Baby Nielsen is a girl!! And I am a terrible psychic. (UPDATED BECAUSE I'M AWFUL)

If you're like me, ultrasound pictures are entirely indecipherable, so let me explain. What you're looking at above is a picture of Baby Nielsen's bum. I think. I'm pretty sure. Anyway, the arrow is pointing between her legs, and the three little white lines indicate lady parts. Oh how embarrassing.

On Friday I was exactly 17 weeks pregnant. Eric and I were getting a little antsy to know whether we had a little miss or mister on our hands, probably mostly because we had a bet that whoever was right would get 50 dollars to spend on whatever they wanted. I was going to use this as a clever way to force Eric to buy me baby clothes with me, but it didn't quite work out because I was positive that Baby was a boy. And now I'm getting no end of "I told you so's" from Eric.

Actually, I'm just wrong in general as far as the whole baby guessing thing goes. Since learning of my pregnancy, my maternal instincts have apparently taken a nosedive off a cliff because I'm about as clairvoyant as a rock. We've had a bunch of friends find out baby genders, and I've been wrong EVERY TIME. I swore up and down that baby


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Apparently I hit "publish" instead of "save" on this one before finishing it.

OH GOOD.

I don't even remember where I was going with this. I guess I'll just finish this post now, since it's already been up for an embarrassingly long time. I'm a very reputable writer, take me seriously!

I think my point was that I have a 100 percent failure rate at guessing baby genders. Which, if you think about it, is actually pretty accurate. That's like a perfect succes rate, in a way. So maybe I am kind of psychic. Like, "my gut says you're having a boy, so it must be a girl."

By the way, I was positive Baby Girl was actually Baby Boy. In fact, just last night I had TWO DREAMS in a row that she's a boy. I'm still not 100 percent convinced that this isn't the case.

Welp. That about does it. Let's chalk this up to pregnancy brain and forgive me, kay guys? *Womp womp*

Three days without Facebook. Because I haaaate myself.

This morning I checked Facebook. Then I went to work. Then I checked Facebook again. I spent the first hour of the day working and checking Facebook until I read something that made my heart twist. See, I have several Facebook friends who are pregnant and who got pregnant around the same time I did. However, their babies are healthy. I had a miscarriage. I would have found out whether my baby was a boy or girl this month...and that means that THEY are all finding out and excitedly posting their news to Facebook. Meanwhile, I'm torturing myself by obsessively reading their updates and looking at pictures of their cute bellies and the sweet baby socks and clothes and books that they're receiving as gifts. I am not even close to being over my miscarriage. I feel like a mother without a child. I am jealous, angry, empty, and sad every time I see one of those updates. It's hard, REALLY hard to be happy for people who are getting what I thought I'd have. I lost it, seemingly at random, seemingly by chance, seemingly for no reason, and arbitrarily they didn't. But I digress. Because the point is that after I saw this girl's update and felt that familiar sinking, empty, drowning-in-a-well-filled-with-my-own-emotions-blaaaaah feeling, I got PISSED.

I'm mad! WHY am I doing this to myself?! Is this REALLY how I want to feel?? No one is forcing me to look! I sat there, staring at the computer screen for at least five minutes, realizing that I am torturing myself. I have a wound that's trying to heal, and I keep ripping it open and examining it. What is wrong with me? I'm not a jealous person. I'm not a person who doesn't rejoice in the happiness of others. I'm not a wallower. In the past I've always been able to muster up enthusiasm and joy for people who have what I want.

See, without Facebook, I wouldn't even know that these friends are all having girls so far. They could tell me or I could find out on a better timeline, one where I don't have to crumple into a pathetic pile of sadness in secret and they don't have to feel guilty for sharing their good news. I actually am not sure if they all even know, but I don't want them to feel bad when they post a picture of an ultrasound.

I've realized that being a part of every single thing that every other person does is a responsibility. If we're going to have that much knowledge about the lives of one another, if we're going to give ourselves so much freaking ability to be connected at all times, then we have to learn not to abuse it. Torturing ourselves with Facebook is NOT responsible behavior. It's insane. It's kind of sick. I do it all the time. It's not just the miscarriage, either. I can't count how many times I've felt awful after comparing myself to other people, particularly other people I hardly even know. And when was the last time I argued for hours on end over some stupid political opinion in real life? Facebook is the perfect forum for that, unfortunately. I get to watch some awesome things happen in the lives of my friends, but I also get to feel just sick to death because of all the negativity. It's negativity I force upon myself.

Not everyone needs to know what I'm thinking! I don't need to know what everyone else is thinking, either. I don't need to hurt over someone else's baby when I'm not even finished hurting over mine. Seeing other women's pregnancies work out so up close and personally makes me forget the peace that God has given me after hours of prayer and thought. It makes me forget that sometimes I need to focus on my own personal tragedies before I can heal enough to face the world. After my miscarriage, I shut myself into my apartment and took a week of alone time, some of it with my husband, some without. It felt good to just deal on my own. But I wasn't ever really alone with my grief, because I was on Facebook. Because even when I was weighed down with my own suffering, I was still involved, however indirectly, in the affairs of other people. Their lives just went on while mine was utterly halted for a while and watching that makes a cynic out of anyone. I have enough stress in my life without everyone else's on top of it.

This post was originally supposed to be a lighthearted humor piece about how much Facebook sucks. I even had ms paint up to draw some hilarious pictures of myself curled up in a deprived ball on the floor. I probably should have written this after the anger subsided and I may even go back and delete it because I'm not sure I'm ready to share yet, but I've gotta say, it feels good. I cannot believe it took me this long to figure this crap out.

So here's my plan to start getting my Facebook habit under control: I'm not going to be on Facebook until Saturday at the earliest, longer if I can handle it, just to see how it feels. Then I'll have to come up with some sort of battle plan, because this sucks and I'm not letting a stupid website control my emotions anymore. Who knows? Maybe I'll even be able to come to terms with my feelings on my own without interference, however indirect or unintentional, from anyone else.

Anything stronger than baby aspirin is a problem for me because I start personifying my inuries and they're never nice

The night before Thanksgiving I was feeling charitable so I gave the dogs a bath which was fine until I had a terrible reaction to work.  About twenty minutes after the dogs were dry, I was minding my own business, googling pictures of clothes I will never be able to afford, when all of the sudden my leg was like, "HEY I ITCH BAD."  I scratched my leg absent-mindedly for a while when, would you look at that, I noticed skin underneath my fingernails.  Doesn't that sound totally not disgusting?

Huh! I thought to myself.  Where did all that skin come from? And then I looked at my leg and was like OH.  Because my thigh was covered in some particularly attractive red welts.  Like, the mothership of all welts.  Wherever a welt exists in the world, my welts birthed them.  THOSE KINDS OF WELTS.

It took me a minute to figure out that I ought to blame the dogs, but I got to that soon enough.  Then I kicked them both and yelled "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE" directly into their little, innocent faces.  This being before I mixed rat poison into their dinners, of course.  And by kicking, yelling, and poisoning, I mean snuggles and baby talk, but I don't really know which is worse from their perspective.

Anyway, I quickly put my brain to the task and deduced that I had two options: first, I could put some lotion on my legs and go to sleep.  Second, I could wake up my mom at 1:00 in the morning and ask her to cure me.  See, I occasionally wake my mom up in the middle of the night when I want to inform her that I'm dying of some awful allergic reaction.  I do this partly because my body really does itch, but mostly because I just like the attention.  This time, however, she just sort of tossed me some Benadryl and went back to bed, and now I think I may have overdone it a little bit because no one even feels bad for me anymore when I itch.

The point of this story is that on the night before Thanksgiving day I took Benadryl at 1:00 am.  I think a normal person would probably be fine and just go to bed once the drowsiness kicked in, but since I'm an idiot, I chose instead to fight the power of modern medicine until the last possible moment.  Basically I was completely out of it, and while some might be like "MEGAN YOU FOOL, YOU CAN'T GET HIGH FROM BENADRYL" I maintain that these people clearly do not know me and anything stronger than Advil will turn me into a bumbling idiot.  This is further proven by the fact that I am a clumsy fool with a weak immune system, so I always get sick or injured and require heavy duty cough medicine or some sort of pain killing narcotic for something or other.  I try not to take those prescriptions because I can't ever really remember anything that has ever happened to me while on them.  I have low tolerance for every single chemical, is what I'm saying.  You should see me on Red Bull.

So picture, if you will, me.  I'm sitting on my floor in the middle of the night insisting to myself that I am NOT tired.  (I totally am tired.)  I send a few mispelled texts (phone becomes "poo hone" when autocorrect hates me) and eventually settle into a sort of drug-induced haze of fatigue.  I cry a little bit, because that's what I do.  That's when I notice a freaking HUGE bruise running up my thigh.  How did it get there?  I don't know.  I still don't know.  Did I run into a table?  Did a midget beat me with a crowbar?  Did I punch myself repeatedly and then forget about it?  Anything is possible.  And that's when The Bruise and I started to have a conversation.


Me: Hey.  Whatcha doin?
Bruise: OMG, mind your own business.
Me: I would, it's just that you hurt and stuff.
Bruise: And your point?
Me: Well, you're huge and green.  Bruise, why are you green?
Bruise: Kool-aid.  Now go away.
Me: They make green flavored Kool-aid?
Bruise: Green isn't a flavor, idiot. It's apple.
Me: Oh.  You should just drink apple juice then.  It makes more health sense.
Bruise: Could you, like, shut up?  I'm trying to bleed into your soft tissues.
Me: Sorry.  I'm just confused.  I don't remember running into anything lately.
Bruise: Are you kidding? You've fallen over 17 times since I've been here.  You just bought a pack of glitter band-aids two days ago.
Me: Oh yeah.  I guess I did do that.  Do you think you would go away if I stuck a glitter bandaid on your face?
Bruise:...No.
Me: Why not
Bruise: I'm an internal pool of blood caused by ruptured capillaries.
Me: Sounds like a job for glitter bandaids.
Bruise: No, nitwit, bandaids only work to protect external abrasions, such as minor scrapes and--WHAT ARE YOU DOING, STOP IT, GET THAT OFF OF ME.
Me: Shh, bruise, sleep now.  Everything is going to be okay.
Bruise: NO IT ISN'T, YOU ARE THE DUMBEST GIRL IN THE HISTORY OF THE EARTH.
Megan: Hey, so I just googled you and the internet says you could solidify under my skin and become permanent.  Are you going to do that?
Bruise: No.
Me: Oh.  Well...you could, if you wanted.
Bruise: No.
Me:...Will you be my friend?
Bruise: No.
Me: Okay.
[awkward silence]
Bruise: Stop poking me.
Me: But you hurt.
Bruise: Stop.  Seriously.
Me: Owww, why do you hurt?  The harder I poke, the more you huuuuurt.  Oh my gosh, this is so paiiiinful.
Bruise: I hate you.
Me: OWWWWW.


My bruise is still there but it isn't talking to me.  I don't know if it's just mad or if it was inanimate all along, but I will cherish the memory forever.

This is your own fault. YOU ASKED FOR IT.

I've been getting emails and comments and messages from people asking me if I have any other talents.  Other than drawing velociraptors.  Yeah.  Because that's a talent.  Anyway, usually I say, "NOPE.  NOT A ONE." Except a few of you have been very specific.  "Do you sing?" they ask.  Well...the answer is sort of.

I sort of sing.  I have taken a couple classes.  I've been in a few musicals.  I'm just not pursuing singing, so it's kind of something I don't do much, unless I'm alone, in my room with a hairbrush and underpants.  Because that's what pop stars do.

I thought I ought to share this with you since A. you seem interested, B. I really enjoy looking at/listening to/generally talking about myself, and C. it's been asked a surprising number of times.

So!  This is me singing "Just You and Me" by Zee Avi.  It's one of my favorites and I don't do it justice, but that's okay because SO WHAT, that's why.  My webcam sucks so you'll need to PUMP UP THA VOLUME!  It gets easier to hear after a couple lines, I think.  Also, I mess up a lot.  SO SUE ME.  Or sew me.  Whatever you want to do is fine with me.

Also, I have to just link you to YouTube where I have it because Blogger hates me more than anything and is trying to save you from watching this, I guess.  You have been warned.  By me and by blogger.

HERE IS THE LINK TO THE MELODIOUS SOUNDS OF MY VOICE THING.


P to the S: disneyaddict326 is the youtuber who uploaded the instrumental that I sang to because I have no instrument-type skills.  GO HER!

I don't remember if I've told this story already but I had a lot of caffeine so here you go, internet.

I think I may have tweeted about this while it was happening but it's a story that deserves documentation and probably a few pictures but I lost my camera in Colorado while it was happening and so now I don't have a picture of the clown man to prove anything.  I actually think the TSA stole my camera as evidence and then when they figured out that I'm not actually a terrorist, they were too embarrassed to give it back.  TSA, I forgive you, but I really need my camera back because I spent forever hours becoming a photography wizard and by "wizard" I mean "person who is able to turn her camera on and off without causing irreparable damage" so YEAH, TSA.  If you send it back, we'll call it good and I won't sue you.  I probably won't sue you anyway, though.  This post is not going to get any more coherent than this, guys.

My Airport Adventure: A Tale of Loss, Achieving my Dreams, and Strange Men Dressed as Clowns in Terminal A (Part One)
By Megan Prietzel

"I wish I could go to Colorado and see BYU in the NCAA tournament," I said.
"We should just go," replied Tavia.
"Okay."

Shortly thereafter, Tavia called her father.  I called my mother.  After a series of phone calls involving massive amounts of whining and promises to be responsible and PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE's, Tavia and I headed off to Colorado to support and cheer on our beloved BYU men's basketball team.

We left after our classes and headed to the airport.  I was tingling with excitement and also inexplicable terror because airplanes are incredible.  So incredible that I still refuse to believe that they are real.  How can that much metal fly through the air like that?  IT CAN'T, I TELL YOU.  Except it does.  THUS THE TERROR.  Anyway, we arrived at the airport parking lot.  Rain poured outside the car.  Neither one of us wanted to leave the warm, enveloping comfort of the car's butt warmers, but we had a higher calling that day.  We HAD to get to Colorado.  And I vowed to be an adult that day!  It would be my first airplane ride ever without my mommy.  EVER.  Tavia doubted that I had the capability to act like a functioning member of society for an entire airport visit, but I was going to prove her wrong.  OH BOY, WAS I.

We left the car and lugged our two carry-on bags through puddles and into a little shack to await the airport shuttle.  A very athletic looking woman joined us.  At the time I was not ashamed because I visited the gym regularly.  I am now ashamed.  Anyway.  The shuttle arrived and Tavia and I boarded, ready for our adventure.  I sat on that crowded, damp bus with a grin on my face and I suppressed every urge to start singing "WE WE WE SO EXCITED!  WE SO EXCITED!" because I was a freaking adult, everybody, complete with a real suitcase and a living person who was not my mom.  It was to be the dawn of a new age.

We entered the airport.  I could feel the magic of modern transportation at work around me, a magic that I was about to take part in.  Unfortunately, I have this problem. 

I am not the kind of person who copes well with new and unusual situations.  Especially situations where something is expected of me, say like in a long line of rushing people in which I am expected to take off my shoes and fill a tub with all of my things as quickly as possible.  Tavia is one of those capable people.  She orders pizza on the phone because she doesn't mind talking to a person and telling him or her that she wants pepperoni.  Her face doesn't burn bright red and her palms don't sweat and she doesn't start mumbling awkward sentences that sounded better in her head.  That is why I desperately needed her.

We got in the airport security line thing.  Tavia calmly removed her shoes and placed them in a plastic tub, along with her jacket and belt.  She took a second tub and put her phone and laptop inside.  Then she set them both on a conveyor belt with ease, followed by her suitcase.  Meanwhile, my brain was going insane for no particular reason.

I am going to have to take off my shoes.  What if I forget how to do that?  What if I accidentally take off my pants instead?  I WILL LOOK LIKE SUCH AN IDIOT.  Oh my gosh.  The people behind me are probably wondering why I don't have a plastic tub.  Okay, so I um, grab this tub thing and um...put my shoes in it?  Is that right?  PANTS?  TAVIA SHOULD I PUT MY PANTS IN IT?  NO! No, Megan, get it together.  Okay now set the tub on the movey-belty thing.  WTFFF I need a SECOND TUB??  Oh dear heaven above.  Okay uh...for my laptop?  But my laptop is in my backpack...no no it's cool.  I can do this.  Man, this zipper is really difficult to open when my palms are this sweaty.  IS EVERYONE LOOKING AT ME?  Everyone is looking at me. I can't handle this pressure.  IF I DO NOT GET THIS BACKPACK OPEN EVERYONE WILL DIE.  Oh, I am truly blessed, it opened and I didn't drop my laptop.  Okay, well now I just want everyone to stop looking at me.  I can tell they're looking at me, even though they appear to be paying no attention at all. I'm gonna go ahead and toss the rest of my stuff in there as quickly as possible.  And now it's all falling out of the tub.  Um.  I'll just put my backpack on top...Yeah that works.  OH MY now I have to lift my suitcase and put it on the conveyor thing??  IS MY FOREHEAD SWEATING THAT MUCH, OR AM I IMAGINING THIS??  I bet the security guy thinks I'm a terrorist because I'm sweating so much.  I'm not, security guy.  I'm just incapable of performing simple tasks with an audience.  Oh no.  I can't lift this suitcase.  I CAN'T DO IT I CAN'T DO IT I CA-oh hey, I did it.  Kind of crooked...oh now it's stuck inside the scanning machine.  I AM SUCH AN EMBARRASSMENT TO MY RACE.

Needless to say, my inner monologue did not help my awkward fear when, after successfully passing through the metal detector like a champ, the security man stopped me because he found something suspicious in his magical x-ray machine. 

I knew it.  He thinks I'm a terrorist.  Or a drug dealer!  I'm not though!  ...Right?  AM I?  DID I BECOME A DRUG DEALER AND FORGET ABOUT IT?  Just arrest me now, security man, I'll admit to anything.  YES, IT'S MY COCAINE.  AND MY GUN.  ALSO MY PANTS, I THOUGHT I WAS SUPPOSED TO REMOVE THEM.

As it turned out I was not a drug dealer and actually the woman behind me had too much lotion in her carry on but the security man thought it was my bag and so I suffered a small heart attack.  

After my face faded from bright red to its usual pasty white, Tavia and I decided to get something to eat.  I felt as though Burger King was the only food I could want, mainly because we passed it on the way to the airport and I was starving and unable to actually consider my dining options.  So Tavia and I sat at a table and waited for our food after ordering.  Because I was convinced that my hunger was insatiable, I ordered the largest sized combo, which meant a beverage the approximate size and shape of my head.  I filled it with Coke and headed over to sit with Tavia.  I then promptly dropped the bucket of Coke right next to my chair and also kind of on my chair.  Tavia stared at me for a moment before sighing and admitting that she should have known this would happen, and yeah, she sort of should have because she lived with me and THIS WAS A NORMAL OCCURRENCE. 

I walked over to a nice little old lady who was mopping the floor and asked her to please clean up my mess.  Just then my food was ready.  Tavia and I sat and ate our fries and chicken nuggets as a sweet, elderly woman quietly mopped the floor around my feet.  It was easily one of the most terrible moments of my life.  I'll give you a moment to picture this.  Keep in mind that all the surrounding tables were occupied by people who were staring and felt just as awkward as I did.  Also keep in mind that I had tried to mop up the Coke with three forests' worth of napkins which did almost nothing but make a soggy brown mess that dripped all the way to the trash can and covered me in sticky soda.  Ready?  Got the horrible mental image?  Good.  Now hold it there for ten minutes and try to enjoy your chicken nuggets.  YOU CAN'T.

After that disaster, Tavia decided it would be best just to go sit in our terminal and wait for the plane to board.  As we sat in the terminal we saw a strange man.  He had gone through airport security near us and we were mildly amused to see him n our terminal.  He wore bright red overalls.  His hair was a huge tangle of orange-brown curls.  His shoes were distinctly clown-like.  He carried an assortment of entertainments: bowling pins, rubber balls, batons, and the like.  While we watched, he practiced juggling his bowling pins and unfortunately, he was not very good at it.  He also got very angry with himself every time he dropped a bowling pin and I couldn't help but sympathize.  I watched the clown man for half an hour before the effect of my bucket of Coke kicked in and I left to use the bathroom.  As I walked back, I passed clown man.

"Hey there, pretty girl!" he said brightly.
"Oh, um, hi," I stammered back, surprised to be addressed.
"You dropped something back there"
I turned and looked at the ground, mentally kicking myself for losing my pants or something.  I didn't see anything.  Confused, I asked, "Um, what did I drop?"
"You dropped," here he paused and smiled coyly, "your smile."
"Ah, my smile.  Yes.  Ah.  I'll just...pick it up..and...wear...it..." My mumbling degenerated quickly.  Clown man appeared to be about 20.  Clown man appeared to be talking to me.  CLOWN MAN APPEARED TO BE WINKING AT ME.  I desperately wished that I had anything, anything at all to say about my dropped smile.  Instead, I shuffled awkwardly away, intensely aware of the fact that he was still looking at me. 

He started juggling rubber balls.  I started wondering what the appropriate reaction to this situation would be.  Rebecca Black would not get out of my head.

The epic tale will continue in PART TWO, in which the TSA decided that my ponytail was a threat to national security.

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.

Still not dead. Surprisingly.

Hey just wanted to let you guys know that I WILL be posting this week.  I'm not dead.  Or seriously injured, as the rumors suggest.  (I made up the rumors.  I just want to be important.)

Please bear with my for a while because not too long ago no one read my blog except for my mom and, like, two random internet people who happened upon it accidentally.  So up until now, no one cared if I took a month to post.  I'M FIXIN' MY WAYS.  I even have a post in the works.  Love me still, please.


Sorry that this is not a real post.  Please accept my sincerest apologies, and also this picture:

Look!  It's me!  It's me putting food in my mouth!  HOW EMBARRASSING!  ...Okay this is full of fail.  More to come this week, and it might even be good.

Sometimes I'm accidently funny without meaning to be. Also, sometimes I spell accidently as "accidentally" because I suck.

Updated:  Apparently it really is spelled "accidentally" and I've been right all along.  So it's kind of like my failure is a success, if you think about it.

I actually was planning on writing a very long illustrated post today, but a friend of mine brought something else to my attention.  Also, I've been working for hours upon hours on a special project for SparkLife, and when you see it you will be all, "THAT took you hours upon hours?" and I will say, "DUDE do you know how long it took me to draw four bears?  DO YOU EVEN KNOW ME?" and then I will indisputably win the argument and you will bask in my glory or whatever.

Anyway, my friend texted me a very long text but mostly what stuck out to me was something that a lot of people have asked me: "How are you so funny?"  He actually worded it differently, but the concept is the same.  And it's a question that a lot of people have emailed me about, and a lot of times they are looking for tips to help them excel at comedy.  So, how am I funny?

Well there's an easy answer to that.  I have no freaking idea.

To be completely honest, I don't think I'm funny at all.  If real life is any indication, I'm just an instigator of awkward conversations.  In actual every day situations my humor falls flat all the time and that's assuming I even know what to talk about to begin with because more than half of my life is spent like this:

Usually when this happens (EVERY DAY) I just run away as quickly as possible and retreat to my dorm room.  I'm still trying to figure out how to be socially acceptable as a human being, but so far most of my attempts at humor and conversation have been so painfully futile, I just don't say anything.  Or I'll go through this really horrible process in which my brain starts grinding against itself and my vocal chords issue forth a horrible buzzing sound.  Inside my head I'm all, "I need to say something.  I'm going to say something about zombies.  But wait!  Previous experience has taught me that talking about zombies is not successful.  What do I talk about, then?  Um, I could talk about how much I hate cheese.  But most people like cheese.  What if he thinks I'm a freak because I don't like cheese?  WHAT DO I DO!?  Oh no.  It's been like 2 minutes.  I should say something.  He's probably offended.  But if I say something now, he'll think I'm an idiot.  Wait, what did he ask me?  I don't know.  Something about zombie cheese.  Ew, gross.  But...in a cool way.  I would totally like zombie cheese.  Not to eat, but just to look at for a minute."  And then by the time I formulate an acceptable answer, my conversational partner is gone and by then my brain is trying to bash it's way out of my idiotic skull anyway so it doesn't really matter.

But here, on the magical world of the internet, I have found that everything is wonderful and full of love and happiness and puppies and puppy-ness.  And videos of cats in boxes!  And EVERYONE likes zombies!  And suddenly, I'm funny.  But I haven't ever been funny before.  That's why I'm at a total loss as to answering your questions, see?  People ask how to be funny or how to make their blogs funny and I'm just all "Uuuuuummmmm......" and then I start giggling nervously and talking about spaceships because I'm scared that my secret will be revealed and everyone will realize that I'm not funny at all.  So here are my comedy tips: 

1.  Be funny.

2.  Don't be not funny.

3.  When in doubt, draw a really terrible picture of yourself.

4.  When that doesn't work, wallow in self-pity.

5.  Mention glitter as often as possible.  Also, think about dinosaurs a lot.

6.  Be mildly offensive.

7.  Draw more things.

8.  Read blogs that you think are funny and try to draw some inspiration.

9.  Be pretentious and immature.

10.  Eat debilitating amounts of junk food.

...And that's about it.  That's all I've got so far.  I'm learning, brothers and sisters.  Thank you for liking me, because I certainly like you back.  Let's be together forever.

An open letter to Miley Cyrus

Dear Miley,

Hey girlfriend.  How've you been?  I see you are still making music.  That's nice.  You've always liked the whole music thing, right?  Look, Mile-igator.  We need to talk.  It's just that...I don't know if we can keep doing this.

Don't get me wrong, I've been nothing short of a devoted fan.  In the not so distant past, my favorite TV show was Hannah Montana.  I had a Hannah Montana sleeping bag that lit up whenever it was touched.  I even had socks with your face on them.  Do you understand?  I wore your face on my feet every single day.  So I want you to know that this isn't about your past.  Really.  It's not.

I just think we've gone our separate ways, you know?  You smoke a bong and I'm not even entirely sure what a bong is.  You are really good at hip thrusting and I'm fairly positive that if I ever tried to pull off one of your dance moves, I would injure myself horribly.  You like to wear things that make your boobs look awesome.  I like to wear Star Wars shirts.  Do you see what I'm getting at here?  We're just different people, Mile-inator.

I'm really sorry, honest.  I wanna back you up here, but I don't know where to start.  When you got all naked sexy sheet-tastic for Vanity Fair, I defended you.  I figured that everyone is entitled to their own choices, even a preteen icon.  I still think that, Miley.  I do. 

When you suddenly popped up all over the internet in your underwear, I felt bad for you.  I felt bad that the media would inevitably bombard you with criticism and meanness.  I thought you probably would be really upset.  I was totes on your side, Miles.

And heaven knows that when your new music video came out and I saw you shakin' your thaaaang and crooning about how you simply cannot be tamed, I said, "Wow.  That girl does NOT want to be tamed.  Huh."  I might have shaken my head in disappointment, Miley, but I didn't condemn.  I still don't condemn.  I want you to know that.

Wow.  Is this as hard for you as it is for me?  Because this is really hard for me. 

Now, there's the bong video.  And there's that lap dance you gave your director.  Also, all that sexy-time dancing and sexy-sexy-time outfits.  I'm not really diggin' it, Miley.  Not at all.  But the real truth, the reason that we are totally over, isn't so much about any of that. The real reason is so much deeper.  So much more painful.  It's...well, it's your legs.

CURSE YOU, Miley!  Curse you and your hot, long legs!  Why?!?!  Why must I be tortured with jealousy every time I see them?  They look freaking AWESOME in heels.  They make your skirts and dresses incredible.  I HATE YOUR LEGS.  SO MUCH.  XOMGsfWIEAHOGIWIH!@@!!!!

I'm glad we had this talk.

Love,
Megan

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 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.

-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.

Finals and why they are ruining everything for the world

Hi.  Normally I would try to post.  Really.  But there's this thing about college and it's called Finals Week and it wears a pointy hat and cackles darkly at every college student in the world.  For the time being, Finals Week is my master.  That means that I have nothing for you.  Except apologies and this drawing of The Muffin of Shame.

I still feel like I haven't really made it up to you.  What can I do?  Hire a monkey to love you forever?  Summon a rainbow to follow you wherever your darling feet trod? Tap dance with feeling?  I just don't know.

How about another drawing?

YAY!!!!

Anyway, I should be back to posting ridiculous rants about crap that no one cares about soon enough.  Please love me in my absence.  It makes me feel like a real woman.

...Clearly I need more sleep.


Comment that I completely relate with: "Finals are the devil's quizzes. Just like stairs are the devil's hills." -Nadia Murti

I am going to be killed by a pile of snow. Probably very soon.

Congratulations, my friends.  Since you read my blog, you are about to be treated to 4 months of me whining about the snow and how horrible it is and how much I hate it and how it is an attempt by the Universe to kill me.  Which it is.  I KNOW IT.

Here in Utah, Winter can last for half of the year.  HALF OF THE YEAR.  If the year has two parts, Winter is one of those parts.  I know, I know.  "MEGAN TRY LIVING IN MONTANA, YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT COLD IS!!!"  Yes I do.  I don't live in Montana because if I did I would be dead.  And that's where my logic ends.

Anyway, it was snowing for a while up at campus.  Then, miraculously, it stopped!  I have been known to weep bitterly when I see the first snowfall of the year (hint:every single year) so when it stopped it felt like Christmas had come early and I was already enjoying the unicorn that I KNOW is waiting for me under the tree.  (I shook the present that looked like a book.  It sounded like a unicorn, or a book.  I'm betting it's a unicorn, though.  A unicorn with a monocle that will breathe glitter into my oatmeal.  I don't like oatmeal, but if I did, my unicorn would breathe glitter into it, cause he's a nice guy like that.)

Over the next few days, all of the snow melted because the sun was being awesome.  However, a few days before, some boys had made a snowman.  A big, huge snowman.  I took pleasure in watching this snowman die tragically.  Is that cruel?  I don't know.  I just know that, "DIE, Frosty, DIE!!" has become my new mantra.

Soon, all the snow had disappeared except for a big pile of half-melted snow where the snowman used to be:

It won't go away.  And it's mocking me.  And it hates me.  It's like the Universe just wants to make sure that I know that the battle isn't over.  Normally I would say "bring it on, UNIVERSE!" but now I'm scared that a slush pile monster is going to devour me when I least expect it.

Awesome.


Truest comment: "I think anyone who says they like/love Winter, doesn't really know what they mean by that. Winter is cold, dark, wet, lifeless and cruel. What they like is hot chocolate, cuddling cause "It'll make us warmer" skiing, snowboarding, getting WARM by the fire and the fact that Christmas must be getting close. You only like the snow if you're wearing five hoodies and A coat that's so thick you can't bend your arms. Too often do we misinterpret what it is we actually want."-leaflock

Things that make me sad in the heart

1. People who hate me.  (Who knew that disliking Megamind would cause so many people so much misery.  I AM SORRY THAT YOU FEEL MISERY AND HATE INSTEAD OF RAINBOWS BECAUSE I DID NOT LIKE MEGAMIND.  PLEASE DO NOT SEND ME SCORPIONS IN THE MAIL.  I'm allergic.  Probably.)

2.  Utah being like, "Hey, Megan.  I'ma be covered in snow now, okay?  Cool."

3.  People who have taken to disliking things solely because I like them.  Don't take your misery out on Despicable Me.  It has cute little girls and unicorns.  It deserves your love.  IT'S ME YOU WANT.

4.  Genocide.

5.  The first 100 pages of The Fellowship of the Ring.  I have read those pages a billion times.  I am attempting another reading.  BUT COME ON.


Frodo, Sam, and Pippin forged through the brambles, 'neath the canopy of emerald leaves.  The leaves, forming an emerald canopy, filtered light so that the ground appeared dappled with greenish lighty light.  The brambles through which the three hobbits were forging were very dense and it took them three hours to forge.  Three hours of dense brambles, underneath an emerald canopy, [insert complicated geography pertaining to the Shire for three consecutive paragraphs.  Still remain in the brambles.] And so it was that Frodo, Sam, and Pippin became hungry and sat down for a rest in a green clearing, finally free of brambles, where they ate lunch and sang a little hobbit song about food. 

Now, because I know that some of you guys take me OH SO SERIOUSLY, I now have to point out that the above paragraph was of my own construction, and was clearly very silly.  J.R.R. Tolkien is brilliant and his descriptions are incredible, if lengthy.  I am merely pointing out that these descriptions are so very very long and...descriptive.  Blah blah blah, apology, blah blah, explanation for my behavior, blah blah blah I wouldn't have to be boring and explain myself if people didn't take me so seriously all the time. Are you happy now?  IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?

But in all seriousness, though, this really does make me sad, because I thought it was pretty well understood that everything I write for both Megansquared and SparkLife is firmly categorized as, "Mildly Humorous Junk That Should Not Be Cause For Fighting And Hating," and I'm the kind of person who will agonize about those few people who decided that I suck because my clearly ridiculous opinion is different from theirs, and they took me too seriously.  Should I send them a gift basket?  Should I email, begging for forgiveness for my treachery?  Should I revoke my opinion?  Should I BLOW UP MY TRASH CAN?!  (This has less to do with angry commenters and more to do with my own curiosity.)

Let me break it down for you real quick:

Percentage of things that I write which should never be taken seriously: 98%
Percentage of serious things that I write that pertain to unicorns: 1.9999%
Percentage of things that I write that I'm dead serious about: .00001

The lesson to be learned here: If I ever write about unicorns, you can take that to the bank, because seriously, I love those things.  Everything else you may dismiss as silliness unless clearly stated.  If I write, "This is to be taken seriously," then you may take it seriously.

Oh, but now you are confused.  "Megan, how do we know we ought to take the above paragraph seriously, then?  LOGICAL FALLACY!"

Well, let me help you:  The above paragraphs are to be taken seriously.  But, like, in a non-serious way.  You know what I'm saying?

6. The fact that I have to explain when I'm being serious.

7.  I left my computer mouse somewhere. I don't know where.  Now my drawings look like this:

If you can't read that, don't worry about it.  It's just pathetic.  You probably don't want to be able to read it.

8.  The fact that the above drawing still looks pretty much like all of my other drawings.  That's just sad.

All of the above things have culminated to Megan feeling sad about stuff.  Which means Megan may not write until after Thanksgiving.  This may be taken seriously.

It was funny if you were there. Well, not really. Mostly this whole event was just pathetic. Kind of like this post.

Some of you may have noticed that I have been posting/tweeting/facebook status updating about migraine headaches.  This is because I have had migraine headaches.  Often these headaches are accompanied by weird vertigo and imbalance, so much so that the other day while I was getting lunch on campus, I thought there was an earthquake and that we were all going to die and I didn't know why no one else was freaking out.  But I WAS.  I was freaking out.  Internally, though, because if I'm gonna die a horrible death in a natural disaster, I'm going to be composed.  Like, "Oh, look, Humphrey.  The floor is splitting open beneath us.  How jovial!"

I do not know who Humphrey is.  In my imagination, there is a Humphrey, apparently.

Anyway, the last time I had a bout of these headaches, it was because my eyes suck and they can't see anything and so they wanted me dead and told my brain to hurt.

Clearly, my inability to see anything whatsoever was causing my migraines, and the doctor was all, "Here are contacts," and then I got better!

So this recent bout of migraines naturally spurred me on over to the eye doctor, who prescribed me new contacts, different contacts.  I now have a different prescription for each eye, because one of my eyes is kind of stupid.

At the doctor's office, my eyeballs were poked and measured and made to do all kinds of tests that they hadn't studied for.  You know those charts they show you at the eye doctors office?  The ones with all the little letters?  Those charts always make me feel like failure.

I always feel really bad for my eyeballs after I take those tests.  It's not their fault that they suck.  Some things just can't be explained, like magic and long division.

So the nurse was all, "Do you want your eyes dilated, or do you want to come back later?" and I was all,"DILATE ME UP" cause I wasn't going to come back to the dumb doctor just to get my dumb eyes dumb dilated dumb. 

As we were leaving the office, I suddenly found it difficult to, like, see.  Also, my eyes looked like aliens and they were basically sucking all the light in the world into themselves so that I was like, "WHAT THE HECK MIGRAINES HURT AND THIS HURTS AS WELL."

And then my mom was like, "Let's go to Costco!  We need to get your prescription!" and, um, it's Costco.  So of course I was practically wetting my pants with excitement. 

As we entered Costco, I traipsed happily over to the glasses section and got super excited about getting my first pair of glasses ever.  The guy behind the counter pointed me to the women's glasses section, and then I encountered a problem, being that I couldn't freaking see anything.  So there I was, the glasses guy staring at me and trying to be helpful and ready to offer suggestions or tell me how awesome I looked in my glasses and I just stood there, unable to tell which blurry smudge I should put on my face but too embarrassed to admit it, pretending like I was just extremely picky.  Then I yanked a pair off the stand and put them on, because asking for help was just out of the question, of course.

Fortunately my mom saved me from buying the ugliest glasses in existence.  I still don't know what my new glasses will look like.  I hope they're made of bacon.

Wait.  No I hope they aren't, because then I will eat them and be blind again.

After ordering my glasses, my mom and I walked around taking in the wonder and glamor that is Costco.  Every now and then she would see something apparently amazing on one of the many t.v.'s and say, "WHOA Megan isn't that cool?" and I would be sadface because I couldn't see.

The dilation of my eyes was such that anything too close or too far away was a blurry mess, but there was a perfect point in my line of vision that enabled me to get a clear shot of an object.  Because of this, I was able to see a shiny stack of CDs and simply could not help myself and was all, "OMGOMGOMGOMG SUSAN BOYLE OMGHERNEWCHRISTMASCD!!" which is funny because I don't own a single Susan Boyle CD but for some reason it was of tantamount importance that I stop walking and spend ten minutes trying to read the back of the disc case.

Of course, my mom had moved on by then, not noticing I wasn't with her, and I got lost.  It was at this point that my bladder was like. "HI.  I exist and I have needs." and I really really needed to find a restroom except that I couldn't read a freaking thing.

Is that a sign on the wall?  Does it say restrooms?  Or is it a picture?  Or perhaps a decorative neon light?  Or maybe it's absolutely nothing.  (It was absolutely nothing.)

I wandered around Costco, pretending like I was a totally capable human being.  Oh look!  A thing!  A thing that I need to buy because I'm adult and not in any way physically compromised right now!  I want this...um...vaccume cleaner pipe. Yeahhh...

Finally my mom found me and I asked her to tell me where the bathroom was and she sighed like I was five and pointed across the store and then walked toward what I can only assume was the entrance of Costco because after that I was pretty much alone.  I directed myself toward the bathroom and found it out of sheer luck.  However, to one side was a sign and to another was another sign.  I was fairly certain one said "men" and the other "women" but I couldn't tell.  My brow became quizzical.  I squinted and sighed and twined my hands in my hair nervously and eventually I chose the door that bore (what I thought) was the longer wording.

Apparently I chose correctly, because there were no urinals.  Although it's possible that there were urinals and I just thought they were sinks.  And that the men in the restroom were too shocked by my appearance to say anything.  Either that, or they felt pity for me, because I'm positive I looked fairly pathetic.

And then everything was okay and I got a magical unicorn and rode off into the sunset.

(You can tell that I got tired of writing this because that is not at all what happened.  The end.)

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.  

I should definitely be sleeping

What I want to say is that my head is like, "AAAAAH I'm going to kill you with the stabbing pain of one thousand narwhal horns."

Wait.  I mean that I'm supposed to say that narwhals are awesome.  I heart narwhals, you guys.  Just because I haven't mentioned them, doesn't mean that I don't love them.  I'm sorry, narwhals.  You deserve better. 

I'm sorry.  I'm not very funny.  This is a failure.  Go read "Ice Factory" instead.  If you're new to my blog, just read ANYTHING else.  I swear I'm not usually this idiotic.  Scratch that.  I totally am, it's just that usually there are more pictures involved, and less migraine-induced sleep deprivation.

I will probably delete this in the morning.  Enjoy, procrastinating college/high school students who don't go to bed when they should.  Also, enjoy, countries on the other side of the world.

UPDATED:  You know what?  No.  You don't own me, migraine.  I'm going to leave this post up so that all of your facebook friends will delete you for being such a dumb tack jerk mugger.

Also, my "Twilight" post for some reason is attractive to you guys.  Have you not read Dan Bergstein?  Awesome times 34,234.

Please don't compare me to Dan Bergstein now.  I will fall woefully behind on my chart of coolness.  Anyway.  Would you be interested in a continuation of that Twilight thing?  Like New Moon for people who don't like New Moon?  Or should I just pretend that I never wrote the first one to begin with?  I will stare at my computer screen until you answer me.