How To Have a Productive Weekend When Work is Slow and Your Best Friend is in Canada (MEDIOCRENINjA EDITION):
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- Realize this is a backhanded compliment.
- Proceed to create old lady voodoo doll.
- Sneak into your neighbors’ backyard and take pictures of their cats.
The more frightened they look, the better you’re doing it.
- 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.
- Scratch head in confusion and tell yourself you need to get out more.
- 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.
- Finally, REPEAT STEPS AS NECESSARY. Throw in dinosaurs and chick flicks for an added bonus.
Me: Just write something epic already. Something that will get you internet famous. Something with Doritos.
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.
Me: YOU ARE A DISGRACE TO YOUR COUNTRY.
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.
I am surrounded by weird conversations 24/7.
For clarification, “A” is 13 and obsessed with bowel movements while 17-year-old “Z” is a bit more pragmatic.
And they are both my brothers. And this conversation happened over a peaceful breakfast one obscure morning. Out of the blue. Like all things in my life.
A: Have you ever heard [MediocreNINja] fart?”
Z: Yes. Then the world exploded.
A: So that’s how the Civil War started…
Me: What I wasn’t even alive back then-
A: The Civil War. Ya know, the East against the West. Republicans against the Dominion.
Z: Don’t you mean the Confederacy?
A: No that was the Soviet War.
Ladies and gentlemen, my family.
My heart is melting into puddles of gooey honey and ice cream.
I got a puppy.
I don’t even have much to write, I just wanted to show off this perfect little creature I’ve been given the privilege of growing up with. It’s funny how much brighter and more beautiful reality is now that I’ve met this tiny being. I love everyone and everyone loves me and there’s sunshine coming from the dirt and the birds are singing and there’s just joy blossoming from everything and the world is good~
Seriously, getting a puppy is like a drug. She pees everywhere and needs constant attention and I am beyond allergic to her and NOTHING CAN BRING ME DOWN. I learn more from her than I do most humans. She is just joy and love in puppy form.
This post is sappy sappiness and I don’t care because YOU CAN’T DENY EMOTIONS OF THIS MAGNITUDE. GAH.
If college is anything like college orientation, its going to be an interminable 4 years.
2 days. No tacos. Or ramen. Only drawling speakers, mindless pacing, and a lot of avoiding people. For the most part, I do not mix well with people my age. Usually I’m an invisible ninja who doesn’t have to deal with eyes, but orientation was like a crappy made-for-tv movie where I was the outcast main character the audience loves but the movie mates despise. Girls glared. Boys stared. Somehow I felt simultaneously viewed as normal and weird. Pretty sure a couple of my groupmates thought I was mentally-handicapped. I probably was handicapped from lack of sleep and creeping social anxiety…and the lack of food.
Besides the never-ending speeches on how us freshmen are most likely going to die our first year of college because we know nothing except how to booze and drive cars off of roads, orientation was okay. And by “okay” I mean “I don’t know how to process any of this so I’d rather curl up into fetal position and watch documentaries on insects.” Yeah, that happened.
Firstly, I got lost. So lost. So many times. Right off the bat I spent an hour and a half in 110 degree weather searching for the building. After my panicked father called and spent 45 minutes guiding me to the building (I had no map. Or sense of directions), I arrived in a state of sweaty glory, pissed at the college for sucky parking but relieved I didn’t have to interact with other human beings and ask for directions. Later that night I couldn’t find my car, so I spent 2 hours honing my navigation skills and becoming a master of the college map. In a way I learned more wandering around than I did listening to the orientation lectures. It was almost fun. I just told my cramping feet that we were being pirates going on a treasure hunt for facial wash and pajamas. After narrowly escaping the clutches of a speeding bus, I located my car, retrieved my luggage, and headed for the dorm where kids were partying and drinking on the lawn while dancing to Beast’s “Beautiful Night.”
That was probably the weirdest part of the whole orientation experience. I’m used to teenagers getting crazy and breaking rules, but its always done with the notion that somewhere out there some no-fun adult is trying to stop you. But not this time. Nobody was telling us to go to bed or stop partying, because we were the adults now. This freedom was intoxicating. Literally. But our future is now in our hands, and nobody is responsible for us but us. We are the future, and we say its a freaking 아름다운 밤이야 and we are going to get crazy because WE ARE ADULTS NOW, DAMMIT.
Welcome to college.
P.S. I didn’t party. I fell asleep. Because I freaking love sleep. Welcome to REAL WORLD college.
I got a job.
That’s right; I am officially a certified Normal Person. I wake up at reasonable times, go to bed at reasonable times, eat at reasonable times, reasonably time reasonable times, time thyme seasoning reasonably, etc. No more serenading the fridge and karate chopping inanimate objects, no no. My days of awkward and bizarre are now OVER. That’s what happens when you get a job, right?
Despite my anarchist persona punching my face for following the common man’s path and working for a corporation (the supposed root of all evil), I quite enjoy working. The coworkers are nice, the hours aren’t too shabby, the pay is fantastic, and the work itself is supposed to be easy. For the common man. Which I am not. The fact that I am almost literally a fish out of water (This is a good metaphor for me because I am 97.1% sure I was a mermaid in my past life) in public does little to aid me in my quest to bequeath customers with delightful confectioneries.
If you guessed that I am a food-wielding prostitute, you’d be wrong. But close. Rather, I am (drum roll) a FOOD DEMO PERSON. I’m pretty sure that’s my official title. Anyway, the mechanics of the job are simple. Take food out of container. Place food on plate. Customer takes food. It’s the whole “interact with other members of the human species” bit that is a little difficult for me at times. Sometimes my brain’s all “#NormalSwag, #PimpinCheesePuffs” but mostly its just me acting like I’m too busy wiping up non-existent spills to grant my fellow human beings with the holy knowledge of All Things Hotdogs. ITS THEIR GOD GIVEN RIGHT TO KNOW ABOUT HOTDOGS, DAMMIT. But alas, the irrational fear that the customer is going to reach over the table and bite my nose never leaves me.
I’ll get better. That’s what they tell me, anyway. I just have to keep the self-expectation to a minimum and the sunshine-filled smiles to a maximum. If I’m completely failing in public, I might as well do it cheerfully.
Burnt-out: It’s the word of the day. Tomorrow’s word will be fatigued, with Monday’s word being worn-down and exhausted inhabiting Tuesday’s word slot. I’ve done entirely much more than I have ever done before, and it is awesome. But I am done. The sudden onslaught of half-marathons, socializing and final projects has left my mind, body, and living space in a state of horror. For a girl who has almost quite literally done nothing in her life, doing “stuff” can be difficult. I can handle it, but I need some serious R&R first. T-Minus 31 days until freedom. Until then, senioritis hits hard. And I intend to hit back.
“Detox,” the body screamed, “Detox me.” French’s fried onions are my current poison of choice. Dear God, I may even be addicted to this faux salad topper. I have a serious problem: I legitimately get addicted – cravings, withdrawals, the whole bit – to certain foods. Bouillon cubes, apple cider and hot cocoa mix (straight up dry), ramen, chips… Disgustingly satisfying. And horrendous for the body. My goal is to become a certified health nut, but the harder I try to change my eating lifestyle, the harder I go to town with the craptastic food. I am so frustrated. My brain is like “detox~” but my body is like “CHICKEN NUGGETS!” Part of the problem is stress. I’m a stress-eater. Another part is lack of sleep, which is something I will have to endure for 31 more days (or change my sleeping habits, but that’s a battle for a later time). The last part of my problem is the fact that I possess no cooking skills with which to create delicious and nutritious meals. But cooking…is my worst enemy. My arch-nemesis. I honestly feel like stabbing anything and everyone in the near vicinity every time I am tasked with creating sustenance for my homestead.
HOWEVER, I have a hippie-inspired goal of banishing all hatred from my life. This includes turning the seething cauldron of loathing I feel towards cooking into a warm embrace of growth and camaraderie. Plus I really need to learn how to take care of myself and my future brood. And cooking healthy foods means eating healthy foods, which makes me fit, which makes me feel good. And sexy. And more capable. And awesome. And I’ll live a longer life than everyone else. Which means I win. I can only see good coming from this… it’s going to be a difficult battle, conquering food, but I shall triumph.