A Short Enumeration of All My Flaws

I think very carefully before I speak and sometimes it still comes out wrong.

There’s a dripping faucet and I can’t get my mind to turn off the sound, drip, drip…

I don’t know why I just wrote out the onomatopoeia for a dripping faucet. Everyone knows what a dripping faucet sounds like. Dripping faucets sound the same all over the world. All dripping faucets sound alike. Beisdes, ‘drip’ isn’t really an onomatopoeia at all; it’s a verb. The faucet is dripping. A more accurate description of the sound the dripping faucet makes would be ‘plink, plink.’ “The dripping faucet sounds as though it is dripping,” is essentially what I just said. 

When I was in middle school I didn’t wash my hair; I took plenty of showers and I didn’t smell, I just always put my hair in a shower cap before washing

Like, what’s even the point? it takes more time to shove 15 centimeters of hair into a shower cap than it does to work in some shampoo-

 

I don’t know the metric system; I have no idea how long 15 centimeters is. I am American and it is my fate to never know how long 15 centimeters is, or how many miles is a kilometre. I say it’s because I am American but really I am just lazy. 

 

I can never fall asleep. It’s 2:44 a.m. when I’m writing this. I bet you could tell. But you’re too polite to say anything.

I’m too nice. I befriend the misfits and other lumps of breathing flesh that no one else wants to be friends with. Then I find out why no one else wants to be friends with them (usually, they have horrible personalities and also they smell) and then I regret being so nice. Like a saint or something. That’s what I am.

I’m horrible; I say things I don’t mean. I have a lot of enemies, but I’m too nice and don’t say anything to them and they don’t know that we are my enemies. Mortal enemies. They probably think we’re friends. They are so wrong.

 

I’m too short. I wish I could count it as a disability. I can’t reach anything and my legs are stubby. I just want the parking decal. I hate to park so far away. 

 

Once I was pushing a shopping cart back to the place where all of the shopping carts hang out and snigger amongst themselves after dark—the shopping cart paddock. The shopping cart stable.  And I was being lazy and thought that it would be okay to not put the cart out to pasture and instead lean it against a large statue of a giant sphere. This was at a supermarket. I do not know why they had such a large statue of a giant sphere, but there it was. I leaned the cart up against it and started to walk away. The sphere was on an incline, as spheres are wont to be, but I did not know this about spheres at the time. The cart’s wheels gave way to gravity and the whole thing was yanked down the slope and started to roll into the traffic circle where people pull up their cars and make minimum-wage shopboys put all their bags away for them.  There was a woman in a bright red car that looked new, and the cart chugged towards it. She screamed at me to snatch the cart but I didn’t do anything about it and just stood there like I was dumb. The cart hit her red car that looked new and probably scratched up the paintjob and left a dent. I ran back into the store and pretended to look at comics while my mind raced. Is shopping cart negligence a crime? Could I be arrested for letting my cart roam free? I worried about it this for months. I also slept with the lights on because I was afraid of Bruce Willis’ ghost coming to haunt me. I was ten years old and The Sixth Sense had just come out. My emotions were very fragile.

 

Most of all, even now, while I sit in bed, at 2:57 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, I am still thinking about the day when I was ten and let my shopping cart ding up a lady’s red car that looked new and then after went home and slept with all the lights on. 

A Brief Love Affair With Skrillex

I hate dubstep.

I really, perniciously hate dubstep.

But the other day, my friend Joseph and I were watching the return of Beavis and Butthead, which, let me tell you, Mike Judge handled with much aplomb.

"She said handled." "Hehheheheheheheheh."

They’re back to their usual shtick: making fun of music videos, the whole nine yards.

Now let me clarify: I am mostly into folk rock and classic rock. Joseph is a diehard prog purist.

Beavis and Butthead played the music video “First of the Year (Equinox)” by Skrillex, an ear worm if i’ve ever heard one, sampling the shrill shriek of a woman crying “CALL 911 NOW!” as its main chorus, followed by  a plethora of bass drops and WOM WOM WOM BAAAAMs. The music video itself is about a serial pedophile getting the shit kicked out of him by a magical little girl and her daemon friend. It’s so awful.

But it has a hold on me, much like the daemon girl has a hold on the pedophile's jugular as she rips the life from him.

The video ends with the daemon girl counting off tallie marks, most presumably numbering the poor, defenseless Dubstep haters who have been sucked into Skrillex’s deathtrap by this unbelievably catchy song.

Another one bites the dust.

So, i guess this all has been a lesson in humility: you can be a musical hipster all you want; you can claim to hate Skrillex and all that he stands for. But no one, no one, is resistant to the forces of a toe-tapping tune.

Even if it's by this guy.

American Attention Whore-or Story (Or, How Many Dead Babies Does It Take To Boost FX’s Ratings)

Wednesday nights used to be Modern Family night, full of laughs, wholesome family fun, and Sophia Vergara’s voluptuous form.

See, wholesome.

Now, however, Wednesday nights have become American Horror Story nights.

Why such a radical shift, you ask?

Because American Horror Story is just so fucking ridiculous.

Where shall I begin….

The show stars Dylan McDermott, who looks suspiciously like Ross from Friends.

David Schwimmer should sue him for copyright infringement.

It also stars Mrs. Coach from Friday Night Lights. I’m sure her character had a name, but I don’t really care, and i’m pretty sure most people don’t, either.

Mrs. Coach, I don't think we're in Texas anymore.

So anyways, David Schwimmer’s evil twin and Mrs. Coach move to LA from Boston, where David Schwimmer’s evil twin has been caught, and I quote, “pile-driving some 21-year-old’s pussy.”

David Schwimmer’s evil twin Dylan McDermott, who I will now refer to as Ross, is a psychiatrist. A really, really shitty psychiatrist who cries while he masturbates. But we’ll get to that later.

Ross and Mrs. Coach have a rebellious grunge-rock teen named Violet, who might be the most talented actress on the show (which is not a very high compliment). They also have a dog, I think. Maybe. Maybe the dog is dead. I’m not sure. Let’s be real here, if it isn’t dead, it soon will be.

What a loving family.

They move into this charming Victorian which is lovingly referred to as The Murder House by in-world horror enthusiast.

Let's move here. I hear this is a great neighborhood where murders never occur.

Unfortunately, the Murder House is not as friendly as it sounds.

First off, there’s this creepy southern belle neighbor, played by Jessica Lange, who may or may not be dead.

She probably doesn't even know if she's dead or not. Who fucking knows.

She has a penchant for baking poison cupcakes and has a habit of showing up unwanted at inconvenient times. Kind of like a really persistant yeast infection.

Then there’s the maid, who is certainly dead, because Jessica Lange shot her in the 1980’s. She appears to most as a woman in her sixties, but to Ross, the crying fapper, she looks like the hottest ginger in town.

Too bad he's the only one who gets to see this.

There’s Tate, the capriciously cute axe-murdering teenager, of whom Ross is supposed to treat. Of course, Ross is a shitty psychiatrist whose license to practice medicine should be revoked, and Violet and Tate start a bit of a bad romance. Which is kind of cute, but not really, because he’s probably also dead.

It's cute enough to already merit fan art. I guess.

In one episode, Tate and Violet trick the coke-head school bully to come to their haunted dead-baby basement under the false pretenses that they posses cocaine. Then Tate, with the aid of some mutated monster ghost phantom daemon devil baby, scares the living daylights out of Ms. Crack, and that takes care of that.

But he wears really cute sweaters, so all is forgiven.

Speaking of the mutated monster ghost phantom daemon devil baby, let’s talk about how the house was haunted in the first place. A normal murder, perhaps? Maybe some voodoo, or an ancient curse? Ha, poppycock! The house was originally haunted because of the illegitimate abortion clinic a crazy doctor was running in it in the 1920’s, to fund his research and his wife’s extravagant lifestyle.  We assume the abortions were pretty sketchy and over-priced, being as though it was the 1920’s and your only other option was a coat-hanger or a strong falcon punch to the torso. So at some point a patient’s boyfriend gets mad at the crazy abortion doctor and abducts and kills the doctor’s baby. Oh, cruel dramatic irony! Oh sweet poetic justice! Oh, marvelously abundant ratings boost!

That’s about all we know at this point. Oh, and there’s a bunch of jars of hacked up baby parts in the basement somewhere, and they killed some twin boys in the 1970’s. Oh, and there’s a guy who murdered his family in the house and now has terminal cancer and is on the loose. Oh, and there was a stylish gay couple a few years back that was murdered by a guy in a spandex onesie.

Mr. Spock lovingly plays the role of the stylish gay ghost.

Oh, also:

Mrs. Coach was knocked up by the guy in the spandex onesie, who is, presumably, the same spandex guy who killed Mr. Spock and his domestic partner. She thought it was Ross, but somehow she didn’t notice that someone’s penis other than her husband’s was inside of her. Now she is pregnant with his daemon baby which, at 8 weeks gestation, has made exactly one ultra-sound technician pass out.

In addition:

Ross’ “21 year old pussy” is pregnant with his love baby. Or, was pregnant with his love baby. Now she’s buried in the backyard with the maid’s body and who knows who else’s body. Ross builds a gazebo over it to hide his dead baby mama. How cute.

"I'm under a gazebo now. Maybe."

In short, this is the craziest fucking show that has ever aired on regular cable.

And, yet, I can’t look away. Every moment is a plot twist. I missed five minutes at the beginning of tonight’s episode, and I missed Spock and his partner being murdered via apple-bobbing-tub drowning.

So, you win FX. Your sensationalist dogma wins. I can pretend to hate it all I want. I can roll my eyes at each new dead baby that will inevitably rise from its grave. I can scoff at the fact that the Ross Gellar family still lives in a house that is haunted by a spandex sex ghost, even though every moment they spend living in it raises my blood pressure significantly.

But you all know i’m counting down the moments until next Wednesday.

Hollowslut

It’s that time of year again. The leaves, succulent, bright shades of red, orange, and yellow fly through the air and fall to the ground, crunching harmoniously under weary feet. A cool breeze ruffles the air, and jackets, mittens, and hats arise from their summery hibernation. Oh, and the fact that it’s halloween gives thousands of teenage and twenty-something girls the excuse to dress like sluts.

Ever since Mean Girls ever so wisely portrayed a high school halloween party with ridiculously skimpy outfits, the problem has only gotten worse.

"I'm a mouse, duh!"

Last night, my roommate and I were weary from a day of studying. We were, of course, screwing around on facebook, because, come on, what else is there to do? Anyways, an ad popped up on her facebook for Yandy.com. Curious, we clicked upon the clickable, and were transported to a slut’s wonderland. Here are a few of our finds:

Yandy.com seems to be fascinated with pastry-themed costumes. There were about six different pastry chef costumes, each one becoming progressively more revealing, until the poor girl was basically wearing a bra, thong, and chefs hat. Alternatively, you can also dress up as a slutty version of the food:

"Oh my god you guys, i'm pie! Wanna pop my cherry?"

This one was called “Finding Clownfish,” in order to avoid copyright infringement. Not only does she not resemble in any way, shape, or form an actual clownfish, but she’s getting her skank all over my childhood.

"I don't speak whale, but I do speak dick."

Speaking of skanking all over my childhood, here’s their rendition of an etch-a-sketch. Because we know every elementary school boy dreamed of the day when he could bang his etch-a-sketch.

"Etch-a-sketch me like one of your french girls."

Yandy is also multi-cultural. There are too many slutty ninjas and geisha girls to count. Their rendition of a “native american” would have offended Andrew Jackson, and even their slutty eskimo made me want to head up to Saskatchawan and beg for forgiveness on behalf of my culture. But as if multi-cultural attire wasn’t sexy enough, let’s dress up as their food, too:

Okay, this is just racist.

"I'm sushi! You can eat me raw."

Have you ever watched Broadway’s 1977 smash-hit musical Annie and thought “Wow, I wish I could bang that orphan chick,” ? Well, good news, folks:

"I'll show you a 'hard' knocks life."

Broadway too sissy for your manly needs? Ever watched pro-wrestling or an MTV reality show and gone “wow, I wish there was a chick that was as hot as Hulk Hogan” ? Well, look no further:

"Watcha gonna do when hulkamania runs wild on you?"

Pro-wrestling too heathen for your blessed soul? Ever read the bible and thought Eve was one sexy mama?

"I ate from the tree of knowledge-- of how to fuck."

Jesus not your thing? Do you still enjoy all of Gods creatures? Do you ever wish that they had tits and were blonde?

I give you sexy shark:

"I don't bite- much."

and sexy duck:

"You don't need to use a rubber with this duck."

Hate the outdoors? Are you a pasty, couch-loving movie buff? There’s still a girl for you:

Perhaps you were a huge fan of the late Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange

"I'm like Alex-- my hobbies include rape, ultraviolence, and Beethoven. Only, who's Beethoven?"

Or perhaps this summer’s Rise of the Planet of the Apes was more your speed

"Caesar IS home."

My personal favorite: the sexy ticket

"I've got a ticket to ride."

There are so many more, I can’t even begin to scratch the surface. All I know is that whoever is behind Yandy.com is a genius. The outfits use such little fabric and cost so much money that they must be raking in the dough. Look, props to them. I for one an going to dress up as Phillip J. Frye this Halloween

Sexy.

To purchase any of these fine costumes, go to Yandy.com.

I’m a Lumberjack and i’m okay…

There is a street fair outside my dorm for lumberjacks. There are booths from the American Arborist Association, along with tents where you can purchase hacksaws, bungeechord, hard hats, and books such as the gem “To Fell a Tree.” While I walked to my dorm, a solicitor tried to hand me a pamplet entitled “Why Lumber?”

I am very confused.

 

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