Monthly Archives: July 2013

Hideous and Lovely (But Mostly Hideous)

You are all gorgeous,” says the Hollister-wearing duckface with a #SWAG cap.

“No you’re not,” says me.

There is an illness among us.  A rampant virus devastating the web, specifically targeting social networking sites and the blogosphere.  It creeps in silently, hidden among your daily readings and mindless scrolling, just aching to slide in through your eyes and into your helpless brain.  Despite it’s wide-spread influence and the travesty it wreaks, it is nearly undetectable.  But it is present.  And it is waiting.  And it is deadly.

This illness has a name.  A phrase that resonates from within the memory bank, a universal phrase you can never quite place.

“Everyone is Beautiful.”

If you have somehow managed to avoid these poisonous posts filled with ignorant rallying, consider yourself lucky.  These poorly-worded rants are often naive, dense, and grammatically-suicidal, if not outright stupid.  And they usually go something like this:

Hey you.  Yeah you.  That ugly face that you see in the mirror?  That’s not your face.  You’re actually beautiful.  Just like everyone else.  We’re all beautiful.  You can trust me because I’m ACTUALLY beautiful.  The Jimmy Choos that I’m wearing prove it.

I understand that the writers of these posts mostly have good intentions, such as stroking your offensively low self-esteem or trying to appear saintly or attempting to get internet famous.  But they’re going about it the wrong way.  They’re lying.

And liars never win and quitters never win and pants on fire or however that saying goes.

I am here to tell you the truth, a truth that will give you wings and set you free: YOU. ARE. UGLY.  And it is a great thing to be ugly.

Beauty is stifling; if you have ever thought yourself to be attractive, you know what I’m talking about.  There is pressure to be physically perfect, always dress fashionably, constantly radiate charisma and create an atmosphere of happiness and beauty 24/6 (beautiful people get a break every Tuesday).  You can’t make dinosaur noises or pretend to be a noodle or lay in a sandbox; you can’t even complain about your insecurities because “You’re beautiful so you don’t know how it is to be insecure.”

Beauty is a prison, and the day I discovered I was a hideous human being was the day I was set free.  Ugliness is freedom.  Ugliness is what the Constitution is all about.

Sure beauty has its perks.  For one, people tend to love you more.  And you get more things.  And life is generally easier.  And you get a lot of attention.  And you might even make a job out of it.  Actually, beauty is pretty much all perks.  However, it is also deadly.  People get so caught up in the shallow pool of vanity that they forget just how deep and complex we as human beings actually are.  Life is not just about looks and dieting and money and status.  It’s about letting go of the insecurities and inhibitions and spazzing to Barbie Girl.  It’s about learning and compassion and snowball fights and soup.  Its about everything, the good and the bad, and the beautiful.  In small doses.

Embracing your Ugly will make your soul soar.  Everyone has flaws, you may as well claim yours as the undisputed best.  So what if you’re a zit face?  Those pimples set you free!  Buck teeth?  More like Buck Liberty.  Too short?  Short enough to escape the oppressive clutches of beauty.  Too fat?  FAT AND FREE.

In a way we’re all ugly.  It just takes some longer than others to embrace it.

And if you’re one of those nay-sayers who is all “when we say beauty, we mean inner beauty and goodness and personality!!!”, I have a different word for that definition of yours.

And that word is “AWESOME.”

Don’t Pinch Me, I’m Making a Recipe

Just me

A tale of intrigue, recipes, and a Weekly Writing Challenge.

The room was dark.  Amidst the hodgepodge of grainy unused shelves and dusty boxes, a sudden burst of light filled the otherwise vacant room.

The television.

The sound of static soothed the air, and the newborn image upon the television screen slowly changed from chaotic black and white scribbles to something with shape and form.  A sexy shape and form.  A woman.  She slowly tossed back her burgundy hair and gave the camera a dazzling smile.  Was this the late night adult channel?

The batter-covered whisk soon came into view, and it became apparent.  This was no X-rated flick (though the woman was most definitely worthy of such fame); this was the Cooking Channel.  Pots and pans littered the large kitchen counter, faintly covered in salt and pepper.  You could almost smell the cayenne pepper wading through the air, almost see it flying with a grace that only cayenne pepper can exude.  The bright fluorescent lights shone down on the scene and created a cheery and clean atmoshphere.

“Good Evening,” the woman crooned, seductively licking batter off the whisk, “and welcome to Cooking with Totally Hot Women Who are Great at Everything.”

As soon as the woman finished the absurdly long albeit highly accurate title of her cooking show, a scuffle was heard from above and a group of ninjas unexpectedly descended from the ceiling and attacked the defenseless woman with the ferocity of a tiger in a monsoon.  Swords were drawn, daggers thrown, nunchucks unsheathed; the distinct battle cry of the veteran slaughterers filled the air as they kicked with the flurry of one thousand badgers intoxicated with energy drinks and skittles.  The battle carried on for some time until a sudden plume of smoke burst forth and blanketed the surroundings with silence.  As the debris slowly settled, a form could be seen standing triumphantly, a large object in hand.

“The first ingredient of today’s recipe,” the woman announced breathlessly, “is the head of a fallen ninja.”  She deposited her foe’s cranium into a cast iron pot (the type her mother had always used) and sprinkled a dash of cinnamon to compliment the strength and determination the ninja head represented.

The crowd was silent.

The woman flashed her dazzling smile once again.

She began to sift through the cupboards, grabbing an array of ingredients to add to her mysterious recipe.  A gallon of coffee for brutal honesty; a squirt of lemon juice for humor; a teaspoon of vanilla representing innocence; and one cup of dark chocolate to keep it classy.

“The next ingredient in our recipe is-” the woman suddenly stopped, her well-crafted face turning as white as the piano keys she often played.  A mailman had arrived on set carrying two tiny packages, one in each hand.  He approached her cheerfully, his friendly smile and eager eyes a dangerous omen of the trouble that was soon to come.


“HELLO MA’AM!” the mailman cheerfully bellowed, his whitened teeth blinding the woman.  “I have two packages for you today, but you can only choose one.  Sorrryyyyyy.”  The woman rubbed her eyes and cautiously scanned the two packages, indecision tormenting her brain.  Finally deciding on the package in the left hand (she was left-handed after all), she quickly snatched the small box from the mailman’s sweaty hands and clumsily backed away from him.  He tipped his hat and was on his way, but not before depositing the other package into the cast iron pot where the woman’s concoction was slowly coming together.

“Well folks,” she started off shakily, plastering a smile on her face in hopes that nobody had noticed her weakness, “let’s open up this package and see what the surprise ingredient of the day is!”

Inside the box crouched a tiny bat, his wings wrapped around his fragile head in an effort to avoid the sunlight and intruding gaze of the crowd.  It was evident that he needed comfort and interaction, but he appeared too scared to reach out and ask for it.  Night-dwelling, lonesome, mysterious…the bat and the woman were a good comparison.  She sighed and gently lay the bat in the pot, stroking its battered ears.  A small chirp resounded from the unopened package next to the bat, but the woman didn’t dare open that box.  She feared birds, even though this one in particular was bright and cheerful and completely harmless.

She ignored the paradox of her recipe and continued on, the crowd attentive and tense.

“Next I will add a sloth’s toe for awkwardness, and finally-” she paused to deposit the hairy limb, “a dinosaur egg covered in salsa to represent the absurdly nonsensical side of me.”

The crowd gasped.  She had been using a recipe about herself?

Slowly a form rose from the pot, much like the rebirth of Voldemort in the 4th Harry Potter but less creepy.  More like a really hot swimsuit model emerging from a pool, if you think about it.  The form tossed back her cascading hair and smiled at the dumbstruck crowd, her satisfied expression highlighting her egotistical nature.  She was strong, and determined, and honest; she could be funny at times, but she was also a very classy individual.  Although she liked to think of herself as intelligent, she was often too innocent to understand things.  Somehow she possessed both introversion and an outgoing personality, much to her confusion.  But deep down she was gripped with fear; she was scared of people, and being in public, and forming relationships.  She was too stubborn to admit to her faults though, and that was the way she liked it.  Most of all, she was an individual.

“Hi, I am MediocreNinJa.  And I like to party.”

The crowd cheered.

Lets Get Productive!

How To Have a Productive Weekend When Work is Slow and Your Best Friend is in Canada (MEDIOCRENINjA EDITION):

  1. Purchase an extremely large diabetes-inducing three layer triple chocolate cake.  Pretend said cake is the newest tier on the Food Guide Pyramid.  Consume said cake at every meal.  And snack time.  And during commercials.  And TV shows.  And bathroom breaks.
  2. Eat 3 frozen dinners to counterbalance the positive benefits of uncontrollable energy and shakiness the cake will induce.  You don’t want your friends thinking you’re TOO healthy.  They’ll be intimidated.
    NOTE: Make sure you heat the frozen dinners at 1 in the morning in the loudest possible microwave.
  3. Lovingly raise a brood of singing monsters to level 10 on your android phone, then proceed to throw phone into volcano and curse the skies when your account gets deleted.
  4. Enter an old lady’s house disguised as a plumber’s assistant.  Do everything in your power to procure a compliment on how you’re such a pretty plumber.
  5. Realize this is a backhanded compliment.
  6. Proceed to create old lady voodoo doll.
  7. Sneak into your neighbors’ backyard and take pictures of their cats.
    The more frightened they look, the better you're doing it.

    The more frightened they look, the better you’re doing it.


  8. Occupy your mind with an illogical crush on a kid you met three weeks a go.  Make sure to have had zero thoughts about said boy until exactly 3 weeks have passed.
  9. Scratch head in confusion and tell yourself you need to get out more.
  10. Finally decide to get out and head over to Office Max wearing jogging shorts.  Proceed to attract stalker employees for the duration of your stay.  Count this as a compliment.
    NOTE: wear sweat-stained shirt for optimal effect.
  11. Finally, REPEAT STEPS AS NECESSARY.  Throw in dinosaurs and chick flicks for an added bonus.

Recreating Jared Leto

I have had a little too much free time lately.  Work is slow, my “BESTEST FRIEND EVER WHO I COULDN’T LIVE WITHOUT” is in Canada and unable to reply to text messages, and my martial arts dojo is closed for the week due to a ninja infestation.  I could be doing something productive like working out or learning a new language or weaving baskets, but that’s not how my short attention span likes it.

Instead, Paint.

It all started with trying to find a picture of black hair with red lowlights (because I need bombshell hair for my totally bombshell lifestyle of playing Sims and throwing chips at my dogs).  However, no suitable pictures were found so my brain was all “Hey, how about we just draw a sexy version of you and force the stylist to believe its a good idea to dye hair based off a drawing?”

So that’s how this picture happened:

Hair like this should be total husband bait.

Hair like this should be total husband bait.

I’m actually pretty proud of this.  It’s a good first attempt at a portrait.  So good in fact that I decided to recreate a portrait of someone famous.  Someone whose hotness could match the sexiness of my own portrait.

Jared Leto was the obvious choice.

The original picture:

Gimme dat with nachos any day of the week.

Gimme dat with nachos any day of the week.

The recreation:

If this isn't almost an exact replica, I don't know what is.

If this isn’t almost an exact replica, I don’t know what is.

Besides the fact that I have no idea how to blend the background colors, I think it’s pretty obvious that this is just as sexy as the original picture, if not more.  Just look at dat 4 o’clock shadow.  And smoldering gaze.  And totally buff arms.  If you look really closely, you’ll see that my version of Jared Leto possesses no visible neck.  And what’s sexier than an angst-ridden head connected directly to the torso?

That’s right, nothing.

After working diligently upon Leto’s quaff for a couple hours, I decided to move on to greater projects.

Like a tyrannosaurus rex fangirling over Bruce Willis riding a skateboard.

Even extinct reptilians can't resist John McClayne.

Even extinct reptilians can’t resist that beautiful bald head.

Or a very accurate recreation of me when I was 12.

I was a happy child;

What a looker.

By the time I finished the last carefully-measured stroke of hair upon my cartoon self’s prepubescent head, my arm had seized and it was time to call it quits.  I gently put aside the mouse and leaned back, triumphant.  This morning I had been but a girl; now I was a Painter.  An emotional T-Rex and Jared Leto had led me to my true calling.  The calling I had been desperately searching for my entire life.

Who am I?

I am an artist.

The Stalker Bench

Dearest Stalker-Like Patron of the Park, 

                I understand that my ninja t-shirt and pink flower pajama pants are a real turn-on, but averting your obtrusive eyes and pretending I don’t exist for a minute would be greatly appreciated whilst I eagerly await the arrival of a certain puppy’s early morning dump.  Perhaps the sun’s reflection upon my grease-laden hair is too much to resist, in which case I sympathize with your inability to control yourself.  Either way, this whole awkward stare-off could have been avoided if we had both just pretended that this fence separating my backyard from your spot in the public park was made of bricks.  Or Adamantium.  Because that would be bad-ass.


Since the dawn of time, there has existed a mythical land just beyond the confines of my humble backyard.  It was a place of magic, mystery, and beauty; filled with grand tournaments between cleat-laden midgets, jogging warriors fighting to reclaim their youth and all that’s in between.  One day, the Law of the Land enacted a decree stating that three royal benches would be erected around the land to guard against their enemies and stand as a monument to their greatness.  One of these benches was erected directly facing the territory of the Greatest Enemy of All.

A.K.A my freaking backyard.

This bench has now come to be known as The Stalker Bench.

Extremely well made map of my predicament.

Extremely well made map of my predicament.

At first my family was in denial.  There’s no way the city would put a bench directly facing our house; there had to be a mistake.  But as time went on, it became evident that the putrid-green bench was there to stay.  And with it came a host of awkward stare-offs and parties I was never invited to.

Take this morning for instance.  As I stood in all my pajama-wearing unshowered glory waiting for my two dogs to evacuate their bowels, a young man sat upon the Stalker Bench.  And stared.  Just stared.  In defense I ignored him, then eventually conceded to a battle of glaring.  Usually at this point people will awkwardly look away or leave the bench altogether, but this man aptly deserved the title of Stalker bestowed upon him by the bench.  His staring abilities were the stuff of legends.  It wasn’t until my hulkish father appeared that the young man awkwardly coughed and looked away, and even then he would steal occasional glances.  I get it, I’m irresistible in ninja t-shirts; but please exercise some self-restraint.

However, self-control is not something that happens very often around the Stalker Bench.  If I were asked how many times I have been witness to sexual acts, the Stalker Bench would greatly skew the results and I would probably land in jail.  First base, second base, third base, thirteenth base…One time a couple went All The Way and I almost got my confetti cannon out and threw them a celebration, but it was over before I could even get the party hats out.  Drinking, smoking, partying, dancing, fist fights, sleeping, choking on apples, contacting the spirit world and the likes are also common occurrences.  It’s amazing just what people will do on a public bench.  And its even more amazing how much I’m never invited to these functions, no matter how big I make my puppy eyes.

Thus I am forced to out-stalk the stalkers and scare them away from the bench with intense stares and crazy body convulsions.  If only they knew they could avoid this whole ordeal by inviting me to their seances.

Or just leaving.

Darth Vader Keeps it Classy in Canada

I have a confession to make.

Canada has never been a favorite of mine.  I admit I have been the procurer of many a Canadian joke; maple syrup, mounties and passive-aggressive accents are only some of topics that fill my Canadian repertoire.  I am not proud of this fact… I am an avid dissenter of stereotypes, and yet I cannot break the habit of taking a stab at the U.S.’s good ol’ moose-riding buddies every now and then.  No matter how hard I tried to stop being a hypocrite, I could not find a cure for my Canadian Conundrum.

Until this picture came into existence:

This is exactly what it looks like.

This is exactly what it looks like.


Yes.  That is indeed a picture of Darth Vader playing the violin in the streets of British Columbia.  Recently my “AMAZING BESTEST FRIEND FOREVER” (exact quote from the best friend herself) went to Canada and sent me this picture.  Rather than the immediate disapproval of Canada I should have experienced upon the viewing of this picture, I felt a spark of interest.  Do Canadians drive on the left side?  Is free burgers in Canada a thing?  Do 3-way stops exist?  Are Canadians only allowed to wear stripes and plaid?  Is the bus full of British dissenters?  Are buses called “trolleys” in Canada?

So many questions.  So little time, eh.

I Can’t Write but at Least I Have Knees

Me: Just write something epic already. Something that will get you internet famous. Something with Doritos.
Brain: No.
Me: At least write something that expands your talents as a writer.
Brain: Bish I’m too fabulous for that.
Me: Just write anything, for the love of all that’s spicy.
Brain: You’re not my mother.
Brain: YOUR MOM.

So pretty much I got nothin. Life is neither good nor bad, so I can’t complain or brag about anything.

I went to the doctor’s today for a checkup. Somehow they make me feel guilty for not drinking or smoking or doing drugs…they’re all “well I don’t know what to do now…lemme hit your knee and see if that leads to cancer.”

No cancer, but I do have bad reflexes so that made the doctor feel better.