Bungle in the Jungle

Having survived a cold, Christmas with both of her parents and snow, all in one day mind you, we find our heroine at a bar on Christmas Day evening. She's had at least 1.5 drinks already and is dismayed to find the entire staff of the bar across the street from her apartment at this different bar several more blocks down the street. Even though the bar across the street from her house was supposed to be open but isn't, obviously, because the entire bar staff is here, drunk as shit.

Did I mention she had to put on her actual snow boots to get there? Snow, Not. Our. Friend.

Enter 45 year old man, Mike LeDouche. Mike sees our darling and begins to chat her up. One thing you have to understand about our heroine is that older white men totally dig her. Mostly because she listens to the same kind of music they do. That and one other obvious thing but we'll leave that one alone. All I'm going to say is that men on Harley's have a serious predilection for our girl. Serious predilection.

So when Jethro Tull comes on the music player and she starts singing. WHAM! They're in love. It's instantaneous. They don't see it coming and the only thing old white men love more than a stacked woman, is a stacked young woman who won't bitch about their iTunes playlist.

Unfortunately for our heroine, there is only one man over 45 that she, our darling, would settle for. Mr. LeDouche, he's not him. Sadly, George is probably in his villa in Italy drinking the night away and we'd like to think that he's thinking about our girl. Yeah, we'll leave it at that. He's thinking about our darling heroine.

So when Mike LeDouche starts to pour it on thick and heavy, our girl, she doesn't pull her punches. She merely says 'You? Not my problem,' as she curls her lip up, scrunches her eyebrows together and up in that 'Ugh.' facial expression. She walks away from the tell-tale ticking time-bomb that is this 45 year old man who has deluded himself into thinking that Hell has indeed frozen over with the incoming snow and monkey's have finally flown out my father's butt. He thinks not only does he have a shot with our darling but it's a bull's-eye!

The great part is that she won't even look back to see the destruction. She'll just chuckle with satisfaction knowing he's blown his ownself up. He was always only aiming at his own target painted on his chest. And if she smoked she'd probably light her cigarette off of his flaming wreckage. She's that cool.

Vap-O-Rub'in Good Time

Apparently the man who invented Vick's Vap-O-Rub is from Greensboro, NC. I read that on a sign the other day in downtown Greensboro. It's nice to have a general direction and embodiment of the man whom I'm to thank for the greasy nastiness currently residing on my chest.

I remember being a wee child and getting sick and my mother slathering the Vap-O-Rub on me. I always had these polyester pajamas that would just stick to the stuff and it just made me feel even ickier. At the time I'd also have a fever which would break in the night so by the time I awoke in the morning I was drenched in sweat, in pajamas that were literally stuck to me because I was hot enough to melt the Vap-O-Rub which then mixed with my sweat and proceeded to migrate everywhere so that my entire bed smelled of cedar trees and juniper bushes.

It's still gross, now I just realize the futility of the situation. If I want to sleep in a horizontal position I've got to slather it on. Otherwise I'll have to lean against the wall with a pillow which doesn't especially work too well to sleep. I've tried.

Le sigh.

Here I am. Covered in Vick's Vap-O-Rub. It's on my chest, on my upper lip, and actually in my nose somewhat. I will sleep tonight, I will. Plus this way if some handsome man breaks into my bedroom to woo me, I'll already be greased up and ready to go.

Hopefully he won't mind the smell.

Who knew?

Who knew that a person of medium build and relatively small frame could make this much snot?

Snot, snot everywhere and not a drop outside of my body. Noooooooo it's in my head. (You thought I was going to say not a drop to drink, didn't you? Haha. I thought about but then I thought that's pretty gross. You don't want to think about drinking snot. Plus it doesn't really have a liquid state. It's pretty much a colloid. Well mine is. Okay I'm going to stop now.) Every last bit of it. Le groan.

Plus I have a fever, which doubly sucks. All I really want to do is immerse myself in a clear pool of cool, cool water and stay there until all of this goes away. All of the sickness, all of the holidays, all of the cheer, all of everything. Just lay, suspended in the cold liquid and rest away from the world.

But I suppose I'll have to settle for a cool bath and see where that gets me.

On Being an Asshat

You know what? Sometimes you should just keep your damn mouth shut.

And just because someone instructs you to give someone else their criticisms of said person doesn't mean you need to. Sometimes you just go 'Okay. Sure thing.' And not hit the send button. Exactly what is the point in making someone feel like shit? Great they feel like shit. And now you get to deal with my snotty ass attitude and no matter how much you say 'Don't shoot the messenger' I'm still jumping out the coupe blazin. So duck homey. You made the choice so quit acting like a puss-box and buck up and take the crap you get for it. Maybe next time you'll say to yourself 'Remember when I told Anna that nasty criticism and she jumped all in my shit and I wasn't too happy about that? I know! I won't make that mistake again!'

And another thing. Sometimes you shouldn't be an asshat. Granted for some people that's difficult as being an asshat is their modus operandi (I don't even know if I spelled that right but my Give-A-Shit-Meter is at the 'Shooting the Bird' level right now so just deal. And assume I can spell.) and it's always so difficult to deny your true nature.

Give a shot and see what you come up with.

Fuck-tard.

You're never as smart as you think you are.

But you are probably stupider than you thought.

And yes I know, stupider is not a word. I'm trying to make it a word by using it regularly and in context. Similar to my campaign with Canadia.

And yes I know that if you aren't as smart as you think you are, by definition that means you're more stupid. Or stupider. Stupider than you thought you were.

I finished my biophysics final today. All 4 questions of it. Questions in which I graphed chaos theory and determined the distance between two ends of a protein for FRET. *To translate that last bit for my non-biological minded readers, just insert 'some marginally hard shit' in place of the parts that don't make sense to you. Those were the questions I could do. The other 2 questions were about enzyme kinetics and molecular dynamics of alpha helix formations. *To translate that for my non-biological minded readers please insert 'No one likes the people that can actually do this impossible shit.' in the parts you don't understand. I still have friends (I think?) so that tells you how successful I was on that. Assuming that my friends like me and if they don't it's not because they're jealous of my mad enzyme kinetics skills. Because those skills, they don't exist.

I got to thinking about how smart I really am. While I like to think I have an increased apitude for some things I often realize that I'm really not as smart as I think that I am. Or I drink too much and the alcohol is killing off my brain cells. That and the fumes. From what I can't remember. Or I'm just getting older. I hear you peak intellectually in your mid-late twenties. Although I imagine that's because at that point in your life you don't have the time or the inclination to wax philosophically about Sartre. You've got to clean the damn tub and those Sartre brain cells have to be re-assigned to remembering to pick up laundry detergent and tampons.

But the point is this, that if you were as smart as you thought a smart person could be then how smart would you be?

You would be as smart as a smart person could be, if a smart person could be smart.

So really it's a matter of perception. You perceive that you're smart and you are. Until you're proven wrong and you come face-to-face with your own idiocy.

Good luck with that.

All I want for Christmas is an Rx for Valium and a bottle of Scotch.

Ah, Christmas.

How do I love thee?

Is it with ribbons and bells? And cockles and shells?

(Not that I know what a cockle is but it works.)

This time of year is generally stressful for everyone. Example: My mother hasn't slept in three days. Hence I haven't slept in two.

Here are some tips to help you avoid the Holiday Blues:

1. Get a prescription for tranquilizers and mix up everyone's favorite cocktail: Beating the Winter Blues with a Snooze. Combine 2 parts whiskey/scotch/other liqour that knocks you out cold, anything but Tequila (That usually makes people aggressive and crazy. And naked.), with 1-2 prescription tranquilizers. Sleep your way through the Holiday Season! Repeat as needed.

2. Purchase a pistol-grip, pump-action shotgun. Think of how well behaved everyone will be when you're toting Ol' Bessie around. Lines will magically disappear when you come through waving that around in the air. Cars will move and no more arguing over that parking spot. Why that nice woman in the over-sized SUV will just let you have that parking space when you're standing out the sunroof with her grill in your cross-hairs. Note: This method generally works better if you haven't bathed for a while or washed your hair. You need to really commit to the image of crazy, otherwise you don't really have the necessary clout to wield such a gun with any believability.

3. Are you lonely and emotionally cold this holiday season? Why not take all that money you were going to spend on gifts and presents for loved ones and head for a warmer climate? You'll get felt up by your local TSA agent and while the warmer climate won't warm up your soul it will cheer up your general demeanor. Especially when you know that while you're sunning on the beach with a Mai Tai or several, your friends and family are running the Christmas Rat Race in the freezing cold. Look at that, Dinner and a Show.

Everyone remember to stay safe and warm this holiday season and keep your family safe and warm as well.
This doesn't mean you can stuff Uncle George in the fireplace for mentioning you've gained a few pounds but the sentiment is nice.

I'm kind of having a moment.

Apparently the world is ending. Right now. The rain is pelting, driving really, against my window on the tenth floor of my apartment building and the wind is howling, making this eerie high whistle, kind of like a train.
Which now that I think about it may or may not be a sign of an incoming tornado. That whole train whistle thing.

Well I'm definitely not getting up to look now. I totally want to be clueless of my impending doom. I don't want time to think about all the dumb shit I've done in my lifetime. Most days I have a cavalier 'Fuck it.' attitude towards my misdeeds and mistakes but today has been an odd day. I'm super sensitive but in a fleeting way, if that makes sense. Not sensitive in a 'I'm going to spend 3 days sobbing because I'm a lard-ass' way. More like a 'I may be a lard ass but I can't honestly think about that right now because I'm too busy cooking up theories about how the neighbors down the hall are tied to their desk chairs being held hostage because their Amazon.com packages have been in the hall for 3 days. Oh and the world is ending with the Super-Tornado bearing down on us.'

Anyway, back to dying, if I was to die I would want to do it unexpectedly. I wouldn't want to have to plan it and figure what my last words would be and who I'd say 'Goodbye' to and in what order. Do I say my parents first because they're most important or last so that it hits home that I love them the most? Do I tell people to do things that I never got to do? Say things I never got to say? Do I say to my best friend 'Tell the neighbor I always got butterflies in my stomach when I saw him.' 'Tell the one that got away that I'm sad things didn't work out.' 'Apologize to the 900 people I screwed over and/or ignored.' 'Tell Kid Rock I think his music sucks and he blows as a musician.' (Anybody can fucking holler and it takes a special kind of person to sing about trailer parks and ruin Bob Seger.) Not to mention that when you know your death is coming you have to set up the memories that you want to see when your life flashes before your eyes. And whenever I've tried to do this before I always close my eyes and see Howard the Duck. Whom I'm mortally terrified of, so that doesn't work out.

Dying is a pain the ass and it's pain to prepare for. Maybe I'll just go to bed and hopefully the tornado will come while I'm asleep.

But just in case, I love you mom. And someone please tell the neighbor that he'll never know what he missed.