you standing in the hallway where I need to walk?" or "WHY IS THERE SO MUCH SHRUBBERY??" There are no clear answers. However, regardless of all my new-found responsibility, there is one other more pressing matter.
Some day to day occurrences are so mind-bogglingly awkward, I look up at the sky and whisper "whyyyyy?!" except I don't whisper very quietly and so most people stop and look at me and hope I don't have a knife on my person because I look like the kind of unstable psycho that might have a knife and use it irresponsibly. Like for incorrect buttering. Or stabbing.
Being unable to care for myself in even the most basic of fashions has led to an apparent inability to deal with normal occurrences with any degree of fortitude. My awkwardness has increased about 3487 percent. That's a rough estimate.
Naturally, I'm an awkward person. It's one of the weapons that the Universe uses in its vendetta against my general health and well-being. Recently, however, this has multiplied with my new level of responsibility to create my current method of dealing with life. I am incapable of any kind of adult reaction. This has led to very immature, anti-adult, reactions. Such as stomping on inanimate objects. Especially stairs. I don't know why I do that. Stairs don't care if I stomp on them. In fact, that's more action than stairs have probably seen in a while. Stairs are probably all "That's right, stomp harder! Is that all you got, you little wuss?" and then stairs invert gravity for a moment and alter their molecular shape, causing me to fall.
Which brings me to point number one.
Stairs that are either too short or too long for feet.
You probably know exactly what I'm talking about. These stairs completely exacerbate my awkwardness. Stairs usually work like this:
Stairs, when properly designed, allow the user to walk comfortably downward or upward without much thought. Any falling, tripping, or various methods of pain and death are direct results of the user's own physical failings, such as clumsiness or allergies.
Meet Stairs of Doom:
The above stairs are an example of perilous death. These stairs are either a cruel joke or were built by people with extremely tiny feet and incredible balance. These stairs cause you to topple down them mercilessly. You will walk down them cautiously. You will feel the slight pitch in gravity indicating your imminent fall. You will brace yourself, and attempt to regain precious balance by flapping your arms uselessly and possibly uttering a grating shriek. You will then hurtle to the ground.
When you are crumpled into a pathetic heap of shame and imbalance at the foot of the stairs, every bystander in the area will freeze for approximately three seconds before composing themselves enough to offer assistance. You will pretend to be invisible. It will become clear that you will be unable to pretend you are invisible. You will raise your worthless carcass into a sitting position, mumble feebly that you are okay, and walk away as quickly as possible, registering the various bruises and abrasions now splashed across your elbows and knees. You will hope that no one from the "stair incident" will ever see you in any other setting. (Kind of like how I feel about Doug. Doug works in the library. Every time I see him, I wonder whether or not I should mention the fact that I almost ended his life on our first meeting. I generally talk about it until things get awkward, which is immediately, and then I regret bringing it up. Good times.)
Falling down these stairs will create a plethora of Dougs for your enjoyment.
Then there is this abomination:
Getting locked out.
Living in a dorm isn't all that bad for normal people. You go to class, you shower in a stall, you return home and gossip with your roommate while watching various chick flicks. For the regular, socially confident, not psychotic populace, it's a pretty good deal. Then there's me. My first week living in the dorms, I was locked out twice on accident after leaving my key inside the dorm, and then once due to my inability to perform simple functions like not lose my keys. It didn't take long for every staff member who was even tenuously linked to keys to be able to recognize me on sight.
My mental well-being usually relies on the certainty that I am not burdening any strangers with my existence. I have this guilt issue. For example: Last night I had a dream that I got hit by a semi-truck, damaging the truck in the process. The driver got out of the car and yelled at me for ruining the truck and as I sat there on the street, I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt. I felt guilty for causing minor damage to a semi-truck that had just flattened me. Moments like these make me think I probably need to reevaluate my priorities.
Anyway. The point is, I've been locked out a million times, and have to choose one of two options. I either have to wait for my roommate to return, or go find someone with a master key to open the door for me. I agonize over the decision, weighing the pros and cons, seeing only cons in both options, and finally I decide to find someone to open the door for me. This always, without fail, leads to awkward conversation. I live on the third floor. The office is on the first floor. I walk up seemingly endless flights of stairs next to someone who is as uncomfortable with making small talk as I am.
Me: ...........
Helpful Key Person: .......So. Locked out, huh?
Me: Um. Yep.
Helpful Key Person: Yeah. [Silence as we continue to climb the stairs.] So. Third floor?
Me: Uh huh. Third floor.
Helpful Key Person: Okay. [More silence. More stairs.] It sure is a long walk to the third floor.
Me: Yeah, the third floor is about three floors up, I think.
Helpful Key Person: Yes I think that's about correct.
Me: ...............
Helpful Key Person: ................
Me: ...............[Still more stairs. Finally, third floor hallway. A long walk to my door.]
Helpful Key Person: Okay here we are. [Opens door]
Me: Okay, um, thanks a lot. [Worries for the rest of the night that Helpful Key Person hates me and I'll never be friends with Helpful Key Person and now the state of Utah is going to explode and it will be all my fault for losing my keys.]
Pants in general.
I often wonder what pants' problem is. What the heck, pants? Who invented you, anyway? Why are you so annoying? Especially jeans. What kind of a person decided that jeans were a good idea?
The dreaded double-double door.
This is a double door:
Invariably, some kind-hearted soul will hold open the first set of doors. "What a nice gesture!" I think to myself as I carry on through the open door, saying "thank you!" loudly to Nice Guy. Nice Guy then enters behind me, and we find ourselves at the second set of doors. Having entered first, I am closer to the second set of doors than Nice Person. I awkwardly reach for the handle. Nice Guy awkwardly reaches for the handle, intent on continuing his kind deed of the day. At this point, there's chivalry to think about. Should I let Nice Guy hold open the door for me again? If he does, do I mumble "Thank you" again? Does the first "Thank you" carry over here, or should I ecstatically say it again? Or should I hold the door open for Nice Guy? What if Nice Guy expects me to? What if he wants to be chivalrous, though? What if opening the door tells him that I didn't appreciate the first door? WHAT IF NICE GUY DOESN'T LIKE ME ANYMORE?!
At this point my face usually betrays my inner turmoil. 99 times out of 100, Nice Guy is perfectly normal and simply holds the door open for me a second time, smiles politely, and walks away. Nice Guy probably doesn't think about this at all as the day goes on. I am not so lucky.
I usually end up knocking over a desk or something later though, so that gives me something else to agonize over.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Greeting cards for people who don't really like greeting cards
I like to look at the greeting cards whenever I go to the store. Sometimes the cards are funny. Sometimes they're sweet. But I often wonder why card makers aren't catering to the greater needs of the people. The people being me.
Have you ever wanted to say something just right, but you couldn't find a card that could express your feelings accurately? Well I'm about to solve your problem.
You're welcome.
Suck it, normal cards.
Have you ever wanted to say something just right, but you couldn't find a card that could express your feelings accurately? Well I'm about to solve your problem.
You're welcome.
Suck it, normal cards.
Monday, August 16, 2010
This is why I never reply. Ever. Except for my own amusement.
I don't really like checking my email. I think email is very important, I wouldn't be able to function without it, but I have this problem. It goes like this.
First, I do something. It's always something seemingly harmless. I apply for something important. I email a person who I'd like to talk to. I sign up for the hourly official penguin newsletter. All normal, healthy investments of time. Then, I frolic about, thinking to myself "I can internet! I have this interneting thing in the bag! I'm inter-lectual!" My day continues on as normal. I read a few favorite blogs, I drink a few glasses of water, I try to incorporate the word "perspicacious" into everyday conversation, I make a few awkward and inappropriate comments on various Facebook walls...you know, just stuffz. By the time I go to bed at night I'm thinking "Email, you made my day awesome. I'm going to make an 'I HEART EMAIL' shirt. I'm going to wear it to the mall. Everyone will be jealous. Goodnight, email."
The next day, I ignore email. It's wrong. It's insensitive. But I don't even think about email. I just look up pictures of cats and eat pizza.
Pretty soon, a few days have passed. I think to myself "I should check that one thing" but I don't actually follow through on that impression. I kind of get sidetracked. Of course, being me, a few more days go by. Suddenly, I haven't checked that email thing in several weeks. All of my important applications, all of my conversations, all of my hourly newsletters...suddenly, they evoke a strange feeling in me. The word "hourly" gives me a weird cringy feeling deep within my being. What made me think I could handle an hourly newsletter? Penguins? What?! I don't even LIKE penguins! They're creepy, and they live in the cold, and nothing should be that adorable!
I get this odd sensation. Not quite guilt. Not quite apprehension. I call it "crap, I bet when I check my email, I'll have things I need to do. THINGS."
Inbox: 256 messages
From: spammyspam@isuck.scam Subject: EARN 328974kajillion dollars!@
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Breeding patterns of penguins
From: personwhoknowsme@yay.com Subject: ...Are you dead? email me back.
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: An Egg-tastic ice-capade!
From: importantcollegestuff@filloutthisform.com Subject: Yo, do this or you out, girl.
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Solving the flight crisis
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Penguin feather fashion 101
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Penguincide-we care
From: emailservice@mailymailmail.com Subject: Upgrade your inbox, fool.
From: emailservice@mailymailmail.com Subject: ...Um...there IS a delete button
From: taylorlautner@hotsexybody.com Subject: Hey, answer in ten and come chill!
Page: 1 Skip to page: 1, 2, 3, 4...23
I look at this and I cringe. So...read the email. Right. This is the point where my enhanced endurance kicks in and I'm all "alright email. Let's do this."
Spam: deleted!
Penguins: breeding, educated about!
Friend: ignored out of embarrassment!
Penguins: so cute!
College: form completed!
Penguins: flight crisis, noted!
Penguins: fashion forward!
Penguins: dead!
Email service: ignored!
Email service: double ignored!
Taylor Lautner: WAHHHAHAHIEONG!
Man, I am on a roll. That only took me twenty minutes! Awesome! I am a capable person! I am educated about penguin affairs! I am ready to take on the....wait...how many more pages? Um...well...gee. One page of email has been taken care of...I think that's pretty good. In fact, I'm hungry. Can't check email on an empty stomach, now, can I? And off I go to make dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets.
The next day, being all email-conscientious and whatnot, I decide to apply for some things, subscribe to another newsletter about current events, and you know what? Hey, Facebook, is there a way to be notified by email whenever anyone does anything on you that vaguely affects me? There is? Well heck, sign me up!
Days pass, weeks pass, and one day, I get that feeling again...that "awwww man. EMAIL." feeling.
Click, click, click...SHOOTDANG, YOU'RE KIDDING ME.
Inbox: 638 messages
From: currentstuff@probablytragic.com Subject: Obscure president assassinated-act now!
From: application@appsareus.com Subject: Maybe you want to apply for this too
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Krill is good for eating!
From: scamerificspam@virus.usuck Subject: FREE UNICORN!!!!
From: facebook@socialnetworking.net Subject: This person just said this thing about you
From: caringfriend@thoughtful.com Subject: Worried about you. Speak to me.
From: currentstuff@probablytragic.com Subject: Massive explosion-sign explosion petition!
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: A penguin Hanukkah
From: facebook@socialnetworking.net Subject: This may have something to do with you.
From: collegestuff@gotoschool.com Subject: Expensive books that you need to have
From: currentstuff@probablytragic.com Subject: Iranian babies fed bad milk. ZOMG!
Page:1 Skip to page: 1, 2, 3, 4...58
......but.....but.....
I stare at the computer screen for a moment, daunted by the immense task ahead of me. I curse myself for not having finished my email-management several weeks ago. I question my need for penguin news. I promptly decide that I require penguin news in order to live. Sighing, I gather up all the vestiges of focus floating around in my body and attack with surprising relish.
Current events: president, cared about!
Application: heck yes, I want to apply for that!
Penguins: krill, a good diet indeed!
Unicorn: virus, attained!
Facebook: oh no she didn't!
Friend: assurances, offered!
Current events: explosion, oh noes!
Penguins: culture, accepted!
Facebook: does not relate to me at all!
College: books, ordered!
Current events: NOT THE BABIES!!
And like a coiled viper, she strikes! On to page 2! You hear that, email? Take that! We are no longer friends, and look at me kick your butt. Bet you didn't see that one coming, eh, email? Bet you're shaking in your emaily-boots. Bet you're calling your email mommy and--Hey I'm hungry. Can't check email on an empty stomach, right? Past experience has taught me that much. Well! Chicken nuggets, ahoy!
And the next morning, I think to myself "Hey, I should probably get more email stuff going here! Newsletters!! I bet there's a newsletter about pharmaceutical malpractice! Yay!" and I DO IT. I SIGN UP. BECAUSE I'M A FOOL. Eventually this whole process degenerates into guilt and denial. I don't email people back because I'm scared of reminding them that they emailed me to begin with, and also that would remind them that I have a level of responsibility comparable to a five-year-old boy who refuses to bathe. I pretend that my email isn't a problem. I grieve over that ever-growing pile of data, filling a tiny corner of the internet with useless junk that even I don't care about enough to read. At this point, I have two correspondences that I actually keep track of, one being an important person out of state, the other, an important person out of the country. I brace myself on appointed days when I know they will email, and dive into the sea of endless crap, typing and clicking as fast as my brain and dexterity will allow.
At this point, I even dread opening my email inbox. It taunts me. One day, one glorious day, I shall vanquish this foe. Until then, I'll probably just keep surfing the internet aimlessly, signing up for newsletters that pertain to absolutely nothing I want to know anything about. Kind of like this blog. Suck it, emailz.
First, I do something. It's always something seemingly harmless. I apply for something important. I email a person who I'd like to talk to. I sign up for the hourly official penguin newsletter. All normal, healthy investments of time. Then, I frolic about, thinking to myself "I can internet! I have this interneting thing in the bag! I'm inter-lectual!" My day continues on as normal. I read a few favorite blogs, I drink a few glasses of water, I try to incorporate the word "perspicacious" into everyday conversation, I make a few awkward and inappropriate comments on various Facebook walls...you know, just stuffz. By the time I go to bed at night I'm thinking "Email, you made my day awesome. I'm going to make an 'I HEART EMAIL' shirt. I'm going to wear it to the mall. Everyone will be jealous. Goodnight, email."
 |
| Oh, email. I love you, email. |
Pretty soon, a few days have passed. I think to myself "I should check that one thing" but I don't actually follow through on that impression. I kind of get sidetracked. Of course, being me, a few more days go by. Suddenly, I haven't checked that email thing in several weeks. All of my important applications, all of my conversations, all of my hourly newsletters...suddenly, they evoke a strange feeling in me. The word "hourly" gives me a weird cringy feeling deep within my being. What made me think I could handle an hourly newsletter? Penguins? What?! I don't even LIKE penguins! They're creepy, and they live in the cold, and nothing should be that adorable!
I get this odd sensation. Not quite guilt. Not quite apprehension. I call it "crap, I bet when I check my email, I'll have things I need to do. THINGS."
Inbox: 256 messages
From: spammyspam@isuck.scam Subject: EARN 328974kajillion dollars!@
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Breeding patterns of penguins
From: personwhoknowsme@yay.com Subject: ...Are you dead? email me back.
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: An Egg-tastic ice-capade!
From: importantcollegestuff@filloutthisform.com Subject: Yo, do this or you out, girl.
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Solving the flight crisis
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Penguin feather fashion 101
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Penguincide-we care
From: emailservice@mailymailmail.com Subject: Upgrade your inbox, fool.
From: emailservice@mailymailmail.com Subject: ...Um...there IS a delete button
From: taylorlautner@hotsexybody.com Subject: Hey, answer in ten and come chill!
Page: 1 Skip to page: 1, 2, 3, 4...23
I look at this and I cringe. So...read the email. Right. This is the point where my enhanced endurance kicks in and I'm all "alright email. Let's do this."
Spam: deleted!
Penguins: breeding, educated about!
Friend: ignored out of embarrassment!
Penguins: so cute!
College: form completed!
Penguins: flight crisis, noted!
Penguins: fashion forward!
Penguins: dead!
Email service: ignored!
Email service: double ignored!
Taylor Lautner: WAHHHAHAHIEONG!
Man, I am on a roll. That only took me twenty minutes! Awesome! I am a capable person! I am educated about penguin affairs! I am ready to take on the....wait...how many more pages? Um...well...gee. One page of email has been taken care of...I think that's pretty good. In fact, I'm hungry. Can't check email on an empty stomach, now, can I? And off I go to make dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets.
The next day, being all email-conscientious and whatnot, I decide to apply for some things, subscribe to another newsletter about current events, and you know what? Hey, Facebook, is there a way to be notified by email whenever anyone does anything on you that vaguely affects me? There is? Well heck, sign me up!
Days pass, weeks pass, and one day, I get that feeling again...that "awwww man. EMAIL." feeling.
Click, click, click...SHOOTDANG, YOU'RE KIDDING ME.
Inbox: 638 messages
From: currentstuff@probablytragic.com Subject: Obscure president assassinated-act now!
From: application@appsareus.com Subject: Maybe you want to apply for this too
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: Krill is good for eating!
From: scamerificspam@virus.usuck Subject: FREE UNICORN!!!!
From: facebook@socialnetworking.net Subject: This person just said this thing about you
From: caringfriend@thoughtful.com Subject: Worried about you. Speak to me.
From: currentstuff@probablytragic.com Subject: Massive explosion-sign explosion petition!
From: penguinsrcool@hourly.com Subject: A penguin Hanukkah
From: facebook@socialnetworking.net Subject: This may have something to do with you.
From: collegestuff@gotoschool.com Subject: Expensive books that you need to have
From: currentstuff@probablytragic.com Subject: Iranian babies fed bad milk. ZOMG!
Page:1 Skip to page: 1, 2, 3, 4...58
......but.....but.....
 |
| Whaaaaa? |
I stare at the computer screen for a moment, daunted by the immense task ahead of me. I curse myself for not having finished my email-management several weeks ago. I question my need for penguin news. I promptly decide that I require penguin news in order to live. Sighing, I gather up all the vestiges of focus floating around in my body and attack with surprising relish.
Current events: president, cared about!
Application: heck yes, I want to apply for that!
Penguins: krill, a good diet indeed!
Unicorn: virus, attained!
Facebook: oh no she didn't!
Friend: assurances, offered!
Current events: explosion, oh noes!
Penguins: culture, accepted!
Facebook: does not relate to me at all!
College: books, ordered!
Current events: NOT THE BABIES!!
And like a coiled viper, she strikes! On to page 2! You hear that, email? Take that! We are no longer friends, and look at me kick your butt. Bet you didn't see that one coming, eh, email? Bet you're shaking in your emaily-boots. Bet you're calling your email mommy and--Hey I'm hungry. Can't check email on an empty stomach, right? Past experience has taught me that much. Well! Chicken nuggets, ahoy!
And the next morning, I think to myself "Hey, I should probably get more email stuff going here! Newsletters!! I bet there's a newsletter about pharmaceutical malpractice! Yay!" and I DO IT. I SIGN UP. BECAUSE I'M A FOOL. Eventually this whole process degenerates into guilt and denial. I don't email people back because I'm scared of reminding them that they emailed me to begin with, and also that would remind them that I have a level of responsibility comparable to a five-year-old boy who refuses to bathe. I pretend that my email isn't a problem. I grieve over that ever-growing pile of data, filling a tiny corner of the internet with useless junk that even I don't care about enough to read. At this point, I have two correspondences that I actually keep track of, one being an important person out of state, the other, an important person out of the country. I brace myself on appointed days when I know they will email, and dive into the sea of endless crap, typing and clicking as fast as my brain and dexterity will allow.
At this point, I even dread opening my email inbox. It taunts me. One day, one glorious day, I shall vanquish this foe. Until then, I'll probably just keep surfing the internet aimlessly, signing up for newsletters that pertain to absolutely nothing I want to know anything about. Kind of like this blog. Suck it, emailz.
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