Spontaneously Erratic.

Reflecting...

2010-05-02T20:02:00.001-04:00

Everyone has their own perception of mortality, no matter the degree of idealism or optimism they possess. Since the beginning of time, self-proclaimed philosophers have forced out theories and hypotheses; all those books they make you read in AP English or Introduction to Life Studies about why we’re here. About fate, about destiny, about any convoluted reason that we exist. Somewhere amidst the four centuries of the Renaissance we evolved into romantics, engulfed with the idea that humans live for love. From generation to generation since, we have inherited the incredibly impractical conception that our purpose in life is to find true love. “True” love: a coined term invented for the sake of classifying one love from another; as if one love should be more important than another. But reality nearly always contradicts what we distinguish as truth, as true, as love. Like God, love is a faith, a hope, something that we have been programmed to believe in as a justification for our existence, when in fact, there is no reason. No more reason than for a stray cat, a spider, a sewer rat, a tadpole, a goldfish. And there is no problem with that; no cause for a reconnaissance mission to discover some sort of rationale. Philosophers, they talk in circles, and the greatest aspect of their profession, unlike that of an accountant or a chemist, is that no one can prove them wrong. You cannot incorrectly answer a question that has none at all. Love, well, it isn’t forever, no matter what it seems; and we spend entirely too much time dwelling on the idea that it is. Fixated on the thought that it is singular and discriminate, when love is everywhere. We need it. We want it. We feel it. Sometimes we fear it. And other times we embrace it. But we don’t live for it. Mortality is nothing more than a timeline, and on a long enough timeline, everyone dies, everyone is forgotten. Don’t live today thinking there is only one person to take you through tomorrow. But even if you find someone that you think can, remember there will always be a next day. A next love. Another love. Like us, even the best of things don’t last forever.

Marrying my Dog...

2009-11-05T00:31:00.001-05:00

It’s the acceptance of affection that keeps our blood flowing; allows us to entertain the miniscule points in a conversation where an eyebrow lifts or an eyelash bats. People will continue to argue our purpose upon this world; whether it is love, laughter, or hope, when it is really only understanding. Daily, we are fighting so hard for a concept which is so simple; maintaining these frozen moments of true intimacy captured in oversized gulps of air. We teach each other to express love in the overwhelming black void of fate, and the unknown; the place of retirement where no one can speak. And yet, we are silent. I love you. I love you not. I am completely wasting your time.

Somehow cowardice begins to overtake courage and redefine opportunity as an occasion that can be recaptured, when it cannot. Human nature has become a vain attempt to establish emotional prowess when the actuality still remains a wounded vulnerability. The heart feeds upon a connection between neurons, all biology and scientific hypotheses that we transform into valid emotions with indescribable consequences. We want love. We want butterflies and elevated heartbeats. You seek the ideal romance in the same manner you search for the ideal pocketbook. The blouse. That which makes you complete.

And yet, the banners and the brand names; and the impossible gains. No, they don’t fill the gaps or eccentricities. We lose faith in the firing of neurons, and become attached for the simple reason that they’re there. You can’t dawdle in a daydream, and you can’t dance around a nightmare. But the person who sees what you want isn’t yet there.

Role Playing

2009-11-04T18:28:00.004-05:00

There are times you wish to pluck yourself out of your own life, similar to grabbing the remote control and changing the channel when a sitcom is too boring, confusing, out of control, or when the made-for-TV movie becomes utterly terrifying. Maybe the picture is scrambled or you can see nothing but static.

And so you vie with yourself for the ideal vantage point; simply observing from the outside-in, withdrawn at a safe distance. You desperately need to see yourself as a character instead of the ill-fated antagonist of your own life. It’s an enticing notion to be a star, a villain, or a hero, when there are no strings attached. Thirty minutes. Sixty minutes. One hundred twenty minutes. The credits roll and you change costumes, transform personas; attain a new back story and a fresh handful of tragic flaws.

Unfortunately, no, in reality this is impossible. Instead, you’re left sunk into the couch cushions, curled up into a trembling little ball and trying to watch the frightening parts through your fingers; or fighting back tears during those sad scenes so that no one will be the wiser. Absolutely helpless in watching your own desolation and the heartbreaking scenes where people usually empathize, sniffle, and hold each other. Don’t worry. Everything will be okay. Everything is fine.

You have to develop this willing suspension of disbelief to make it through the occasions when all elements are appearing to fall into pieces. Sharp and serrated, all points, corners and edges. You get kicked enough when you’re down and you either have to end the show or create a turning point in the plotline. Everyone loves the underdog and they worship the martyr. Sometimes it’s important to remember that the underdog may get beat and broken, but the martyr always dies.

The Dreamer

2009-10-20T18:36:00.006-04:00

People live to dream dreams, whether big or small. It’s the sort of obligation that makes us human, and separates us from the beasts. The paradox of it all lies within the question of what defines humanity, an aspect of life which deems a species strong, capable, calculating, yet riddled with holes of weakness and vulnerability. These gaps in our confidence are filled with insecurities, doubts, and plugged closed with those indiscriminate pangs of guilt and the metaphorical corks of ridicule. It is a difficult and complex plight, that of the dreamer. One who seeks hard fought opportunities and seemingly impossible realizations. One who envisions the broad spectrum and the polar differential of reveries and nightmares. One who sees angels and demons so clearly within themselves.

There are accomplices to the dream, criminal in instinct, feeding from the promise of free prosperity and sheer hope; praying to a faux-martyr under the guise of faith. Intangible, invisible, indescribable, and yet somehow completely decipherable, is that whisper in the back of your brain that screams believe when your critics wants you to fail. When the co-conspirators urge you into the darkness with sweet voices and empty promises, meanwhile letting go of your hand one shaky finger at a time. Remaining in the light just close enough to see your shadowy figure in the distance without letting it disappear. Day turns to night turns to day, and the dreamer doesn’t truly sleep; like a vacant movie theater, the film reel still turning, click-click-clicking in the desolate room, images still flashing on the screen. No one to laugh, gasp or cry in the theater seats; creating short stories and building small relationships that no one will see.

No, the dreamer never sleeps, but for those frozen moments flashing in scattered illustrations of what may never be. And so eventually some of us let dreams go; they float away into the wind like grains of sand to collect on someone else’s doorstep like simple debris. But nothing is simple. Straightforward, uncomplicated, plain. These are nothing but the aftermath of the loss, a clean acceptance of what is instead of what can be. People live to dream dreams. But it’s a wonder what to latch onto once those dreams die.

Reminiscing on a Past Self...

2009-09-05T21:18:00.003-04:00

I've officially become a neglectful and sporadic blogger, but hey, life happens. At any rate, I was randomly looking for a notebook the other day because I'm studying to be a bartender and needed something to write on. I have this massive collection of notebooks just because I have a mild OCD about writing on clean, crisp paper. This meaning that if I ever spill something on one notebook, or it gets wrinkled, ripped, etc, I have to get a new one. Don't judge me! So anyway, I came across this pile of old ones from around 2005-2006, back when I just graduated from college, before I fully became the cynical bundle of sarcasm that I am now. This was back when I called myself a poet and wanted to perform spoken word. I used to write down and date my thoughts all the time, even if I took up an entire page with just one sentence or phrase, like "I'm trapped in my own life," or "Carpe Omnious." Some of the writing was great, and other parts I couldn't even recognize as coming from myself, all full of faux-romanticism and idealism. Which was a blessing and a curse, because it was a great reminder of the fact that no matter what life gives you, you can't lose your passion. Hard years, hard hearts and hard times shouldn't take away the focus from what you set out to do in the first place; from who you are. So anyway, for anyone that cares, this is me, circa May 2006:

"The sun shines in short gasps of air,
And before the stars appeared I left you there
In the shadows,
Below clouds with ambitious desires,
Fires of a mind aflame, with a heart extinguishing love,
I have become the woman who I always believed I was
Before the mirror leaked the truth.
I bleed reality in choppy sentences and unfinished thoughts,
You recognize my face despite the cost
And the soft spoken, often overanalyzed prose
From a heart never broken, and never disturbed
Those, who have lived this, can only attempt to believe
How you tried to recover the un-shattered pieces.
Pick up those jagged shards, when no help is in need,
This misleading parallel of what was and will never again be;
Incognito in spirit and undercover within words
But, you see me,
You feel the hope beneath your ribcage,
Saved by the harvest of tomorrow, when everything is barren today.
This life is flourishing beneath ground,
Left with the question of who found whom in this tangled web of current infatuations,
All of the promising obsessions in the night,
But passionate whispers across phone lines don’t define facts,
Or make anything that’s wrong, right.
It doesn’t indicate romance
Unless you breathe me,
Speak me,
Love me,
Or leave me.
Have me for the person that you thought I was,
Because,
Just because.

Escape from Solitude

2009-07-22T17:07:00.003-04:00

We waste so much time trying to feel numb when we don't, trying not to feel vulnerable when that state of mind is so far from the truth; trapped behind these glass walls hoping never to have to attach an emotion to the pin pricks and the hurdles, the pain, disappointment and lost expectations of success. You learn to wipe away tears to pretend that they don't exist, that they were never there, hiding in these false facades of strength, imposing, posing as impenetrable, and refusing to take leaps of faith. We are enveloped in fears of failure, intimacy, change, these transient variables that choke breaths away into shallow gulps of air, drowning in self doubt. There is a solid reason for the term easy, the word simple, and the mere concept of those quick and painless scenarios that no one will ever care to remember once they are over. I let myself be haunted by these frozen moments of imperfection which are so much more substantial and important than any one second when everything seemed roses. Holding onto, latching onto, grabbing onto, clutching onto anything in a quiet desperation to avoid letting go. Addictions develop from a rampant and collective refusal to accept those sparks flying between neurons in uncomfortable or unfamiliar patterns, nothing but physiological side effects and chemical reactions. And the seconds keep ticking away in metronome beats, oblivious, completely disrespecting the gross misconception that time will somehow proceed with caution while we stew in denial of our own reality. Somewhere along the line initiative became cloudy and misunderstood, disguising itself as haste or impulse, running off into the darkness with instinct when thrown into the face of opportunity. And so we lurk in the shadows or strive to never leave the sunshine, all the while remaining pale or overexposed, ignoring those gray spaces in between. Nightmares are still just dreams, just an imagination wandering the empty sidewalks of sleep, animating the unconscious; fleeting narratives so similar to the unfavorable thoughts and emotions whose acquaintance we try so hard not to make. I’m finished swirling in this pool of vanity and pride, exhaustingly treading water in the effort to stay afloat just long enough to escape being hurt. A body covered in scars tells a thousand tales; metaphorically as does a heart, a mind, a soul. It’s as if we are in actuality lost in the matrix, blinded by the pretty colors of self-deprecation, fabrication, and those little white lies we whisper in our minds. I’m finished fooling myself.

Oh, here it is...

2009-05-22T13:14:00.004-04:00

There’s always that one day when you really know it’s summer in the city. You finally break down and have to turn on that window A/C unit. Everyone outside is wearing shorts and flip flops, jogging in the middle of the day. Park benches are full of readers and amateurs with digital cameras, dogs off the leash. Beat cops trying to catch drug trades and college kids sipping 22-ounce tall boys in brown paper bags. You walk into a deli for some iced coffee and ‘Little Red Corvette’ is playing on the radio. I can’t hear that song and not instantly be happy to be alive. It’s impossible. Summer makes me feel like a little kid, all snow cones, pool days, and waking up at 6am for no reason at all. Realistically speaking, however, it’s more like margaritas, bar-hopping, and getting home at 6am for no reason at all, but I digress. No matter what age you reach, your career path, your plans, the summer just has that feel of infinite possibilities. More so than ringing in the New Year or celebrating another birthday. You hear all the Hallmark descriptions about the sun shining and the flowers blooming, and you have your summer blockbuster movies, your outdoor concerts, your trips to Coney Island. Summer is all of those things, and none of them at all. It’s intangible. And it’s so necessary right now. Come fall, we’ll see this whole thing turn around.

Where is Spring?

2009-05-18T14:06:00.002-04:00

The human condition is more of a process than a state of mind. It is developing a repertoire of addictions and fatal flaws, all of which make a person less than perfect in the eyes of idealism. We are all unwittingly fighting to be the much adored and all too eagerly martyred protagonists of our transient lives, stars of the epic novel no one will ever read. The tall tale never printed, but passed from mouth to ear and mouth to ear until our considerably mediocre lives are forgotten in a last whisper, disappearing into the thin air like hot breath. You can strive to be a hero or a villain, but for the majority of the time, you can only just be. Be confused or uncertain. Be conflicted. Be angry. Be proud. Be something or anything. Be nothing.
But you can’t ever really be whole. You shouldn’t want to be. You aren’t a piece of fruit, a pizza, or an apple pie. You are not an inanimate object that at one point is whole before it is devoured. People chase this dream of completion that simply does not exist; not in another person, a career, or a desirable amount of zero’s at the end of a paycheck. Strive. Strive. Strive. We are always striving for something instead of realizing the simplicity of it all; piecing together the enigma of ourselves as we want to be remembered. Chances are, however, that no one will be writing your name in a history book. And chances are, even if someone does, on a long enough timeline, no one will care.
I no longer want to waste time figuring things out. I don’t want to be puzzle, some novelty meant as a diversion to pass the days. A jigsaw puzzle is manufactured in hundreds of jagged little pieces. Tongues and grooves, patterns of color, all packed into a cardboard box rattling full of chaos. That is, until the puzzle is complete. You see a landscape of snow covered mountain peaks or a herd of wild horses trampling through a meadow. You see a picture that is finished. You see a frozen moment that is over and done. Sometimes you meet people that seal these puzzles in a frame for display, some sort of unorthodox makeshift diploma as proof that they have too much time on their hands. But most people, they break that puzzle apart, shove the pieces back into the box and slide it under a bed, on the shelf of a storage closet or in the dusty corner of a basement.
Nothing is complete forever, nothing is whole for eternity.
You hear stories about hunters and fisherman who pursue the quintessential catch, the ultimate game. And once they catch it, all camouflage, determination and gratification, they set it free. Because after that, there is nothing left. The future narrows down to a pinpoint. You solve the ultimate riddle and suddenly, there is nothing else. Strive. Strive. Strive. You have nothing left to strive for.
To be complete. To be whole. You are then either consumed, broken down, or inertly sealed away. It isn’t a process; it is a fleeting circumstance, not to be maintained. I don’t need to be complete, I just need to be. That’s the human condition. That’s life.

Back...

2009-05-08T12:22:00.003-04:00

Whirlwind. It's a metaphorical tornado; all speed, force, and destruction. It's an inherently violent action, but when someone tells you they had a 'whirlwind vacation,' for some reason it seems positive. Like they had a great time. The thing about a tornado, however, is that it's indiscriminate, enveloping all in it's path, leaving nothing in it's wake. Accordingly, anytime you make such a decision, you don't necessarily have the option of picking and choosing what comes your way. I've realized that you can always change the scenery, but never the situation. Every day is some form of organized chaos, full of infinite variables, and at some point it's important to accept that for the majority, we have little control over our lives on a day to day basis. The recent recession has taught us just that. The irony is that in losing control, we seek to further abandon the idea of control. Which is why somehow, in a devastating economy, liquor sales are stabilized, maybe even improving. Liquor stores are open earlier than most restaurants, and if you walk into a bar at noon, it's probably full, the unemployed and underemployed draining their paychecks on temporary escapes by the glass. It all happens so fast, the greatest nation in the world suddenly crumbling, subtilely falling apart. I didn't choose the best time to make a move, an impulsive change, a whirlwind decision, but there is really never a good time. Nothing is ideal. There is no such thing as perfect timing, just coincidence. Luck. The bad always comes with the good, but hopefully, like a tornado, eventually the winds will die, and the storm will pass.

The little things...

2009-02-08T11:56:00.008-05:00

There's something about Sunday. I wake up feeling like doing absolutely nothing but eating pancakes and watching movies, mostly to calm the anxiety of starting another new week the next day. So I woke up today, put on a pair of sweat pants and an old basketball jersey.

I made my cozy little comfort breakfast and proceeded to watch 'The Number 23.'

The movie is pretty nonsensical, far-fetched, and almost unwatchable after the first 15 minutes. Basically, the main character becomes obsessed with the number 23, and goes crazy turning his entire life and the world into a big math problem where everything equals 23. EVERYTHING is 23.

I've probably stretched this little story on for too long, but the point is that, being that I was pretty bored, I went to the bathroom in the middle of the movie without fear of missing anything remotely important or entertaining.

So I'm standing at the bathroom mirror washing my hands, and of course I happen to look at my reflection. Who doesn't? I'm still wearing my college basketball jersey that I had put on earlier in the morning.

What number is on the jersey?

23.

Spoooooooky, right?

Nope, instead of being creeped out I laughed hysterically to myself for 15 minutes, which is actually just about as much time as anyone should spend watching this ridiculously lame movie. But I thought the coincidence was funny.

Also, for those that don't know, Rhona Mitra (a badass better known as the original Lara Croft, Tomb raider) is one of my favorite actresses, and really, the only reason I continued watching Jim Carrey narrate his life in the slowest, most painfully monotone voice possible, was because I heard that she was in the movie. But beware, America, she is only onscreen for 5 minutes. Literally 5 minutes, and you have to watch 75 minutes of garbage just to get to it.

Please don't waste your time.

They really aren't Cheaper By The Dozen...

2009-02-07T01:12:00.009-05:00

For the record, Nadya Suleman is a baby-hoarding psycopath. After hearing about this ridiculous single mother with 14 children, including newborn octuplets, I really have to question the sanity of America.

What angers me the most is the fact that in the greater scheme of things, she's broke. As a fellow poor person in these great United States, I'm pretty sure the last brilliant idea I could come up with would be to have 8 babies. I don't even want one baby, and right now I'm collecting spare change just to keep my chihuahua in Kibbles 'N Bits. Surrogacy, maybe. Selling my eggs, sure. But risking my wallet and my vagina for a litter of screaming poop machines is just not my cup of tea.

So now here comes this nutjob with an infant addiction and all I can think is that my income taxes are going straight to her welfare check. I'm not working 40 hours a weeek to buy government cheese for a family of 15 whose mother had 6 fertilized eggs in vitro, a.k.a on purpose. I would be much better able to stomach this debacle if she'd said she had 14 "accidents," (or "surprises" for the the faint of heart). I would even feel much more at ease if she'd said she got drunk one night, took too much heroin, not enough birth control, and had sex with 8 guys at a party. At least then I'd get a good episode of Maury Povich out of it.

You ARE the father.
You are NOT the father!

But no. This lunatic actually admits with a straight face to paying a similarly ludicrous doctor to put 6 buns in her huge, greedy oven (2 of those buns becoming twins, or biscuits?). And twice! I'm sorry lady, but unless you're Angelina Jolie, you shouldn't have 14 children. In fact, please, give her a few.

We outlaw gay marriage, create a system that takes years just for some people to adopt children, and then we let this looney tune run around grabbing up eggs and popping out babies like we're some sort of endangered species in desperate need of breeding.

We're not.
This place is crowded enough as it is.

And please stop doing interviews, this woman needs to go straight to a mental institution (which, coincidentally is where she once worked), and not appearing on the Today Show. If Pampers, or Huggies, or Gerber, or any of those breeding goods corporations start giving her endorsements and free products, I'm running straight to the animal shelter, adopting and then mating 27 cats. I'm not quite sure what point I would be proving, but the idea seems just as rational. And much cheaper. And without the tearing. Or stretching.

I'm just hoping some good can come out of this horrific incident. Perhaps it will cause a boost in the economy by creating jobs, because let's face it, she'll have to hire an entire cheerleading team of babysitters, at least half a dozen wet nurses, and a handful of nannies. When they come of age, she should seriously consider opening a sweatshop. We all know those little hands are great at cross-stitching.

If I wasn't allergic to crying, sick desperation, dirty diapers, and the smell of baby food, I might submit an application. But until then, Ms. Suleman, you and your clan are on my virtual hitlist (meaning I loathe you from afar and you should constantly feel my eyes of judgement).

Somewhere in Between...

2009-02-04T15:04:00.002-05:00

The term limbo has several similar meanings (none of which involve a horizontal pole, embarrassment, and back-breaking flexibility). Religious people adopt the notion that limbo is some gray region on the border of Heaven and Hell, like the stuffy waiting room of afterlife. More commonly, it's simply a place or state of oblivion, a home for things that are cast aside, forgotten, or unresolved. Placed on life's transitional little backburner.

More scientifically, the word is derived from limbus, usually associated with the distinctive border between the cornea and the sclera of the eye. It's always interesting how a definition so vague can walk hand-in-hand with one so completely literal and exact.

Limbo. There's something poetic about constantly hovering on a border, a state of sheer indecision. We face it every day as we open our eyes, daylight shining onto that microscopic border just ahead of those delicate optic nerves. You can always make a decision to quit, stop trying. Or you get up and face another day.

Limbo can also be described as a place of imprisonment or confinement. Those times you feel damned if you do, damned if you don't. But you still have to choose. Limbo is never a place that can you stay, it's never really a home.

Melancholy much?

2009-01-31T19:20:00.001-05:00

Some people say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Sometimes you are led to believe that a long time away from the place that you call home will make you appreciate the small things, the mediocrity. No. Most times a little vacation can make you recognize the voids in your life. We all have our empty spaces and our dark corners where nothing can really hide. We mask and we run, turning out lights and extinguishing candles. Fleeing back to the light of familiarity which is nothing but exactly that: what we know. It’s all about those well-placed reminders, the pint-sized intangibles like the smell of a worn out blanket or a favorite song.

You take these precautions in life to make sure that things will never bend beyond your control. I’ll have a job, and a roof over my head, and reliable transportation, and a meal in my stomach, and clothes on my back, and someone to call at night, and I’ll have some sort of purpose in this ridiculous mess that has become my existence. I’ll have good credit, and an impressive resume, and I’ll have self-confidence because nothing can ever, ever go wrong. People will like me and I will be fine.

But it’s all a mirror image. We become these characters, play these parts, build these facades and perpetuate the charades. It’s a sort of sonar. Waves bouncing back and forth to create a picture of who we really are, or who we want to be. People will tell you jokes so that you’ll think they’re funny or buy you flowers so that you’ll think they’re thoughtful. They’ll ask you about your feelings so they can appear caring and simultaneously convince others that they are a plethora of self-loathing information. He said, she said.

She’ll cry to you so that you can tell her everything will be okay, and you’ll cry back because it feels good for someone to tell you that it can only get better. Before it gets worse. I’m just beginning to question why it is that we lean on people. Why we support people that cannot reciprocate the basics of humanity. People who kick you when you’re down. People that abandon you when you are all but alone. People that will tell you lies and disguise the truth in pretty gift-wrapped packages.

So you start stacking bricks. You begin with one story, spread a layer of mortar and expand to two. You build these walls and use your self-proclaimed fortress as a reason to be dismissive of any brave soul who knocks at the castle walls. Lose yourself in the notion of being completely independent of vulnerability. So I give up. White flag.

Warm sands, palm trees, and margaritas at one o’clock in the afternoon will only teach you that you aren’t taking your life for granted. Life is taking you for granted. People in your life are mostly taking you for granted. I’m not a gambling person for the sole reason that I don’t have much to gamble. But I’d bet that eliminating negative people is a lot more profitable than eliminating life. And vacations are fantastic.

Dangerously delicious...

2009-01-27T13:28:00.004-05:00

Warning: Do not eat the following product on an empty stomach...and especially not for breakfast.

And if you do make the mistake of consuming said product in either of the preformentioned conditions, do not, I repeat do NOT flush the internal fire with water. The burning of your stomach lining will only become worse.

That being said, once the hole in my small intestine heals, I plan to finish the bag.

Dedication (or lack thereof)

2009-01-24T15:16:00.002-05:00

I've been seriously neglecting my writing. This is counterproductive for several reasons, but mostly because my thoughts are much easier to digest when they are written rather than screamed at an unsuspecting stranger out of bottled up anger. That being said, the New Year's resolution that I never made in the first place will be replaced by the promise that I will write every day no matter rain, shine, sleet, snow, vodka, exhaustion, tequila, annoyance, general inebriation, or how tempting my Nintendo Wii may seem.

That is all.

Ruts and Routines...

2009-01-16T12:34:00.003-05:00

I am not a creature of habit. For some odd reason I am not consistent in any capacity other than being destructively impulsive. I'm all about restrospect rather than forsight, which is probably why I always find myself in unfortunate situations. This is definitely the root of my increasingly recurring anxiety, which is slowly affecting my sleep patterns. You grow up thinking that your brain shuts down during sleep, sort of like a computer that needs to be rebooted. Your body is nothing but metabolical functions and cell repair, eyelids twittering over the whites of your eyes in an REM cycle.

But no. The day follows you, thoughts trailing into dark corners of your mind, resurfacing only in the unconscious state of dreaming. Tossing and turning, I feel like I spend the whole of 8 hours merely trying to get comfortable. Trying to curl up into the fetal position and find some sort of transient peace. Instead, I wake up aching, breathless and exhausted merely from the effort of attempting sleep. My chest feels tight and weighted like a long-time smoker with congested lungs.

Most mornings, the only way I know I have actually slept are the waking recollections of vivid dreams. Broken memories and fragmented images which seem so tangible and real, but are just obscure enough to be recognized as nothing but my imagination in the night hours. I awaken with headaches, all creaky bones and stiff joints. Cloudy thoughts. That existential feeling of dread, where you question the day's purpose. The purpose of your routine. It stinks of dramatics, reaks of overthinking inevitable things that just are. But we all have our doubts, the prickly notions of ourselves that tug at the back of your brainstem like silent assailants you can't shake.

You can see it in a person's eyes. The one who hasn't slept or who spent the night crying, angry, or worrying about things they can't control. No one is truly immune, it has to happen eventually. Eyes transparent like stainless glass, simply color with nothing behind them but the light of another lifeless day.

I'm not sure when the exact moment occurred that we trapped ourselves in awkwardness instead of bliss. I don't know when we became encased in this vague medium where actions are premeditated and words are left unsaid. I can no longer draw the line between what isn't and what should be.

I suppose that people have different ways of acceptance. Realization is subjective, and it is always relative. You grow to understand differences without neglecting truths in a reality where everything seems so disproportionate. I can't expect other personas to imitate mine.

For a week I'll be happy every day. For a month I will write every single day. For a year I will wake up and go to work every passing day. And then it all stops. It fades to black. That creature of habit sidles up beside me in my dreams, and it all stops as I run screaming. Screaming in my sleep, waking with a strained voice and a need of escape. Find another impulse. Keep running. Keep searching. Keep remaining lost and trying to be found.

Keep trying to break the glass and examine what's inside. Gears grind like the notched wheels of a clock, always turning, ticking, triggering and moving. Clocks do not stop at night. Thoughts do not cease to tock.

She'll understand eventually. She'll get it. I'll fall asleep eventually.

Trapped in 1988...

2008-12-26T03:01:00.004-05:00

It's a very rude awakening to realize that you have the attention span of a six-year-old. I've come to the conclusion that I need to be constantly entertained and/or amused. I wouldn't go as far as to say that I have attention defecit disorder. I don't need to be medicated. This is all really based on my actions and purchases within the last week or two. Somehow I manage to mingle the idea of responsibility with something completely absurd. Impulsive, even. I have a need for sensory overload, like browsing the internet with the television on, the radio blaring, and trying to have a sane conversation on the phone all at the same time.

I'm all about multi-tasking and the word 'simultaneously.' It always makes your tasks seem extraordinary, no matter how ridiculous they are.

He juggled three watermelons while simultaneously whistling the score to Bonanza.

Wow. Magnificent (I so seldom get to use that word).

And so I find myself with this constant need of a backup plan in case something goes awry, and I somehow begin to experience the burden of pure focus. On one thing. Honestly, I'm not sure I am even capable of such a feat.

Last week, for example.

I went to the drug store to buy tampons and walked out with three Pez dispensers.

I went to the office supply store to buy an organizer and ended up with two Hot Wheels cars.

I took a trip to the grocery store for milk and left with a pocket-sized laser pointer.

I went to fill up my tank at the gas station and strolled out wearing a ski hat. In Florida.

I seriously need an accountant and a personal shopper to keep me under control.

The other day I went back to the drug store and bought a jumbo bag of Pez refills.

Something tells me there is reason I don't want or need to have children. It would be like giving birth to a circle of friends. After a few years we'd be sitting around the sandbox with our cherry kool-aid talking about saturday morning cartoons and play-doh.

It's still a wonder adults put up with me. Maybe I do need to be medicated.

It's generic greeting card time...

2008-12-25T00:56:00.005-05:00

Some people are just naturally holiday people. They love the gift-giving, the togetherness, the seasonal decorations. Especially at Christmas, you find these people at their prime. Sending out personalized cards, hanging ludicrous amounts of lights in their bushes, buying cinnamon scented candles and singing carols at all times of the day. They walk around distributing candy canes and bake Christmas tree-shaped cookies with red and green sprinkles.

I am not one of those people.

I'm not a Scrooge by any means, I just find the entire charade surrounding Christmas to be more stressful than joyous. You waste 20 minutes and half a tank of gas circling the mall parking lot trying to find a space. You swim through a sea of maniac shoppers fighting for clock radios and perfume gift sets. You spend entirely too much money on things that the recipients might not even like. Frankly, I'd rather no one bought me anything. Let's make a deal, gift-givers. We all just take the holiday to go shopping for ourselves and call it even.

This year, my mother said she really wanted something-or-other, so she would just buy it and have me reimburse her later. Now, that's genius. That's right up my alley. I know Christmas day is all about the surprised faces and giddy expressions, but seriously, wouldn't you rather just get exactly what you wanted? People always ask you what you want for Christmas anyway, and have you make cute little lists. So is the suspense really necessary? I say save that for birthdays and anniversaries. Personally, I'd rather get a present for no reason, rather than at Christmas. If I ever see something I know someone would like, or if they talk about something enough, I'll just buy it. I don't need this commercialized reason. My aunt has given me a card with money every year since I can remember, and it's always my favorite gift to open. It's definitely the most impersonal gift you can recieve, but nothing beats cold, hard cash.

I'm definitely a self-proclaimed cynic about most things, but I've come to terms with that. I find it quite endearing. Especially when I find myself sitting exhausted on the mall fountain desperately trying to decide whether my sister would like ipod speakers or a set of martini glasses? Would my father like a sweater in red or blue? Does my cousin already have this DVD? These trivial decisions are all overwhelming enough, and only made worse by the fact that I am a desperate procrastinator who does all of her shopping in a 2-hour window on Christmas Eve.

And Christmas music. How do I even begin to describe my hatred for Christmas music. In principle, it's perfectly fine. It's all upbeat melodies and talk of doing bizarre things like roasting chestnuts, jingling bells, and one-horse open sleighs. When was the last time anyone rode on a one-horse open sleigh? At any rate, if you work in any sort of retail or service capacity, you understand that they begin playing Christmas music the day after Thanksgiving. Sometimes the day before Thanksgiving. Imagine listening to nothing but Barry Manilow on repeat for 8 hours a day. Imagine doing this for an entire month. I'm pretty sure by that fourth week you would either hate Barry Manilow, develop a nervous tick to the sound of his voice, or learn to completely tune him out.

That's how I feel about Christmas music.

All of this being said, there are a few things that I do enjoy about the holidays. Although most of them involve food and alcohol, I can also say that I like wrapping presents. I'm definitely an overzealous wrapper. I color-coordinate bows and ribbons, and make those little curls at the ends with the edge of the scissors. I get adorable little to-and-from labels, write the names in pretty fonts. It seems that I'd be more of one of those newspaper-wrapping people that use the comics, or leave gifts under the tree still in their Macy's bags. But no, I'm a sucker for metallic colors and Santa prints.

As happy as I'll be when the holiday season is over, and my life returns to semi-normalcy (my life is absolutely never normal), I have to appreciate the spirit of it all. When else can you drink egg nog, chop down forest trees, and say 'ho' without getting slapped? Just think about that the 73rd time you hear "Silent Night."

Feliz Navidad!

Infatuation taking hold...

2008-12-23T20:51:00.004-05:00

Wise people always say that life is about making and managing priorities. By wise people, I'm simply referring to those who feel the overwhelming need to intervene in your life with uninvited advice. No one ever ardently seeks these people out to ask for the key to happiness. Or success. Deep down we all know the right things to do and say in order to get what we want, it just comes down to the will and desire to do so. Prioritizing. Managers and corporate big wigs in silk ties love that term. It means giving your tasks a certain order in which to be completed, according to importance. Which is fine, as long as your punched into the time clock, swiveling around the office in your ergonomic desk chair. Working billable hours. Collecting your wages or pooling your tips.

But when people tell me I need to set priorities in my life, I feel the equivalent of being leashed in the backyard like a German Shepard. You keep running and the chain keeps yanking you back, dictating where you can and cannot go. Or as if I'm wearing one of those shock collars that shoot you with electricity whenever you pass the boundaries. Priorities are completely subjective, and as far as I'm concerned, they have been since the beginning of time.

Some people want to be homemakers. Professors. Professional athletes. Mothers. Lawyers. Lovers. Interior decorators. Some people want to lay on the white sand of a tropical island and sip Mai Tai's until their livers corrode.

It's a lot like those bible pushers that tell you to pray. Tell you that Jesus loves you and hand you pocket-sized pamphlets. Ask you if you have accepted the Lord as your savior. They talk about salvation.

I don't need to be saved.
And yet we all need to be saved.

We need to be saved from all of this white noise, speculation and societal guidelines that tell us that we should buy houses instead of backpacking through Europe. Start familes instead of seeing the world. Wear a pantsuit instead of a pair of jeans. Maybe my aspirations contradict the notion of becoming a millionaire, or becoming famous, or popping out 2.5 children and spiralling down the drain of suburbian mediocrity.

Maybe my priorities are different. Maybe I have it all wrong. But nonetheless, they are mine to choose.

One hundred years from now no one will care if you were the CEO of some long ago renamed company, or if some university named a wing after you. You're just an engraved name on a placard. No one really cares about George Washington. The green-tinted face on the crumpled bill you pull from a pocket. He's a dead president. When the lights go out, it really will not matter if I never smoked a cigarette or had a one-night stand. Took chances. Made transient memories.

I don't need a legacy. My priority is to be happy, to make others happy while I have the opportunity.

When you make another person one of your priorities, your life changes. Certain other aspects come screeching to a halt. I understand the point of view of people with career paths and big dreams. You lose focus. But maybe your priority is love. Friendship. Finding genuine people.

I'll never fault anyone for persuing their dreams or making their own reality, whatever that may be. But I can't be faulted for doing the same.

The World is a Vampire...

2008-12-05T13:31:00.003-05:00

Nothing in life is really a problem, simply a situation that needs to be resolved. The unfortunate fact is that my life is nothing but situations. Some days I wake up in short breaths and anxiety.

I think many people do.

Poor people will tell you that money fixes everything. Rich people will insist that money doesn’t really solve a thing. I’m only seeking a happy medium, a way to pay my bills and shrink the steadily mutating debt weighing down on my shoulders. Some days I wake up aching, my muscles sore from carrying the daily burden of living here.

This place.

This illusion of freedom like hamsters in glass cages or Dobermans on retractable leashes. Trapped. A mime in one of those invisible boxes, all blank expressions and palms flattening against air.

We grow up believing that we can do anything. We can’t. But sweet disillusion tastes so much better than realizing that your parents are liars. Santa Clause and Tooth Fairies. Easter Bunnies. No mother sings a child to sleep with lullabies of mortgages and repossessions, student loans and health insurance. No father tosses a football and tells his son about car payments and credit card debt. Layoffs. Dead-end jobs. Divorce. Child support. Taxes. You can’t be anything you want to be, you can only attempt to be the best at what you do. We can’t all be astronauts and movie stars.

Writers.

Some days I wake up and wish I didn’t. Open tired eyes to another day of trying to be something. Trying. We’re always trying. Trying to get through college, graduate school. Trying to get a nice salary. Trying to impress people. Trying to buy a house. Trying to start a family. Trying to make it to retirement. Trying to die. They say that rational thought is what separates us from the beasts, and from our little domesticated housepets. Animals are never trying to do anything. They just are. I want to cross the threshold into a place where I can just be. A day, a week, a month.

Forever.

A frozen moment where situations do not exist. The wild spectrum of emotion disappears. Nothingness. Deep breaths and complete ease, without furrowed brows and headaches. Without the falsehood and the facades. Instead we are click-clacking at keyboards. Paying people to teach us things that we already know and then selling our recycled thoughts back into the consumer circus at some marketing meeting. In some promotional campaign.

We are borrowing money for tuition for the sole purpose of getting a job where you will spend half a lifetime paying it back. Thank you, Sallie Mae. Thank you, Savings and Loan. This degree under my belt will surely make the next 30-years of succumbing to authority worthwhile. Climbing this corporate ladder rung by tireless rung will now be somewhat bearable. As I’m creating my situations.

The work situation.
The home situation.
The car situation.
The situation with my family.

Masking the problems.

The only problems that ever really get solved are in arithmetic. But we still try. Try and try again. Try to find ourselves on the other side of the equal sign. But some days I wake up, and the entire equation seems nothing but a dream.

No Coloreds Allowed...

2008-11-28T20:46:00.004-05:00

I know that seems like an extremely derogatory statement, but it isn't the sign from a restroom circa sometime during the early twentieth century. It is the theme for a white party. Obviously, this does not mean white people, it means white clothes. Unfortunately, it wasn't until about 5 hours before said party when my friends and I realized that despite our tropical location, between us we have a dire shortage of white clothes. Not only this, but we discovered that in mid-November, no one sells white clothes. Of course there is always White House Black Market, but poor people do not shop there. As I have stated before, I am a poor person. I am also a reasonably messy person, especially when mixing copious amounts of alcohol with copious amounts of dancing. Needless to say, I don't own much of anything that is white. I rushed home after work and went on a desperate needle-in-the-haystack search through my closet for anything resembling the color white. After literally digging through piles of clothes up to my elbows, I saw a gleam of fabric. And after gasping aloud with anticipation I pulled it out to realized that it belonged to a terribly wrinkled, yet perfectly white skirt. I've discussed the fact that I am allergic to folding clothes. I also do not own an iron, and have not actually ironed since I was in middle school. I've seen it done. It looks like a good time, and I can completely understand a person's desire for crisp creases and freshly pressed pants. But after discovering the magic of a 5 minute tumble in the dryer, it just seemed like an unnecessary investment. Whoever invented the iron has made a mockery of who invented the dryer. But then again, it's kind of one of those chicken before the egg or egg before the chicken arguments. At any rate, a quick tumble dry and I was ready to go. My question here, is why are there never red parties? Blue parties? Seriously, I own more neon green than white. I'm just saying. It's clothing discrimination, and I am entirely too open minded for that.

Viva blanco!

Wardrobe Malfunction...

2008-11-20T09:58:00.004-05:00

I've owned a pair of gray sweatpants since I was in the tenth grade in high school. They are size XXL, and I bought them one day at Foot Locker because I really wanted gray sweatpants, they were the only pair left on the rack, and I was also halfway into this phase of wearing really baggy athletic wear. I was convinced that it made me look more intimidating when I walked into the gym for a basketball game wearing bandanas and clothes that were clearly too big for my body. I'm pretty sure that this pair of sweatpants is the only piece of clothing that has survived high school. Partly, because in retrospect, my nineties attire was pretty embarrassing. All wide-legs, bell bottoms and chunky-heeled shoes. Designer stretch-fit jeans that cost my entire minimum wage paycheck from my menial job at the mall.

So I'm wearing my sweatpants today because they are clearly the most comfortable pants on the planet. They are my adult-sized security blanket. They are also a hot disheveled mess. I realized today that at this point they are probably too tattered to be acceptable, even in the privacy of my own home. But after ten years, they are seriously my longest, most meaningful relationship. I'm at a crossroads here, and I don't know what to. I just can't see how any other pair of sweatpants can compare. And I'm a little afraid of trying the comparison. Maybe I'll put them in one of those cedar trunks and one day posterity can recycle them to make a fabulous dust rag. One can only hope.

R.I.P. gray sweatpants. It was a great ride.

Where is your diploma?

2008-11-18T20:25:00.008-05:00

I realized today that I am irritated by extremely trivial things.

I attended a great college. I went to New York University. I had a fabulous time partying my way through Manhattan, losing my inhibitions and my coveted accessories. On occasion, I even learned a thing or two, took a few notes, and attended a couple of lectures. My professors were all experts in the field, and dedicated most of their free time to teaching us future debutantes how to succeed.

This all sounds like the fabulous introduction to a high school reunion speech, but the fact is that I really hate telling people where I went to school. They immediately turn on that "wow" face as if I told them I re-invented the wheel. Or Velveeta.

Society dictates that you are supposed to go to a good school, get one of those "good" jobs where you earn a salary, punch a time card, and worry yourself about collating paperwork. I must apologize to the cubicle lemmings of America when I say that office work is just not for me. No matter my score on the SAT or my ambition of wearing pantsuits and carrying briefcases. Sitting at a desk for nine hours a day is just not my cup of tea, I don't care care how much you're willing to pay me.

I was walking through the parking lot to work today, and I saw a car with one of those bumper stickers in the back. It was one of those clear ones that you put in the rear window, that advertise your college or university in big bright letters. I squinted my eyes against the sun and for some odd reason I wanted to beat in that glass with a baseball bat.

New York University. Yes, that's what it said.

It seemed so pretentious and needy. Look at me, I paid over $40,000 a year for secondary education and now I'm driving a car that proclaims it. Look at me and my higher education. My purple and white. Look at me. Look!

I stood there for a few seconds and questioned the purpose. Life is all about impressing people. I think about that everytime a customer asks where I went to school and gives that cynical eyebrow raise. "New York University? Well, what are you doing here?"

I'm living my life one day at a time. That's what. If I could have it to do all over again I would surely go to community college. I would work a part-time job at Burger King and take home free french fries every night. I would try not to give these people something to talk about over glasses of wine.

So there I stood, staring at this NYU bumper sticker in the back of the window and wondering why any rational adult would feel the need to have it displayed. A status symbol, perhaps. Another backhanded way of telling people that "I am better than you." This is my proof.

It's similar to one of those bumper stickers that say "my kid is an honor roll student at so-and-so elementary school." Really? Do you really think I care about your eleven-year-old honor roll student as I'm tailgaiting your Volvo and rolling through a yellow light?

I don't.

And I don't care where you went to school.

Just food for thought.

Vices...

2008-11-18T11:03:00.005-05:00

Today, I had a discussion about alcohol. Usually, the only time I enjoy alcohol as a topic of conversation is when the bartender asks what kind of vodka I want in my tonic. This time was no different. I hate when people ask why you drink. It's a completely ridiculous question, like asking why you eat chocolate or wear the color red. Like asking a crack fiend why he smokes crack. He likes crack. It makes him feel better. It provides a brief escape from this big, twisted, rigid reality. Let's face it, alcohol really doesn't taste great. You're always going to meet people who say "I don't like the taste," or who will take a sip of your drink and make their face cringe like you just gave them a tall glass of sour milk. I don't care how many fancy garnishes you put on the rim of a martini, or what colorful fruity cute name you give it, you aren't drinking a Cosmopolitan because it's delicious. It isn't.

People will use one excuse after another to disguise the fact that they want a pretty little buzz at some point in the day. It really doesn't matter if you have one drink or ten, the motivation remains the same. Sure, some people drink when they are depressed or angry, or just because it's Tuesday. Some people drink to loosen up, to take the edge off of a long day. Obviously, people really shouldn't drink at all, but it makes no reasonable sense to point fingers. You might as well go around telling smokers that they shouldn't smoke and overeaters that they shouldn't eat. I'm fairly sure they are aware. But thank you for the memo.

My point here, other than confirming the fact that mostly I would prefer people to mind their own business, is that we all have our vices and our small means of escape. I'm pretty sure the majority of the free world has vices. Sex, drugs, talk shows, pick your poison. At least I'm not a serial killer. Buy me a screwdriver or get off my back.

It's that time, again...

2008-11-17T12:30:00.008-05:00

Birthdays. The perpetual anniversary of the day you popped out of your mother's womb, slimy and caked in fluid, wrinkled and crying. People rejoiced at the confirmed existence of an innocent, still ignorant to the ways of the world. Anti-abortionists can argue the point all they want, but you really aren't alive until you're born into that white room with the antiseptic walls, the forceps and the rubber gloves. The doctors snap the ambilical cord, wrap you in a blanket and proclaim another human being. Success! We have a girl, or a boy, or a future college dropout. A lawyer. A scientist. Today, we have a new life waiting to be wasted or fulfilled. And so we take once a year to celebrate.

The spectrum of celebration is a wide range, anything from gross inebriation to extravagant gifts and vacations on private islands. These blessed events, getting older but not always wiser, nearing death, feeling the desperate anxiety from a fear of running out of time. They are trivial in the greater scope, and have become nothing more than a clever excuse to buy greeting cards with witty punchlines. It makes me wonder about the origin of holidays in the first place. On birthdays you should have cake.

You should receive presents and people should sing. Personally, I enjoy cake on just about any occasion so it just makes me question why most celebrations neccesitate cake. It's delicious, but not expensive by any means, and it isn't hard to come by. You will never hear of anyone going out of their way to procure a yellow cake with vanilla frosting. This fact alone, in my opinion, is really counter-produtive to a "special occasion." A memorable experience. One night I want to turn to a friend and say "Hey, it's Thursday. Let's have some cake." Or maybe I'll say "Happy birthday, here's a can of sardines."

My birthday this year has come and gone. I feel as though after you surpass your teenage years, birthdays are just anti-climactic. Chances are you aren't having a Spiderman theme party, going bowling, or playing pin-the-tail-on-the donkey. Frankly, you're just getting old. Somehow we've managed to commericalize everything.

Don't get me wrong, I still believe in the hope that is offered by these mindless celebrations, a valid reason to overeat and drink too much hard liquor. You wake up on a Wednesday morning with a migraine and tell people "It was my birthday." It makes us human, real and flawed. Absolutely sub-par insane, it makes us normal for wanting to be belligerent throughout the 24-hour span of a birthday. The day when people call at 12:01am and feel special, like some bizarre pecking order where they are moving ahead for promptness. Let's skip the facade. It's another day, another year, another party with cake, feigned enjoyment and helium-filled balloons.

Birthdays. All for the love of wax candles and wrapping paper.

Happy Birthday!

I am no Fashion Guru...

2008-11-13T17:59:00.007-05:00

Fashion etiquette dictates that when you are wearing black pants, you should wear black socks. You do this so that in the case where you sit down and expose your ankle, you don't see white socks, or pink socks, rainbow, purple, whatever your fancy. I find this pretty ridiculous for several reasons, the most prominent being that I'd be far more concerned about my highwater pants being so short that you can see my ankles when I sit down. Really, what difference does it make what color your socks are? It completely defeats the purpose of sock manufacturers everywhere that are in the business of selling colored socks. Nonetheless, I wear black pants to work, so the corporate bigwigs (a.k.a fashion police) insist that I wear black socks.

I will take this opportunity to give a small disclaimer for those who are not already aware. There is something important about me that needs to be reiterated. Really hammered home. I am a silly human being. Just silly, and most of what I do on a daily basis is absolutely nonsensical.

Additionally, I have an allergy that involves breaking out into hives if I ever have to sort and/or fold laundry. My freshly laundered clothes often stay in the laundry basket until I have worn all of them, and the basket is empty. Then I wash them. I dry them. Then I return them to the laundry basket. They remain there until I have worn everything, and the basket is again empty. Then I wash them. And so on.

Accordingly, my mornings are comprised of a lot of digging through articles of clothing. I gave up pairing socks together years ago. Most days, I wear the first two socks that I find, regardless of color, pattern, length, texture, or any other sock-related variables.

Today, I grabbed a knee-high bright yellow and white striped sock. Then I grabbed an ankle-sock. Low rise. Black.

Also today, my overzealous manager decided to perform randomized sock inspections.

The inspection, though rigorous, sounds innocent enough, but failing a sock inspection means that you are required to drop everything and go buy a pair of black socks before resuming work. Ludicrous, yes. Unnecessary, completely. But that doesn't negate the fact that you will seriously have to go waste time and money on socks.

When it comes to sheer luck, I'm usually on the losing end. I am pretty much never lucky. Today, however, Lady Luck shined on me long enough to:

A) Put a single black sock at the top of my laundry pile.

B) Let my manager be satisfied with me lifting only one pant leg.

C) Allow me to remember which leg wore the bright yellow knee-high.

and

D) NOT lift that pant leg.

Thank you, Lady. Miss Luck. Thank you.

Nothing is static...

2008-11-11T23:05:00.005-05:00

I had a conversation with a co-worker today. A brief exchange of words as we're standing at the beverage machine like trained monkeys, pouring Diet Cokes and lemonades for people that don't realize we are actually human beings beneath our starched white disguises. I'm having a bad day, or a great day, or the worst day of my life. And you complain about pasta that isn't al dente. Salmon Picatta that doesn't have enough capers. I had a woman today ask me to microwave her tea. I have a bit of news for you, hot tea drinker. Liquid usually cools to room temperature, when it is left at room temperature for a period of time. In laymen's terms, if you take an hour to drink a cup of Earl Grey, nature dictates that it will eventually be cold.

But the joy I had in walking your tepid tea back into the kitchen, sidestepping the line cooks to find a microwave, and standing there for the 45 mind-numbing seconds it took to re-heat it, despite the fact that I had 4 other tables of rational customers. Yes, that unadulterated joy made up for the fact that you only tip the bare minimum and have the audacity to request microwave cooking in a restaurant. Would you like a Hot Pocket while I'm back there? Can I nuke your leftovers, did you bring Tupperware? Perhaps a Pop Tart would be to your liking, I'm sure I can waste 5 more minutes of my time finding you a toaster. It's my pleasure, I say, inserting a fake smile and cursing life. It's not a problem at all.

Two tables and 25 minutes later I'm at the soda machine scooping ice into a glass of Sprite and this guy tells me he feels like a robot. I'm thinking about the tips in my pocket, about paying my phone bill. He says, "I'm exhausted." I'm calculating my tip percentage, worrying if I brought ketchup to the table with the three cheeseburgers. "I wake up at 5am everyday. I go to class, I go to my job at the office and then I come here." I'm dropping a wedge of lemon into an ice water and wondering if my appetizers are ready. "I drive home, and then I go right to sleep. I wake up the next day and do it all over again."

I'm bent over by one of the mini-refrigerators, grabbing half-and-half for an espresso. "Why do you do it," I ask. Meanwhile I think of tigers in cages. Standing in front of John and Jane Doe with a notepad in my hand as they explain their allergies or their low-carb diets. Wanting to pounce and devour the very spirit of the overzealous consumer. He replies, "I have no idea." And I smile because it is the one fact that actually makes sense. We're here to make money to spend money.

We are God's practical joke. Self-sufficient only for our need of self-sufficiency, our neccesity to order bottles of wine and expensive cuts of beef. To say please and thank you to some stranger who only wants gratuity in their pocket. Some mornings I wake up and think we are fooling ourselves. Most mornings I feel like the court jester in a room void of laughter. Still dancing. Still smiling.

The saying goes that there is a means to an end. No one has an end. Novels have conclusions and in movies the credits will roll, but when it comes to life, the end is nothing but ambiguous desire. It is biased, altered by third parties who never want you to succeed, pray you fall from grace in pretty little pieces. We are nothing but animals. Chomping at the bit, climbing the ladder, pushing each other from the frying pan into the fire.

My co-worker, my friend, he said, "I just want to finish school. I just want to get some real rest."

I smiled. I smiled a mouthful of white teeth that would make any orthodontist proud. And I said, "Good luck with that." And then I asked him to make change for a twenty. These chardonnay-drinking-side salad-eating ladies need singles for the valet. I'm hoping they leave me some rent money.

We have these lovely law abiding citizens punching clocks, arranging carpools, buying shirt and tie combos by the pack. Slaving away at keyboards, guiding powerpoint presentations, collating reports. Your salary manages to slowly absolve a debt, maybe pay a few bills, keep a condo and a sensible car from being repossessed. They sit at high-top tables close to the bar, ordering dark liquors neat, vodka on the rocks, doubles, talls. They nibble on finger food and for 65 minutes forget the 9 to 5 misery that affords them luxuries like brand names. Drop a gold colored credit card and feel liberated. But no.

Hi, how are you? Have a coaster, a napkin, a basket of bread and butter. Have a fork, a steak knife, a straw. Let me get you what you need.

Here's your Veal Saltimbocca. Here's your martini, your calamari, your French beignets. Here is your self preservation on a bed of bean sprouts and arugula.

Some mornings, I wake up. After a strong sip of coffee it all makes sense. And sometimes it doesn't. So much sugar and cream but I still don't get it.

We're always moving towards something, somewhere, someone. It isn't always about your pay stub. But most of the time it is.

Self destruct in 5...

4...

3...

2...

1...

Defeating the Purpose...

2008-11-08T23:13:00.005-05:00

I'll let you in on a little secret about Oreo McFlurry's...

They are delicious.

But I'll tell you something about fast food employees in South Florida.

They just might be the slowest, laziest food service workers around.

Granted, they get paid peanuts and have the most ridiculously thankless jobs.

But if I pay you $4.00 for an Oreo McFlurry, it better be blended. I don't know how many times I've been completely giddy in anticipation, then gotten my McFlurry only to discover that the crushed Oreo's have simply been sprinkled on top and then poked through with one of those absurd plastic mixing spoons.

I've never claimed to be a rocket scientist or anything of the sort, but you don't have to be able to split atoms to know the difference between blended and topped.

McDonald's I will not be bamboozled again! Mix my cotton-picking Oreo's in my ever-loving ice cream!

I am a randomized playlist...

2008-11-08T17:16:00.006-05:00

I keep seeing this commercial for Lethal Weapon 4. I've had absolutely zero interest in actually watching the movie, especially after seeing Mel Gibson and Danny Glover scream and crash their police car into a plate glass window for the seventeenth time in a four hour span. However, there's a clever line that keeps playing in my head. Some faceless female character asks Mel Gibson if he goes out looking for trouble, to which he replies:

"No. Trouble pretty much always knows where I am."

Mel, I have the same problem!

Sometimes you just have to throw up your hands in defeat and let trouble handcuff you then beat you silly.

Speaking of trouble, I was in a terrible mood the other night, and actually feared that my wildly hormonal mood swings were a symptom of being inexplicably pregnant. After reminding myself that pregnancy usually involves sex with a man and/or a turkey baster, I decided I was probably not with-child, but in desperate need of chocolate and a cocktail.

At any rate, my utter irritation usually leads to writing. This was the result, later to be dubbed The Human Experiment:

"Briefcase in hand, he strolled to the car dreaming of semi trucks careening out of control on the freeway. He had twisted revelations that we are no different from the fauna and the savage beasts. He sits toiling away in a cubicle maze wearing sky blue neckties with pinstripes and polished leather shoes, worrying about reports and deadlines, and 401Ks for the retirement beach homes in Boca Raton one day when he's too old to surf and terrified of UV rays. Timelessly, the waves crash against the sand and consume a little bit of the shore, take a fraction of his sanity in their wake. Typing, editing, dying inside. Entangled in the great American dream, the great human nightmare. The complete and utter lie we tell ourselves over soy lattes and buttery croissants.

He was simply a slave to safety and convention. Loving his gadgets and his wi-fi. Drinking bottled water and buying organic food, free-range chicken and whole grains. It seems so asinine once you spell it out, discover the less we depend on each other and the more we rely on trivialities.

People judge you based on your diploma, or your resume, or the fact that you’re a cashier at Starbucks instead of a young executive climbing the corporate ladder like a trained chimpanzee. When did we become so shallow, our egos growing with the promise of power, of money? Money and power somehow became synonymous in this materialistic world of Malibu Barbies and plastic suitors. We are all so commercialized and factory-made, rigid from assembly-line production and quick fixes. Here we are dry-cleaning shirts and pressing pants, wearing make-up and high heels to compensate for a complete lack of sincerity."

In other news, today my mother decided it would be cute to dress my dog in a string of pearls. Accordingly, the dog has been jingling around the house like one of The Golden Girls off her meds. A dog should NEVER be wearing pearls, it's just wrong.

Fun with Queues...

2008-10-29T09:17:00.004-04:00

I have to preface this by wondering aloud how queue is even a word. That many vowels next to each other looks and sounds more like a drunken slur than a line where people wait. But I also have to warn everybody, anywhere that you are instructed to wait in a 'queue' instead of simply taking a number, you should be prepared to wait for an inappropriately long amount of time. The best part about this, however, is that it will seem that there are actually several people available to help you, but they're probably just toying with your emotions.

I went to Verizon yesterday to give them a pay stub, because apparently my company earns me a 6% discount on my phone bill. Please understand that 6% off of my monthly cell phone bill is basically the price of a pack of gum. But I love gum, and I'm poor, so I figured it would be worth the effort.

I arrived at the mighty Verizon store to find that there were only 2 other customers inside, both already with salesmen, and there were 4 other Verizon employees seemingly available at the service counter. I immediately figured that this little visit would be cake. Simple. Quick. Easy. Verizon is all about this unnecessary touchscreen sign-in process, so I played along, put my name in the computer, and stood there like a properly good, excited and willing consumer.

Needless to say, 15 minutes later I was still standing there, (not good, not excited, and definitely no longer willing), with a violent sneer on my face, staring at my name on the giant 'queue' while 3 clerks behind the counter were typing away at their little computers and avoiding eye contact.

I am not a patient person. At all. I would probably rather maim myself than wait in a line for just about anything. Except maybe those freshly baked donuts at Krispy Kreme (you know, when the light goes off outside the bakery to alert everyone that sugary-glazed orgasmic donuts are hot and available). To cut a long story short, I did the right thing. I bullied my way over to the service counter and demanded attention. And then I got what I needed. In my opinion, this just proves that being a brat at any age can still manage to find you a temporary solution.

But this is my great idea, Verizon. If you don't have enough employees to handle a whopping 3 customers at the same time, then you should probably think about doing some hiring. And while you're at it, during the hiring process, you might want to avoid whizkids like the salesman at my store, who tried to sell a touch screen phone to an 86-year-old man with arthritis and cataracts. He asked the poor old man how often he texted, and I almost ran face-first into the Blackberry display case.

In conclusion, I know this was titled "Fun with Queues," but I am a liar, queues are absolutely not fun at all. And the word is stupid, yes I said it! Just stupid.

Headless Horseman finds Bodyless Horse..

2008-10-26T10:42:00.007-04:00

Undoubtedly, the thing I enjoy most about children is that they are so easily amused. You give a kid a curly fry and he'll be entertained for hours. Or at least 15 minutes. Sometimes I wish it were still so simple to hold my interest, it would save me a lot of money, and probably a lot of brain cells. But that's an entirely different story. Yesterday, I was having an appropriately random conversation about childhood toys. I raved about my Bigbird Bigwheel, which was so perfectly 80s, back before toddlers were driving mini Hummers and off-road SUV's. It was basically a bright yellow chopper, and I was such the rebel on my tricked out tricycle.

After overcoming the sudden sadness that came from realizing I no longer own my B-Bird, and am no longer young enough to ride it without looking insane, I moved on to the Ponystick. Yes, the ponystick.

This toy is pretty much as simple as it gets. There are no mechanical parts, microchips, batteries, or any of those crazy technology whats-its that make everything fun. It seems perfectly innocent. Or at least it did. That is, until I tried to describe said toy to an outside party and could only come up with the following well-articulated description:

"You know...it's like a horse's head on a stick. You put it between your legs and ride it around. It's not a full horse, just the stuffed head. But it has reins and everything."

What is wrong with us? A kid wants to ride a pony so we decapitate it and put it's head on a stick. And these crazy kids ride around like it's all sunshine and rainbows. Your pony doesn't have any legs, kids!

I couldn't have put it better than my lovely Scottish concubine who said that the Ponystick seems less like an interactive toy and more like a death threat the mafia would send children in the mail.

And with this, I will NEVER mention ponies or sticks again.

Spay and neuter your customers...

2008-10-25T08:20:00.014-04:00

Common sense...the sense is described as common because the majority of people should have it. And because it is common, the sense is usually pretty reasonable. However, it's becoming increasingly apparent that many consumers are lacking in the entire common sense arena (a.k.a. are morons), and I'm beginning to rethink my terminology.

Life is a process of picking and choosing our battles. I find it a daily struggle not to punch people square in the face, but I just see that as a battle where I wave my white flag of surrender. Because realistically speaking, I need to stay employed, I don't have the time to ice my knuckles, I don't have the money to get sued, and I'm really not too fond of being arrested. I'd much rather hash it out over a cocktail and get on with my life.

That being said, in addition to the constant battling inside our heads, we also have the obligation of picking our careers and the paths we wish to follow. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices along the way and sometimes there are seemingly endless stepping stones you have to take or obstacles that need to be overcome. Sometimes you make mistakes. And let's face it, sometimes you end up pumping gas, selling encyclopedias, telemarketing, maybe setting up a quaint little lemonade stand on the side of the road like the good old days.

At any rate, I've tried to take to heart the fact that as a general rule, people work. There's a job out there for everyone, and unfortunately those jobs are not always pretty. They are also not always fun. Frankly, most of the time, work can be a real kick in the nuts. So when a 1-800 number appears on the caller ID and the guy on the phone tries to interest me in a time share in Saskatchewan, I remember that he probably hates his job more than I hate having wasted 5 minutes of my day, and telling him to fly to Canada and go f**k himself will probably not improve either situation.

I call that compassion. I'm such a giver.

Ultimately, you can't blame a person for trying to make a living. Unfortunately, there isn't high demand for professional pudding tasters, massage testers or gingerbread house builders. Or writers. In order to allow plenty of time to write while not starving or getting evicted, the part-time job opportunities for an aspiring writer with piles of student loans are quite few and very indiscriminate.

Thus, for the time being, I have chosen to don one of these:

Ok, well, more like one of these:

So, yes, I am an all-smiling all-dancing food service employee.
I am the professionally coiffed and iron-pressed white shirt that delivers your glass of wine and your chicken a la whatever.
I make extravagant meals and unnecessarily garnished martini's possible.

You're welcome, diners.

You.

Are.

Welcome.

But back to common sense. People seem to have zero common sense when it comes to eating in a restaurant. Being nice to people that are simply doing their jobs is a courtesy. Being nice to people that are doing jobs FOR YOU, is common sense. A combination of the two will make you awesome.

We all really just need to try to be more patient and understanding. Close your eyes. Take a few breaths. Think about the situation.

For example, I hate going to the DMV. Despise it, in fact. I prepare myself for the fact that there will be long lines, the clerks will move at the speed of a snail on sedatives, and most likely, there will be a problem with my information. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a fact of life. However, common sense should tell me that being rude, huffy, or difficult in general, will only make my experience worse. Common sense should tell me, that when someone is doing something FOR ME, I should probably be friendly, whether or not I think they are mentally-capable of performing simple tasks. Regardless, these people do have lives, desires, thoughts and stories outside of their occupation. They should be treated like human beings.

Human beings with thankless jobs.

I am a server. Being a server does not need to be a thankless job.

You get all dolled up, pull some people together, go to a restaurant and sit down at one of my tables. I am here to serve you. Not because I like you, and not because we're friends. But because it is my job. And because it is my job, I'll pretend we're at least quasi-friends for the next 90 minutes, or however long it takes for you to get drunk on food and loosen your belt.

So, we're in this meal together now. We're basically halfway to dating. Accordingly, I have made a list of things you should and shouldn't do or say, especially with someone handling food you are soon to ingest (no, that's not a threat...not at all). As well as my personal favorite pet peeves.

This is my common-restaurant-sense. Bon Apetit!

1. Don't talk to me like I'm retarded, or don't speak English. Opening your eyes really wide, nodding, and saying "Salisbury Steak" very slowly isn't going to register it more clearly, it's just going to piss me off. If I did the same thing while setting down your "D-i-i-i-et C-o-o-o-ke," you'd probably be offended.

2. Please don't stop me with an arm full of plates and a tray full of drinks to ask for honey mustard. Chances are I'm not going on a pilgrimmage to Mecca...I'll be right back.

3. If I am not your server, do not order things from me. We do not have a magical restaurant supercomputer. So asking me for an order of calamari only means I'll have to go find your server and then have him order it for you. Let's cut out the middle man.

4. Speaking of which, don't ask me to please "find" your server. This request doesn't need much explanation. I probably have orders to take, drinks to get, and food to check on. I don't understand why anyone would think running around the busy restaurant to find Tonya on her smoke break is at the top of my priorities. Playing Where's Waldo is only fun when you're 8, and Tonya won't be dressed like a candy cane.

5. I have no problem with a diner sending back food. I didn't cook it, I could really care less if you don't like it. But there is no need to tell me how "repulsive" "inedible" or "disgusting" it is. That's just plain bad etiquette. I'll probably go back and tell the manager that you're a jerk. You'll still get your food, but now everytime you come in, we'll say "hey, it's that jerk again...man, that guy really is a jerk."

6. I know it's a time old tradition to say "give my compliments to the chef." But I'll let you in on a little secret. A "chef" did not prepare your meal. Jose the line cook did. He makes about $7 an hour and he really couldn't give a crap that your spaghetti was "just delicious."

7. Another popular request is, after finishing your meal, to "please let the chef know" that your dish was "too salty" "too bland" "too spicy" or "didn't have enough chicken." Are you serious? I have things to do. Don't order it next time. I'm not trekking back into the kitchen to let the staff know that John Doe at table 9 is watching his salt intake.

8. Recipes are called recipes for a reason. We have a menu that tells you how dishes are prepared and what ingredients are in them. Some modifications are fine, but if you want a personal chef then you should probably hire one. Don't go to a restuarant and slow the entire kitchen down because you feel the pompous need to design your own meal. Hearing sub-this extra-that no-this add-that makes my ears bleed.

9. Don't ask me to get you a fuller glass of wine or an extra shot of vodka in your screwdriver. Unless you want to get charged for it. We aren't old drinking buddies. And don't ask me to try to rush your food. We aren't old eating buddies, either. Basically, please don't ask me for any special favors, we aren't old buddies at all. Capiche? Good. And on that note, don't say "I'll take care of you." To a server that is loosely translated as "I will not take care of you." Good tippers do not have to reassure their server that they are, in fact, good tippers.

10. Speaking of good tippers, if you have the audacity to hand me the American Express Black card (yes, the triple-thick extra heavy one with the ridiculous spending limit and embossed lettering) then you better be a good tipper.

11. If I went to your job and stood in front of your desk yammering on my cell phone, you would probably find me rude. Believe it or not, a server does not enjoy standing at the edge of your table like a goon waiting for you to finish your conversation. I'm not sure when it became acceptable to talk on the phone without excusing yourself from the dinner table, but let's put an end to it, shall we?

12. If you want fast food, go to Burger King. If you don't want your food fully cooked, by all means just order a plate of salmonella with a side of e. coli. But most restaurants tend to serve their food free of violent bacteria, which takes cooking time. So please don't ask me if your food "is coming." What do you really expect me to say? "No sir, actually it isn't coming after all. They decided to give your food to the homeless. The homeless send their thanks."

13. It's nice to say please and thank you. It's nice to remember my name. It's nice to smile or tell me something is good. I am not a monkey. I do eat bananas but I don't sling feces, so it is perfectly okay to interact with me. Some people avoid eye contact like I'm a baboon with an evil streak.

14. Do NOT snap at me. There are plenty of acceptable ways to get my attention, and snapping is not one of them. I'd rather you smack me on the ass or stand on your chair and scream at the top of your lungs.

15. Don't leave coin change. To begin with, it always falls out of the the check presenter. To end with, I really don't need your thirty-seven cents. It is a restaurant, not a drug store. When you leave I don't go and drop your change in a cash register, I put it in my pocket. Jingling around the restaurant with a pocketfull of change is not my idea of a fun night.

16. I know that one of the joys of dining out is not having to clean up after yourself. That doesn't mean it's okay for you to behave like a manic caveman. That also does not mean it's okay to allow your children to "let loose." If your table looks like it was occupied by a pack of rabid squirrels and not humans, my next step is to call animal control and have you captured.

17. Don't hit on me. Not only am I at the unfair disadvantage of being paid to be nice to you, it's just awkward. And not classy. Unless you are irresistably attractive and/or rich, in which case I'm completely game.

18. If you don't know how to tip, don't go out to eat. If you aren't sure, ask someone, before you ruin some poor server's night by giving them the shaft. You might as well write "suck it, loser" on the bill, then take that bill, slap your server across the face, then while they're clutching their throbbing face, kick them in the groin, then while they're keeled over in pain, give them an elbow between the shoulderblades, and while they're writhing on the ground in the fetal position, stomp them in the ribs, and after they begin crying, laugh and point at them, and as you're overwhelmed with laughter, call over all of your friends, then as you're all standing there laughing hysterically, remind the server that you still aren't going to leave a tip, and then stuff the bill in their pants and walk out. Yeah, if you aren't going to tip, you might as well do that.

19. I don't wait tables for the exercise. I have a treadmill for that. If someone at your table asks for another drink, and you want another drink, ask for another freaking drink. If I ask you if you need anything, and you do, then freaking tell me what you need. But please don't have me beating a path back and forth getting one beverage and one condiment at a time. It's cruel. And I'll give you dirty looks.

20. This is the last and most important bit I need to share. Seriously, if your server does a great job, please tip them well. An extra $5 will probably not break your bank, but it can make a world of difference to someone who works for tips. We all have expenses, and bills to pay at the end of the day. Remember that when you're pulling out your calculator to compute the exact 15%, or digging in your pocket for a quarter.

Well, that's my common-restaurant-sense.

Again, diners, you're welcome!

And for good measure, here's a cute baby in Starbucks garb. Yep, I worked there too!

Lifestyles of the rich and ridiculous...

2008-10-09T01:03:00.011-04:00

Some days I like to pretend that I'm 14-years-old again (or a skating nun), and tool around the Retirement Mecca (better known as Boca Raton) on my rollerblades. It is relaxing, great exercise, and the weather is gorgeous. But most importantly, you are much better able to catch a lot of those little nuances that are often missed, thanks to the modern convenience of the automobile (these Americans and their fancy, newfangled gadgets!). Basically, you see interesting, disturbing and/or absurd things that would normally fly by the car window too fast to take notice.

I've already mentioned the vast senior citizen population of South Florida, many of whom frequent the early bird specials and matinee movies (which sounds a lot like me...but only because I'm poor). I can't tell for certain due to lack of experience, but the extremely heightened senses indicate to me that most people over 60 are potential superheroes. A person surpasses that landmark age and suddenly they become either allergic, alerted or irritated by previously normal things like sunlight, sound, taste, smell, and temperature. It's always too bright, loud, spicy, cold, hot, or it smells funny. Put a 70-year-old man on a lawn chair next to a stereo, swab him down with coconut-scented suntan lotion, hand him a chimichanga, turn on a cooling fan, and he will probably self-combust from sensory overload. In my opinion, the elderly need to harness these powers, and use them for good...not for sending back food, running me off the road, and being condescending.

But enough about my friends of a far-off generation; a little known fact is that while the greater majority of this city are already collecting social security checks and pensions, there is also a large sector of upper class suburbia. I like to refer to these happy citizens simply as rich people and their spoiled, disillusioned kids. I apologize to any rich people who do not have spoiled kids, but let's face it, the majority of these neglectful, overindulgent, socially clueless debutant wannabe's are breeding a bunch of ungrateful, disrespectful jackasses and future therapy patients.

In the famous words of Peter Griffin from Family Guy, these are some things that 'really grind my gears':

There is absolutely no reason for an 8-year-old to have a Blackberry. A third-grader pulling out a PDA is like slapping me across the face with a tuna. Seriously, is little Jimmy going to a miss a meeting with an important client? Does he need to be notified when his secretary emails the numbers? Or maybe he needs to send a text message about the new G.I. Joe. Please.

I saw a 10-year-old girl order a Diet Coke at dinner with her dad, and I wanted to cry. Mom? Dad? Why oh why is your perfectly healthy child even considering the notion of cutting her calories? I understand that sugary sodas aren't too great either, but give the girl some juice, teach her about drinking water. I'm in my mid-twenties and my dad still gets pissed when I drink diet soda.

Ridalin. Yes, that's the answer, give the kids drugs. This way they can have their addiction run full circle and be in and out of rehab by puberty. Whatever happened to sit down and shut up? Worked for me.

These 3 teenage boys got pulled over in my neighborhood for driving wrecklessly in a golf cart. A golf cart! When did it become acceptable or necessary to drive a golf cart anywhere other than a golf course? Can we literally not walk anywhere, anymore? Not to be all 'I walked 12 miles to school...both ways...in the snow...with no shoes...and no socks," but come on, when I was a kid I didn't need a motorized vehicle to go play on the swingset 2 doors down. These same morons will probably get Bentley's on their sixteenth birthdays.

But back to my rollerblading. I saw entirely too many of these:

And not enough of these:

Leash your offspring.

And donate to the hopelessly idealistic working class: me.

A-CHOO!!! And Now I'm Bored.

2008-09-26T21:21:00.006-04:00

The least unattractive moment a person can have, is usually during a yawn or a sneeze. I'm sorry, but nothing spells turn-off like mucus flying through your nose and throat at hyperspeed, or getting a slow-motion display of tonsils and/or your uvula.

Alone, these two actions, though completely normal and necessary, are pretty unfavorable. But during sex, they are downright appalling, if not offensive.

However, there is some good news for all of you who have come to believe that your partner is either allergic to you, or extremely bored. While I cannot in full faith attest to the fact that they aren't allergic or bored, I can provide the following explanation.

(Note: if you really believe you are allergic to your partner/friend with benefits, I would consult a physician, and/or immediately leave town. If you are sincerely uninterested enough to yawn during sex, I would consult a toy store, and/or immediately leave town. Until then, you can use these completely viable biological excuses.)

Yawning and Sneezing

"These aren't painful or debilitating reactions to an orgasm, but they can cause your sex partner to feel confused or insulted. One possible explanation is that in the brain, the center for orgasms is close to the centers for yawning and sneezing, says Irwin Goldstein, MD, director of San Diego Sexual Medicine and the editor in chief of the Journal of Sexual Medicine, so one center could activate another. "If your partner yawns during sexual activity, it probably means that he or she is just sexually aroused," he says."

And for those nights when you want to fake a headache, these sparkling gems of medical diagnosis continue! Apparently, sometimes really great sex can be bad for your brain. Kids: this is your brain:

And this is your brain on sex:

"There's such a tremendous excitation of the nervous system and heavy-duty brain activity during orgasm, so it's no surprise that it could trigger a migraine for some people," says Dr. Goldstein."

Good to know, Dr. Goldstein. Good. To. Know.

Intermission.

2008-09-24T22:30:00.007-04:00

Roy Lichtenstein. He made me happy today, that's all...

Mmmm...pop art.

Confessions of a Splenda-holic.

2008-09-23T20:45:00.004-04:00

Since I was but a tiny lass, I've been under the impression that artificial sweeteners cause cancer, birth defects, and malevolence in general. I steered clear of all things 'diet,' and everything that even hinted at containing less than enough sugar to give me cavities. But somehow, the impressionable young adult in me fell into a torrid love affair with Splenda. The bright yellow packaging just spews happiness from it's consumer-friendly pores, along with the claim that is made from sugar, and is therefore, just as refined and awesome. I began to use Splenda like it was going out of style. Like the world was on fire, and Splenda was some sort of extinguisher. I found myself stashing emergency Splenda in my purse, the glove compartment of my car, snatching those few extra packets from Starbucks and hoping the baristas wouldn't catch on. I became an addict, but the worst part was, I had come to accept my addiction as a norm. That was, until today. The New York Times has burst my Splenda-sweetened bubble once and for all.

According to a study at Duke University (I choose to ignore the fact that it was financed by the Sugar Association...and yes, that is a real lobbying group for the natural-sugar industry), Splenda contributes to obesity, destroys 'good' intestinal bacteria and prevents prescription drugs from being absorbed.

McNeil Nutritionals, the company behind Splenda, cited that these findings were unsupported by the data presented, arguing that the sweetener will not cause weight gain and can indeed be included as part of a healthy diet.

Since 1999, Splenda has taken over almost two-thirds of the artificial sweetener market, pushing down table sugar’s market share, and making a worthy adversary for the Sugar Association.

The battle between Splenda, sugar, and it's artificial sweetener competitors has basically been a long list of lawsuits, settlements, accusations and rebuttals. Very boring, and very trivial. Personally, it all boils down to the age-old saying that if it's too good to be true, it probably is. And thus, I have chosen to go cold turkey, and sever the metaphorical ambilical cord that has joined Splenda and I for the past 3 years.

I literally handed my entire remaining supply of those delicious little white crystals of joy, to an unbiased party. I instructed said party to hide this supply where I would never find it, preferably in a place I can't reach (much like hiding cookies from a 5-year-old). My only fear is of a flashlight shining in my face at four in the morning as I lay sprawled on the bathroom floor, surrounded by empty yellow packets, eyes rolled into the back of my head as I cough up granules of fake sugar. I'm just hoping to avoid this dreadful relapse, I might have to start going to meetings and find myself a sponsor. But I plan to be Splenda-free from this day forward. The following, is an open letter:

Dear Splenda,

It's nothing personal, I really love you as a product, and I think that you're a great friend. It's not you, it's me. I have serious sugar issues that I need to address, and I'd rather not drag you into my toxic environment. Thank you for the good times. For the lattes, the iced teas, the Kool-Aid. Thank you for the smoothies and the Publix-brand sodas. But most of all, thank you for your love; and for giving me a little yellow happiness (that isn't my own urine) every single day. I will miss you, and you can never be replaced. I can only hope to one day make high-fructose corn syrup as happy as you have made me. Goodbye, Splenda. And good luck!

Your dearest friend,

L. Smith, Esq.

P.S. *tears and sadness*

Insomnia, Bad Movies, and Free Lobster...

2008-09-22T15:56:00.008-04:00

At 3 o'clock in the morning, a person's base requirements for movies spiral down the drain. You stop being a critic because you are entirely too tired to invest enough energy to change the channel. You watch comedies with siamese twins, period pieces with silly costumes, or a good cop-bad cop, old cop-new cop (red cop-green cop black cop-jew cop) criminal heist gone wrong. If you're truly unlucky and/or temporarily paralyzed, you'll end up with some fairytale-esque teen flick where the ugly duckling becomes the prom queen, the studly quarterback realizes that popularity isn't everything, and we all vomit a little bit in our mouths.

Then 4 o'clock sidles quietly by, and you're plastered to the pillow; glassy-eyed, slack-jawed, and willing to watch anything with pretty colors. As long as it doesn't require too much serious brain activity. Accordingly, this is the dreadful hour that most cable channels air those movies that people went to see in the theater, and upon returning home, told you one of two things, depending on how much they liked you.

"It was pretty good, you should see it," said the person that despises you, secretly wishing you unexpected bankruptcy from paying to see too many horrible movies.

A true friend, however, told you the blatant truth. "Honestly, I'd rather blind myself, cut off my tongue, and go to a strip club on free lobster night, than see that movie again."

While I wouldn't rather maim myself than watch "I Think I Love My Wife" a second time, I'd highly consider a minor flesh wound, or a bad case of diarrhea. There are really only a few reasons (and by this I mean things that are completely absurd) to sit still long enough to make it through this waste of two hours:

*Chris Rock pretending to be an intellectual by wearing glasses, carrying a briefcase, and saying things like "hold my calls."

*The scantily clad and gorgeous Kerry Washington (Nikki Tru...nice name writers, very realistic) settling on a plethora of unacceptable men, i.e. an ex-con, some guy named 'Compassion,' a fat man, and Chris Rock.

*A 2-minute cameo by America's Next Top Model Eva Pigford. (In case you were worried that she had died. Where the hell has she been, anyway?)

*A womanizing and vulgar Steve Buscemi talking about cheating on his wife and having sex with interns (all while donning a reasonably outdated bluetooth headset).

*A Viagra joke that went on, literally and figuratively, for way too long.

All of these points considered, I laughed at Chris Rock getting high and dancing to 'Laffy Taffy.' That was the one and only time I laughed. And while it didn't completely deflect from the ridiculous plot, it did make up for the fact that the term 'nigga ears' was used twice.

By far the climax of this train wreck, was when Richard Cooper (Chris Rock) was reprimanded by his boss for missing an important meeting to do Nikki (Washington) a favor. The boss (Edward Herrmann) tells Cooper that he is on probation and then pauses, clears his throat, creates that air of grandfatherly expertise, and says:

"You know, you can lose a lot of money chasing women. But you will NEVER lose women, chasing money."

At first I thought: how clever, great insight grandpa. And then I slapped myself a few times, blinked, and was offended. Who (in the name of terrible movies everywhere!) said that this was an okay comment?

Damn you, Chris Rock, you can't even make a romantic comedy without being insulting! If it wasn't the notion of two beautiful women fighting over a scrawny nerd in a suit, the glorification of extramarital affairs, promiscuous interns, or comparing life to 'not getting hit by a bus,' then it had to be not so subtly implying that all women are gold diggers. For the love of late-night television, at this point, he is just making bad porn and infomercials look intriguing.

I should start taking sleeping pills.

Drastic Measures...

2008-09-19T17:18:00.010-04:00

This, is a zebra.

This, is cake.

This, is a kid with a bazooka.

What do these three things have in common?

Well, folks, it all has to do with a little girl named Debbie.

Just look at her. That fashionably retro bonnet. Those prematurely groomed and arched eyebrows. The practical flannel shirt suggesting she's just another blue collar lumberjack. But perhaps we should find out what exactly Little Debbie has been up to all of these years.

You're not fooling anyone, Debbie. We know what you've been up to. You've been busy, Debbie. Busy working overtime, manufacturing the Devil's Snackcakes!

Yes, Zebra Cakes. They are moist, creme-filled, vanilla-iced, and apparently, they are pure evil.

They are my sugary, chocolate-striped kryptonite.

They are delicious. Perhaps a little too delicious.

It might be a little wrong to find this next story funny, but I do. Mostly because it's true. But, I said it when I was six, and I'll say it again: You just don't f*ck around with a girl's Zebra Cakes. You just don't do it.

"Girl, 9, Threatens To Kill Classmate Over Zebra Cakes

ORANGE COUNTY, Fla. -- Even the mother of the girl who was threatened said she can't get a copy of the note, but she did get to read it. In a police report she said another girl talked about having a gun and wanting to kill her daughter.

"The note said 'I have a gun and first I'm going to shoot you in the shoulder,'" said Cindy Landfair, mother of the girl who was threatened.

From one nine-year-old girl to another, the note continued. "...Then you're going to shoot me back with a bazooka, but you're gonna miss..."

Cindy Landfair said a note to her daughter from a classmate at Southwood Elementary School went too far. "...And then I'm going to shoot you back and kill you..." the note continued.

"I was shocked. I was terrified," Landfair said.

The girl's mother said it all started over snacks. Her daughter traded her 'zebra cakes' for a bag of chips. But when the other girl wanted both for herself, the mother said that's when she wrote the threatening note.

It happened during an after school program run by the YMCA. They suspended the girl who wrote the note, but Landfair said school officials won't tell her whether they've done the same and will only say they're handling the matter internally.

"I don't know anything at this point. The school is basically leaving me in the dark," Landfair added. Landfair, whose daughter has a different last name, said she may pull her kids out of the school even though authorities couldn't find a gun and don't believe there was a crime committed. When asked if she thought she was being an over-protective mother, Cindy Landfair responded. "Yes, I do, but I only have one daughter and she's not replaceable" she said.

School district administrators contacted the sheriff's office. The district said it's considering how the girl who wrote the note should be disciplined.

Wow. These crazy youngsters have so much to learn. First of all, there is no way to fit a bazooka in your backpack. But even if you could, come on, it's pretty hard to miss with a bazooka. And I'm fairly sure that the commotion of the shot would at least give you enough time to regain the upper hand. But most importantly, I think the lesson to be learned here, is the principle of the barter system. Only on Mars or in some alternate universe would receiving chips for zebra cakes be a fair trade. I don't blame this little girl for her irrational threats of violence, or for her ill-advised weapon of choice. I blame her for being being a terrible negotiator, and an easy mark.

Listen, kids. The only thing you trade cake for, is money. To buy more cake. It does not matter the brand, how hungry you are, if the chips are kettle-cooked, how nicely the person asks, or if you think you can take 'em during recess. Cake is your trump card, your golden ticket, your Full House (I'm talking poker, not Mary Kate and Ashley). Keep that in mind before you whip out your weapons of mass destruction. And DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT come between a woman and her snackcakes.

I'm telling you, that Little Debbie is one crafty, irresistable bitch.

Enjoy it while you got it, my sweet little siren.

If you're in the mood for motion sickness...

2008-09-19T00:02:00.005-04:00

Yes, those are almonds...and No, they ARE NOT actually moving.

Seriously, they aren't moving, it's an optical illusion. Sick.

Busted...

2008-09-18T14:19:00.020-04:00

There's a saying out there in this brutal, unpredictable world. They (and by they, I mean me and my personalities) say that you haven't really lived, unless you've been arrested. The fact that I am the only person that admittedly believes this statement, does not make it any less true. Some would call me an advocate of petty crime and misdemeanor, I prefer self-preservationist. Let's just say, it's much easier to justify the existence of an arrest record (however minor, or let's face it, stupid) if you already have one.

Going to jail is much like riding a rollercoaster at a crappy amusement park. You're thrown into a peeling plastic seat with no restraints, are subjected to pathetic, listless banter from the underpaid guy in a uniform, get slid and thrashed around for a few minutes, and once the car stops your neck hurts and you really wish you would have just stayed home. Eventually the food makes you sick, the crowd begins to get on your nerves, time slows to a crawl and crankiness evolves into thoughts of cold-blooded murder . You laugh a little, cry a lot, and when you leave, you get one of those souvenier photos. However, the police department often refers to these little keepsakes as mugshots.

Needless to say, if you are getting arrested, you are probably not in your best form. Chances are you are drunk, on drugs, just got beaten up, or are otherwise incapacitated or half-asleep. You are also either terrified, devastated, or outrageously pissed off. Let's be honest; it is not a pretty sight. Mugshots are not something you pose or prepare for, they just happen. No retouching, no re-takes, no red eye removal. Just you, an outdated camera, and an irritated police photographer.

It is in that very moment, as they line you up against the wall and instruct you to stare at the lens, that you have a decision to make. You have to say to yourself, "Self, one day you could be famous, or at least infamous. And Self, surely this picture will in one way or another reach the media and the general public. When that day comes, Self, do you want to be known as a badass? Or would you rather be remembered as a complete pussy?"

Yes, even famous people often find themselves faced with this life-altering decision. The following celebrity mugshots are just a few of my favorites.

Click. Flash. Whirrrrr...

I don't think it's possible for Michelle Rodriguez not to look badass. Even when faced with wearing an ankle bracelet. She also managed to keep a straight face when blaming her DUI on steroids...you know, for her allergies.

Moms always told their sons to put on clean underwear to spare embarrassment in case of arrest or hospitalization. Apparently no one told Nick Nolte about also getting haircuts and NOT wearing Hawaiian shirts...ever.

Al Pacino's charges were dropped after he told authorities the gun he was carrying was for an audition. I haven't been on too many casting calls, but I'm pretty sure they don't require you to bring your own firearm. Freakin' coppers. They should have known not to mess with The Don. (And 21-year-old Pacino was cute, right?)

Excuse me, Kimora Lee, but unless Baby Phat is introducing a new line of prison-wear, there is no reason for that amount of happiness...or those bangs. It must really be great to know you have bail money.

Pee-Wee Herman...need I say more? Although in this picture, I'm not so sure I'd trust my kids in his playhouse. He looks much more like a serial killer than a pervert masturbating to porn in an x-rated theater. Either way, you have to love the irony...and the goatee.

If you decide to get whacked out on marijuana and Xanax, make sure to stay home, watch Half-Baked, and eat some Little Debbies (I prefer the zebra cakes). Just don't make like Andy Dick, who groped and exposed a 17-year-old girl and was then still too high to realize he shouldn't be smiling like a psychopath in his orange jumpsuit.

With a name like Rip Torn, you can't go around looking for trouble. Or just plain looking crazy. Call me cynical, but I think the tender age of 75 should be the cut-off for any kind of driving, as well as drunk-driving. Didn't he see Driving Miss Daisy? Get a chauffer.

Speaking of looking crazy...James Brown, everybody.

I don't even know who this is, but it's the best mugshot I've ever seen. It's the prison shot we should all live and hope for. Kudos unidentified caucasian female, kudos! And I have no doubt the arresting officer took care not to rustle her mohawk in the cruiser. They are so courteous, those policemen.

It's true, Larry King DID have those glasses in the 70's. He also passed bad checks. And had a thing for polka-dots.

George Clinton, I have no words. And my eyes hurt. I hope the cocaine you were holding is responsible for that dye job. I'm surprised the fashion police didn't nab him first.

I didn't know it was a practice for police to arrest deranged mannequins. And I honestly don't understand why anyone believes Michael Jackson would have to drug a child; they would probably simply pass out from fright. I know I did.

Jane Fonda is my personal favorite, and it isn't just because of the iconic fist of defiance. It has to be the fact that she was arrested for smuggling pills; charges that were dropped when they turned out to be vitamins. Now that's a hardened criminal if I've ever seen one (and I haven't).

"But I'm A Cheerleader!" No, Natasha Lyonne, it didn't get you out of gay-rehab and it didn't get you out of American Pie 2. Considering the police reports claim you went ballistic and threatened your neighbor's dog (I am absolutely against dog-threats), it's no wonder you have to smirk just a little.

Well, crime still doesn't pay, but at least it makes for some classic snapshots.

In the interest of my own amusement, and because I have yet to recover the original mugshots from my alleged arrest, I decided to recreate this golden moment in my life.

Pay your speeding tickets kids, and make sure your license is always up to date. Trust me, it'll save you a trip to the slammer, court costs, as well as the company of prostitutes and crackheads.

The following allegedly re-enacted photographs are based on an alleged event, involving alleged charges, represent no admission of alleged guilt, and may well be a complete fabrication for the sake of entertainment.

But if they are badass, then they must be real.

Book me, Danno.

Yes, I'm Easy...

2008-09-16T02:25:00.004-04:00

Every once in a while I have to appreciate being able to laugh at something simple, like a little boy hitting his dad in the nuts with a wiffle ball. Or pretending to throw a stick and then hiding it behind my back as my dog runs off to fetch it in utter confusion. Or someone falling down (for any reason and in any circumstance). Right now, I'm completely in (unrequited) love with the Tide-To-Go commercials. Literally, every time I see one on TV, I laugh loud enough that I should be embarrassed. But I'm not. These things are hilarious, I don't care what anyone says. I have embraced my right to be easily entertained, and I am.

I would write more, but I think I may have peed a little whilst laughing. Again.

Seriously. Genius. Magic. Magical Genius, Tide, your marketing department deserves iphones.

Hasta.

Simple, obscene, but true.

2008-09-15T18:37:00.005-04:00

Obviously, at this point, the nation is quite abuzz with the upcoming election and all that politico jazz. I'm not a fan of politics by any means, but I am an avid connoisseur of knowing what the hell I'm talking about (even if just for the sake of argument), especially in the face of ignorance, and also when I begin to fear that the outcome will eventually mess up my day. I have observed all of these red-faced politicians, campaigners, and supporters with their disdainful shaking fists and angry retorts. So I figure, why not pick up a newspaper and join in on the fun. And so I did. I think I've basically covered all of the non-sarcastic, non-cynical, completely serious and genuine, opinionated banter that I can stomach for the moment. Today, I simply want to send a message to all of those disenchanted, uninformed tantrum-throwers who feel the irrepressible need to rant about issues that they don't understand and defend/advocate people they know nothing about. Ahem...cue video please:

Thank you. Please remember America: Read a book, raise your kids, drink water, brush your teeth and wear deodorant! Now go Google something. The prosecution rests.

In an effort to keep my nose clean (hi mom!), I posted the censored version. For all of those expletives you and I love (they really hammer the point home, that's all), go here.

Snickers vs. Teddy.

2008-09-13T11:08:00.007-04:00

Teddy Ruxpin is described as an animatronic talking bear. Frankly, anything characterized by the word 'animatronic' frightens me. It makes me think of crazy robots, specifically that creepy band from Chuck E. Cheese that plays during 'Pizza Time,' and always made me lose my appetite and/or cry a little. The pizza at Chuck E. Cheese was awesome, at least when I was 8, so you can trust that these mechanical muppet spawn were enough to potentially scar me emotionally or send me into pre-adolescent cardiac arrest.

Collectively, they are called Munch's Make Believe Band, and the members are an oversized chicken, a purple monster, a hound dog and an Italian pizza chef. They have enormous eyes, move like Frankenstein on acid, and their mouths open and close at all the wrong times (like a badly dubbed Kung Fu movie). If the people over at Chuck's place aren't trying to give small children a lifetime of nightmares, I have to seriously question their entertainment choices. And when the song is over, the least they could do is drop a curtain or close a door; not just allow these unfortunate kids (mouths all full of pizza and fun) to watch the characters go still, silent, and then sit there on display in quasi-death as the lights dim. Oh, the horror! The absolute horror!

But I digress.

As a kid of the fabulous 80's, of course I had a Teddy Ruxpin doll. For those that don't know, the original Teddy Ruxpin (who I will now refer to as T-Rux), was a stuffed bear with a cassette tape player built into his back, and he would read stories aloud. Being (...gulp...) animatronic, his eyes and mouth would also move as he told the story. This was all fine and dandy before I was introduced to Chuck E. Cheese, in fact, me and T-Rux had some great times together. We'd watch videos, eat pudding, take naps, and occasionally we'd just sit with a glass of kool-aid and chat about the good ol' days. Well, to make a long story short (although it really isn't a very long story at all), my friendship with T-Rux was dashed to pieces after I experienced the pure, unadulterated fear better known as Munch's Make-Believe Band. I hid him somewhere in the dark, endless abyss of the basement (without so much as a map or a compass), never to be seen or heard from again. Well, my mom found him eventually, but let's just say at that point the magic was gone.

And so I discovered early that 'animatronic' just wasn't the way to go. In desperate need for a new partner-in-crime, I called up my faithful friend-bear, Snickers. He was the first stuffed animal I'd owned (from my early infant days), and after betraying him for my short-lived, illicit affair with T-Rux, I decided I should probably stick to my roots. We talked things over, discussed my infidelity, and ultimately I blamed my actions on the naievity of youth and the ruthless distractions of consumer marketing. Snickers understood. He forgave me, we hugged it out, and we've been inseparable ever since. Snickers is my homeboy.

He's my wing-man.

My sexless, inanimate lover.

Snickers is my rock.

Hmm. I know that I initially had a reason for telling this sad and pitiful tale. A reason which would not have left me looking like a disturbed adult woman who still sleeps with her teddy bear. That reason was undoubtedly sensible and appropriate. But that reason has now escaped me, and I am disturbed, so go figure.

Don't take your kids to Chuck E. Cheese. But if you have to, eat your pizza outside.

And yes, I am still afraid of robots. Sorry Transformers, you guys can't all be trusted. Just look at the Decepticons.

The Idiot Box.

2008-09-12T14:53:00.005-04:00

I am dangerously aware of the fact that I watch entirely too much television. But I have to admit, that some of the greatest life lessons, I have learned from those little 30-60 minute blocks of commercially packaged entertainment. They bring me pure, though transient, joy. And they also provide me with essential survival skills and intuition; such as not to get drunk or have sex on the first night of The Real World (or you will be eternally known as the "alcoholic" or the "slut"), the beautiful melodrama of teenage love triangles, how to find humor in terrible situations which are funny only because they aren't happening to you, becoming a celebrity in three easy steps (1. Be born rich, 2. Make a sex tape, 3. Do something stupid in public and/or in front of a camera), the fact that playing a doctor on TV is much more lucrative than becoming one in reality, and most importantly, that slipping into unconsciousness after a bottle of tequila and a kilo of cocaine is not overdosing, it is "exhaustion," and getting hospitalized is taking a "much needed rest." These are of course the most important, though I have become privy to a slew of such tidbits of knowledge.

All of these benefits considered, I have never once felt like an actual idiot for watching the so-called 'idiot box.' That was until last week, when I experienced the literally mind-numbing premiere of Fox's newest gameshow, Hole in The Wall.

Usually, when I think 'hole in the wall', I think of a small and quaint, no-frills no-fuss bar or cafe; or I think of an actual hole in a wall. Unfortunately, this gameshow has taken the form of the latter.

I will explain the rules, trying desperately to keep a straight face, and retain my own dignity as an American citizen. A foam wall slides towards the contestants, solid except for a human-sized cut-out in a ridiculous pose. Behind said contestant, is a shallow pool. If this person (clad in a shiny, metallic lycra leotard of some sort) is able to fit through the cut-out without getting pushed into the pool, then they win points.

Seriously, that's all there is to the game. And so we once again have another country (Japan, this time) to thank for this American adaptation of absolutely moronic proportions. How many times can you really say "Ha ha he fell in the water," without finally stabbing yourself in the eye.

And my, my how co-host (the always fabulous, though unfortunate) Brooke Burns has fallen. Someone cast this girl in something! Please! She's gorgeous! I honestly can't watch her host another D-list game show!

Witnessing shows like this take prime-time slots on television is a perfect example of why I'm so nervous about the Presidential elections in November. Fox might as well tie a twinkie to the end of a stick, tape the stick to our foreheads, and watch us run around for an hour.

I watch some admittedly stupid things, but come on, even an idiot like me has to draw the line somewhere!

The other white meat.

2008-09-12T14:22:00.003-04:00

I stumbled across this lovely delicacy, a recipe once printed in an early 1900's cookbook.

I do not need to exaggerate to say that this is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen printed on paper. Note to self: when in France, eat McDonald's. If you are ever invited to a dinner party, a good test question is whether or not your host knows where to purchase a quality veal brain. If the answer is yes, do not say another word. Simply set your cocktail on a side table, grab your car keys, slip into your coat, and back slowly out the front door.

I am Jack's Words of Wisdom...

2008-09-10T22:19:00.007-04:00

**(If you don't know who Jack is, you really need to watch Fight Club)**

Today: Feeling angst, aggression, anxiety for no apparent reason. Maybe it's just Scorpiosity (I'm also in the mood for making up words):

"As the sign associated with sex, death and the Underworld, Scorpio is here to delve beneath the surface of life, discover what is hidden and bring to light what the other signs are too afraid to acknowledge. The ultimate purpose of all that intensity is healing and transformation at the deepest level."

This is what I watch when I feel the need to be inspired...

And/or I am extremely irritated with the world at large...

The following are collective words of wisdom from the greatest modern existentialist of all time (or at least my personal favorite), Chuck Palahniuk/Tyler Durden.

"WARNING: If you are reading this then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life. Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it? Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think every thing you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told to want? Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation. Quit your job. Start a fight. Prove you're alive. If you don't claim your humanity you will become a statistic. You have been warned. This is your life and it's ending one minute at a time. Man, I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War. No Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. We are consumers. We're the bi-products of a lifestyle obsession. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off. You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your fucking khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world. Fuck off with your sofa units and lime green stripe patterns. Reject the basic assumptions of civilization, especially the importance of material possessions.I say never be complete. I say stop being perfect. I say let's evolve, let the chips fall where they may. First you have to give up. First you have to know; not fear, know, that someday you're gonna die. No fear. No distractions. The ability to let that which does not matter truly slide. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing. It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything. Only after disaster can we be resurrected."

"My eyes are open."

"Sticking feathers up your butt does not make you a chicken."

"You wanna make an omelette, you gotta break some eggs."

"The liberator who destroyed my property has realigned my perception."

"Take some responsibility!"

**(Breathe in...Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!!!!! Whew, much better.)**

So that's my problem!

2008-09-06T13:11:00.003-04:00

I found an article on sibling birth order and how it affects adulthood and relationships. Being an impatient, shallow reader (that has in the past made my teachers so proud), I skipped directly to the section concerning me. (Me! Me! Me! Can you tell I'm the youngest kid?). The following summary is apparently what happens to the families' last born; a.k.a 'the baby,' a.k.a 'the brat/little monster,' a.k.a the one all the other children hate for at least the first five years.

Disclaimer: "Obviously, there's a danger when it comes to oversimplifying complex human beings into rigid classifications that may or may not apply. But it's also hard to disagree with the idea that the order in which a person is born into a family could impact how he or she relates to the world."

That's a great round-about way of saying 'If we're right then it must be true, and we are extremely intellectual, but if we're wrong, come on, you can't believe everything you read.'

"The Youngest Child

The youngest child is the one most likely to ask, "Why?" This ability to view issues from a critical perspective means they conform less and often come up with creative solutions to problems. One potential drawback is that they've often been cared for by so many people in their life that they can expect others to take responsibility for them. The youngest child is often more outgoing and social, and they'll usually take more risks, meaning that they may get to experience more diverse opportunities than their older siblings."

I interpret 'outgoing' to mean slightly overbearing, loud, and/or moderately insane; 'risks' to mean booze, sex and drugs; and 'diverse opportunities' to mean dozens of unrelated careers. But hey, somewhere in there they slipped in creativity, which in my book outweighs being crazy.

"What this means in a relationship, then, is that the youngest child offers all kinds of fun and excitement. Whether on a first date or in a serious relationship, you can count on a youngest child to find spontaneous, unexpected ways to amp up the excitement. This spontaneity can also lead to potential problems in a relationship, though, since it's not always accompanied by dependency and accountability. Also, those powerful social skills bring all kinds of rewards, but they may not always be used for good; youngest children need to be careful not to abuse those powers by manipulating to get what they want."

Hmmm. 'Spontaneous, unexpected ways to amp up the excitement.' That sounds like wild sex, fighting, or a beautifully orchestrated combination of the two. I would analyze further, but now it just seems irrelevant (please refer to previous statement).

Ah, thank you eloquent sibling observer, now it all makes sense. Not only am I an evil Scorpio, I'm an utterly aloof, irresponsible, untamed manipulator! Sweeeeeet, I should go into politics...or become a telemarketer. The world, she is mine!

Mwahahahahahahahahaaaaaa!!!!!!

Beware future victims (though I guess the politically correct term would be significant others), I may be fun and exciting, but I'm also dangerous. Like eating pop rocks and drinking soda, watching any movie starring Ashton Kutcher, or Camels (the cigarettes and the animal).

Hasta.

I heart Heart.

2008-09-05T22:08:00.009-04:00

If during John McCain's Presidential acceptance speech, you didn't...

a) Lapse into a coma

b) Get so irritated with the chants of "U-S-A!" that you moved to another country

c) Mute the television for fear of hearing the words "maverick" or "tortured" for the seven-thousandth time

d) Become hospitalized after your brain spontaneously combusted due to bullsh*t overload

e) Fall into a hypnotic trance listening to McCain's droning monotone

f) Call an exorcist to cleanse your soul after staring too long into Sarah Palin's eyes

g) Develop debilitating arthritis from trying to jot down notes for every time McCain stuttered, lied, twisted the facts, became vague or ambiguous, and made no sense whatsoever

h) Go punch a Republican in the face

i) Turn the channel to something that would not later be deemed a waste of 40 minutes of your life

j) Ask a friend to repeatedly box your ears so you would never have to hear John McCain speak...ever again

k) Take an entire bottle of sleeping pills in the hopes that you would wake up and this will all have been a terrible nightmare

l) Go completely insane and get bussed to an asylum where you are now undergoing shock therapy

m) Run to donate large sums of money to your local senior citizens' nursing home

n) Pledge your life in a blood oath to keep the McCain/Palin ream-team out of the White House

o) Do anything and everything possible with the intention of not seeing the celebration at the conclusion of the Republican National Convention, by any means necessary and no matter what it took, even if it took injuring yourself, others, or setting your own house on fire

...Then you would have missed the song "Barracuda," by Heart, playing in the background as Gov. Sarah Palin and her cohorts took the stage for the theatrical (and stupid) balloon drop finale. The song was chosen in (dis)honor of Palin, who was apparently called "Sarah Barracuda" or "Barracuda Sarah" or some other ridiculous combination of those two words, when she played basketball in High School.

First, let me remind Mrs. Palin, as well as the general public, that she is 44-years-old. When I played basketball in high school, they called me "Silky." Somehow, I feel that is now an inappropriate nickname. In fact, I have to say that most nicknames are inappropriate when you enter in a race TO RUN THE FREAKING COUNTRY. I could really care less what the cool kids called her when she was sixteen, starting her period and discovering boys!

I heard more about this ludicrous "Barracuda" reference, than what the Republican Vice Presidential nominee plans to do if (oh, please no, for the love of God, no!) elected into office.

I personally love Heart, and I was almost more offended by the use (or should I say piracy) of their classic song, than the dozens of distasteful quips and low-brow remarks that were made during Palin's acceptance speech the night before.

And apparently, so was Heart:

"The sister act behind "Barracuda," the song used by the McCain-Palin campaign at the RNC because Palin's old nickname was "Sarah Barracuda," is none too pleased that their pro-woman anthem is being used in this way. Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart sent a cease and desist letter to the McCain campaign, and since they continued to use the song, Nancy Wilson sent an angry letter to Entertainment Weekly, tearing Sarah Barracuda a new one. "I feel completely f*cked over," said Nancy Wilson, before releasing the following statement: "Sarah Palin's views and values in NO WAY represent us as American women. We ask that our song 'Barracuda' no longer be used to promote her image. The song 'Barracuda' was written in the late 70s as a scathing rant against the soulless, corporate nature of the music business, particularly for women. (The 'barracuda' represented the music business.) While Heart did not and would not authorize the use of their song at the RNC, there's irony in Republican strategists' choice to make use of it there."

Thank you, Ann and Nancy, for challenging 'the maverick reformers," who are apparently too consumed with themselves to respect ownership and licensing rights.

Another beautiful touch of irony, however, is that although Heart has not so subtley requested that their song not be exploited by the Repugs, the lyrics fit just about perfectly with the right-wing campaign:

"You're lying so low in the weeds
I bet you're gonna ambush me
You'd have me down, down, down, down on my knees
Now wouldn't you, Barracuda?
If real thing don't do the trick,
No, you better make up something quick
You gonna burn, burn, burn, burn, burn it to the wick
Ahh, Barra- barracuda!"

Stick to caribou, Sarah, you still aren't Hillary, and even Heart doesn't heart you!

Ahhhhhh! She's gonna eat us all!!! Please don't let me become an ingredient in moose stew!!

Barra-Barracuda!!!!

WTF?

2008-09-03T00:27:00.005-04:00

Oh joy, the Republican National Convention...

"Country First"?

Seriously, what does that ridiculous slogan even mean? As opposed to Country Last?? Country Second? Is there some undercover party that has been preaching Country Fifth? Last I checked (which was an hour ago), putting the country first is just about the only thing we all agree upon. What do these GOP meatheads think America wants? We've been asking for Country freaking First all along! These people should have taken the blue pill. Get real.

Why you should have a small dog..

2008-09-02T22:34:00.005-04:00

I stumbled across this little gem of genius as I was walking my dog today...

What I'm wondering here is how they determine whether your dog's poop is worth a $25 fine, a $200 fine, or somewhere in between. Is it the size of the poop, the amount of poop, or the messiness of the poop? In my opinion, I'd say diarrhea is definitely a $200 fine, especially if it comes out of a German Shepard. I just feel sorry for the jackass cop who has to respond to a call about unclaimed dog sh*t. I don't know if he weighs it, measures it, or just writes out a citation based on his level of embarrassment. You have to be the station f*ck-all if they send you out to investigate poop. I'd freaking turn in my badge.

I would love to meet anyone who has actually received a ticket for dog crap. I've gotten in trouble for much more ridiculous things, but if an officer seriously wrote me up, I would throw the poop at his windshield.

Also, I never really understood what it means to "curb your dog." Is that like parallel parking? Do I have to back my dog in? Should I put change in the meter?

And how the hell does dog poop contaminate drinking water? Unless my dog is sh*tting in the Brita while I'm asleep, I'm pretty sure my water is just fine. Where do these people get off? Fish piss in the ocean 24 hours a day, alligators and frogs live in lakes, raccoons wash their asses in streams, but somehow my chihuahua's poop in the grass is what makes it into the tap water??

Good grief.

OH...MY...GAAAAAAAAAH..

2008-08-31T20:43:00.005-04:00

That is the cutest freaking thing I have ever seen. I want a squirrel monkey for my birthday, I might even pawn my dog. I don't know if the zoo accepts trades, but I'm also totally willing to turn in my "wild red-bellied tropical chihuahua." I hear they are endangered...

Okay, she's just a regular chihuahua, but I really want a monkey.

Politickin'...

2008-08-29T17:12:00.012-04:00

Ordinarily, I'm not one to talk politics. But I was literally shocked and dismayed (but a little excited for Obama) when John McCain announced his running mate earlier today. This morning he introduced first-term Alaska Governor Sarah Palin as his vice presidential hopeful, a surprising selection, to say the least. My best guess is that this plan was designed to get an edge in the race by appealing to women, and also trying to deter from the fact that he's 106 years-old and will be lucky to complete a full term should he happen to be elected.

"She's exactly who I need. She's exactly who this country needs to help me fight the same old Washington politics of 'Me first and country second,' " McCain declared. Funny that he is now claiming to be fighting against 'the same old Washington politics," considering he's stood tall behind just about every Bush vote and decision (each of which sent the U.S. spiralling further down into the toilet).

Palin, 44, the first Republican woman on a presidential ticket, stated, "I'm going to take our campaign to every part of our country and our message of reform to every voter of every background in every political party, or no party at all." That's an interesting promise for a Governor in a state with more reindeer than people. I certainly hope it's not like father like daughter, as Palin's dad has declared, "I'd rather go moose hunting than be involved with politics."

I don't know whether to be insulted by this blatant attempt to woo the female vote, or repulsed by the I'm-a-former-beauty-queen-and-you-could-easily-be-my-daddy Republican dream team. When it comes down to it, McCain is just a dirty old man, divorcing his crippled wife for a wealthy Junior Miss Rodeo Queen, and then picking Miss Alaska as his running mate. What a scumbag, and definitely not the man to be running this country. He'll probably dump America after two years for a younger, richer country.

McCain has made his decision public just six days after Barack Obama named Senator Joseph Biden of Delaware, as the other half of the Democratic ticket. Obama, 47, picked a 65-year-old running mate with long experience in government, foreign policy, and a man whom he said was qualified to be president. On his 72nd birthday, McCain chose a woman younger than two of his seven children, who has five young children of her own (ranging from 5 months to 19-years-old), who until recently was the mayor of small-town Wasilla, Alaska (population 9,000), has zero experience with foreign policy and has been governor less than two years.

The Obama campaign asked the most obvious and immediate question: is Sarah Palin prepared to step in and be President? Can America really be confident enough enough to say yes? I know I'm not.

In my opinion, McCain definitely dropped the ball here, which is only an advantage to the Democrats. The Republican party leaders will stand behind him of course, shifting in their seats as they try to dance around the topics of inexperience, foreign policy, and readiness to lead a nation (not a Caribou hunting tundra). Obama has been criticized repeatedly for lack of experience, and as such he brought more to the table with Biden. What in the world is McCain bringing? Beauty? A relative mystery? A woman with a growing family and children who still need her? Hmmm...I'm not sure what this will translate into for the coming campaigns. Will it help Obama? Did McCain have another 'Senior Moment'? America, you be the judge.

Barack the Vote!

Things that made me smile today...

2008-08-29T01:04:00.011-04:00

You have to love this, there's just no other choice.

Barack the vote America!

Next up, remembering how much I loved 'My December.' Clive Davis is a jackass. And angry music is better than any music I know, that way I can be bitter vicariously through someone else.

Yes, I'll admit it...I love Kelly Clarkson. Okay, glad I got that out of my system. We won't mention it again.

Ah, another great story about the classy side of Miami. It must be the humidity. Actually, apparently it must be the marijuana...

"Anyone who grew up in the suburbs knows that the mall parking lot is the perfect place to meet your dealer and pick up a dime bag (maybe we're revealing too much). But you never think that the weed may actually be coming from the mall.

Things are a bit different in Miami, though, now that cops have discovered a hydroponic marijuana nursery hidden in a Mall of the Americas' storeroom. By tapping into the building's power supply, growers were able to hook up enough grow lights to cultivate over 200 budding plants. Authorities say the crude wiring could have caused a fire, but they haven't made any arrests and aren't revealing how they discovered the doobage.

"That's bad. I don't want my kids around that. Bro, that's a first," said eloquent shopper Fonsy Martinez. We're with you, Fonz.

While police are presumably investigating mall employees and maintenance workers, we've got our eye on the owner of the food court Chick-fil-A. He clearly reaps the benefits when there's a mall-wide outbreak of the munchies."

Thank you, Miami. Thank you for continuing to make me smile...in shame.

I don't even really drink Coca-Cola without rum or Johnny Walker, but it still makes me happy. Just thinking about those polar bears, come on, when I was a kid I wanted to move the arctic (my mom said no). Although my sister is always careful to remind me that "they originally made it with cocaine, that's why it's called Coke." I know, I know...they definitely should have stuck with the first recipe. At any rate, go design your own bottle at http://www.coca-cola.com/.

Phoenix

That's mine. Good times.

Amazing what a flat iron and orthodontics can do. Chelsea Clinton, I know I'm a little late, but congratulations on making it through puberty, becoming quasi-hot, and getting some hot European ass. I commend you, as well as Bill Clinton's genepool.

Last but not least, although the thought of actually consuming these (without being on drugs) makes me physically ill, I can't help but appreciate the idea.

The Krispy Kreme Bacon Cheeseburger

Served exclusively at the Google NYC cafeteria.

Burger King's The Burger

Only sold in one West London restaurant, this $400 burger is made of Wagyu beef, white truffles, Pata Negra ham slices, Cristal onion straws, Modena balsamic vinegar, pink Himalayan rock salt, organic white wine and shallot infused mayonnaise and served on an Iranian saffron and white truffle dusted bun.

And, goodnight.

Let's All Take it Down a Notch.

2008-08-27T02:00:00.004-04:00

I can't stand people who take themselves too seriously. There, I said it. I'm an adult, not a very good one, but sane enough to realize that there are times to be somber, rational, defensive, complacent, offensive, accepting, open-minded, opinionated, adamant, etc. And then there are times to laugh, especially at yourself; even moreso at me. If you don't have the ability to do that, I urge you to please withdraw yourself from any and all conversations I am involved in, or might happen to stumble across. Because disagreeable, argumentative people contribute daily to the possibility that my head might actually explode.

Three-quarters of what comes out of my mouth is sarcasm, and purely in fun. Write that down. I try not to make time to be angry about trivialities. Ignorance is not synonymous with stupidity (or hostility), more often it refers to being uninformed, uneducated, or unaware. Frankly, I don't see a rhyme or reason for wasting the energy of a negative emotional response on someone who just doesn't know what they're talking about. If you want to fight ignorance, write an essay, teach a class, recommend a helpful textbook, but try stepping down off the high horse for a second and smelling the freaking roses. I don't need an introduction to some facet of anyone's inner angst on a continuous basis.

Fighting should be completely reserved for people with whom you will have just as much passion finding a resolution.

That being said, there are a few things that I refuse to talk about with people whom I know have or may have differing opinions. Politics. Religion. Race. These are hot button issues and the fact is that people do not simply discuss these issues, they debate them. They debate, they assert, they argue, and eventually someone gets offended and/or says something unnecessary. The last thing I want is love lost on what in the greater scheme of things, doesn't really matter. Make love not war, people. Please, please don't make me bring that slogan back. I have enough trouble not being a complete idiot, thanks.

The next time I sense an argument being intiated, I will stand up, clear my throat, and smile. I'm sure at this juncture, my companions will begin wondering why I'm standing, at which point I will say:

"Ahh, forget about it, let's go get some ice cream!"

You see how that works? Ice cream is the ultimate trump card. Besides, being angry gives you wrinkles, frowning tires out your face, and shouting strains your vocal cords. Not to mention you might get slapped. I choose agree to disagree, let's shake hands and pat eachother on the butt. Nice call, friend. Nice call.

Everyone loves a happy ending, and I love Javachip. So remember, If I tease you, yell at you, point at you and laugh... it's only love...just call me a bitch and eat your ice cream.

I feel better already:)

Chemistry 101.

2008-08-25T23:19:00.004-04:00

If you ever go to see a (licensed) therapist or psychologist, they will probably give you a chemical use survey. This is not referring to whether you treat your lawn for fire ants, own a bunsen burner, highlight your hair, or try to minimize your pores.

Instead, it will ask if, when, and how often you use/consume the following:

Tobacco
Alcohol
Marijuana
Cocaine/crack
Inhalants
LSD
Prescribed Pills
Caffeine

Whoa, nothing gets by you! Yes, that says caffeine. It is considered a chemical, and an addictive one at that. I'll say one thing, if I ever become a crackhead and find myself in rehab sitting next to a coffee junkie, I'll punch him square in the face.

I've had 5 shots of espresso today and I'm still tired. I guess I have a chemical dependency. I'm addicted to lattes and cappucinos. Lock me away.

Are these people kidding?

No, really...are they kidding?

Geek Confessions.

2008-08-25T01:04:00.009-04:00

Mmmm...bed.

For those who do not already know, I have contracted a mild case of insomnia (is there such thing as a mild case? I figure insomnia either is or is not, but I'm just trying to stay positive). Not that I am completely incapable of sleep, it just doesn't occur until I'm basically too exhausted to function. And even then it's for approximately two hours, until the blazing sunrays come streaming through my window and force me back awake.

At any rate, I've been trying to find creative ways to occupy my time, because really there aren't many non-sexual, non-detrimental, non-insane activities to do in the middle of the night, while the rest of the world sleeps. Guitar Hero is always a fantastic idea, but you can only play Aerosmith so many times before you develop carpal tunnel syndrome.

So, while experimenting with my new webcam (don't ask why), I discovered PhotoSuite.

PhotoSuite is awesome. I'm sure it's originally intended for cropping, eliminating red-eye, that sort of thing. You know, normal editing. I, however, have chosen to spend hours doing stupid things like this:

And this...

I know what you're thinking. And yes, if you don't have PhotoSuite already, you should get it now. For no other reason than to send your friends and family ridiculous pictures and/or waste time amusing yourself (again, in a non-sexual way).

On a side note, when I googled insomnia, I got this:

Thank you world wide web. When I typed "insomnia", I most surely meant "interracial cookie."

Alcohol Edumacation: Hi, My Name Is...

2008-08-24T02:15:00.011-04:00

I think I just found my vision of the Perfect World...

Oh, right...that's freaking impossible. And anyway, since I've stopped drinking, I'd probably get exiled soon after the vodka-tsunami hit.

Giving up alcohol is always a good thing. Especially when we're talking about health concerns (i.e. my poor, spiteful liver), maintaining control of inhibitions, and preventing inebriated hazards including but not limited to: destitution, imprisonment, unexplained injuries, IHOP, waking up in strange places, slurring, Taco Bell, accidental fires, beverage spills, unintentional violence, bad karaoke, betting on parlor games, stealing street signs, McDonald's, breaking things, losing personal belongings, getting ejected from nightclubs, making ridiculous toasts, getting lost in parking lots, being excessively obnoxious, Burger King, confessing secrets that have no need to be confessed, Denny's, dancing to the music in your head, yelling for no apparent reason, crying over spilt milk, cooking terrible eggs (or other 5am food), hugging strangers, vomiting in public places, falling, overall loss of dignity, and generally making an ass out of oneself.

Not to mention hangovers. And sleeping through morning alarms.

However, after approximately 1:00am on any given night, there is absolutely no reason for a sober person to be awake. None. But I am. Always. Thank you insomnia, thank you so much for shunning the evils of liquor and becoming a part of my life. Because of you I am able to partake in late-night television, be home early on Saturday nights, research useless information on Wikipedia, and aspire to one day have bloodshot eyes and pretty purple bags beneath them. I can't wait, I'm almost peeing with anticipation.

But until then, I will continue to spread my useless knowledge and opinions to the masses.

Dipsomania is a term which describes an uncontrollable craving for alcohol. The term breaks down as "compulsive thirst" but when used, is primarily related to the excessive consumption of alcohol. As a result, a Dipsomaniac (commonly called an alcoholic, but that's such a harsh word) is a person with the constant physical and psychological urge for ethyl alcohol, especially liquor.

By the way, ethyl alcohol, (also ethanol, grain alcohol, or drinking alcohol), is a volatile, flammable, colorless liquid. It is a psychoactive drug consumed since ancient times. After the cavemen discovered fire, they found alcohol (and we wonder why the Flintstones seemed so dumb). Interestingly enough, ethyl alcohol is also found in: thermometers, by-products of petroleum refining, solvents, scents, flavorings, colorings, medicines, fuel for heat and light, and also fuel for internal combustion engines (so that's why whiskey burns my throat). I always knew my stomach was a combustion engine! The good news is that if you're ever broke and out of booze, you can just crack open a thermometer. I'd recommend it on the rocks.

Now that's how to think like a true Dipsomaniac.

Luckily, most Dipsomanics tend to be very amiable, fun, and outgoing social butterflies; they just happen to fall off the wagon every so often, blackout, and make fools of themselves. But I've found that using big words can often get you out of sticky situations. So if you tell your peers that you are a Dipsomaniac, (after scratching their heads in confusion) they won't think you have a problem, they'll just think that you're really smart. They might even think that you're a snob, that's how intelligent you'll sound. You will then be free to sip your martini once more, without the hassle or distraction. Just don't say it when you're actually drunk, because then you'll just sound retarded.

Hey Look!

Bong Spirit Vodka

http://www.bongspirit.com/

(Real) Scorpion Vodka

http://www.thailandunique.com/

Oh the memories...all the Dipso's out there, forget your homies, drink one for me!

Being Fat doesn't pay...but Fat People DO!

2008-08-22T17:16:00.005-04:00

Sweet Home Alabama! Home of great barbeque, fried chicken, sweet tea, and obesity. You have to respect a state where deep frying is pretty much the only method of cooking, gravy is considered a beverage, and pecan pie is used as a digestive aid. Joking aside, Alabama has become the second most obese state in the country (behind Mississipi, the reigning gold medalist for the past 3 years), and it's time to crack down. Well, slim down. Well, slim down on crack...and I'm not talking narcotics. With just over 30% of it's population considered obese, state officials are finally recognizing and addressing the condition as a serious statewide health problem.

Legislation has been passed declaring that beginning in January 2010, obese state workers will be required to pay $25 a month for health insurance(which is normally provided at no cost). This will ensure that any obese employee who has not made an effort to lose weight by the January deadline, will be throwing away $300 a year, and I'm sure 'fat fees' are not tax deductible.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I'd rather buy a new iphone than spend my hard earned money on being decidedly unhealthy, something that carries far more risks than squeezing a few more hundred dollars out of your piggy bank.

Of course a lot of Alabama residents are in uproar (I'll let you guess which ones), but the state already requires $24 a month from smokers, and obesity is equally as much of a health risk. I'm impressed that the government is finally taking a proactive stance to help diminish this unnecessary disease which is also becoming prevalent in children at a young age.

Kudos Alabama! But seriously, this doesn't mean you need to get rid of the barbeque...

Girls, Women, People...Interrupted.

2008-08-22T00:55:00.006-04:00

After watching the movie Girl, Interrupted for the Nth time, a few questions came to mind. Well, the first is more of a statement, which is how much I miss Angelina Jolie before she had 17 babies and stopped being a badass, i.e. became a blonde news reporter in Life or Something Like It. I think I actually cried tears, real tears, after watching that senseless, cliche, and awfully scripted waste of talent. She had so many breakthrough roles, took chances on being an outsider, and being different. The passion she put into those roles really showed on screen, managing to take even mediocre movies and make them compelling.

That being said, I truly love Girl, Interrupted; especially the way in which it tests boundaries, allows for characters to broken and unapologetic. But these people are incredibly likeable, seductive despite their demons, and similar to the novel (a true story) that it was based on, there aren't happy endings; and everyone's loose ends weren't always tied. It leaves you questioning humanity and its intricacies, its eccentricities; the way it lives, breathes, lashes out like a wild animal struggling to survive.

So many doctors still disagree and argue about the concept of mental illness. They found the movie controversial, stereotypical. But you can't take everything at face value, I took this movie for all of its themes, bare portrayals and ideas.

Not to mention Angelina Jolie acted her ass off!

I guess maybe the reason that I enjoyed this movie so intensely is because I've had personal experiences with many people with mental disorders, addictions, and social problems. Sometimes you struggle with the notions of responsibility, blame, misunderstanding, and that's what makes us human. It makes all of the other problems in the world seem so black and white, seem too immense or too small. It is tragic, but it is also reality. People can be so intriguing and yet so damaging.

Due to my melancholy mood, I decided to revisit the movie, fall in love with Angelina all over again, and pay homage to her fantastic performance with a few of my favorite lines:

Susanna: [narrating] Have you ever confused a dream with life? Or stolen something when you had the cash? Have you ever been blue? Or thought your train moving while sitting still? Maybe I was just crazy. Maybe it was the 60's. Or maybe I was just a girl... interrupted.

Lisa: You think your free? I'm free! You don't know what freedom is! I'm free. I can breathe. And you... will choke on your average fuckin' mediocre life!

Susanna: What the fuck are you doing Lisa?
Lisa: Playing the villain, baby, just like you want. I try to give you everything you want.
Susanna: No you don't.
Lisa: You wanted your file, I found you your file. You wanted out, I got you out. You needed money, I found you some. I'm fucking consistent! I told you the truth! I didn't write it down in a fucking book! I told you to your face. And I told Daisy to her face - what everybody knew and wouldn't say, and she killed herself. And I played the fucking villain, just like you wanted.
Susanna: Why would I want that?
Lisa: Because it makes you the good guy, sweet pea.

Georgina: Lisa? Is Daisy really getting out? Lisa: Yeah, she coughed up a big one.
Susanna: But how could - I mean she's... insane.
Lisa: Yeah, well that's what ther-rape-me's all about. That's why fuckin' Freud's picture's on every shrink's wall. He created a fuckin' industry. You lie down, you confess your secrets and you're saved. Ka-ching! The more you confess, the more they think about settin' you free. Susanna: But what if you don't have a secret?
Lisa: Then you're a lifer, like me.

Lisa: You know, there's too many buttons in the world. There's too many buttons and they're just- there's way too many just begging to be pressed. They're just begging to be pressed, you know? They're just - they're just begging to be pressed. And it makes me wonder, it really makes me fucking wonder, why doesn't anyone ever press mine? Why am I so neglected? Why doesn't anyone reach in and rip out the truth and tell me that I'm a fucking whore, or that my parents wish I were dead!
Susanna: Because you're dead already, Lisa!

Valerie: Did you enjoy the fresh air Lisa?
Lisa: Yeah I did Val. Thanks.
Valerie: Good, 'cause it's the last time you're leaving the ward.
Lisa: Is that a dare or a double dare?

Susanna: [reading from a book] "Borderline Personality Disorder. An instability of self-image, relationships and mood... uncertain about goals, impulsive in activities that are self-damaging, such as casual sex."
Lisa: I like that.
Susanna: "Social contrariness and a generally pessimistic attitude are often observed." [pauses] Susanna: Well that's me.
Lisa: That's everybody.

Lisa: We are very rare and we are mostly men.
Janet: Lisa thinks she's hot shit cause she's a sociopath.
Cynthia: I'm a sociopath.
Lisa: No, you're a dyke.

Lisa: Take one fuckin' step and I'll jam this in my aorta. [aiming a pen at her neck]
Valerie: Lisa, your aorta is in your chest.
Lisa: Good to know.

Ah, the simple beauty of it all. Well, on a side note I looked up a 'diag-nonsense' of Borderline Personality Disorder. According to the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), it is this:

"Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a serious mental illness characterized by pervasive instability in moods, interpersonal relationships, self-image, and behavior. This instability often disrupts family and work life, long-term planning, and the individual's sense of self-identity. Originally thought to be at the "borderline" of psychosis, people with BPD suffer from a disorder of emotion regulation. While a person with depression or bipolar disorder typically endures the same mood for weeks, a person with BPD may experience intense bouts of anger, depression, and anxiety that may last only hours, or at most a day. These may be associated with episodes of impulsive aggression, self-injury, and drug or alcohol abuse. Distortions in cognition and sense of self can lead to frequent changes in long-term goals, career plans, jobs, friendships, gender identity, and values. Sometimes people with BPD view themselves as fundamentally bad, or unworthy. They may feel unfairly misunderstood or mistreated, bored, empty, and have little idea who they are. Such symptoms are most acute when people with BPD feel isolated and lacking in social support, and may result in frantic efforts to avoid being alone."

I don't know about you, but this sounds just like me on my period!

I just think all of these doctors need to stop medicating people and start listening. A good dose of Klonopin will put you to sleep, but when you wake up, things are exactly the same. Being bored, empty, or unsure is not an appropriate reason to pull out a prescription pad. Sometimes we all go a little crazy.

End rant, remove soapbox.

(Angelina, I heart you.)

Why Margaret Cho is My Hero(ine)...

2008-08-22T00:22:00.004-04:00

Margaret Cho was recently on an episode of Chelsea Lately (my obsession), and talked about her new show The Cho Show, airing on vH1. While doing so she made me literally laugh outloud and spew juice out of my nose and onto my dog. The following statements are merely highlights, but seriously, my nose still hurts and my dog has been giving me the stink eye for an hour...

On Sam Ronson and Lindsay Lohan: "I'd like to guest star in that bed! I hope Ronson's a really butch top, and oooh I hope she's bossy...But I don't really like threesomes because they make me feel like a competitive eater."

On The Cho Show: "...Did I mention I'm naked in every episode? No, seriously."

On her parents: "Well my parents were kind of nervous about being on the show. Because at first they thought they were getting Punk'd. But you have to understand, in Korea getting Punk'd means getting taken out to a field and being shot in the head."

On doing a reality show: "Well it's a reality show, but it's scripted...so it's like the Hills, but we have eyes."

WATCH HER SHOW!..that's really all I can say, I have to go clean up juice.

The Phelps Diet.

2008-08-14T15:16:00.012-04:00

If you're looking for the next diet craze...

Don't look here.

Olympic Gold Medalist Swimmer Michael Phelps eats 12,000 calories a day, more than the average person should eat in an entire week. And a typical day looks like this:

Breakfast: Three fried-egg sandwiches loaded with cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, fried onions and mayonnaise. Two cups of coffee. One five-egg omelet. One bowl of grits. Three slices of French toast topped with powdered sugar. Three chocolate-chip pancakes.

Lunch: One pound of enriched pasta. Two large ham and cheese sandwiches with mayo on white bread. Energy drinks packing 1,000 calories.

Dinner: One pound of pasta. An entire pizza. More energy drinks.

Mmmm. Chocolate-chip pancakes. I might take up swimming...or just get fat.

Great News!

2008-08-13T19:37:00.004-04:00

Even I can't find any sarcastic or cynical way to comment on this story. Besides the fact that I had to read the article 3 times to completely understand it, this is just awesome news in AIDS research:

"Woman May Hold Secret to AIDS Vaccine By Maggie Fox, Reuters

A woman who has never shown symptoms of infection with the AIDS virus may hold the secret to defeating the virus, U.S. researchers said on Tuesday.

Infected at least 10 years ago by her husband, the woman is able somehow to naturally control the deadly and incurable virus -- even though her husband must take cocktails of strong HIV drugs to control his.

She is a so-called "elite suppressor," and studies of her immune cells have begun to offer clues to how her body does it, the team at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore said.

"This is the best evidence to date that elite suppressors can have fully pathogenic virus," said Dr. Joel Blankson, who led the study.
"The feeling was initially that they had defective virus," Blankson added in a telephone interview.

But the couple has been monogamous for at least 17 years, Blankson said, and tests show they are infected with the same strain of virus. What is different is the immune system of the wife, who cannot be named for privacy reasons.
"That's a good sign in terms of developing a therapeutic vaccine," Blankson said. Such a vaccine would not prevent infection but might be used to treat patients.

The AIDS virus infects at least 33 million people globally and more than a million in the United States. It has killed 25 million people since it was identified in the early 1980s.

New figures show 56,000 people are infected every year in the United states, mostly gay and bisexual men but also injecting drug users and their sexual partners, both male and female, as well as newborns and recipients of contaminated blood transfusions.

Both the man and the woman, who are from Baltimore, were diagnosed 10 years ago, Blankson said. The husband is a former injecting drug user.
Tests showed that immune cells known as CD8 T-cells from the wife stalled HIV replication by as much as 90 percent, while the husband's T-cells stopped it by only 30 percent, Blankson's team reported in the Journal of Virology.

Her virus has also mutated in apparent response to this immune attack, becoming weaker, while her husband's virus has remained strong.
"Elite suppression offers clues to vaccine researchers on many fronts: how CD8 killer T-cells can attack HIV and how a stronger immune response can force HIV into a permanent defensive state," Blankson said.

"We are trying to figure out exactly how the T-cells work in her to inhibit viral replication," he added. "We are just trying to see what kind of cytokines they make."

Cytokines are immune system signaling proteins. One thing the researchers have noticed is that while the husband's T-cells make just one, called gamma interferon, hers made both that one and another called TNF, or tumor necrosis factor.
That cannot be the whole story, though, because AIDS researchers have tried using such immune system proteins in patients and they did not work well.

And her immune cells seem to make the response only when they encounter the virus.
Another clue: the woman may have unusual activity in her human leukocyte antigen system, or HLA, Blankson said. This important component of the immune system helps recognize antigens -- protein identifiers -- of enemies such as bacteria and viruses.

Copyright 2008, Reuters"

The human body is freaking AMAZING. For the full article go here:

http://news.aol.com/health/article/woman-may-hold-secret-to-aids-vaccine/130997?icid=200100397x1207710705x1200404350

9-0-2-1-NO!

2008-08-12T02:01:00.006-04:00

Holy crap America, the CW network is bringing back Beverly Hills, 90210! But, it's newer, hipper, more provocative! They even took the "Beverly Hills" out of the title! Why? Because we should just know! That's how hot it is!

Wait a second...

Is anyone else completely unexcited!!?

I thought so.

At this point I have to seriously ask. Do mid-pubescent, pretentious, morally irresponsible, upper-middle class teenagers with dysfunctional families live anywhere outside the state of California? Or is the weather just better there? Thank you Gossip Girl for expanding the geographic spectrum of rich kids gone bad, but if I have to watch another coming-of-age-with-my-trust fund drama, I might throw a hammer through my TV screen.

Hey, we get it, you're wealthy and you still have problems. Your parents aren't home, they buy your affection. Money won't bring you happiness, blah, blah, blah. It's like listening to an album of remixes to the same song. Are they just running out of ideas?

The only aspect of this revamped teenage debacle that elated me, was that Tori Spelling got the boot. If you have watched even five minutes of her reality show, you would agree that the world has had enough.

"At this time, there are no plans for Tori to appear in the 90210 spinoff," her rep told US Weekly. Apparently, Spelling aka Donna Summer pulled out after learning that co-stars Jennie Garth and Shannen Doherty were earning $35,000-$50,000 per episode, while she was only earning $10,000-$20,000. Perhaps the disparity in the paydays has something to to with the fact that NO ONE likes Tori Spelling! But that's purely speculation on my part.

At any rate, I've taken the liberty of assembling a list of ingredients, if you will, that I require in order for me to take an iota of interest in this doomed reincarnation a la "Saved By the Bell: The New Class."

In no particular order:

More than one African American person (it may be Beverly Hills, but I'm sure there are at least 2).

An Asian person (please see above).

Any other minority whatsoever (just to reiterate my point).

A lesbian that last more than 3 episodes without dropping out of school

and/or

A gay male who we aren't forced to watch not make the football team because uh oh, they find out he's gay.

Basically, all I ask is for a little more representation, I can only watch so many hours of white boys with bad haircuts driving nice cars and fighting over the same girls.

CW, I appreciate you for you plethora of MILFs, the exile of Tori Spelling, as well as the return of my beloved Shannen Doherty. But if you do not surpass my dire expectations, I just might have to write a letter...or think really, really hard about writing a letter. Okay, fine, I just won't watch the show. But you've been warned!

Rosemary's...I mean, Clay Aiken's Baby..

2008-08-08T16:59:00.003-04:00

I completely recovered from the absurdity that not only was Clay Aiken planning to breed (articially, of course) with a 40-something record producer, but he was also still claiming to be straight.

But by far the most unsettling result is that his son was born at 8:08am on 8/08/08...if this "family" doesn't need an exorcism soon, I'll faint in disbelief.

Great Ad...what are we protesting again?

2008-08-07T15:23:00.007-04:00

Olympic swimmer Amanda Beard met controversy just days before the opening ceremonies in China because of her naked PETA campaign poster. The gold medalists' anti-fur campaign poster was banned from inside the Athlete's Village, the unveiling canceled for "safety concerns." I'm not quite sure for whose safety they were concerned, but apparently in China naked=bad, communism=good. Violation of civil liberties is completely acceptable, but don't you dare tread into their country without bottoms on, especially if you are suggesting they not slaughter animals for fashion, sport, or something loaded with MSG.

PETA ads, always known for being provocative and literally eye-popping (I had to shove one of mine back in the socket a few times) have always demanded attention. I love animals, and completely understand the fight for animal rights, but I'm definitely not giving up Chicken Wing Wednesday at Flanagan's. Regardless of your carnivorous status, you have to at least pay a little homage to the beauty that is "I'd rather go naked than wear fur."

But somehow, I don't think this next one is getting the point across. Hmmm, let's display a naked woman as literally "a piece of meat." Great idea marketing department! And men everywhere collectively pick their tongues up off the floor.

You have to admit though, the slogans are just a little short of genius.

Could it be the genuine simplicity? Or the naked Hugo Boss models...

At any rate, China, get over yourself. PETA, keep making naked fashionable (though I'm not sure when it wasn't), and fighting for the cute, cuddly, defenseless and/or ferocious. I won't wear fur, or lipstick tested on baby seals, or ivory from dead elephant tusks. However, I'm not giving up filet mignon. Beggars can't be choosers, after all.

And thank you, Ms. Basinger, for this small side note to whoever stole my favorite jacket from the club last year. Listen up, jacket thief: "Someone Else's Coat" means humans too. When you're ready, I'd like it back, much appreciated.

A Poetic Rant for a Change...

2008-08-07T00:14:00.012-04:00

The natural inclination after a long, stressful day (especially one involving lack of sleep, hostile confrontation and/or menstruation) is to uncork one of these:

Today, however, I decided to take the high road, go for a long walk, and then get drunk on words (which, essentially is not nearly as fun, but causes me to behave). So, in a welcome retreat from the usual, my poetic rant:

There is this disconnect between thoughts and actions, the wires get tangled, crossed or erode away in dusty crevices inside thick walls. Futile attempts leave sweaty brows and broken spirits beyond a barrier not easily surpassed. I stroll the sidewalks, side-stepping reason and rationale hidden between the cracks, dodging the dawn. Sunlight is not illumination, but the passage of time, slowly winding, rotating; a living creature drawing stolen breaths of life. We oblige the burglary of spirit, suffocating character with the exhalation of harsh words, noxious waste like the second-hand air. Slamming doors without latching the locks or turning keys, only fooling the night and its implications. Don't be daft and detrimental, blindly bandaging self-inflicted wounds, fingertips running across silent scars. We exist in the gray hues of black and white life, believing in dichotomy, imagining colors on the convex surface of the lens. The audience is subjective if aware at all, if present at least. But the show continues, curtain open wide, the monologues echoing acoustic. Try to repair the cables and leads, walking in the darkness until it stretches into day. Knock-knock-knock at the closed doors until there is an answer; sweet fluidity coursing through veins and into hearts. Listen, focus, dream reality in the gaps of doubt and uncertainty. Reconnect.

Re-enactment of me after my rant:

And for sh*ts and giggles, I came across The Cattleman Stress Test. Please observe the picture below and then continue reading for your stress diag-nonsense.

Above is a photograph taken of two dolphins
The dolphins appear to be nearly identical when viewed by stress-free individuals. The test is not sufficiently accurate to detect mild stress differentials, but is very accurate on individuals with higher stress-levels.
Deviations in appearance between the 2 dolphins are indicators of potential stress-related problems and the deviations, if any, may also indicate the source of stress.
If you experience significant deviations, you may want to consider taking things a little easier...

Dog Curbing leads to Depression.

2008-08-06T18:25:00.002-04:00

Someone buy this guy a drink!

Depression affects all of us...if you have to, liquor up your pug.

Real Life Pet Sematary

2008-08-05T19:04:00.008-04:00

Remember this?

Well, it's back...only there's a lot more science involved...you know, microscopes and such.

Today an American woman received five puppies that were cloned by a South Korean company from her late pitbull, who died of cancer in 2006. She is RNL Bio's first customer to what they claim is the world's first successful "commercial canine cloning service."

This just sounds morbid.

Cells were taken from the woman's dead pitbull (who's name was Booger...how...cute?). The Korean scientists then brought the dog's frozen cells to Seoul in March and nurtured them (whatever that means) before launching formal cloning work in late May, according to RNL Bio. The two surrogate mother's were both Korean mixed-breed dogs.

I know this must be a precious moment from her perspective, but I don't know what is creepier, the fact that they are commercially cloning housepets, the idea that animals have a soul, or the expression on this woman's face (notice puppy screaming with haunts of his past life):

"I know you! You know me, too!" She told the puppies. She said she was attached to her dog, Booger (again...great name) because he saved her life when she was severely attacked by a much larger dog. That's an admirable reason to be attached to a pet, but seriously, cloning him in hopes that his eternal soul is resurrected in not one puppy, but five?

Unfortunately it seems RNL Bio's inaugural customer is not alone in her belief. The company eventually plans to clone about 300 dogs per year and has reported that they are also interested in duplicating camels in the Middle East. Just what we need, an army of cloned camels! This is all sounding very Star Wars, if not a bit scary. You have to stop and wonder what's next. But for the time being, if you're looking for a newer, probably slightly-disturbed, post-mortem copy of Fluffy or Spot, start saving your pennies, because they charge up to $150,000 a pop. If you ask me (which I'm sure you didn't and won't), this is exactly how Cujo was born.

Extreme Teenage Rebellion

2008-08-04T17:36:00.013-04:00

When I was a child and I didn't get what I wanted, I usually pouted and cried...sometimes I threw things. But apparently, in the computer age, extortion and murder-for-hire are much more appropriate.

A kid in China tried to extort $1,400 from his parents by "kidnapping" himself and demanding a ransom after they refused to buy him a Nintendo Wii. According to China Daily, the kid apparently hired two men to kidnap him, and was arrested after he withdrew his own $1,400 ransom from an ATM. What a criminal mastermind! And I thought Chinese kids were supposed to be smart??

Now, if you thought this Chinese kid was a genius, you won't believe the home-grown crime lord we have here in the US of A. After being grounded from playing his PlayStation 3 or watching TV for stealing and skipping school, a 16-year-old Maryland native hired a hitman to kill his parents. He stole $45 from his sister (which is clearly the going rate for having people killed) and after getting into a heated argument, he was kicked out of his house, but not before he threatened to have his family killed. Luckily, his mother tipped off the police, who sent out an undercover agent to pose as a hitman. The kid offered the agent his father's truck as payment (just to round out the $45) and was quoted as saying, "Two bullets is all it takes." He is now in custody and awaiting trial. Two bullets is all it takes? When did young America turn into a bad James Bond sequel??

Last I checked (which was this morning), actual recreation, natural daylight, and avoiding jail time were pretty important for kids. But it seems without video games, Generation Felony has nothing to live for. What's next? Secret Government espionage to recover an X Box? Maybe a little pre-pubescent racketeering, throw in some fraud, perhaps a count of grand larceny?

Oh well, there's no need to worry everyone, I'm sure that President Bush will save us...*rolls eyes*

The Sign We've Been Waiting For...

2008-08-03T22:20:00.004-04:00

A plane flies in front of the sun over the Damyns Hall Aerodrome during a partial eclipse on August 1, 2008 in Essex, England.

Does this mean God is gay after all??

Okay, maybe He just really likes rainbows...you decide.

Saturday Afternoon Movies

2008-08-03T16:31:00.004-04:00

Coming to America was on cable yesterday, and it made me wonder...

Why hasn't Eddie Murphy made a good funny movie (no, not Nutty Professor, I don't care what anyone says) since 1988? And where the hell is Arsenio Hall?

He went from Eddie Murphy Raw, to singing, then made Daddy Day Care. I'm sorry but that's like Micheal Jordan winning an NBA championship, going to play baseball, then returning to play basketball, only not very good. You heard it here, Eddie Murphy is the Michael Jordan of comedy.

I Just Want a Place for My Toothpaste!

2008-08-02T17:53:00.003-04:00

Fake drawers are the stupidest thing on this planet. Nothing pisses me off more than when I go to put something into a bathroom drawer only to find it's just a handle glued to a panel. I've been bamboozled by the fake drawer one too many times. What? The more drawers you appear to have, the better person you are? Will your houseguests be impressed by your amount of storage space? They come out of the john exclaiming "Wow, you have so many drawers," and you secretly laugh inside. Fooled 'em again, you say to yourself.

Or maybe builders across the country are cutting corners and then skipping town, hoping homeowners won't figure out the scam until they unpack their toiletries. By then they're in another city, swindling a new family in a new bathroom.

We shot monkeys into space! All I'm asking for is drawer that actually opens!

And while I'm at it, the next time I buy a nice pair of dress pants and discover fake pockets, I'm burning the store down. If I sit at a table with a bowl of fake fruit, I'm throwing an apple through a window. Anyone out there with a weave? Be wary, I might pull out your hair.

Excuse me, I'm off to pummel my bathroom sink with a crowbar.

Bake Me a Cake with a File in it...

2008-08-01T00:42:00.007-04:00

For those who don’t already know, I have an acute talent for getting myself into absurd situations and trouble in general, most of the time panning out with me on the losing side. I personally like to think of it as finishing in second place, or runner up, but it usually involves me paying fines, getting slapped, or in this case, incarceration. I recently spent almost 20 hours in the crackhead motel better known as Dade County Jail. Apparently, if you fail to pay a traffic citation they will happily suspend your driver's license. If a cop on his or her period catches you behind the wheel with said suspended license, and you so much as look at them sideways, they will promptly cuff you, place you under arrest, somewhere along the line demean you, then throw you in the back of their patrol car and haul you off to jail. I had the immense pleasure of riding with an officer who felt the need to make conversation. He proceeded with idle small talk as I slid back and forth in the plastic backseat (prisoner's do not deserve seat belts...or the use of their hands) and tried to ignore the searing pain in my wrists.

Please note that these:

Are not as fun or nearly as comfortable as these:

But by far the best part of getting booked and fingerprinted is when they confiscate your possessions. Not only do they do this in a room chock full of people, but if you are female or a post-op transvestite, this can include taking off your bra or extracting your underwire, removing any and all piercings (yes, ALL piercings: nose, nipple, navel and anything below), taking out any hair accessories ranging from scrunchies to headbands to fake ponytails and weaves, losing your heels for a high class pair of prison sandals, and taking a makeup smeared mugshot that makes you look like a drunken raccoon. If you are unlucky enough to be forced to trade in your clothes for that gorgeous bright orange jumpsuit, I hope you weren’t too attached to the outfit, because most of the time they either lose your things or ship them off to “the warehouse,” in which case you have to fill out paperwork and wait 3-6 months for your garments to be returned.

I know it seems very sleek and sexy, but here's a tip: NO ONE looks good in orange, and only garbagemen, mechanics and infants should wear jumpsuits. Fortunately, I was allowed to keep my clothes, which may seem like a blessing, except that being bra-less and wearing a skirt in an 8x5 cell for 18 hours in front of 12-15 other women is basically like taking the pre-dawn walk of shame over and over again. So I was locked in this beautifully decorated cell, accented with concrete walls that were re-painted so many times, that because of the cheap peeling paint and graffiti, you couldn’t tell if they were supposed to be blue, white or yellow. There were two inside-facing windows that were so tightly covered with wire mesh, that you couldn’t see anything outside of the cell. The only way to know a guard was approaching was because of the jingle of keys, which of course sent every inmate racing to the door in hopes of release. There was a stainless steel toilet for midgets (only 6 inches off the ground), harsh fluorescent lighting, splintering hardwood benches that were just narrow enough not to lie down on, and a disgusting floor that was a disheveled compilation of broken tile, cement and years of built-up grime.

Overall, it was a slight cross between this:

And this:

During my luxurious weekend getaway, I met a stripper/prostitute who called herself a ‘striptitute,’ a crack addict who laid on the floor and twitched for 12 hours, a homeless woman who repeatedly soiled herself, a girl with turrets who kept yelling obscenities at random, a schizo who tried to escape through the vents and lighting fixtures (at one point she called the wall a bitch), a gold-toothed woman who spoke incessantly and only in shout, a fat Puerto Rican (reincarnated as Li'l Kim) who kept saying she wasn't a snitch, a diabetic who spent the entire time on the toilet, a crystal meth addict who kept screaming for sandwiches, and 3 roaches that I nicknamed the stooges. Every time one of them came crawling out everyone sang ‘la cucaracha,’ clapped their hands and danced. And then there was the multiple felon. They organize us criminals by felonies, misdemeanors, or psych cases (crazy people). But somehow, this little Latina with tattoos on her neck ended up in the misdemeanor cell. The thing about jail is that people really do turn to you and ask, "So what did you do?" And EVERYBODY wants to tell their story. Except of course for an idiot like me who was there for a traffic infraction. The felon eagerly explained that she was a fugitive wanted in 3 states and they had bussed her all the way back to Miami from Maryland; she had been in the system for almost 3 weeks in about 6 or 7 different jails along the way. Her last charge was that she had escaped a women’s prison in Florida and stolen a corrections bus. She spent all of 25 minutes hitting on the striptitute (“you’re pretty cute for a prostitute”), and fidgeting as she impatiently stood by the window, until they finally figured out the mistake and moved her to the felon cell. There she got in a fight and they moved her to solitary confinement down the hall.

The corrections officers, by the way, are all bitches. Those girls in high school that got teased and didn't have any friends, they end up as guards in Dade County Jail. And they are bitter. They told us to shut the hell up, ignored us, yelled at us, refused to answer questions, and when a fight broke out and we were screaming for help, they sat behind the desk and laughed at the cameras. In 18 hours I got one cup of water, in a dixie cup. After 15 hours, we finally got food: rice, overcooked peas, and a spoonful of some slop of white sauce with what could have been chicken or clams. Oh yes, and a single slice of white bread. The gold-toothed lady screamed "What is this bullsh*t-ass half sandwich!" Then the meth head happily took her tray.

The steel door opened about every hour or so, upon which they either threw in yet another inmate or dragged one out. When we went to court, they shackled about 9 of us together and put us in a freezing cold room with about 50-60 male inmates on church pews. Here, we waited our turn to talk to a judge on a TV screen while we stood with a public defender in charge of representing 50-100 inmates in a 2 hour time span. The ridiculous court 'officials' lounged in metal folding chairs and talked about nothing more than how they couldn’t wait for happy hour. The kicker was that even after the judge released me (after assessing $358 in court costs), I was returned to the holding cell.

There had been a shift change, and the previous shift of bitches didn’t turn in our release forms, so as a result we waited another 6 hours before an officer came to get us. Bond or no bond, you wait until they feel like letting you out, and you are given no indication as to when that will be. Finally, again we were shackled together, marched though a cell block of male prisoners yelling, whistling, and banging at the cell bars, then released into God-knows-what neighborhood without so much as a phone call. My blackberry was still in my car, and you can’t collect-call cell phones. So the cherry on top was that I walked 4 miles home from jail. I was dehydrated, starving, and I hadn’t slept in over 36 hours. And when I went to possessions to pick up my things, they had lost my nose ring, claimed they never took it, and even after arresting me the cop had left me a speeding ticket for going 40 in a 30mph zone. Hhhhhwwwhhhhaaaaaat?

But seriously, this was by far the worst day of my life. At times I couldn’t breathe because this tiny cell at the end of a corridor was so full of people, stench and stale air. I closed my eyes, and all I heard was voices yelling, talking over each other, screaming for hour after hour. There wasn’t enough room to sit, and so I stood and paced for at least 15 hours, refused to pee in front of a audience and couldn’t sleep. This was hell. At some point I became delirious, began rocking back and forth, developed homicidal tendencies. I memorized my arresting officers’ patrol car number and hammered it into my brain. As he sat me on the curb, tightly cuffed and crying, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, I could think of nothing but violence, and I am not a violent person. Six days later, anger has only intensified. If I never see a jail, hear about a jail, or speak about a jail ever again, it will be way too soon.

Lions, Tigers and Roosters, Oh My!

2008-07-21T22:16:00.007-04:00

I don't know how or why, but somehow these are running wild in downtown Miami:

No, not miniature cowboys. Roosters! And okay, not giant roosters, but roosters nonetheless. I pass them everyday as they're crossing the road like ducks near a pond with their little ducklings. Only we aren't near a pond, or a barn, or anything of the sort. It is the middle of high traffic streets chock full of city busses and skyscrapers. I personally find it absurd, but what else is Miami for? I'm sure sooner or later the ASPCA will start hauling them off to animal shelters for adoption.

Help control the pet population, please have your chickens spayed or neutered.

So, as some beautification project the city put up all of these decorative rooster statues in Little Havana, aka not a place that will respond well to beautification. Needless to say, soon enough all of the statuesque roosters were vandalized and otherwise effed up in general. Pictured above is one of the few still in tact. The authorities have cited that "Some say the roosters were targeted by drug dealers who thought the birds were secret agents of the police."

Brilliant! Next in breaking news, Squirrels: obsessive compulsive rodents, or government informants? You be the judge, those aren't just nuts they're hiding!

As always, Miami never ceases to amaze.

Case of the Lost Inhibitions

2008-07-14T02:38:00.009-04:00

The elevator in my apartment building has always been an awkward place for me, mostly because my neighbors seem to be unaware of the unspoken rules of elevator ettiquette. You are travelling in a small metal box for anywhere from 15 seconds to a entire minute or more, which, can often feel like an eternity. Thus, depending on the situation, some of the rules can be bent (for example, do you say goodbye when you get to your floor, or just get off), but there are just certain things you do NOT do. And these certain things become all the more important when there are only two people.

The following is a brief recap of my experience in said elevator, and the rules that were broken:

I got on the elevator and could hear a man coming around the corner chatting away. I thought there was another person with him, but alas, no it was a cell phone. First rule broken, it is suuuper annoying when you have to hear the idiot on the cell yelling 'hello? hello? can you hear me? hello?' No they can't hear you, we're on a freaking elevator, end the call already!

He was so preoccupied stepping into the elevator while jerking around with his phone that he had failed to press a floor button, meaning he had also failed to turn back around to face the doors. Next rule broken, you don't stand face to face in an elevator with people you don't know. It's just plain weird.

So we're standing there, him staring at me, me pretending to check my bag for absolutely nothing, and he asks 'so, where are you from?' I look around stupidly, but obviously he is speaking to me and not my imaginary sidekick. The thing about Miami, is that when people ask you where you're from, you never know if they mean city, state or country. So when I replied, 'actually, I'm from Virginia,' he looked at me, puzzled, repeated 'Vir-hin-ya,' paused, and then said 'America?' I nodded yes, proceeded to keep faux-searching through my bag. Another rule broken, 15 seconds to 1 minute is not enough time to make new friends, this is not a bar, and you did not buy me a Martini.

I cleared my throat, and he eagerly asked what I said, to which I replied, 'nothing.' Another rule and note to strange man: silence is okay, no need to force it! You really don't have to converse with me.

So, after seemingly an eon (I only live on the 2nd floor), we arrived in the lobby. As he held the door open, there was the only rule he didn't break, you always let the ladies out first:)

Upon returning to my apartment after my fun in the elevator, I decided to order Chinese Food. All I wanted was General Tso's chicken, maybe some wonton soup.

I gave the lady on the phone my order, and she paused for a few seconds. She came back on the line and told me way too much information, i.e. this:

"Sorry, it's just, I'm drinking this tea, it's hot tea. But not the regular kind, it's called healthy liver function or something like that. It's for my liver, you know, it's messed up from all of the alcohol. At first I thought it was just my stomach, but then I had pain on the other side. I know it's from partying 3 days in a row. I wasn't supposed to drink last night, but then I went to the casino, so you know how that is. And afterwards my friends took me to a strip club to watch the IFC fight, and I mean, you pay a cover and then get 2 free drinks. Two free drinks? I was like hell yeah, bring 'em on. But anyway, now my liver kinda hurts, so I'm drinking this tea, and it's making me so hot. It isn't even really that hot ouside today, but now I'm sitting in front of a fan, which I probably shouldn't, because my mom told me that's how you catch a cold. You know, the change of temperatures and everything, going from warm to cool. I just hope this tea helps my liver...okay, so that's gonna be $12.85, cash or credit?"

I'm not even joking, the only words I managed to get in during her monologue were 'yeah,' 'right,' and 'oh.' Perhaps I'm just a great conversationalist, a wonderful listener, a friendly face, or all of the above. But really, elevator man, chinese food lady, next time I'd rather just get to my floor and pay for my egg roll in peace.

Thank you. Come again.

Say It Ain't So...

2008-07-14T00:33:00.005-04:00

So the latest grind from the rumor mill is speculating that Star Jones (or her thinner, creepier mini-me) is dating Dwayne Wade.

My mouth dried, I was speechless.

Am I being Punk'd? Ashton? Ashton? Come out now please, this isn't funny anymore...I'm getting scared..

At any rate, I will be patiently waiting for this matter to be resolved.

Although last time Dwayne's name came up on the dating scene, it was said that Hoopz (aka Nikki Alexander) from Flavor of Love, was having his baby.

Which turned out to be clearly untrue. So, America, we shall wait and see.

End story.

Over-Employment

2008-07-13T00:47:00.005-04:00

For no particular reason, the other day I decided to jot down a rather extensive list of all of the various jobs I've had the pleasure of working. My pen almost ran out of ink before I finished. In the end, I tallied 16 different jobs. Considering I'm not even 30 yet, I think that has to be some kind of record. I told this to one of my friends, and her response was: "and you're still going strong...proud of you." And frankly, I AM proud. The government and their 401K's can suck it, I'd rather keep myself entertained for a while. And that I have.

For the curious, my personal favorite job titles have been (in alphabetical order):

Barista

Bicycle Messenger

Carpet Cleaning Technician

Coke Mule (no, I'm totally joking)

Floor Instructor

Food Runner

Grassroots Canvasser

Personal Trainer

And there was also my stint as a Freelance Essay Writer (thank you lazy college students!)

In conclusion, I have no shame in my indecision, rather, I embrace it. So be on the lookout, I might be coming to an hourly wage position near YOU.

Viva New York

2008-07-11T13:24:00.004-04:00

After being in New York City for about a week and a half, my favorite sight was this:

Being poor never felt so exciting!! Yes, I DO want want to get more!

A Lesson in Typing

2008-06-24T12:14:00.003-04:00

I am still in a sort of mild depression concerning the fact that Heroes is still not back on TV. So, in the interim I decided to blog about the show. While searching google for images, my ring finger slipped and I typed 'herpes' instead of 'heroes.' I'm now pretty traumatized, and I urge you all to please check your spelling before pressing the enter key.

This has been a public service announcement brought to you by:

CASARDI
(the Council for Accurate Spelling and the Avoidance of Ridiculously Disgusting Images)

Thank you.

Because I Heart Family Guy

2008-06-23T19:35:00.004-04:00

Tom Tucker: A bit of breaking news. A local family is forced out of their home by ghosts. Who are they gonna call?

Diane Simmons (sighs): Ghostbusters, Tom.

Tom Tucker: No, Diane. Their insurance company. That's just stupid what you said.

Incommunicado

2008-06-22T18:38:00.005-04:00

Looking back, it's hard to remember life before having one of these:

Now, however, this little several hundred dollar gadget is my lifeline. I finally got it back today after having suspended service for almost an entire month. I felt like a piece of me had been missing, I actually wanted to conference call everyone in my phonebook and make a homecoming announcement. Text me! Call me! Love me! I'm back people! At any rate, after trying for 10 minutes to figure out how to accomplish this mass call, I decided that I am a ridiculous person, and put the phone back in my pocket.

It's a Bird, no, it's a Plane...

2008-06-22T13:55:00.005-04:00

No, it's fictional television stars with super powers!!

I have to admit I was a Johnny-come-lately to this show, but it has since become a guilty pleasure. Before the last season, I literally boxed myself in my apartment for 3 days, ignored phone calls, blew off friends, and I might have actually forgotten to eat. All in the name of watching hour after desolate hour of Heroes, desperately trying to catch up before the season premiere. I didn't initially realize that this task would entail 12 dvd's and over 30 episodes. I was unemployed at the time, which made this feasible, but still bordering on obsessive insanity. Needless to say, I was left wanting a super power, began to live vicariously through Monday night episodes, and shed a few actual tears when the writer's strike put a halt to my season. Still in withdrawal, I feel like discussing a few items:

1) Ali Larter-her character's power is that she is a sweet mother with an dark alter ego who is an unstoppably violent, tactical, and vindictive extortionist with no conscience whatsoever. This alter ego often takes control with dire consequences. My question is when being bipolar became a super power? In that case, I know plenty of super heroes.

2) Nora Zehetner-her character had the all-time best power, the power of persuasion. She could make any person believe or do anything she wanted at any given time. Not only did they underuse her character, she shot herself and died. I was irate. If I was a Hero, I would definitely have the power of persuasion.

Inflation and Hard Times

2008-06-20T10:44:00.005-04:00

Utter desititution is not an attractive quality, however it has led to the suspension of my cell phone service (thanks T-mobile!) and given me the pleasure of using one of these:

I haven't used a payphone since high school (and then only to return messages sent to my pager, which was oh so cool at the time, and coincidentally made me look like a drug dealer) and I was shocked and appalled by the fact that it now costs 50 cents. Okay, I know gas prices have gone up, groceries are more expensive, and the real estate market is disasterous, but pay phones? I have to draw the line here, America, it seems unfair to ask myself, and a good deal of phoneless and most likely broke citizens to spend quality liquor money on phone calls. Because let's face it, if you can't afford a phone, you probably need to drink away your sorrows.

Oh, and if you plan to charge me 50 cents, at least ensure the phone doesn't smell like pee. I like to think my fees include maintenance.

Career Moves

2008-06-18T15:48:00.006-04:00

My next job: Photo-Bomber.

http://www.asylum.com/2008/06/13/photobombers-ruining-your-picture-one-click-at-a-time/

There has to be some way to make money ruining precious memories, right?

Back to the Future...or 1985.

2008-06-18T11:17:00.002-04:00

I'm not gonna lie, I wasn't a huge fan of the Back to the Future movies, I guess the whole "Family Ties" series didn't sit well enough with me to appreciate watching another 5 or 6 hours of Michael J. Fox. But I've been briefed on them several times, even did the whole behind-the-scenes tour at Universal Studios. I didn't recognize any of the scenery, but I still oohed and ahhhed like a big tourist mo. I rode the 3-D simulator as well, which, if anyone out there has been on this ride since 1987, you know that getting in that thing in 2008 is the equivalent of having someone read you a pop-up storybook. I guess all of this was way 'before my time,' as they say, and by 'they' I mean anyone who was old enough to buy their own ticket when the first movie came out in theaters. Me, I was three, still figuring out that you shouldn't stick legos up your nose or eat paste. But today, I found out that there there was actually a DeLorean Motor Company. They opened in 1975 and actually made DeLorean sports cars! They filed for bankruptcy in 1982 because of lack of demand. I'm thinking to myself: "self, who the *expletive* wouldn't want a DeLorean??!" Personally, I say they were ahead the curve. Now people are paying crazy money to get butterfly doors installed when they could have just had an effing DeLorean. How can one resist this:

Or especially this:

Seriously, bring back the DMC-12. If anyone has one, and will sell it to me, there's some serious money in it for you. I could go as high as five dollars...maaaybe six. Let me know. I like red, but it's negotiable.

Let's Talk Pores

2008-06-18T09:38:00.001-04:00

For the record, the Neutrogena Wave is freaking fantastic. And not because it's peddled by Vanessa Hudgens. If I wasn't terrified of really close-up pictures I would show my newly minimized pores, however I am, and so I won't. Your loss. Anyway, buy one of these things, they're great.

Oh, and Neutrogena, you're welcome. I'll accept $1 of the proceeds for each Wave sold. Cash.

Workout: Pho freaking Pah

2008-06-17T21:13:00.003-04:00

As an avid gym-goer there are quite a few pet peeves I have, including but not limited to:

1) People who grunt...loudly, while lifting weights

2) People who give themselves motivational speeches on the treadmill (i.e. "come on! 2 more laps! let's go! you can do it!") outloud

3) People who talk on their cell phones while working out. Really, are you wasting your time or mine?

4) In general, people that spark conversations. I don't know you, this isn't speed dating, and clearly I have heavy weights in my hands and/or am running. Can this wait until Happy Hour?

5) I'm hesitant about this one because I am admittedly a heavy sweater, but seriously, bring a towel, they aren't paying me to wipe up after you.

Those being said, my absolute #1 loathe at the gym is the Hoverer. Listen, just because you asked me how many sets I have left on the machine, that doesn't give you the right to preside over me like a referee. You are allowed to linger, but hovering is unnacceptable. For those who don't grasp the difference let me explain:

A HOVERER is distinguished by the fact that if you accidentally dropped a dumbell it would probably land on their foot. You can clearly see this person in the corner of your eye as you are exercising, and he/she actually appears to be watching you. In addition, their water bottles are placed within arms reach. Listen Hoverer, I understand you want to get in and get out like the rest of us, but really, take a step back. I can't work out with your stare burning a hole in my tank top.

A LINGERER is someone who politely asks you when you will be finished, and accordingly fills the time with chatting with a buddy or watching a TV. This person will acknowledge that they are waiting, but not become as intimidating as to invade your personal space. Lingerers, while I don't ask for you, I accept your intentions.

The Moral: Get out of my freaking way or I'll hit you with a medicine ball.

American Gladiators

2008-06-17T15:54:00.002-04:00

I'd like to think I'm a lover not a fighter, but if I'm backed into a corner I'd probably fight dirty. Regardless, there are 3 people (ladies) who I honestly wouldn't mind kicking my ass. If you haven't seen the new American Gladiators yet, get on the freaking bandwagon.

Okay, so this show was always awesome, even in the 90's when they dressed like angry superheroes and had soft cotton ball names like Lace, Gemini and Malibu. Seriously, who is intimidated by Malibu? I don't know maybe he'll spray tan you to death or beat you with his surfboard.

I think the best memory of this guy Nitro (above) was that there was an episode of Ellen when she was on American Gladiators and they started dating. Even pre-coming out show...come on, that was absurd. Really, Ellen? Writers? Producers? Nitro? I wonder what happens to washed-up Gladiators anyway, they should have a reunion, or start a support group. At any rate, if the pre-millenium crew didn't do it for you, I'd tune in now solely for the newbies (i.e. refer to top). And as much as smaller, less green versions of the Hulk, aka the men, might impress some, I think the girls have it this time.

Coming soon: my quest for Gladiatordom (similar to that Russell Crowe movie, but cleaner, and without the lions...and the warriors...weapons...and cages...okay, I guess not like that movie at all.)