Birthday? I think not.

I have decided to forgo aging this year. 28 came too soon and with too many potential complications. I am staying at 27. Thanks anyway Universe - catch you around next year.

PS. Anyone who can help make this happen (by way of functioning time machine or pre-tested magic potions of the un-mushroom variety) please email.

Nailed.

I was Rusty Nailed yesterday. Not the drink. Or the sexual position. I mean a rusty nail pierced my virgin flesh. Made it BLEED. I'm actually surprised that I lived to blog the tale. They wanted to give me a total blood transfusion and stitch and staple it up the gaping wound with about a hundred or so stitches. And some industrial grade epoxy. And then a CAT scan to be safe. And put in one of those throat thingys Stephen Hawking has. But I declined. I'm tough like that. Tough as rusty nails. Maybe even tougher.

But just to make the 32 paramedics, 5 firemen and 1 trauma surgeon (who all rallied around me in my darkest hour) feel better I agreed to get a Tetanus shot. So off to doctors I went today. Apparently I was 3 years overdue for mine. Once every 10 years people. And you should have seen the needle! It took 2 nurses to bring it in. Left a hole the size of a grape in my arm. No problem - I stuffed my gum in there. Like a real hero.

So I'm topped up. Good to go. Tetanus proof. And you know what that means.........?

Irresponsible Drinking and Rusty Nail Throwing Party At Sarah's House! BYOB.....and nails.

Deadline looming. Time to blog about inane shit that I know is really important to you.

My plant hates me.

I don't know why and I didn't know that plants could, but my plant hates me.

I own am the proud angry owner of a generic tropical plant. Species unknown. The label that came with it said 2" Tropical Plant. A little red flag should have gone up right then and there. What plant doesn't have a name? I'll tell you which: the kind that will grow up to hate you. And slowly break you down. One defiant yellowish leaf at a time.

Blatant subversiveness is the name of this plants game. I prop it up, it grows down. I put it near light, it leans toward shade. I put it in shade, it strains towards light. I have suspicions that its not a plant at all, but a willful 2 year old child (theory yet to be proved).

It has decided that instead of having its leaves grow out at its side like other plants, instead it will have its leaves point straight downwards. Hell bent on making me look like a really bad and negligent plant owner. This plant is the toddler that stands in aisle 4 of the grocery store and screams bloody murder after you've taken out their addition to the cart and said "no sweetie, we aren't going to buy ribbed condoms today" making everyone wonder if you secretly beat your child at home and/or if you are a sexual deviant who shops for condoms in the presence of their 4-year old (I just heard a Republican somewhere gasp in horror). Side note: Both kids and plants collaborative mission = humiliate adults at any chance.

Nothing I do makes this plant happy. A more esoteric person might make a clever analogy here about how this plant is like life and blah blah blah *snooooooooooore* That person has a very different blog than me:

itakemyselfveryseriouslyandsoshouldyou.blogspot.com

I'll just continue bitching about my plant.

That hates me.

I have other plants you know. Alive, flourishing, happy. Its not ME. Its the plant. Who is an asshole. Yes. I just called my plant an asshole.

I am going to surround my asshole plant with all my other happy plants. In the hopes that their goodwill and ability to be normal rubs off on it. I take a risk in doing this though - come the morning I might end up with 7 asshole plants where before there was only one. In which case I will gleefully regretfully pull them up by the roots and start over with better plants. Plants that will DO what plants are meant to do. WHY CAN'T THINGS JUST DO WHAT THEY'RE MEANT TO DO!

Stuck.

So I am starting to get the hang of this blogging thing: basically, if you have something else to be doing, ANYTHING at all, that's when you'll feel the urge to blog most. Compelled, Impelled, PROPELLED! It becomes all you can think about. Your fingertips flying over the keys, your heart racing, your pupils dilating. Yes, blogging is the drug of choice for computer-literate lickspittles straddling the Generation X/Y cusp.

So that being said, here is my entry for today. 20 bonus points for today's theme being:

How to Solve a Problem About the Task I Am ACTUALLY Supposed To Be Doing Right Now
(or HTSAPATTIAASTBDRN for short).

So you know how when you're writing a piece of music and everything is going along tickitty-boo? The moody, broody harmonies reflecting the ever-so damaged soul of a tortured musician are practically writing themselves (except not really. I'm writing them. ME. In case future royalty collections are up for dispute...) and then out of nowhere it all takes a horribly bizarre turn and ends up morphing into that really catchy song from "Beauty and The Beast"? And you're like, "what the fuck? did that just come out of me?" and then you get worried because maybe a blue bird is about to follow. And some woodland nymphs. And a singing mouse. [Note: singing mice are the harbingers of death to a music career. Next stop: pet food jingles. On RADIO].

So yeah, that's happened to you, right? Great. What do I do about it? What makes Belle stop singing: "Newwwww and a bit a-larming, who'd have ev-er thought that this could beeeeeee, truuuuue that he's no prince charm-ing, but she won't dis-co-ver that its him! 'till chap-ter threeeeee!"

Ahhhhh!! MAKE IT STOP!!!


Things I Have Already Tried:

1. a walk
2. eating swiss chard
3. yelling at the squirrels who live in my roof and feast on our electrical cables
4. reading the superficial.com (can you BELIEVE that Heidi and Spencer are still the word's biggest douche bags? Yeah, me too. But Ashton Kutcher sure gave them a run for their money....)
5. watching "Beauty and the Bea-" oh shit! Damn you Alan Menken and your conformist Disney melodies!

Any offers to buy me beer suggestions would be much appreciated.

Dockside Diatribe

So, you know how when you're at a cabin and all you want to do is delve into a really good book while laying naked on a dock? (although you may not find Naked Reading listed under 'interests' on my Facebook page, I assure you it's only because Facebook has a 300% higher readership than this blog and thus wields more power to tarnish my exemplary image).

Where was I? Oh right, Naked Reading. So there I was down on the dock, blissfully soaking up some destructive UVA/B rays, my epidermis cheerfully mutating at the cellular level, when I was rudely interrupted by a boatload, yes I said a boatload, of yahoos (listen well children: a long time ago in a far off land, there existed a world without the internet. In this magical place, access to porn was scarce and the bastardization of the English language had yet to begin; yahoo = redneck, oaf, boor). A boatload of yahoos cruising into the bay for an annoying looky-loo. You know, a slow drive-by rife with obnoxious music, macho tales of hook-ups past (purposely uttered a little too loud), the sound of Kokanee beers being cracked open and of course, the subsequent sound of empty Kokanee cans being smashed against hollow, spray-tanned foreheads. *sigh* well if that don't just set a girls heart aflutter...

Now first things first: if you own a speed boat, one of those souped-up, godawful, fueled-by-machismo speed boats, fuck off. Just fuck right off. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $100. Don't even read to the end of this post. Close your browser window, shut off your computer and fuck off. I'll wait.

Secondly: if you are a self-respecting late-20-something male in a speed boat (see above) and are looking to improve your masculine appeal, here's a tip: only prepubescent girls think Ashlee Simpson is cool. FACT. So, why then, was she blasting from your over-priced (but, like, totally bitchin') sound system in your even more over-priced speed boat? I am confused. You LOOKED like a guy. When the words "Boo Ya!" fell across your lips you SOUNDED like a tool guy. When your buddy farted, you HIGH-FIVED him like a guy. But the music selection du jour pointed in another direction...what was the artsy Chinese girl named in the Baby Sitters Club again....? Ah ha! Gotcha!

Although my nakedness had me rather restricted in the immediate actions I could take (think: Crazy Cat Lady from the Simpsons. But naked. And minus the cats. On a lake. But not in Springfield. Whoa, this analogy is rapidly slipping away from me......aaand its gone. As you were.) against your offensive assault on my nude reverie, it was irrelevant in the end as my intense anger dissipated the second Ashlee started singing "l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e l-o-l-o-l-o-v-e." I'll give you this - it is a catchy song. But c'mon. Seriously? The song "L.O.V.E."? Did you forget you had a penis? (If that happens often, may I suggest tying a string to it and the other end to your hand - so every time you give another "bro" a high-five, you will be reminded that you are in fact a Y-chromosome-toting neanderthal). There are so many other amazing tolerable Ashlee Simpson songs out there you could have picked. How about that song she got busted for lip syncing on SNL for? Or the one where she whines about living in the shadow of her big (bosomed) sister Jessica. Or even th- no wait. Those are really her only songs. So basically out of a possible 3 to choose from, you picked the least bad-ass (did I just refer to Ashlee Simpson as bad-ass? Oh man, I really have to stop drinking expired orange juice....) So to recap: Me=angry, You=12 year-old girl.

So instead of screaming at you losers to take a fucking hike and hurling any available projectiles at your boat (Fun Fact: pinecones and empty sunscreen bottles are really not enough to do significant and un-repairable skull boat damage) I just sort of sat there clutching my towel to my chest (while maintaining a cool and calm iciness) in dumbfounded bewilderment and shook my head wondering what planet you people come from? And if you can you please go back? And maybe take with you the borax and icing sugar I left out for the ants. Trust me, we'll all rest easier tonight. Well, I'll rest easier. You'll be dead conscious-challenged.

P.S. You weren't any more charming when you came back at 10:30 that night just as I was falling asleep, blaring your Goldilocks Rap (not too Black, not too White, but juuuuust right) and screaming (with great eloquence) "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" I can only hope that you awoke in a half sunken boat sporting a large hole in the hull from your buddy thinking it would be "dope" to set fireworks off in the cockpit. And please God, let there be a little (entire stomach contents worth of) puke on the new leather seat you special ordered from assholeswithtoomuchmoney.com. You know, the one with the naked lady hand stitched on it to let the rest of the world know that you like women (that extra $250 really WAS worth it!) even though you spend your days in a speed boat with 3 half-naked men. And I pray so very much that the stereo system is in a few (thousand) pieces after your juice-monkey friend went all roid-ragey on it when it wouldn't automatically skip to track 3 (c'mon Chad, not "Sk8tr Boi" again!) no matter how loud he screamed expletives at it.