Dear Allie,
We've got an issue here.
You see, I've lost all sense of actually having a life of my own, and have been reduced to an internet–wandering lost soul. (Interspersed, of course, with a few hours of Wii here and there.) Anyway, my point is that I can only read the headline "A News Update, A Dramatic Montage, and a Video Animation" so many more times before I go insane. The fact of the matter is simply that I (and I'm sure I speak for other faithful minions here) am dying to hear, perhaps in excruciating detail, the engagement story. That twitter post was like a mean advertisement for a show's season finale airing 2 months before you get to see it, only for there to be a writer's strike.
....Okay, that's a bit dramatic. But I feel like I'm watching Christmas ads on TV and there's no snow yet. WE MUST KNOWWWWWW!!!!!!!
Anyway, all melodrama aside, much congratulations. If it strikes you, please address the subject of "boyfriend's" pseudonym. Will it remain "boyfriend?" Will it change? Is this going to be like introducing Darrin #2 on Bewitched?
Thank you for your consideration in this pressing and urgent matter. In the meantime, I will just keep hitting the refresh button on Hyperbole and a Half seventy-two times per minute until it changes.
Sincerely,
Matt Walton
( http://nothingcleverishere.blogspot.com )
(P.S. I'm willing to negotiate a grace period extension due to your recent move. I'm moving in two weeks and it sucks the most. But once I'm unpacked, I'm going to assume that there will be a new blog. The fine is assessed at 15¢ per day after this point.)
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
Literally. Like, litchrully.
"Literally" is such a funny word. Well, it's not LITERALLY funny, but when the meaning of it is taken out of proper context, it cracks me up. It LITERALLY cracks me up.
See, I'm the kind of person whose mind will manage to imagine improper imagery in almost any situation. Like, if I sit and ponder the fact that someone is a mom, I, for some reason, can't help but imagine them screaming in a birthing room with nasty hair and cursing all men. Does this make me so, so sick? Probably. But that's just my cracked-up brain, I guess. So when people go throwing the word "literally" around all willy-nilly amongst metaphors, I can't help but imagine the LITERAL imagery of what they're describing. (On a separate, but related note, I can't STAND it when people pronounce "literally" /'lɪ tʃɹə lɨ/, or for my non-IPA-inclined friends, "LI-tchra-lee," with an obnoxious and unintentionally exaggerated emphasis on the /tʃ/ "ch." If you're going to make a ridiculous metaphoric reference, please pronounce the word right. *Gets down from soap box*)
I understand that "literally" has become more or less commonplace as an intensifier these days, but I still can't help but TAKE a given scenario "literally" literally when it's given to me in that context.
Here are some examples of "literal" scenarios that I've heard people toss around:
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
War on Morning
Last Saturday, I had to get up early. REAL early. Like, before 11. It may help you to understand this situation if you know that conversely, going to bed before 2am is incredibly early (and also impractical, because I am most productive when nocturnal). I hate the morning SO much. When it's "early," or I haven't had enough sleep, I turn into a death-cretin, whom it is in the best interest of everyone in the world to avoid.
Anyway, I had to be at an all-day meeting at 8 in the morning. I had gone to sleep at about 3:30, because I was working on a project (for the meeting, coincidentally) the night before. The morning starts off with a really wonderful upper when my iPhone remembers that it has the capability to impersonate a foghorn when I want it to wake me up. I always wish it would flake out on me and forget to follow through, but the damned thing is so reliable. So it goes off.
My closed-eyelid rage, on a scale of 1 to Wolverine, is already at a 3.6.
When I wake up in the morning, I am pretty freaking blind. I have awful night vision, and I never ever remember where I put my glasses before I went to sleep the previous night. Usually, the first thing I do is go to the living room to flip the lights so I can begin my glasses search. Now, my apartment is definitely ABOVE hoarders-status (I don't have any dead cats under my couch cushions or anything like that), but it's often far from clean. This makes for a dark obstacle course in which I am likely to dramatically injure myself and curse repeatedly. A typical morning goes something like this: (black objects are obstacles)
Total "dammit" count in this situation generally approaches 146.
To exacerbate the problem, a terrorist lives in my apartment. She is small, furry brown-and-black, weighs about 10 pounds, and meows obnoxiously until she gets fed in the morning, even if there is leftover food in her bowl. She is ABSOLUTELY 100% aware of the fact that I am batty-blind. In fact, half of the time, SHE is the one who hides my glasses on me. Yes, the CAT hides my glasses. It is her crack to knock them off the desk, or table, or counter onto the floor. Furthermore, she loves a good attack. And I don't mean that cutesy shit, either, I mean full-on teeth-and-claws-in-your-feet-sneaking-around-like-it's-her-job attack. And she KNOWS I hate it in the morning.
So this morning, my journey to the lightswitch went something like this:
My closed-eyelid rage, on a scale of 1 to Wolverine, is already at a 3.6.
When I wake up in the morning, I am pretty freaking blind. I have awful night vision, and I never ever remember where I put my glasses before I went to sleep the previous night. Usually, the first thing I do is go to the living room to flip the lights so I can begin my glasses search. Now, my apartment is definitely ABOVE hoarders-status (I don't have any dead cats under my couch cushions or anything like that), but it's often far from clean. This makes for a dark obstacle course in which I am likely to dramatically injure myself and curse repeatedly. A typical morning goes something like this: (black objects are obstacles)
To exacerbate the problem, a terrorist lives in my apartment. She is small, furry brown-and-black, weighs about 10 pounds, and meows obnoxiously until she gets fed in the morning, even if there is leftover food in her bowl. She is ABSOLUTELY 100% aware of the fact that I am batty-blind. In fact, half of the time, SHE is the one who hides my glasses on me. Yes, the CAT hides my glasses. It is her crack to knock them off the desk, or table, or counter onto the floor. Furthermore, she loves a good attack. And I don't mean that cutesy shit, either, I mean full-on teeth-and-claws-in-your-feet-sneaking-around-like-it's-her-job attack. And she KNOWS I hate it in the morning.
So this morning, my journey to the lightswitch went something like this:
I stop in my tracks. I know that the little slut is on the prowl.
The green eyes disappear. I cautiously proceed.
I halt. I know she's out for blood, now. I know she knows I'm defenseless.
Terrified, I press on...
I haven't seen the eyes in a minute, now. This is a bad sign. This means she's gearing up for the kill. I keep inching forward.
AND THEN...OUT OF NOWHERE...
So the little bitch wins this round. And now my foot is bleeding.
You can see how my mood is just skyrocketing exponentially.
Next comes the dreaded shower part. The plumbing in our apartment had to have been installed by Screwtape, or Wormwood, or somebody, to ensure that I, the Patient, would be sufficiently tortured any time I felt the need for cleanliness. It takes about 1 hour and 36 minutes for the water to heat up to something past liquid nitrogen. At that point, it immediately jumps to the other end of the spectrum, where it vaporizes anything that comes within a 10-foot radius. It takes a very skilled and tender flicking of the faucet one way or the other to perfectly titrate the temperature so that it is at least tolerably scalding or freezing.
That stupid little FURBALL of a b**ch dares to think that she can get an attack in while I'm showering. Without thinking twice, I kill her with the precision eye-laser beams that I gain as a superpower during periods of extreme necessity.
Brian must have heard me chuckle in satisfaction over the cat's defeat, or heard her yelp, or something, because he came into the bathroom. Just to be safe, I figured I'd nip any shenanigans in the bud.
Me: WHATDOYOUTHINKYOU'REDOING.
Brian: ...I have to get ready too, you know...we BOTH have to be at the meeting at eight...
Me: Well fine...BUT DON'T DO ANYTHING YOU'LL REGRET.
B: I just have to pee...is that okay?
Me: Okay. BUT YOU'D BETTER NOT REGRET IT!
I eventually get my lethargic self out of the shower. Oh, right. The management hasn't turned on our building's heat yet. This QUICKLY becomes apparent as I search for a towel while my blood congeals. I start to become hypothermic and know that I must act quickly or perish. I finally find a towel and clothes and start to get dressed. Now I'm starting to stress about our timeline, as I have a tendency to get out the door just by the skin of my teeth.
Me: WHAT TIME IS IT?
B: Just pretend like it's 8 o'clock already!
Me: ...mrrgrhfmmfrbghrbrgrblr...asshole.
B: What did you say?
Me: NOTHING! I SAID I CAN'T WAIT TO LEAVE!
Ladies and gentleman, at this point it's official: it's a war zone in here.
We ended up making it out of the house on time. But that definitely did not mean that anyone was off the hook from my blinding morning wrath. Take the drive to the theatre (where the meeting was located), for instance:
Fortunately, the folks at the meeting were prepared for the beast that was coming for them. A peace offering of Chex mix, monkey bread, and Capri sun awaited our arrival. I accepted their truce and called a ceasefire. How can you be spiteful after a Capri Sun, after all?
(Every time I drink a Capri Sun, I think of that Nickelodeon show from the 90s, The Secret Life of Alex Mack...remember how she could melt into a Capri Sun puddle and go under doors and stuff? I'd almost be jealous if I didn't have emergency eye laser superpowers of my own.)
Nacho Death
There is a literally a hurricane today in Wisconsin. (I have a whole blog planned out about the misuse of the word "literally" coming up soon, but in this case, it's REAL.) I don't know if it has been named yet, but Weather Channel said that this storm could easily be as strong as the last 4 hurricanes in the Atlantic. I'm not even kidding. Want to see?
This is when things began to get ugly. The wind was so strong that it was starting to carry my nachos away, and it was whipping those little f**ers at me at 43 knots!! Hurricane Inlandia was turning my nachos into dangerous martial arts weapons. What happened next was a blur. But to the best of my recollection, it went something like this:
 |
| (Okay, so it really just looks like this, but that's not NEARLY as accurate a depiction of what it feels like.) |
Anyway. Today, I went to the Taco Bell on campus for lunch and got the nachos supreme. It's what I usually get. I was planning on walking back to the music building to eat them in the lounge.
It all started with the inability to push open the door to the student union. It was kind of like the wind had stolen a chair from a classroom and had shoved it up under the handle so that I'd be locked in there to die in case of fire. After about 30 seconds of struggling to no avail, I decided to kick it up a notch. I backed up and ran at the door, and shoulder-plowed it open. It opened. It closed. I wasn't out of the door yet. I yelped in pain.
The best way I can describe the subsequent experience of being outside in the wind would be to liken it to being on the peak of Mt. Washington. It felt something like this:
And that's how I was killed by my lunch.
June Cleaver
I've been sick all day. Like, on-the-couch-lie-around-and-do-nothing-sick. You know, the kind where your skin hurts and your head hurts and you feel like throwing up would probably make you better but you are also trying to avoid throwing up at all costs and you want to get things done but you know that if you move AT ALL you'll throw up anyway thus foiling your intrepid efforts not to in the first place? That kind of sick.
I am usually the one who does the cooking around here. I'm not good for MUCH else, but I can cook. Which is fortunate for us, because, well, Brian can't. And I don't mean "can't," as in, he hates it so much that he'd rather scrub the bathtub with his tongue than cook a hot meal, I mean CAN'T. Like that part of his brain was affected by some horrific environmental toxin at birth, and developed with a shriveled leg, or something.
So, Brian left for class this morning and I stayed home and focused my efforts on trying not to puke. This is a very specialized technique that I've had years to hone, as I don't have a very level-headed stomach.
Sometimes not puking is as simple as trying to confuse your stomach by throwing it off the trail--if you eat 2 or 3 TUMS, your stomach suddenly has to figure out how to deal with the data your tongue has just sent that you've just consumed some sort colored chalk. It wonders why you've done such an odd thing, begins to question your judgment, and then starts to disregard anything else you try to tell it.
I've learned in my field-trials, though, that my gullet is gullible enough to go along with me anyway. So I usually try to distract it. Something shiny, like Facebook or YouTube, will usually get the job done; except that today, however, feeling nauseous was paired with a splitting headache, which made distraction by computing a poor recourse. I found that an easy alternative was to distract it by sleeping. (Note: Unconsciousness is a great defense mechanism in a variety of situations, not limited to severe nausea. Try it the next time you slam your head on something real hard, I guarantee you won't feel a thing until you wake up!)
Time passed. I was awakened by a noxious odor a little after noon. It smelled as if our apartment had been taken over by 76 chainsmokers while I was sleeping, and that they were intent on suffocating me in my sleep by exhaling carbon monoxide and death directly into my nostrils. I went to check the lock on the front door to see if this were true. Locked. So what was the source of these foul fumes? I looked out the window to see if a car was on fire in the alley. Nope. Well, whatever. I just opened all the windows and turned on all the fans and put a t-shirt over my face. If I didn't already die in my sleep of hypoxia, I'd be fine now.
I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water (because you know how when you're sick, your lips dry up into a desert and no amount of chapstick can correct it because your dehydrated little body will just slurp it in through your pores and wring out every little drop of moisture within it like it's Gatorade anyway?)
Anyway, I drank my water, and in the brief moment that I had my t-shirt-respirator down from my face, I smelled the OVERWHELMING scent of charred EVERYTHING. It was as if somebody had grilled out on the kitchen floor and forgot to clean up any of the charcoal, and then started their hair on fire just for fun and threw it in the pile.
And then I saw it. I didn't even know how to identify it at first, so I waited until Brian got home to ask.
Me: Hey, did you come home for lunch?
Brian: Yeah.
Me: Oh! What'd you have?
Brian: Um... well... I heated up tortillas on the stove and had them with butter because I had to go to class right away.
Me: (SO THAT'S WHAT THIS THINGIS WAS!) Was... there a problem at all?
Brian: Well...um....THAT one didn't work.
So anyway, I'LL stick to the pearls and heels in the kitchen. Brian "Ward" Cleaver is relieved of duty.
I am usually the one who does the cooking around here. I'm not good for MUCH else, but I can cook. Which is fortunate for us, because, well, Brian can't. And I don't mean "can't," as in, he hates it so much that he'd rather scrub the bathtub with his tongue than cook a hot meal, I mean CAN'T. Like that part of his brain was affected by some horrific environmental toxin at birth, and developed with a shriveled leg, or something.
So, Brian left for class this morning and I stayed home and focused my efforts on trying not to puke. This is a very specialized technique that I've had years to hone, as I don't have a very level-headed stomach.
Sometimes not puking is as simple as trying to confuse your stomach by throwing it off the trail--if you eat 2 or 3 TUMS, your stomach suddenly has to figure out how to deal with the data your tongue has just sent that you've just consumed some sort colored chalk. It wonders why you've done such an odd thing, begins to question your judgment, and then starts to disregard anything else you try to tell it.
I've learned in my field-trials, though, that my gullet is gullible enough to go along with me anyway. So I usually try to distract it. Something shiny, like Facebook or YouTube, will usually get the job done; except that today, however, feeling nauseous was paired with a splitting headache, which made distraction by computing a poor recourse. I found that an easy alternative was to distract it by sleeping. (Note: Unconsciousness is a great defense mechanism in a variety of situations, not limited to severe nausea. Try it the next time you slam your head on something real hard, I guarantee you won't feel a thing until you wake up!)
Time passed. I was awakened by a noxious odor a little after noon. It smelled as if our apartment had been taken over by 76 chainsmokers while I was sleeping, and that they were intent on suffocating me in my sleep by exhaling carbon monoxide and death directly into my nostrils. I went to check the lock on the front door to see if this were true. Locked. So what was the source of these foul fumes? I looked out the window to see if a car was on fire in the alley. Nope. Well, whatever. I just opened all the windows and turned on all the fans and put a t-shirt over my face. If I didn't already die in my sleep of hypoxia, I'd be fine now.
I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water (because you know how when you're sick, your lips dry up into a desert and no amount of chapstick can correct it because your dehydrated little body will just slurp it in through your pores and wring out every little drop of moisture within it like it's Gatorade anyway?)
And then I saw it. I didn't even know how to identify it at first, so I waited until Brian got home to ask.
Me: Hey, did you come home for lunch?
Brian: Yeah.
Me: Oh! What'd you have?
Brian: Um... well... I heated up tortillas on the stove and had them with butter because I had to go to class right away.
Me: (SO THAT'S WHAT THIS THING
Brian: Well...um....THAT one didn't work.
So anyway, I'LL stick to the pearls and heels in the kitchen. Brian "Ward" Cleaver is relieved of duty.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Is it bad that I want to buy an XBOX just to play Buffy?
I hate it when people misspell "Angel" as "angle." It's the worst thing. Here's my main beef with the SHOW Angel, though—If they make the character Cordelia out to be such a dumbass, how can the writers POSSIBLY justify having her casually toss the word "stymied" into daily conversation? [masturbatory writing, that's how.]
I love Buffy. A lot lot lot lot. I have (well, Brian has, actually) all 7 seasons on disc, and we watch it on Netflix incessantly. I also have the XBOX game, but I lack an XBOX. We're a PS3 household.
Is it really really obscene to get a second- or third- or fourth-hand XBOX console from the game trade store for like $20 just to play Buffy?
In other news, I'm kicking ass at Pokémon FireRed. Yes, I'm really 21 years old.
I love Buffy. A lot lot lot lot. I have (well, Brian has, actually) all 7 seasons on disc, and we watch it on Netflix incessantly. I also have the XBOX game, but I lack an XBOX. We're a PS3 household.
Is it really really obscene to get a second- or third- or fourth-hand XBOX console from the game trade store for like $20 just to play Buffy?
In other news, I'm kicking ass at Pokémon FireRed. Yes, I'm really 21 years old.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Don't read this. Stop it. Go away.
I told you, there's nothing to see. You can even tell by the title, if you want to extrapolate by about five centimeters. (Can you even measure extrapolation in centimeters? What is the proper SI unit for that?)
Welp, I am procrastinating. I am guessing you are doing the same thing, or you wouldn't still be here since I have implored you on at least three occasions to cease and desist. You, most resolute one, clearly have more of nothing to do than I. I am at least moving my fingers. I'm paving the way for carpal tunnel. I might also be burning about one calorie with my finger movement. I might even cancel my Anytime Fitness membership. You, you are just moving your eyes. And while I commend you on ocular kegels, you must admit, you are doing nothing.
You insist on continuing to read? Then I guess it becomes my responsibility to feed your voracious crappetite. (Heh, do you see what I did there? With the "crappetite?" Because I'm writing crap, and you're eating it up? Heh.)
THIS MORNING IS GREAT.
I never ever ever ever ever ever thought I had the capacity to like anything before 1pm, but this day started out RIGHT. I even danced to my alarm clock a little before I got out of bed. And yes, by danced, I mean, flopped around aimlessly without actually sitting up. It's more of a buttdance. But it's the spirit of it that counts.
First of all, I had about six dreams about Magic School Bus last night. Actually, I don't think they were all ABOUT Magic School Bus. But somehow the the class was on a field trip in all of my dreams, and Ms. Frizzle was doing her weltanshauung-narration of everything while it was happening, and occasionally the bus full of children would float by. It was like..."Mystery Science Theatre 3000, Ms. Frizzle Edition."
SECOND. The insurance lady called. Finally. Robbed in August, and I finally get to have my things replaced! Except for we're in a recession, so it's not like in the 90's, where I would get nice shiny new things to recover my loss...I get nice...dusty, depreciated-value things. They calculate the depreciation of all of my items stolen, and then I get that much. But at least I get free money, so it's still a great day!! (Okay, okay, I know it's not free money, and it's going to go toward things I wouldn't have to buy if they hadn't been stolen anyway, but I'm getting a check in the mail that I didn't perform manual labor for, so it FEELS like free money. Same concept as student loans.)
THIRD. I am not doing any homework yet. This WAS a good thing an hour ago when I started writing this post, but now it's starting to turn in to a terrible thing since I have class at 12:30 and have 3 readings to complete, and a short short short reflection paper. There's not a doubt in my mind that I can accomplish this. Or, rather, could, if my brain weren't wired backwards. It kind of has a lot of energy left over from metabolizing that shot I took with my daily dose of ibuprofen and speed at breakfast.
KIDDING.
But really, my brain is in fried-egg hyperactivity mode. Which is pleasant at the moment, but is proving detrimental to my "MUST...FINISH...HOMEWORKS..." mentality.
Final thought—Is it possible to shoot a spitball at the Mona Lisa? I mean, I SURE don't condone destroying or defaming famous artwork. But is it protected, like, secret service style? Like if the guard saw you taking out a straw, would he run at you in slow-mo while your eyes get really wide and pupils get really small, and then do a full-body-take-down kind of maneuver? Or would maybe HE would take the bullet? Or would you just get kicked out and fined? Would they not even know where it came from? Are straws all confiscated on the way in? Like, is that part of what's built into the metal detectors and bag-x-ray machines at the door of the museum? A straw detector? I'm baffled. But I'm not going to try it. No matter how much speed I'm on. I value the integrity of my spine, and my imagination is giving me this terrible image of a linebacker in a grey mall-cop outfit running at me in slow-mo to kick my ass. And THAT image makes my back hurt.
Welp, I am procrastinating. I am guessing you are doing the same thing, or you wouldn't still be here since I have implored you on at least three occasions to cease and desist. You, most resolute one, clearly have more of nothing to do than I. I am at least moving my fingers. I'm paving the way for carpal tunnel. I might also be burning about one calorie with my finger movement. I might even cancel my Anytime Fitness membership. You, you are just moving your eyes. And while I commend you on ocular kegels, you must admit, you are doing nothing.
You insist on continuing to read? Then I guess it becomes my responsibility to feed your voracious crappetite. (Heh, do you see what I did there? With the "crappetite?" Because I'm writing crap, and you're eating it up? Heh.)
THIS MORNING IS GREAT.
I never ever ever ever ever ever thought I had the capacity to like anything before 1pm, but this day started out RIGHT. I even danced to my alarm clock a little before I got out of bed. And yes, by danced, I mean, flopped around aimlessly without actually sitting up. It's more of a buttdance. But it's the spirit of it that counts.
First of all, I had about six dreams about Magic School Bus last night. Actually, I don't think they were all ABOUT Magic School Bus. But somehow the the class was on a field trip in all of my dreams, and Ms. Frizzle was doing her weltanshauung-narration of everything while it was happening, and occasionally the bus full of children would float by. It was like..."Mystery Science Theatre 3000, Ms. Frizzle Edition."
SECOND. The insurance lady called. Finally. Robbed in August, and I finally get to have my things replaced! Except for we're in a recession, so it's not like in the 90's, where I would get nice shiny new things to recover my loss...I get nice...dusty, depreciated-value things. They calculate the depreciation of all of my items stolen, and then I get that much. But at least I get free money, so it's still a great day!! (Okay, okay, I know it's not free money, and it's going to go toward things I wouldn't have to buy if they hadn't been stolen anyway, but I'm getting a check in the mail that I didn't perform manual labor for, so it FEELS like free money. Same concept as student loans.)
THIRD. I am not doing any homework yet. This WAS a good thing an hour ago when I started writing this post, but now it's starting to turn in to a terrible thing since I have class at 12:30 and have 3 readings to complete, and a short short short reflection paper. There's not a doubt in my mind that I can accomplish this. Or, rather, could, if my brain weren't wired backwards. It kind of has a lot of energy left over from metabolizing that shot I took with my daily dose of ibuprofen and speed at breakfast.
KIDDING.
But really, my brain is in fried-egg hyperactivity mode. Which is pleasant at the moment, but is proving detrimental to my "MUST...FINISH...HOMEWORKS..." mentality.
Final thought—Is it possible to shoot a spitball at the Mona Lisa? I mean, I SURE don't condone destroying or defaming famous artwork. But is it protected, like, secret service style? Like if the guard saw you taking out a straw, would he run at you in slow-mo while your eyes get really wide and pupils get really small, and then do a full-body-take-down kind of maneuver? Or would maybe HE would take the bullet? Or would you just get kicked out and fined? Would they not even know where it came from? Are straws all confiscated on the way in? Like, is that part of what's built into the metal detectors and bag-x-ray machines at the door of the museum? A straw detector? I'm baffled. But I'm not going to try it. No matter how much speed I'm on. I value the integrity of my spine, and my imagination is giving me this terrible image of a linebacker in a grey mall-cop outfit running at me in slow-mo to kick my ass. And THAT image makes my back hurt.
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