tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37432721551185417302024-02-19T09:37:31.842-05:00Quimsical AudecdotesWhimsical Anecdotes about two of the most covertly ridiculous college studentsQuimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-2326278575846832342013-09-03T08:46:00.000-04:002013-09-03T09:56:56.759-04:00Floridians<div dir="ltr">
As a last hoorah before school begins at the end of August, my siblings and I decided to take a sibling vacation. Where you ask? The southern haven for snow birds, long borders, beautifully sculpted men and women (as well as their unfortunate, blobby counterparts), and all other manner of cold-loathing, sunshine-seeking specimens of the human species. So, Florida.<br />
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Venturing this deep into the South means that paying a visit to my Great Aunt and Uncle is inevitable. My Great Aunt is a square angel. No, really, she is the shape of a square. We call her Spongebob. </div>
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The Uncle, though... a true boob of a man. Unknowingly insulting, lazy, stupid. So. Stupid.</div>
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That potato is a glorified version of my Uncle. Whenever we see him he says, "You'll have to come up and visit us sometime!" Like I live in Cuba or something. I'm from upstate New York. His name. Ready? His name is Great Uncle Dick. Never has a human being been more appropriately named.<br />
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An example of Dick's stupidity: Upon arriving at my Aunt's house, which is bright pink, a black lab greets us at the door. I notice her milky eyes and ask about them.<br />
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"Oh, that's Alice. She has diabetes and poor thing is blind from her cataracts," my Aunt explains.<br />
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"Yeah, that's Alice. She is a <i>great</i> watchdog, aren't ya Alice?" Dick says.<br />
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I'm like....<br />
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Pretty sure that dog is blind, Dick.</div>
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Next, we meet Ranger.</div>
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Ranger is obese, arthritic from his obesity, and often will simply look at you from the floor and whine. It's sad, really.</div>
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"Oh, yes, we are trying to get Ranger to lose some weight so his arthritis doesn't hurt him so much," Spongebob declares.</div>
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"Yep, big guy gotta lose some weight! Ranger, come here. Come. Come. Ranger, come. Come.... He's not one much for walking," Dick cackles. Eventually, Ranger comes.</div>
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"Don't you dare, Dick," Aunt Spongebob spits, her eyes boring into his soul.</div>
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"He's hungry, sweetie," Dick muses as he gives Ranger the rest of his plate of bacon, eggs and sausage.</div>
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"Your'e gonna kill that dog." Spongebob is terse.</div>
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"Honey, I--"</div>
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"Shut up, Dick."</div>
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I'm like...</div>
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He really just doesn't get it. And that's basically how I was the rest of the visit with my Aunt and potato.</div>
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Anybody else have ridiculous family members that just drive you to be like...</div>
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Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-21348105682088489072013-02-12T21:59:00.001-05:002013-02-12T23:00:16.778-05:00Hitting Low PointsIt's that time in the semester when things start to get annoying and life starts to get messy. In this time, my body and my mind are subject to primal instincts and cravings, regardless of what is socially acceptable.<br />
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I have a ridiculous class from 6:45 p.m. -10:00 p.m. on Mondays. Well, it's not that ridiculous because it's an acting class and we literally start each day with group stretching, breathing, and cooperation exercises. Pretty relaxed, so we can all say:<br />
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The point is, when this class rolls around, I have been in class since 12:45 p.m. During my rushed one hour break, I run back to my apartment (12 minutes) eat and run to class, which is in the depths of this wretched city (20 minutes).<br />
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My limited amount of time to eat leaves me largely unsatisfied and I crave something more... but what? With one foot out the door already, it clicks and I run back into the apartment in a beeline to the automatic m&m dispenser (wave your hand underneath, handful of m&ms). I wave my hand three times.. and put all the m&ms in my coat pocket... and eat them like popcorn as I walk.<br />
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8:30 p.m. rolls around and we are granted a brief ten minute respite. I reach into my coat pocket when I assume no one is looking and feel what's left of my desperate snack. What comes out of my pocket is a color-stained couple of fingers and a dirty-ish clump of what was once m&ms. DAMN IT, I curse to myself.. it had been 'freezing rain' while I was walking and some must have found its way into my addict-snack-pocket. The worst is yet to come.<br />
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A guy just a couple of chairs down from me asks me a question as I raise the stale, chocolaty mass to my mouth. I also notice a hair stuck to the clammy shell of one of the m&ms and eat them all anyway. Imagine a cute, dry golden retriever. Now, make that golden retriever wet, muddy, and smelly. He's still cute, so you want to pet him but when you do, you regret it because it's awful. That's essentially the sly trick these chocolate morsels played on me.. I felt sick the rest of the class.Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-49668100415100806622013-02-07T09:07:00.000-05:002013-02-07T09:08:37.163-05:00New Year's ResolutionsHello, friends. Since it is now February, I thought it might be a good time to check in with everyone and see how those resolutions are going. We have had over a solid month to get going and settle into a new routine to better our 2013. I'll share my progress: absolutely god damn nothing. While I have made almost zero attempt to fulfill my resolutions, I will share them with you anyway.<br />
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<b>1. Read for at least an hour a day</b><br />
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This I have been able to accomplish. But does it count if I'm reading stuffy textbooks that talk about market demographics and how you should change the way you speak to get a fucking job? No. No it does not count. That's why I purposely cut into textbook time by enjoying Compendium One of The Walking Dead or a little Lord of the Rings. Ooh boy, when I get to read The Walking Dead:<br />
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<b>2. Write for at least an hour a day</b><br />
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This I sadly have not done. I'm simply a failure in this category. When I write, it's in confused 15-20 minute bursts. Then, I get distracted by Facebook or a hangnail or have to pee as soon as I have a good idea. God hates me.<br />
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<b>3. Get a job</b><br />
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I was all pumped this semester because I am rather proficient in French and just finished my minor in it. So, I thought a good way to keep my language up and to make a little money would be to tutor those degenerates who just couldn't grasp a foreign language. All proud, I sent a polite email to the tutoring center explaining how I had spent my last semester abroad and had completed my minor and far exceeded the qualifications listed on the tutoring website. Turns out they have no need for <i>any </i>French tutors; "check back at the end of the summer." Mother fuck. I will obviously never be her:<br />
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I dig what's in her hands, but, sweet beaver, look at her neck.<br />
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<b>4. Exercise at lest three times a week</b>.<br />
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Just no. In lieu of going to the gym, I have taken up chewing my food much more vigorously to burn calories.<br />
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<b>5. Paint at least one thing a month</b><br />
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Well, January is over... but I did paint one thing in December and that was before the New Year started, meaning that I took initiative... so I am going to just carry that over for my January painting.<br />
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I am just <i>so</i> bad at resolutions. I hope you have all done a better job than I have.<br />
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<br />Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-117537684255805302013-02-04T14:42:00.000-05:002013-02-04T15:16:43.157-05:00Winter SpecimensIf you're a dumb ass like me, you chose to live somewhere unnaturally cold, gray, dry and blustery for, what seems like, year-round. Every day is like walking into a lung-incapacitating vortex that threatens to cripple you where you stand.<br />
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Now that the scene is set, let's explore the type of people who inhabit this deathly wasteland.</div>
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<b>1. Unidentifiables</b></div>
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I like to pride myself with belonging to this group. We are the select class of winter-goers who hate life and show it by the way we dress. GIANT parkas, hoods that triple the size of our heads, boots that could walk through the River Styx and not be affected, mittens that hideously deform our hands into penguin flippers, and scarves that leave only our squinting eyes left visible. Trust me, we wish we could wear eye-muffs if such a thing existed. The best part is, no one knows who the fuck you are and thanks to the parka, you can walk and fart to keep warm. Basically, by the time you get to where you're headed, you're sweating and you're fucking proud of it.</div>
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<b>2.</b> <b>Sexual Illusions of Warmth</b></div>
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These are the people who wear sexy, wool coats that hug their lovely shoulders and slender arms and hang to the mid-thigh. Son of a bitch, these motherfuckers are classy. They may casually toss a knock-off Burberry print scarf over their shoulder and haphazardly loop it around their neck. They often beg the question, <i>what's a hat?</i> because their hair is so ungodly beautiful as it somehow resists the whipping winds of icy hate. Instead of looking like they have rosacea, their cheeks only adopt a lovely pink warmth and their lips retain all their color and plumpness instead of shriveling up into what appears to be an old woman's chapped vagina. Such horrid beasts they are.. they wear fitted leather gloves that allow them to have all of their fingers instead of some sad imitation of a flightless bird's wing plus a stocky thumb... I like to think that they are beautiful, yet hating themselves every second for how cold they are. Quite frankly, they are a majestic, snowy animal:</div>
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and I am..</div>
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..fat.. and confused.</div>
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<b>3. IDGAF - I Don't Give A Fucks</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Then there are those who just... don't get it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/terminal05/2012/10/17/13/anigif_enhanced-buzz-6865-1350496164-0.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/terminal05/2012/10/17/13/anigif_enhanced-buzz-6865-1350496164-0.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/terminal05/2012/10/17/13/anigif_enhanced-buzz-6865-1350496164-0.gif">Source</a></td></tr>
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Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-62835582717385828222012-10-26T05:53:00.001-04:002012-10-26T06:08:57.103-04:00My Many French Faux PasI thought I would take this opportunity to memorialize what a dumb ass I sound like in french. I sit here typing this from my bedroom while the cleaning lady and host mother speak rapid french. She just asked if the french dog was finished barking - funny story about that dog, he's deaf - the vacuum was started and then a french baby began to cry. I'm also rather certain she screamed, "are you done vomiting!?" See the chaos I put up with? Things are bound to get lost in translation and I inevitably look like an American fuck.<br />
<br />
1. This instance is not so bad, but my Mom and Dad visited me here, bless them, and my host mom gave my vaginal birth mother a nice book of the region. A couple days after my parents had left, my host mom asked if my real mom had looked at the book. Now, mind you, I had no idea if my mother had looked at the book, but I went ahead and said that she had thoroughly enjoyed the book. While she sat <i>on top</i> of the plane..<br />
<br />
2. My horrific mistake of telling a six year old that my favorite animal was a baby seal. Now, the word for seal in french is phoque, aka, FUCK in english. I have this little blond six-year old looking up at me saying FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, ton<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="fr"> <span class="hps">animal préféré est</span> <span class="hps">un bébé fuck</span><span class="">. I wanted to to pull a <a href="http://quimsicalaudecdotes.blogspot.fr/2012/10/quimsicals-european-adventures-part-1.html">Russel Edgington</a> again and shoot the phoque up into the sky.</span></span><br />
<span class="short_text" id="result_box" lang="fr"><span class=""><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSs_xAFyE-LYccDH7C5X1BqmWN1ydYxLDtZwCj90F9VNNxLLqKuBc67KiN99w6qiFOnfn31Kf8AYbrT6pyUksHxIcQ4fK4n12LSmrZ8guS-_xbkjco_WfH_k2OpR3KIl1gB8BeycpM1c2/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-10-26+at+11.12.05+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNSs_xAFyE-LYccDH7C5X1BqmWN1ydYxLDtZwCj90F9VNNxLLqKuBc67KiN99w6qiFOnfn31Kf8AYbrT6pyUksHxIcQ4fK4n12LSmrZ8guS-_xbkjco_WfH_k2OpR3KIl1gB8BeycpM1c2/s400/Screen+shot+2012-10-26+at+11.12.05+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://i405.photobucket.com/albums/pp132/rageybug/bebe-phoque.jpg">Image Source</a>..and my brilliant text addition</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
3. For about two months now, I have been saying "salut" every time I walk in the door. It's friendly and informal enough for family so I'm not saying, good day to you ma'am every time I come home from school. Apparently my American accent bastardizes the shit out of that little word "salut" and makes it sound something like sah-low (phonetically). In french, however, sal-oh, which is actually the word "salop" means something very different than "hey." Let's just say I've been calling my wonderful 70 year-old host mother who takes care of me, cooks for me and loves me a man slut since I got here. Oh, let's not forget that I've been calling the six year-old a man slut, too.<br />
<br />
4. I had known that a friend of my host mom's and said friend's husband were no longer together. I assumed divorce, naturally. Aparrently my American ears didn't catch the whole story.. while at dinner one night, we are talking about this friend and her life and how her story is depressing as fuck and whatnot. So, I venture into being sympathetic and trying to generate some conversation.<br /><br />"Well, do they still speak?" I ask innocently. My host mother looks at me with quizzical eyes and draws back like I've just attempted to stab her with a fork. Feeling awkward and feeling the need to fill the silence, I continue and try again. "Do they still speak? Even after divorce people can have friendly relationships." I let it hang, I feel supremely awkward.<br /><br />"Do they still speak?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes, yes!" I say, excited that she finally understood my question.<br />
<br />
"Well, he's dead," she says.<br />
<br />
"Ah." I grab my water as quickly as I can and take a drink to excuse me from having to say anything more.<br />
<br />
<br />
4. Body language in its purest form. The toilet is right next to my host-mother's bedroom, where she slumbers and snores like an asthmatic bear. You all know how we feel about using public bathrooms, friends' bathrooms, etc. here at Quimsical Audecdotes, and if you don't, you can find out <a href="http://quimsicalaudecdotes.blogspot.fr/2011/10/lav-is-battlefield.html">here</a>, <a href="http://quimsicalaudecdotes.blogspot.fr/2011/10/bodily-betrayal-low-point.html">hizzere</a> or maybe even <a href="http://quimsicalaudecdotes.blogspot.fr/2012/05/that-time-i-got-trapped-in-womens.html">hurr</a>. Trust me, they're all worth a read. So, I'm naturally apprehensive about using the toilet to hershey squirt next to her bedroom and I can tell by the outrageous size of my stomach that I am about as full of gas as this hiphopanonymous:<br />
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Nonetheless, I creep down the creakiest stairs known to man, there is no hiding my descent. I use my iPod light to guide me to the door that plainly reads: toilette. She is snoring deeply, I may proceed quietly. I open the door and it makes a creak akin to a fart. I pause... she's still snoring. I enter fully and immediately rip my shorts off and sit myself down. GAH, the door is still slightly open. I reach forward like Mufassa trying to save himself from falling off of the cliff and then I realize: my own ass is my Scar.. I ERUPT in a horrific cacophony that I attribute to the canned lentils I ate earlier in the day and I can only describe the force with which air exited me as "farting hurricanes." It's gale force winds that could bestow flight upon a blue whale. Once mine ass has had its say, I freeze, screaming silently and listening. She has stopped snoring.. PHOQUE. I console myself by knowing that I can blame it on the six year old if I have to, in much the same mentality as this creepy ass little girl:</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="301" src="http://wac.450f.edgecastcdn.net/80450F/thefw.com/files/2012/05/Dont-worry-blame-cows-meme.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://wac.450f.edgecastcdn.net/80450F/thefw.com/files/2012/05/Dont-worry-blame-cows-meme.png">Image Source</a></td></tr>
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Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-67913266055359212932012-10-24T02:30:00.000-04:002012-10-24T02:30:33.831-04:00Planning for the Zombie ApocalypseI'm not a normal person. For a couple years now, I have been unnaturally excited for the inevitable zombie apocalypse, thrilled, in fact. As you know, I've been spending my days watching The Walking Dead and drawing <a href="http://quimsicalaudecdotes.blogspot.fr/2012/10/halloween-in-foreign-country.html">zombie me</a>, which clearly does not help my zombie apocalypse fever. Hence, this post in which I will outline my plan for when the flesh eaters finally show up.<br />
<br />
<b>1</b>. We all know you need a mode of <b>transportation</b> during this time or you will be fucked. Especially if you can't run because you look like this: <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://m5.paperblog.com/i/28/286359/here-comes-honey-boo-boo-thats-right-youd-bet-L-5O9Xg5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="251" src="http://m5.paperblog.com/i/28/286359/here-comes-honey-boo-boo-thats-right-youd-bet-L-5O9Xg5.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stay away from tubs of mayonnaise. <a href="http://m5.paperblog.com/i/28/286359/here-comes-honey-boo-boo-thats-right-youd-bet-L-5O9Xg5.jpeg">Image Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We all know you're gonna need something that is fast, powerful and obviously bad ass (this is my one chance to steal any car I want! Yay pillaging!!)<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yIC7AbLOGDbWvbfScekx-efR2kFlPhya8XmZXIiElnCQ8RrPNa4Z66Kc7Zlpz38CRe9WZ0QEZaBfviNIolFhyphenhyphenpixrZFwfDiykkUGYeXhJGACRiDsSfhC9M-GKKRP-plJnMoxHLDkPpjl/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-10-21+at+10.24.37+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3yIC7AbLOGDbWvbfScekx-efR2kFlPhya8XmZXIiElnCQ8RrPNa4Z66Kc7Zlpz38CRe9WZ0QEZaBfviNIolFhyphenhyphenpixrZFwfDiykkUGYeXhJGACRiDsSfhC9M-GKKRP-plJnMoxHLDkPpjl/s400/Screen+shot+2012-10-21+at+10.24.37+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www5.mercedes-benz.com/en/vehicles/passenger-cars/g-class/">Mercedes G AMG</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Badass, right? Yes, of course I have thought of strapping a bike to the back of it, I'm not a fool. God forbid this beast broke down, I wouldn't want to be running through hoards of zombies, hence the bike.<br />
<br />
<b>2</b>. Like it or not, you're gonna have to kill some shit and you shouldn't try to do it with your bare hands - scratches do just as much as bites, people. Man up, or grow some lady balls, and pick up a <b>weapon</b>. Guns are great but I've never shot one and I would probably end up shooting my foot, one of my car tires, or someone in my PAWP (post-apocalyptic wolf pack, duh), so I am going to stick with other things.<br />
<br />
<i><b>A.</b></i> <i>Samurai sword</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.knife-depot.com/images/product/02/69836.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.knife-depot.com/images/product/02/69836.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.knife-depot.com/images/product/02/69836.jpg">Image Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
This, more than effective (although I'm sure it would be) is convenient for me because I have one sitting in my room.. it is also in line with the badass theme.<br />
<br />
<i>B. Crossbow</i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cache.gawkerassets.com/assets/images/gizmodo/2009/04/tac-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://cache.gawkerassets.com/assets/images/gizmodo/2009/04/tac-15.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cache.gawkerassets.com/assets/images/gizmodo/2009/04/tac-15.jpg">Image Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's quiet, it's effective.<br />
<br />
<i>C. Bag of blood</i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.heart-valve-surgery.com/Images/Blood-Bag-Image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.heart-valve-surgery.com/Images/Blood-Bag-Image.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.heart-valve-surgery.com/Images/Blood-Bag-Image.jpg">Image Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I find this brilliant, if I do say so myself. Smear some of this somewhere and all dem fuckers are distracted for a good 10 minutes while you escape.. in your G Wagon.<br />
<br />
<i>D. One person you don't care much about and who is slower than you.</i><br />
<br />
This seems self explanatory to me.<br />
<br />
<b>3</b>. You need a <b>plan</b> so you don't just wander around until you die.<br />
<br />
A. Avoid large cities.<br />
B. Find some food, you WILL get hungry, you shit.<br />
C. <i>Head toward the barren wasteland that is the Midwest or try to find a boat and float in the ocean until something happens.</i><br />
D. Make sure you're with someone you can have sex with so you're not that person who masturbates all the time. Post-apocalyptic sexual frustration will probably be the reason we all die.<br />
E. Grab some medical supplies so when I shoot you with my crossbow on accident, you can have a band-aid.<br />
F. No matter what chaos is ensuing, BRING A TOOTHBRUSH AND TOOTHPASTE.<br />
G. Find an abandoned bar and take all of the hard liquor. For the obvious: Molotov cocktails and silent raves.<br />
I. iPod - for silent raves. (I happened to be iPod... they both start with "I" :3)<br />
J. Bring your dog for Christ's sake! A companion and defender.<br />
K. Despite what a good idea it may seem like, just don't go into a shopping mall. Zombies errwhere. I promise you won't look good in the Marc Jacobs you stole if half of your face is ripped off.<br />
<br />
Okay, my brain has exhausted all of its life-saving tips but, alas, I'm sure there are many more. What is your plan? Weapons? Transportation?<br />
<br />
To end, here's a little treat:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqixrqVXxU02ZCC7TmFyMc31kKcy_eciZJQJAV5CufzOlvf58PsS_v3IXQxRAR2_7uUVYa4uQ6cABCmBQTP5ATn99Wk33bjlfQ9GmeQi_WNDsyuPzRl75mIoP813JJAeqlmbLrc0lQfaZ_/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-10-21+at+11.36.19+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqixrqVXxU02ZCC7TmFyMc31kKcy_eciZJQJAV5CufzOlvf58PsS_v3IXQxRAR2_7uUVYa4uQ6cABCmBQTP5ATn99Wk33bjlfQ9GmeQi_WNDsyuPzRl75mIoP813JJAeqlmbLrc0lQfaZ_/s400/Screen+shot+2012-10-21+at+11.36.19+AM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wasted my time making this. No regrets.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-20493437306793509522012-10-22T02:41:00.000-04:002012-10-22T02:44:30.562-04:00Effects of Laziness: YouTube Rabbit Hole<style>
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You know those days when your parents drop you off at your
host mom’s house at 8:30 in the morning because they have a flight to catch back
to the States and you clearly can’t go with them, so you just lay in bed from
then until 8 at night watching The Walking Dead, Modern Family and other shows until your
eyes hurt and you question your existence? </div>
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Yeah, me either.</div>
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No, but I totally do because that has been my life ALL day today. I'm pretty damn sure I'm near developing bed sores from my level of inactivity. I'm making Stephen Hawking look like a gold medal gymnast.</div>
So, what have I done with myself other than watch too much of The Walking Dead (there is no such thing) and stare longingly at the jar of peanut butter on my desk?? I have watched an unhealthy and unfathomable amount of YouTube videos. Things I don't even care about, like a 16 minute makeup tutorial that I only endured because it was done by Jenna Marbles and I love her. I sat through a 13 minute video where some questionable gay (no h8) and this British girl laughed at how they pronounced words differently. In fact, right toward the end, my internet quit unexpectedly and you know what I did? I found that damn video again because I was so intrigued as to how the British girl was going to try to read a sentence from The Hunger Games in an American accent. She was awful. I happened upon some quirky science experiment videos, magic sand, magnetic putty, and somehow found my way to Honey Boo Boo...<br />
<br />
So what's my point? here it is - holy shit, my door just opened on its own.................. now that I'm safe, my first thoughts were that it was either a zombie, and I would soon see a hand reach through the crack, or it was the turtle that inhabits this fine residence. The uncomfortable reality is that the turtle is more likely.. or is it?? Sorry. Huge distraction from "the point" - when you have literally nothing to do, not a god damn thing, and you subject yourself to hours of YouTube videos, you will get sucked down a rabbit hole. A very uncomfortable and furry hole where rabbits claw at your eyes and try to disembowel you with their horrid, yellow teeth.<br />
<br />
I would say that my worst rabbit hole experience was today, when I began my YouTube expedition with the Marry the Night video by Lady Gaga. She is not the most normal person, granted, however, I never thought I would end up where I did after I regained consciousness in reality.<br />
<br />
I want you to guess. Are you guessing?<br />
<br />
Live horse births.<br />
<br />
Yes. I got from point A: Lady Gaga, to point 'whatthefuck:' live horse births.<br />
<br />
I can't unsee that. I mean, just imagine a horse coming out of another horse. It's long bony legs and hooves! I didn't JUAN to see that! Nonetheless, I watched. I even scrubbed backwards at one point to be like, "huh, how the hell did that come out of there and end up over there?"<br />
<br />
My point is, friends, don't be a fucking loser like me because you will develop a headache and end up witnessing live births. I consider myself lucky; live horse birth seems relatively tame compared to what else you could stumble upon. God forbid you had to watch an aye-aye give birth or be born because they are the absolute ugliest creatures that <a href="http://quimsicalaudecdotes.blogspot.fr/2012/02/ive-met-good-deal-of-people-in-my-days.html">mother nature</a> has ever thought up. I'm pretty sure they're the hate child of a bat and <a href="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100319194035/harrypotter/images/2/2d/Petercasadelosgritso.jpg">Wormtail</a> from Harry Potter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.mudfooted.com/aye_aye-aye-aye.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://images.mudfooted.com/aye_aye-aye-aye.jpg" width="300" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images.mudfooted.com/aye_aye-aye-aye.jpg">Image Source</a></td></tr>
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Now, the only thing that would be worse than watching that be born is watching it eat its own placenta. Gah, imagine if it tried to hug you!?Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-70580103074116234402012-10-20T12:57:00.000-04:002012-10-20T12:57:09.521-04:00Halloween in a Foreign CountryThis post is the child of my sudden realization that I will be missing Halloween, the most revered of all holidays that are not Christmas and Thanksgiving, in the United States. You know, I wouldn't be <i>as</i> upset about missing Halloween had I been able to make the biggest zombie walk in all of Europe that was held in the city where I currently reside. My father happened to be visiting that weekend and I didn't think it too kind to tell him I'd rather be with the rest of the freaks in this town walking like a god damn zombie for a mile. But honestly... missing the biggest zombie walk in Europe? Cut me a break, baby Jesus.<br />
<br />
Reasons Halloween in the United States is superior:<br />
<br />
1. It's expected of me to have at least two to three costumes because Halloween is not one night. It's like a three day thing. Let us celebrate multiple personality disorder and cos-play.<br />
<br />
I'm talkin' blood-lusting zombie to smooth-as-velvet greaser to fucking Jack Sparrow. I once was Edward Scissor Hands and wore a leather coat. my mother's leather coat. backwards. get at me.<br /><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU6M0j1kxjwuckxk8q9dpcuou_XMjQbH_6b1Mp9lVmVasSKDXPwbWXH7ukh4p2ZncDfd2IImiNjpZ-fJ4N1wE1L774yJCfdkLjZ_PhBdTUESO70J3w20ekf9H-n3SDvlsMR-o3IoMN5Ag/s1600/Halloween.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoU6M0j1kxjwuckxk8q9dpcuou_XMjQbH_6b1Mp9lVmVasSKDXPwbWXH7ukh4p2ZncDfd2IImiNjpZ-fJ4N1wE1L774yJCfdkLjZ_PhBdTUESO70J3w20ekf9H-n3SDvlsMR-o3IoMN5Ag/s400/Halloween.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My chameleon status.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Note how zombie me fails to have feet.. clearly, I
ate them myself. Also, I refuse to draw hands. That's why zombie me's
left arm looks like a skinny penis and Jack.. has uncircumcised penis
arms. I'm actually just noticed Jack's arms. I'm appalled. Greaser me is fly as fuck, however. Can we talk about those purple shades? I may or may not have those in real life and I may or may not wear them regularly.<br />
<br />
2. In the United States, it's only mildly frowned upon to go from house to house past, like, 9th grade in high school. I continued to go until, well, now. I was never shunned or spat upon but I feel like here in France (where apparently it's considered inappropriate to smile at people on the street) I would be seriously judged. In french. I also don't know how to say "trick or treat" outside of my mother tongue and I feel like stumbling my way through the closest thing to it: "give me all of your candy," would seem like a threat.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsUZ5mYI9YUy07r0HrLW2JjkVWem1-0NsJYOnguttURsVK3HvitL0MJrqvijZ5Ls_P3MmmKnoXf4ksvIPwvh7sV3kuUt3RzgRq_dll6OKaeH0MR5DDJjykdgo8B5hfYuWUtel_59frPtO/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-10-20+at+6.35.28+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsUZ5mYI9YUy07r0HrLW2JjkVWem1-0NsJYOnguttURsVK3HvitL0MJrqvijZ5Ls_P3MmmKnoXf4ksvIPwvh7sV3kuUt3RzgRq_dll6OKaeH0MR5DDJjykdgo8B5hfYuWUtel_59frPtO/s400/Screen+shot+2012-10-20+at+6.35.28+PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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Here is Audecdote and I. Clearly, she is Bellatrix Lestrange and I am supposed to be an asylum escapee, however, I look more like Ozzy Osbourne post bat-devouring. We were in our senior year, I believe.<br />
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3. In America, we have a wonderful love of scaring the shit out of ourselves! Hence all of the seasonal, murderous hayrides, haunted houses, disturbing porch displays with motion-activated screaming mummies, the Halloween movies on constant repeat on television, our use of black cats as a scapegoat for our shitty luck, and the obesity in a cup that is Pumpkin Spice Lattes from Starbucks (oh, how I long to suckle at your teat). Contrastingly, in France.. I have yet to see a pumpkin, much less a god damn gourd with those horrific warts!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G3m1VmyNU6nhBi0L6-Ttww7KftYzr0o6kCmZm6QfP0jPZpjEGpil6s77YEEs_dh8V7KbeSJo1At6zb4MXixz8t2xUxSa_2zdLS_2u_GnH_xRvI600yrfAimJakgzrR3MevialsoZybo/s1600/10-08-10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G3m1VmyNU6nhBi0L6-Ttww7KftYzr0o6kCmZm6QfP0jPZpjEGpil6s77YEEs_dh8V7KbeSJo1At6zb4MXixz8t2xUxSa_2zdLS_2u_GnH_xRvI600yrfAimJakgzrR3MevialsoZybo/s400/10-08-10.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5G3m1VmyNU6nhBi0L6-Ttww7KftYzr0o6kCmZm6QfP0jPZpjEGpil6s77YEEs_dh8V7KbeSJo1At6zb4MXixz8t2xUxSa_2zdLS_2u_GnH_xRvI600yrfAimJakgzrR3MevialsoZybo/s1600/10-08-10.JPG">Image Source</a></td></tr>
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Sweet fuckery, that gourd's mother HATED him! Can I ask how that is even evolutionarily advantageous?? Yes, let me look like exposed body fat, terminal acne and a Hagrid's scrotum all at once, that'll keep me on top. However.. I miss them.<br />
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The only reason Halloween might be better in Europe is for the ladies. In the States, Halloween is your one chance to dress like a complete slut and be only semi-judged for it. In Europe, apparently they dress like sluts on the reg:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzZUsFz_tZzr-L970e1_2y5ec-t0gjvJIsgmE_mx7hgXJKz-evwGrVlduaglSknArd2ydP4LIlsPwXCSkaJ9zZB3jSsaWGueYuG1iGMgICmIrL457Avc6VuL3OxNHLablf_DXKgVesxH5/s1600/slutwalk.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzZUsFz_tZzr-L970e1_2y5ec-t0gjvJIsgmE_mx7hgXJKz-evwGrVlduaglSknArd2ydP4LIlsPwXCSkaJ9zZB3jSsaWGueYuG1iGMgICmIrL457Avc6VuL3OxNHLablf_DXKgVesxH5/s400/slutwalk.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's "slutwalk" if you didn't catch it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm going to miss being in the limousine of death, driven by a middle-aged man with red eyes and a mullet and his female (?) cohort. Then there was being dragged out of said limo by chainsaw-wielding clowns. sigh.. it's just not the same.Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-86607625339278004422012-10-05T18:02:00.001-04:002012-10-05T18:44:18.848-04:00River Rats and Dumb WhoresToday is the one year anniversary of this blog! Finally, I actually committed to something. Sorry I don't have some cool montage of every story ever written on here to make one masterful post encompassing the whole year. In lieu of that.. I will tell you a little story about my evening.<br />
<br />So, my friends and I happened upon a purely American inspired diner in France. It has everything from the neon lights and a Coca Cola sign to red leather booths and a plethora of milkshakes. In all honesty, it tried to hard and fell short of the real thing. Milkshakes that were actually the consistency of milk?? Albeit, a delicious fucking milkshake of vanilla-speculose. It was like drinking a caramely graham cracker. My face when I tasted it:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFMpANYhUNnbf94Gtf9turDTMuye0vVI2EvC5JSEJBMWqgiyfl8VFb_tvuZe_OR73JC0XCqRha7VxLcSsIL23QnEHQhyphenhyphenS8U5a9naSTD8OP-DIEahh0VSVkOpXCaGyTD3JD4KSJgWPA27j/s1600/Hanah+Girls" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFMpANYhUNnbf94Gtf9turDTMuye0vVI2EvC5JSEJBMWqgiyfl8VFb_tvuZe_OR73JC0XCqRha7VxLcSsIL23QnEHQhyphenhyphenS8U5a9naSTD8OP-DIEahh0VSVkOpXCaGyTD3JD4KSJgWPA27j/s1600/Hanah+Girls" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/girls-hbo?before=1335821009#">Image Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
After the diner that tried too hard, my friends and I went down to the river to hang out and have some drinks. All was going well, we were laughing and talking and enjoying the wonderful evening weather. The only appalling thing that had happened all night was that an enormous river rat swam by us. I'm talking beaver sized river rat. This thing had its own wake and could probably destroy an on-coming boat.<br />
<br />
Only a short amount of time passed before other river rats began to stir up trouble of their own. And by other river rats, I mean the group next to us who decided to get into a serious river rat brawl. It was really exciting to watch it break out, actually; I never knew how riveting I found violence! There was the usual pushing and shoving and the occasional hearty swing of a backpack. However, shit got real when a big, glass bottle was broken against a lamp post and the guy tried to, essentially, stab the other guy in the head.. so, that was when I decided to leave..... and watch from the bridge.<br />
<br />
Also, on the tram on the way to the river, my group of friends and I were standing next to a shitty little group of french boys who remarked and guffawed at the fact that we were Americans in France. Little did they know that I could understand them perfectly as they said that they didn't like it that we were here and that I looked like a condom with my hood on. Well, fuck you. The events of tonight have led me to the conclusion that:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih8xj9RGB_DTaCd-qn4iIsypY_j-InHEbrBmOsESR2HNbwDCmauE8xsde95_FoMFMvMY9ippnZ29yAh_4EwiYnPPubs_LeWEs1RToGfzARNO_mhuqE_MWKkzRJtY0Duhxt3ylsnpbjmIGQ/s1600/Everyon's+a+dumb+whore" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih8xj9RGB_DTaCd-qn4iIsypY_j-InHEbrBmOsESR2HNbwDCmauE8xsde95_FoMFMvMY9ippnZ29yAh_4EwiYnPPubs_LeWEs1RToGfzARNO_mhuqE_MWKkzRJtY0Duhxt3ylsnpbjmIGQ/s1600/Everyon's+a+dumb+whore" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/jernie?before=1340139420">Image Source</a></td></tr>
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Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-11631414000972932312012-10-04T20:02:00.001-04:002012-10-04T20:11:04.923-04:00Quimsical's European Adventures (part 1?)What the fuck. I haven't been in the blogosphere in like, many months and, for that, I apologize because I know how much my presence has been missed: page views have been off the charts - not. Flatline. You've all killed me with your lack of love. Just kidding, I did this to myself.<br />
<br />
Anyway! I have so much shit to fill y'all in on. Since the last time I wrote a post on this majestic blog, I have been to 5 European countries and am now residing in one. I'm not gonna say it because I don't want to get stalked. Just kidding, it's France. The point of me telling you this isn't to be like, "oh, I'm so worldly now and I only condone wearing leather jackets and high top sneakers.. Meehh," in fact, it is simply to tell you all how much WEIRD shit has happened to me, or I have witnessed since being here. I will tell my anecdotes in order of least strange to most strange, or on the scale of "public toddler urination to gypsy curses."<br />
<br />
1. I was admiring the gorgeous architecture in central Berlin and glanced down at my arm to see two bugs fucking each other on it. I flicked those shits off but later reflected on it and decided I was actually kind of flattered. My arm screams sketchy motel hookups.<br />
<br />
2. An elderly woman was walking down the stairs as I was walking up them
in a beautiful old castle. She must have been super excited because she
decided to skip a step and consequently fell into the wall nearest her,
ricocheted off of that wall and was making a beeline for me. My
instinct for self preservation manifested itself in me sticking my arm
out (I also hoped to save her from falling down stairs made of pure
stone). Did I save her? No. She has already semi-caught her footing and I
ended up punching this poor, old German woman directly in her chicken
cutlet breast. Needless to say I blushed and wanted to fly away like
Russel Edgington in True Blood.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100924152648/trueblood/images/5/5d/KingFlying.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100924152648/trueblood/images/5/5d/KingFlying.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20100924152648/trueblood/images/5/5d/KingFlying.gif">Image Source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
3. "I just wanna go out and dance tonight!" The harmless utterance that
resulted in.. Well, you'll see. So, Wrocław, Poland has a pretty decent
nightlife and my mates (friends don't exist in Europe..) and I decided
to give it a try. Ah, the bar with the red awning looks good! Enter we
did. The bar had a nice vibe and the downstairs dance floor was pretty
decent. As the night went on and the shots started to wear off, strange
things were noticed.. Like, the portrait of Mao Zedong on the wall and
the one of Stalin opposite him. Oh, then the one of Che Guevera. Then I
began to notice that everyone was at LEAST 38-45 in this bar and all
dancing like they had no arms. As I rested on the guard rail, I observed
the fine detail work. Hmm, a sickle. Man, all of the lights in here are
red... And so was the awning. In .002838 seconds, my eyes widen, my
buzz dies like it was shot in the face, and I realize that we are in a
middle-aged Communist bar. The despicable dancing should have been the
first sign.. We left alive, un-sacrificed, and uninitiated into any sort
of underground gang.<br />
<br />
4. To begin with, public transportation isn't my strong point. I am always clammy-handed thinking that I will end up on the wrong side of town. So, with this worry floating around in my mind, I wait for my tram. Waiting at a tram stop late at night is also not one of my favorite things to do, which is why I always pretend to be talking to someone, whether it be texting or speaking, on my phone. Not the best strategy. Noot the best strategy. I'm approached by two men. My heart's pace quickens and I get really involved in the 'text message' I'm composing, only this time I wonder if I should actually compose something - a cry for help or my will. I'm spoken to. [I'll translate the french into true English]<br />
Guy: "Eh, j'ai besoin de ton portable" = Yo, bitch, I need your ghetto ass phone, you're not even texting anyone.<br />
Me: "Euh.. non, je ne fume pas." = Umm, no thanks, I don't smoke. <-- me being a fucking idiot<br />
Guy: "Non! Ton portable. Donne-moi ton portable." = No, you piece of shit, give me your phone, I wouldn't ever offer you one of my cigarettes anyway.<br />
Me: "Uhh, non merci. Je n'ai pas de..." = Um, no thanks.. I don't have <-- me stopping myself from saying that I don't have a cellphone.. because I realized that it was in my hand.<br />
Guy: <i>grabs phone from me and calls his girlfriend, then shoves it back in my hand.</i><br />
Me: "Merci!" = thank you for not killing me, do you have any hand sanitizer?<br />
<i> </i><br />
See how that played out?? I was the one who ended up saying thank you! After being harassed for my phone, I said thank you; probably because I was thankful that I still had a heartbeat and that I had my phone back. Fuck. At least I got on the right tram.<br />
<br />
5. Just chillin' in the park. Little toddler walks by with her mother and she is complaining about something ridiculous. Oh, she has to pee. Well, hold it like the rest of civilization. No. That mother was on her game and spared no time de-robing her very own daughter in public by ripping her frilly tutu off. Then, something happened that looked way too well rehearsed: the mother lifted the child up so that the child's back was against the mother's stomach and her legs were in stirrup position. What ensued, I have not words to describe. Shameless, the child exploded a stream of pee that made Niagra Falls blush. It went on for a solid 25-30 seconds, too. This little girl was not kidding. Tutu was pulled back on, scooter was remounted and off they went into the sunset.<br />
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6. Waiting to pay for a delicious dinner of mystery-meat dumplings in Poland, a pregnant gypsy and her son began to approach my group's table. Let me say, <i>dis ain't no Esmerelda</i>. She looked like she had just crawled out of Katy Perry's garbage can, if that helps you visualize her. I immediately girded my loins and felt for my wallet in my pocket. It was there. She would have to cross many a boundary to get to it, however, I felt that she wouldn't object to violating me. Her squinty eyes scanned our table and then, of course, because my life is a joke, the kid next to me, who has decided to pay with nearly all coins, drops them ALL on the ground. Her tongue flicks and she whips her head in our direction. "Jesus, pick it up!" I say, keeping my eye on the gypsy kid, I can tell he's already a swift thief. Phew, all the coins have been picked up and the gypsy slows her pace. All is well until HE DROPS EVERYTHING AGAIN. This time, the gypsy screeches and throws her hands in the air and her son turns into the devil and runs straight for me. At least, that's how it went down in my head. He picked up the coins again, this time in the nick of time, as the gypsy rounds our table. She then murmurs some ugly words and makes some hand motions in our direction, the whole time, her stare unwavering. And that was the day I was presumably cursed by a gypsy.<br />
<br />
These are just some of my stories and I'm more than certain that more will come.. Until next time!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mabtl48JDy1rtiuin.gif">Image Source</a><a name='more'></a></td></tr>
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<br />Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-81496162820013405592012-07-02T13:03:00.000-04:002012-07-02T13:04:43.702-04:00The Day of 18 Holes<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What could be more perfect for a reunion than an 8:30 tee-time of 18 holes of golf. I'm sure many many people wouldn't protest. I, however, only find golf to be fun: </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">a. When I hit the ball well</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">b. When it is limited to between six and nine holes (nine is pushing it..)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">c. When I have a golf cart to drive recklessly - this is a must.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, seeing as how I'm not a very accomplished golfer, only "b" and "c" are usually pretty realistic while "a" happens only once in a blue moon, or as my Dad said to me when I had a surprisingly nice shot, "even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Let's just say, I started the day with my first drive, like anyone else, however, I managed to hit the ball at a ninety degree angle to the right. Fuck. Also, I was golfing with my Dad, my sister's husband's Dad and his nephew who was closer to their age than mine. Meanwhile, the husband, his two brothers and another kid my own age (all in their fresh twenties) went off golfing together... with a pack of bud light lime. I had a hat that made me look like an Asian tourist, a second hand set of golf clubs, less than half of my dignity, and was rolling with the old men. Also, I forgot my golf shoes that are two sizes too big and ended up wearing top siders.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Things really didn't change from hole to hole. I hit the ball like shit, put like shit, and swore a lot more than should be allowed -- hold on, I just witnessed a dog take a shit; so carefree they are. I told my Dad that I "fucking hated this." There is nothing worse than golfing like shit in a group of people that can golf well. It's the whole waiting factor. The fact that people actually have to wait for you because you suck at hitting a ball off of the ground is beyond mortifying. I'm also weirdly uncomfortable bending my knees and jutting my butt out - some clubs are just too disproportionately short. My Dad just patted me on the back and called me a good sport. I wanted to rage flail.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By hole seven or eight, this was everywhere you looked:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.richard-seaman.com/Wallpaper/Nature/Beetles/DetroitJapaneseBeetles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.richard-seaman.com/Wallpaper/Nature/Beetles/DetroitJapaneseBeetles.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.richard-seaman.com/Wallpaper/Nature/Beetles/DetroitJapaneseBeetles.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Image Source</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hardcore Japanese beetle orgies. I mean hardcore. This is, from what we see, a monogamous relationship. The golf course literally had dozens of beetles on top of one another every four feet, not to mention the ones that were flying around attached to each other. In the middle of this golf shit show, I thought,<i> at least someone is having a good time.</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was given the opportunity to bail after hole nine but my horrifically beautiful conscience told me that this was for my Dad and not for me, so I stayed. He repaid me by peeing at the tee-off on hole ten. Broad daylight, an open golf course, and he's just peein' away. Not surprisingly, this was the hole that, when I went to drive, completely missed the ball and ended up sending a cheeseburger-sized patch of grass soaring.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can't tell you the number of times I hit the ball way into the rough and just kind of kicked it out onto the fairway. Karma bit me in the ass when I did this once. I hit the ball, a great hit might I add, and it ended up ricocheting off of a tree trunk and shooting backwards. I actually managed to hit the ball backwards. Who am I?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Other than almost getting killed by a rogue ball hit by some man with an OBSCENELY saggy stomach, golfing turned out to be not too bad. I learned more from my Dad than I would have if I was drinking bud light with the guys and managed to get a pretty good tan after four and a half hours in the blistering sun. Why do I have to find lessons in things? Fuck. I just wanted a beer. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Moral of the story: golf is sadistic, golfers are masochistic, but golf with the family somehow makes that okay. Now here is Robin Williams demonstrating all too well how ridiculous golf really is:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/pcnFbCCgTo4?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-41271491280266500522012-05-21T23:35:00.000-04:002012-06-27T13:05:46.519-04:00That Time I Got Trapped In The Women's BathroomI'll preface this with: I am a male. This is important to the story, as indicated by the title of this post.<br />
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So, I'm just strolling through JCPenny's, which is nobody's ideal shopping paradise, when I realize that I should probably find a bathroom before I make this place even more of a nightmare by projectile shatting all over a mannequin. I look up and see a sign that has this picture on it, more or less:<br />
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Ah. A woman, a man, a child, and Professor X - everyone can use this bathroom, even mutants.<br />
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I follow the ceiling signs and finally find the bathroom. Now, mind you, I have been doing this brisk walk for fear of an early bomb toss, so I really just plow right into the bathroom without a care and head for a stall.<br />
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I sit down in peace and let the good times roll. Everything is peachy. Someone enters the stall next to mine, she has some nicely painted toenails and is most definitely Asian by the look of those toes. To the left of me another person enters the stall. She also has some lovely painted toenails and is most definitely a chubbier, white mom with short spiky blond hair - I can just tell. (If you have never tried guessing at someone's appearance simply based on their feet, give it a go; you may surprise yourself.)<br />
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Wow, a lot of women and only women have been coming in and out of this family/mutant friendly bathroom. I start to get nervous and shift around a bit, noticing how ugly my boat shoes must look to all of the pretty, painted toenails around me. I even drop my shorts lower to cover up my hairy legs. All of the sudden, paranoia sets in. I break into a gentle sweat and realize that I should not be here.<br />
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I imagine the look of pure disgust and shame that spiky-haired mother
would give me as she wraps a protective arm around her young daughter
while I exit the incriminating stall. <i>What a sick mother fucker</i>,
is all she would think while she shook her head in slow motion. The
daughter would be crying, of course, with nothing but pure fear in her
eyes as she looked at me. At this point, I'm convinced I'm a terrible
person.<br />
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Some girl has this horribly loud walkie-talkie and it
sounds like she is getting paged by the store. Naturally, I assume she
has been sent to find me for violating women's rights or something. But
she, too, sits in a stall. Then, who I assume to be her grandmother,
also sits in a stall and takes an obscene amount of toilet paper, wipes
once and leaves. THIS IS MY NIGHTMARE.<br />
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Finally, I have waited for
about 15 minutes... the coast has just cleared after walkie-talkie
granddaughter taught grandmother how to dry her hands with an air dryer.
I whip my shorts up, don't take the time to flush and book it out of
there, only to be greeted by my friend, whom I was with, and some sales
employee he had enlisted in the search for me. Apparently, I had been
paged throughout the entire JCPenny's, while I was trapped in a women's
bathroom, surrounded by glossy toenails.<br />
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To end, I glanced at the
bathroom door. It said WOMEN'S BATHROOM. So clearly, JCPenny's needs
some ceiling signs that match what's on the actual door for God's sake.<br />
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</div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-11945594361330535552012-05-17T22:22:00.000-04:002012-05-17T23:41:06.298-04:00A Belated Mother's Day Post: how my family knows how to do up a holiday<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I understand that Mother's Day has already passed and is nearly a week behind us all, however, mothers still deserve to be honored and that is why I am telling the tale of my mother's Mother's Day. I'm not good at blogging on time. That is a fact.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So, the day starts rather wonderfully. I snap one eye open at 8 a.m. and look out of my bedroom window to see my mother and father sauntering away from the house in preparation for a run. Perrrrfect (conniving, one-eyed, lazy smile - I can only open one eye in the morning, whaterr.) Little did I know, this would not be like most other runs (we will come back to this). Normally my parents take a specific route on their runs so, naturally, I assume they will follow this trend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I skillfully and dexterously tiptoe down the stairs, taking caution as to not be spotted through the windows by my all too unsuspecting parents. Seeing as how I just got a new set of temporary wheels, I plan to sneak to Wegman's and purchase a devilishly gargeous, not gorgeous, but GARGEOUS, bouquet of flowers for my mother. My little brother wakes. For some reason, I did not expect him to be home.. he is only 10, so this is a foolish assumption and I mentally slap myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Come to Wegman's with me," is all I say. He complies and grabs a prepaid Visa, while I fumble with some crumpled cash. Something isn't right here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We get into the car, which has a manual transmission - something I know how to drive but am super rusty at. Therefore, first gear is smooth sailing. Shift to second, car gives a protesting lurch, however, we continue on. Third gear, all is well, save my white knuckles clenching the steering wheel and my perpetually (while driving this car) tense toes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Once onto the main street, I begin to relax. We saw no sign of my parents, meaning that they took their usual route and the path to Wegman's would be clear.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">NOT THE CASE. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My parents were directly in front of us on the sidewalk. I ineptly pulled into a "deliveries only" parking lot to somehow avoid driving past them and ruining everything. Like a dumbass, I pulled out almost immediately after I had pulled in. I think I was afraid of getting chastised for not having anything to deliver other than a really lame story about how I wanted to surprise my mom with flowers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The inevitable happened. I pulled up to the the red light right by where my parents were running. My little brother, like the stealthy spy that he is, pokes his head up and looks them dead in the eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Oh, great! Now they definitely saw us!" I poorly blame him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My parents have literally stopped running now and are just looking at me. The light goes green. I pull into an empty PetSmart parking lot.... what I thought this would accomplish, I have no idea, but I did it. SO. Flowers - busted. I did end up buying her some anyways.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Later in the day: family golfing! Not bad, I think. I'm ready to dress like a douche and swing a club, so I'm all for it. We're going along, hitting our balls, some better than others, when we finally reach hole 6 or something. It's an elevated hole, so where you tee off from is raised quite high. High enough that there is the top of a small apple tree to the left of the tee.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I hit the ball, it's beautiful - soars right to a nice spot on the green (this happens to me about 3% of the time I play golf). My little brother skips on up to his tee and swings his club with the might of eighty men. It must have been too much for his tiny body to handle because the club flies forth from his tiny hands and wedges itself comfortably into the top of the apple tree. My poor father, one of the champion golfers at this country club, mind you, climbs the apple tree. The ten year-old brother failed miserably at climbing. So my Dad is up there for a good ten minutes, I would say. My Mom and I are dying laughing because all you can see is the occasional hand reaching for the club and the rare foot dangling from the leaves. To make matters more embarrassing for my father, golfers have caught up behind us. Oh, and the daughter in the bunch has a scholarship to play golf at Rutgers, so we're feeling pretty good right about now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Yeah, I don't know.. I think he is in the tree," I hear someone say.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Dear God, we just need to leave this place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Finally, my Dad is able to free the golf club and it falls to the ground. Freeing himself from the tree was not as easy. Let's just say, when the first thing you see coming out of a tree is someone's ass, it's likely to be a difficult descent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Happy belated Mother's Day. I hope you all were able to maintain your dignity.</span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-9117341231705291432012-04-05T11:54:00.003-04:002012-04-05T11:58:44.506-04:00Childhood in the 90s - A Stallion With Pedals<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Here is the second post pertaining to my Olympian-status childhood in the 90s. I feel like those were the days when forming a bike gang was cool, accepted, and feared by those not included. Fuck no we didn't wear bike helmets. That would have made us the Steve Urkel of bike gangs. My friends and I, including Audecdote, were much more better..<br /><br />We would meet up in the morning, not on the sidewalk like any dumb old kid, we met up in a bush. You heard me. We had a completely concealed sanctuary shrouded in shrubbery, with enough room to stand. Eat your heart out sheet-fort kids.<br /><br />Once we had met and written down a detailed account of the current and predicted weather forecast in a Harry Potter journal, it was time to ride.<br /><br />I'm going to ask you to play this song while you read the next part:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Imagine the silhouettes of three comrades, faintly coming into view against the blazing backdrop that is the morning sun. We rode with conviction, plowing mercilessly over any ant or twig that came in our way. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">We fucked bitches on the reg. Or did we? No, we didn't. We glided over the concrete coming to our final stop. A final stop that only a regular Evel Knievel or Jackie Chan would dare attempt. What was it you ask? A poor excuse for a hill in my Grandmother's back yard.<br /><br />We lined up our bikes as they whinnied and neighed in protest. Here's where I'm gonna mind fuck you. We pretended our bikes were horses, no, not horses, but GIANT stallions, their muscles rippling and their hooves the size of garbage can lids. The sweat dripped down the sides of our faces from the velvet riding helmets that sat atop our heads, secured by a delicate and choking leather strap. Remember when I said we were way too cool to wear bike helmets? T'was because we had access to fucking velvet riding helmets. Let me reiterate that we were the cool bike gang.<br /><br />"HIYA, Lightning!" I shouted the name which I had bestowed upon my bike, pointing forward and then quickly retracting my hand to get it back on the bike handle.. I mean, mane. My stallion cautiously descended the hill that was at a near-90 degree angle, and by 90 I mean 35.<br /><br />"Magnum, ride!" Audecdote shouted on my coattails. The name came from the brand of the bike, however, I now realize that it sounded like she was shouting some sort slogan for a condom campaign.<br /><br />The third, in elegance as usual, simply acted as if she was giving the horse a firm kick to the sides to get her horse moving.<br /><br />Down we rode in slow motion, the wind blowing in our faces, forgetting about the world around us and focusing only on the task of making the next jump: the drop-off of the driveway into the neighbor's lawn (a good 2 feet).<br /> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Most importantly, what happened when we came into contact with another bike gang? I'll tell you this much, the kids with the velvet helmets definitely owned. <br /><br />It went something like this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br />Clearly we were Liv Tyler. 'Nuff said.</span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-81413560527223785022012-04-02T14:49:00.001-04:002012-04-02T15:09:49.114-04:00Childhood in the 90s - Pokemania<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I'm thinking that I would like to write a series of posts about being a child of the 90s. Probably one of the better decades to have grown up in. I mean, I did some of the craziest shit in the 90s. Crazy as in "would I dare attempt to swing from that tree like that nowadays?!" as well as "You're literally fucking crazy, Pokemon do not exist." (they might).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Speaking of Pokemon, I think that is the first thing I will focus on. Even typing the word gets me all excited and giddy, yearning to earn some official pokeleague badges! Rather recently, my family and I moved, thus requiring a thorough cleanup of my room and of course, the inevitable process of deciding what gets to stay and what goes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So, I sat there and cleaned my room up, finding things like old pamphlets from musicals I had been in, books I had forgotten I had, old drawings shoved into a binder, and something that was a translucent purple. SWEET BEAN POD! I had stumbled across my old Gameboy Color! I was the cool (?) kid who had this one:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I actually remember my step-brother once saying: "I want the one you have. That queer lookin' one." I simply believed he could not say "clear" and had some unheard-of speech impediment. Not the case.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I picked it up and held it with such care and reverence that it seemed impossible to me how indifferently I had treated it when I was younger; tossing it aside when I was done with it, allowing the screen to get all scratched up, losing the cover that goes over the batteries. What was once simply a toy was now a treasure and an all too tangible link to my carefree days as a child riding his Big Wheel with his Game Boy in his pocket. The nostalgia set in and I realized I kind of had to shat.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">What was more glorious was what I found when I turned it over to inspect it:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">MY FRIENDS! That was the first thing I thought. I mean, how goddamn pathetic. But seriously! Every day I had played this game and trained my little monsters! It's like when there were all those articles in the paper that instructed parents how to care for their child if Harry Potter died in the final book.... only vastly different. There was no article about how to cope with the fact that Pokemon was technically on the outs and that young men in their late teens probably shouldn't be caught playing it in public.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Y'know whuh I says? I says FUCK DAT!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I started a new game and played to my heart's content. I'm still playing, in fact. I played this morning. I then found my Gold Version:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">This required some surgery, seeing as how the battery inside of it had died. Yeah, there is a battery inside of the cartridge. So, if your game doesn't hold a save, Google how to replace the battery and you'll be gold (pff... no pun intended). I went so far as to use a butter knife, two miniscule screw drivers, and a chopstick, I'm pretty sure, to pry that cartridge open and replace the battery by gracefully taping it into place with scotch tape. It worked!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My life became so much brighter! I had a REASON to finish my homework. I was training myself to get all of my work done by like, seven o'clock on a weekday (unheard of) so I could play my game. It worked wonderfully, my grades were steady As, I had time to relax, I was super happy. I even got sucked back into the TV show. Another throwback to my carefree days as a rockin' fourth grader. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> The 8 or 9 year old me was back. The one who adamantly supported the theory that Pokemon, in fact, exist. They just don't want us to see them because we're not ready for them just yet. I convinced a few and drove away a lot more. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My obsession grew and I ended up buying two games from the newer generations (not as good.. noooot as good Nintendo/Gamefreak). I even asked for one for Valentine's Day. Things got out of hand.. I refused a VERY nice offer because I was in the midst of an Elite Four battle.. I mean, you just don't mess with that shit. I tried to re-initiate the offer I had been given once I saved the game.. apparently the moment was gone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My point: If you can find time to relive something that made you SO happy as a kid (in some semblance of moderation), you will be a happier person. I not only find fun in replaying the games but a sense of comfort in the nostalgia of it all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Find the time to become a child again for a day or two. It puts trivial worries in perspective and gives you a chance to enjoy the day :)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">To close, I shall provide you with the most epic song ever composed:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Comment back with your own childhood adventures!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-35283307749184459972012-03-29T18:49:00.001-04:002012-04-05T00:25:46.533-04:00Things That I Know Happen While My Eyes are Closed<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">What a hiatus! I shall waste no time boring you with what I was doing for weeks because it was all boring and worthless. I sound like a MANIC DEPRESSANT!! (screamed like SNL's Target Lady. Kristen Wiig, I cherish you.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Anywho, back to the point of this post. Lately, I have been having trouble opening my eyes after I close them. Don't worry, it's not due to some horrific medical condition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Worse.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">It's due to what my brain does to me when I close my eyes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">For example: Showering. All is well while I'm in the shower. I scrub my body with absolutely luscious soaps whose fragrances range from shea butter to pomegranite and mangos. The water is just hot enough that as it rains on my head and flows down onto the rest of my body, I get chills and the utmost satisfaction of reveling in such sinful warmth. I scrub my head with shampoo and rinse. I grab the exfoliating face wash.. wait. This is where things get hard. As you can imagine, washing your face with your eyes open isn't easy, especially in a shower where unexpected water splashes are frequent.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I brave the storm and slap the wash on my face, eyes closed. DAMN IT. As soon as I am ready to open my eyes, I know that I will see this:</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJwA9F2fVlOeASbUadjEOmsB5lLz-2kDhJflzhuiyqO07E-quVnfp6yqaygU2_qePoIAZRjK4PuF8RMEFBT0ti5hvURuvRU7aoQz_WJM5o6PQeUlEv-45iTp_PfzhcNbef5xM_CBWBYA/s1600/insidious_site.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJJwA9F2fVlOeASbUadjEOmsB5lLz-2kDhJflzhuiyqO07E-quVnfp6yqaygU2_qePoIAZRjK4PuF8RMEFBT0ti5hvURuvRU7aoQz_WJM5o6PQeUlEv-45iTp_PfzhcNbef5xM_CBWBYA/s320/insidious_site.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">(No, not the normal guy who looks unfortunately unaware of the horrific demon behind him) peering at me from behind a slightly pulled back shower curtain. It's a good thing I'm in the shower because I will inevitably have shat myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I also know that once I switch off the light in the bathroom after I'm done showering and am ready to leave, this will happen:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Actually, this happens to me in my mind more often than most other scary things. And, of course, my wedgie will be nowhere near as awful as her's. Her asshole chafe must be out of this world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Aah, so once I have been properly spied on by the demon in the shower and dragged down the stairs to an unholy wedgie-hell, I'll go to bed. ONLY IT IS SO MUCH MORE THAN THAT.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The bed faces the closet. Sometimes the closet is still open when I get in bed. The lights are off. This means that I will not get out of bed for fear of getting dragged under my bed in a similar manner to what happens to me after I get out of the shower. So there I lie, my eyes unwaveringly locked on the closet, waiting for this to happen:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I don't know why this must happen to me. I accept that my subconscious wants to terrify me and clearly the movies I watch don't help either. I also frequently imagine myself just about to leave the apartment and then DRAGGED RIGHT BACK INSIDE! God, I need some sleep.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So please, share what wonderful things your mind does to you!</span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-73871357257615616342012-02-29T16:27:00.001-05:002012-02-29T23:17:00.837-05:00Stress Continued<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I posted previously about my stresses, one of which manifested itself like a dormant alien baby come to life inside of me, punching, kicking, scratching, and swearing in an extra-terrestrial language I can't understand (no one likes being left out of a conversation). This particular stress is associated with my future and how study abroad may or may not fuck up my life. It went a little like this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Me, 2:00 p.m.:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Yep! I'm going to my adviser's office today to figure things out, I'm sure it will all work out."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Adviser - "Well, it's definitely a tricky one!" (makes some sort of motion like she is going to give me a playful punch) "Your next step is to make a meeting with your department chair, he can help you organize the rest of your semesters here."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">At this point, I'm feeling only slightly less optimistic due to her confused look when I asked her how I should plan my semesters in order to graduate on time. Summer classes might be an option. (In my mind, there is still that stigma of the delinquents in my high school associated with summer school).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Me: "Hi, I need to make an appointment with my department chair."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Oompa Loompa-like woman: "Huh, his door is closed."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Me: "Okay, well is he inside? I need to know because I still have to apply for abroad and the application is due soon."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Oompa Loompa: "Well, I mean, the door is closed.. I.." she said, like I have asked her to summon the devil and send him to heaven, making the task of knocking on a fucking door seem an impossible task. She holds her hands out to her side like she is balancing two serving trays, shaking her head from side to side.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Me: Okay. Well, I'll just come back another time then.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Now, I was pretty pissed off. All I needed was a signature from him to confirm one thing and a nice meeting to figure out some other shit. I decided that I would attempt my other adviser. He was not in his room. So, I made my way over to Arts & Sciences to see if I could get the head of the French department's signature for my minor form. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Such a beautiful woman. She sports the latest in mullet trends, peppered mousy-brown hair of course, has a ski slope nose that ends in a nice sharp point and, atop that nose, round, silver glasses that frame her black beady eyes. Her stature is that of a Hobbit, and, though I've never seen her feet, I'm assuming they are also Hobbit-like. She...</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo <a href="http://mymiddle-earth.net/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/hobbit-feet.jpg">source</a> from mymiddle-earth.net</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">was also not in her room.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">By now, I had walked between three different departments in a horrific slush that my boat-shoes betrayed me in. I would say I have almost broken BOTH of my legs at <i>least</i> seven times today.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I walk into the student dining center, not even a dining hall, so I am forced to use<i> money</i> instead of a meal swipe. Immediately, I see some sad-looking Mexican man making quesadilla. YES. I trudge over to him and order in staccato: Veggie. Everything. <i>Sour Cream? </i>Yes. <i>Salsa?</i> Yes. <i>For here or to go? </i>GO.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Once I have the hot, slightly B.O. - smelling quesadilla in my hands, life seems a little brighter. While waiting in line, I notice a basket. A glorious basket filled with cookies, however, these cookies are anything but ordinary. They're literally seven or eight inches across...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Me, 3:30 p.m.:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Can I handle that fucking cookie??</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Yes. Yes I <i>can</i> handle that fucking cookie.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I snatched it from the basket, I think I scared some of the people around me. And since you all know what happened after I bought that cookie, I will end the post like this:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-15289629742479589482012-02-27T15:48:00.002-05:002012-02-27T16:51:57.952-05:00Stress<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">And so the week has begun and, along with it, the incredible stresses of an over-achieving undergraduate. I don't like to complain because I know there are people much worse-off than myself (my prayers go out to you starving children in third-world countries, blind people, old cat ladies, and the like), however, in my little bubble of a world, things are pretty rough. Three tests this week, a project due Thursday, homework for 18 credits worth of classes, practicing prayers to read at my sister's wedding, preparing a speech for my sister's wedding, my sister's wedding itself (this weekend), applying for study abroad, asking for recommendations for that study abroad, aaaaaand the weight of needing to raise $15,000 for the advertising group I'm part of.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So, now that I've vented to you and you can choose whether to feel bad for me or tell me to suck it up and one-up me with all of your stressful lives, I'm going to show you what keeps me sane during my days.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvO2y_8J13pjZgOndJ3pNOAVMoYKivW2TIErCvzbPgEwpcf4S1dXDXLrQkHGObBDz5_MG1FAdN-C8IJdLyjExdBsdu-QoIQqbBPQnjgup1RoSfvY_P-p5RPLgGo2zarMGyMjTFSV2Vp5YV/s1600/IMAG0860.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvO2y_8J13pjZgOndJ3pNOAVMoYKivW2TIErCvzbPgEwpcf4S1dXDXLrQkHGObBDz5_MG1FAdN-C8IJdLyjExdBsdu-QoIQqbBPQnjgup1RoSfvY_P-p5RPLgGo2zarMGyMjTFSV2Vp5YV/s400/IMAG0860.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My daily carton of orange juice - simply because it it is delicious and I need delicious things. Next, my array of colored pens. I would not be alive without my colored pens. They are the very lifeblood of organization in my life and they serve as the best way to doodle because I can draw different hair and eye colors and stuff, as well as giving myself pen tattoos. Last, yet most importantly, is my little red notebook. This is my bible. With so much shit going on, it is only my little red notebook, named, hmm, what shall I name it? Florence, or something. Anyway, it is only this notebook that allows me to write down everything I have to do, making it my worst enemy, yet, my best friend because then I get to cross it all off: in pink pen. I don't know why pink. Don't judge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtSKmsavegoCD30h2pz1vOsSoB5kIUFwth5s1YsDC3NA3XCbQmVZvK1i-0vVqw3UxM_SLzjS4jOoX-bhyphenhyphenTd8BFcZ_9IN0VH9rq3FyMwtGTO-znZCy5YGb2gNpf-VZDF3ULsR-X6-Xh3Ix/s1600/IMAG0861.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDtSKmsavegoCD30h2pz1vOsSoB5kIUFwth5s1YsDC3NA3XCbQmVZvK1i-0vVqw3UxM_SLzjS4jOoX-bhyphenhyphenTd8BFcZ_9IN0VH9rq3FyMwtGTO-znZCy5YGb2gNpf-VZDF3ULsR-X6-Xh3Ix/s400/IMAG0861.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I hope I'm not alone in this, but I get a sick satisfaction out of crossing things off. It's knowing that I've defeated the black scrawl of ink that was just one more thing assigned to me as a means of wasting my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">My face when I cross things off:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2-f-8k5vBsg/T0vjNoqiqPI/AAAAAAAAAHA/w-KaryRwDUM/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-02-27+at+3.09.56+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2-f-8k5vBsg/T0vjNoqiqPI/AAAAAAAAAHA/w-KaryRwDUM/s320/Screen+shot+2012-02-27+at+3.09.56+PM.png" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"> As you can see it might be mildly unhealthy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I came to the library with the intention of putting a huge dent in my accumulated workload, thus reducing stress. Have I yet? No. There is a reason, however.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I chose to study in the quiet rooms this afternoon because I knew I couldn't have any distractions (save blogging, of course). However, there is always that one douchebag that answers his phone and has a full-blown conversation at normal volume with mom. Then there are personal distractions. As I set all of my things out and finally settled into reading my Biological Anthropology book, I felt a slight twinge.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Fuck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I had previously gulped down a large iced coffee and now my body, knowing perfectly well that I was in a wonderfully peaceful study environment where I could actually be productive, decided to fuck with me:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Body: Ha! I've been saving it for when you can't move!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Me: I'll hold the piss in and give you a bladder infection.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">Body: Come on, man. Your buddy body needs to have some fun, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Me: Well, it isn't fun for me, seeing as how I either piss myself or lose all of my things to library thieves. And, hey asshole, I didn't appreciate you bestowing a log-shit on me during class either.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Body: .....</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Me: Yeah, go fuck yourself.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">So, I did what I really don't like to do: Interrupted some Asian girl wearing giant headphones attached to an iPhone in a bunny-ear case to ask her to watch my things. She said<i> sure</i>, and immediately put her head back down to whatever she had been reading. You can play "I'm offended" all you want but you know as well as I do that if anyone ever asks you to watch his or her things, you say <i>yes</i> and then forget you have been given this task until he or she comes back and says <i>thanks</i>. That's the moment you look up and hope that all personal possessions are still there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">If so, you smile and say <i>no problem.</i> If not, you say, <i>I'm so sorry! He threatened me! </i>And if you have some fake blood on you, now would be the time to strategically place it on your body to simulate a shank wound. The person will be more concerned about your imminent death than his missing Mac.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Now I'm face down, like this insecure Asian man who was at the library not too long ago:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4u6WrH3EASO9uLIM9pSoR_880re3fUWVBJOmYxWxmT47mDVvTSka5yo4vMHTc_oBuNrqRDakuXt_uo1QrJiD6Uuy7Pr7cznsF5o7L3NRZw39rdd3GmB-El2QV_RTjsITwc2CK_3uXwG7T/s1600/Asian+can%27t+handle+the+stress.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4u6WrH3EASO9uLIM9pSoR_880re3fUWVBJOmYxWxmT47mDVvTSka5yo4vMHTc_oBuNrqRDakuXt_uo1QrJiD6Uuy7Pr7cznsF5o7L3NRZw39rdd3GmB-El2QV_RTjsITwc2CK_3uXwG7T/s400/Asian+can%27t+handle+the+stress.jpg" width="238" /> </a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And I'm out of orange juice. </span></div>
</div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-80456935965253875522012-02-23T22:53:00.001-05:002012-02-25T23:31:01.434-05:00Bananaphobia<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I've met a good deal of people in my days who actually denounce the action of eating a banana in public. In a way, I understand their discomfort. Who honestly wants to appear to be fellating a piece of fruit, or more politely put, sookin' a waynka. (sucking a wanker). Let's be honest, a banana must be mother nature's cruel joke on us all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I imagine her sitting on some beautiful swing made of willow branches and flowers, her gown of finest chiffon flowing behind her, the only thing ruining her pristine beauty is her sick sense of humor that has damned us all to closet banana-eating. She yells to her tiny mushroom minions (that she designed to look alarmingly like penises, as well), <i>make the banana bigger! Thicker!</i> She laughs at those who eat her giant bananas in public and punishes them by making those around them point and and throw stones.. and she and frowns upon those who cop out by discretely and quickly devouring Chiquita bananas. <i>Pussies, </i>she thinks, <i>eating the Asian brand.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I only bring this up because I witnessed one such abjurer of fruit fellatio in my class today. No, she did not duck her head under the desk, put a book to her face, or, as I often do, strap the banana to my right shoulder and pretend I'm itching the side of my face while I bite. In fact, she never bit the banana at all. She meticulously peeled back the skin of the banana and only exposed as much of the fruit as she was planning to <i>cut</i> off. I'm not sure if her reasoning for peeling the banana in this way was because any exposure of the fruit was as bad as a dog's red rocket - fine while in its casing but once out....</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">**Side note: I find it appalling when someone says: "Whooa! Spot's makin' lipstick!" in reference to a horny dog. I want to be like: Why don't you let that dog do your makeup, then?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Anywho, she cut the banana with a plastic knife every time she wanted a bite. This is the most extreme case of bananafellatiophobia I have ever seen. And in the end, she made herself look even worse because instead of looking like she was sookin' a waynka, she looked like she was performing some sort of sadistic phallic surgery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So the moral of this story? Just eat the banana as mother nature intended: a sex symbol, ya pervs.</span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-72702914126223526042012-02-20T10:35:00.001-05:002012-02-25T23:31:09.409-05:00Maintenance<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Seeing as how I was up till 3 studying for an exam after an already long-as-hell day, I was in one of those life-questioning deep sleeps that on is only granted once in a blue moon. Like being reeled up slowly from the deepest depths of my slumbery sea, I started to hear something that definitely did not fit the usual morning environment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Someone was in the apartment saying something that I could not quite understand. With the news of the previous night's campus robbery ringing fresh in my mind, I knew I must be the next target.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">He said the same undecipherable mumble in a tone that was nothing but taunting. He was egging me on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I shot out of bed and walked to the bedroom door, making sure it was locked; the whole time, keeping in my mind that I should really put some pants on to retain some dignity if I do get killed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Maaaintenaaance," the intruder said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I finally understood it. After quickly throwing some pants on, I walked out of the bedroom into the kitchen and there he was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Hey there, sorry to wake ya up."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"No, no that's fine," I lied. We kind of just stood there looking at each other, me with only one eye open as I do when I first wake up. He looked a little freaked out and I wanted to say, <i>really? Look what you've put </i>me <i>through</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Ain't you the guys who called for a mouse?" At this, I had to control myself from throwing out the Avatar pursed-lip face (reference Tsu'tey from Avatar). I told him that was false and no one had ever called. He simply responded:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Oooooh, shit." He persisted by asking the number of the apartment. Turns out that it was the right apartment. The whole time, I just kept wondering when he was going to finally leave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"We-he-hell," he laughed, "I was called to just patch up some holes." Something tells me that he had more holes to patch up in his life than just those of mice and that he also got some sick satisfaction out of sealing mice into walls. He was actually a really nice guy, though.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">I almost offered to make him a cup of coffee because that would have been better than just standing there, my one other eye starting to slowly open. Then, I thought of how a cup of coffee could be a gateway into his life-story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Well, we don't have a mouse," I said while shrugging my shoulders. "If we did have a mouse then you would be helpful," I laughed. I didn't even mean to sound like such a dick, it just came out in trying to make a humorous comment. However, that must have been his breaking point, for he finally left, apologizing profusely.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">'<i>WhatisthisIdon'teven</i>,' is how I was feeling, and I just turned around and walked back into the bedroom. I kept my pants on this time.</span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-85961986151677742492012-02-19T00:03:00.000-05:002012-02-25T23:31:16.104-05:00Saturday Spent Swell<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Ah, Saturday! The day between Friday and Sunday, making it the perfect day for plans with friends and plans for yourself. I find that Saturday should be spent going all out: partying 'til the break of dawn with your best amigos and ending it with a shameful (but in the moment, prideful and joyous) smorgasbord of Taco Bell, OR, Saturday should be spent being an introverted antisocial (but in a good way!) reading <u>The Hobbit</u> and playing Pokemon games (I don't care what you say, they will NEVER get boring and will NEVER get old). Now, the latter may sound like the opposite of what college is about but it's actually one of the best options out there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The week has been stressful and stuffed full of assignments, boring 1 hour and 20 minute classes, gurgling stomachs due to lack of time for food, walking through a mishmash of incongruous weather, and those semi-early mornings that are not early but not late enough (oh baleful 11:40 a.m.s). One would think that the best cure for all of this scholarly insanity is to hang out with the bros and throw back some drinks, hopping from one party to the next, and spending a dollar per shot. Sometimes, this is okay. However, is it the <i>best??</i> I'll try now to convince you that it is not.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Exhibit A: I'm writing this blog post that you all get to read... on a Saturday night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Exhibit B: I have the promise of raspberry ice cream the instant I so crave it. Homemade, nbd.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Exhibit C: I am sitting in a cozy apartment, while many of you are walking about out in the frigid weather (if you're where I'm from) searching for a party from which you may or may not get rejected.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Now, those are just a couple of instances. But really, after all of the stresses of the week and the mental demands associated with them, all I want to do on the weekend is find my own personal zen! I deem myself a semi-loser. I brought books to school for a reason. This is the only time I get to read them and no, <u>The Hobbit</u>, mentioned above, was not hypothetical at all, it is on my shelf. Collector's edition.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">What is better than laying on my full-size bed (a luxury rarely afforded to college students), and popping in the third season of TrueBlood? Vampires, sex, action, witty humor and mythical storyline all in one. It's the kind of stuff that party-goers are <i>wishing</i> would happen to them while they're out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Confession time: I was invited to a party tonight and let my other half go while I stayed in, thinking that it would be better if I stay and do the blubber-ton of homework on my checklist. Five minutes after he has gone, I get texts from multiple friends at the party saying things like: "Y U NO HERE!? and, simply "WTF." I get off of the floor in a newly found fervor and pour myself a drink: half green apple vodka, half Mt. Dew, and chug. It is awful. I throw jeans on and a coat and top it off with a backwards Polo Ralph Lauren hat, thinking I look cool.. Once out the door headed for the bus stop, I get a call.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">"Yeah, I'm ready to leave. The party is lame."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">While still on the phone, I tiptoe back to the apartment, for I don't want who is on the other end to know I had given in and decided to come to said party.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Alas, I sit here now with a wasted buzz and a weight on my shoulders for the work I did not do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Party on, fellow in-home Saturdayers, party on. Time for that ice cream.</span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-11444181772902517552012-01-22T14:12:00.002-05:002012-01-23T17:19:41.801-05:00How Yoga Deceived Me<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">As the clock struck midnight on December 31, 2011, millions drank from their champagne flutes to celebrate the new year and their resolutions, which probably include not drinking from champagne flutes as often. We all know they will inevitably fail. My ambitious New Year's resolution was to do at least one physical activity a day. So, in attempting to satisfy my baleful resolution, when my mother and sister bombarded me early-ish in the morning (during winter break, mind you) to ask me to come to a yoga class with them, I acquiesced.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"It will be great!" my mother squeaked, clapping her hands. "We will work out and then get green drink!"</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hold up. Whaddahell is green drink. I accepted, in my mind, that it was some sort of magical concoction of the Yogi gods, akin to ambrosia or, the Ferraro gods and their creation of Nutella (one can only hope anything will taste as good as Nutella but, of course, that is a FOOL'S DREAM.) Alas, we departed for the Yoga studio.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Upon arrival, I already knew something was awry. Eleven dollar smoothies. I would be getting no drink of the gods.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I grabbed some squishy yoga mat and walked up the narrow, spiral, wrought-iron staircase only to see that we were slightly late. Everyone was already in some position that looked like they were bowing to the petite and perky blond leading the pack. The room was a stifling 90 degrees and I was wearing sweatpants. Intentional increase in temperature - This MUST be hell. Even worse, the room was already crowded with different types of women: one, a hardcore, warrior-woman whose every move was like a blade slicing the air and making it bleed, another an obese soccer mom who somehow managed to bend in ways that seemed impossible for a woman of her girth. The rest seemed like bored housewives looking for a way to keep their husbands interested, and peppered here and there were the incomprehensibly sweaty men - some old, some young but with weird hairlines. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was forced to lay my mat front and center. Everyone was watching as I got into the bow-down-to-me position, or, as I thought as soon as I bent down, the I'm-going-to-fart-in-this-poor-unsuspecting-woman's-face position.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What happened next, I can't event manage to describe. My body was manipulated in strange ways.. it turned out that the class was not, in fact, the relaxing Yoga I had signed up for, but a terribly demanding and rigorous Power Vinyasa class.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Okay, now downward dog, Brrreeeeeeeathe throughthevinyasa, scorpion, eeeeeexhalle slooooowly.. BACKintodownwarddog, bring both feet up to your palms on the outside of either wrist, exteeeeeeeend, exteeeend again, Reeeeach UP! (absolute silence.. a stoic face) Tree pose. Breathe, and relax.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">How the hell do I relax when I've been called multiple animals and a tree and didn't have any idea what a vinyasa was until I was forced into one. I still don't know what it is. All I know is that at one point, my foot was too close to the lip on the wall on which a little incense burner sat. I knocked it off and it clamored to the floor, as a result, my form suffered, leading the the instructor personally walking over to me and correcting my form. Remember, I am at the front of the class.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">All in all, this wasn't a terrible experience. I could have actually fallen over like my poor sister did. Arms, chest, legs, butt, nearly everything, aching, I left the deceitful "yoga" class with a dazed expression. Jovial women smiled at each other and said, "Oh, let's come back tomorrow!" All I could think was, girl you CRAY.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Namaste.</span></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-51298776504149620352011-12-18T16:50:00.001-05:002011-12-18T17:08:26.960-05:00Orch(id)asm<div><p>Today, I am finally coming home from college. Having had a very rough week of finals and not a lot of sleep last night, I'm groggy around this time. I honestly believe that naptime should be resurrected from its pre-school sepulchre. Anyway, as the passenger on a not-so-long carride, I begin to get sleepy. My head droops forward as the warm air from the vents caresses me like gentle tendrils. The orchid that is snug and secure, nestled in my crotch, points its flowerless stalks at my face. As my head slowly descends, something magical happens: one aye-aye finger-like orchid stalk runs its bony self through my hair. I am in ecstasy. It's better than a wiry head massager, because it's organic.. But seriously. I continue this delicate dance between man and plant, caressing my face with its waxy stalks. The chills I get are unreal. I have the look of someone who was just given a healthy dose of morphine. </p>
<p>When I finally do open my eyes, I'm brought to the reality that there are cars next to ours and I have been rubbing my face against an orchid for the past 5 minutes. Keeping my pride, I put the orchid back between my legs and act as if nothing has happened.. but I'm longing for its sweet touch once more. It is nice to get closer to nature.</p>
<br/><img src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDo2UpmUtAIT_9aBxTx-7rV7o670aFRu5JSk0meSedVFmusJk4Ir4Rns35CCHgU7R9VL8Sw4NJOuGbiinNTIZ9nxRAa4iZlXwKLgDiSTgxuweD4dEEuU-kqtUI1nX3RGjY_Xb6O49s_kxR/' /></div>Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-4607509330242416792011-12-16T15:34:00.003-05:002011-12-16T15:42:05.706-05:00Finals WeekHello all! If you're a college student, then I'll pose this question to you: How did your finals week start?<br />
Really? Cool. Mine started with a car accident. I don't even know if more needs to be said on that but as you can imagine it sucked. I was the driver. Of someone else's car. I didn't have my license with me. A recipe for disaster one might muse. Nah, not too much disaster just a lot of guilt for crashing the bf's car.<br />
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Moving on. A hypothetical situation, of course: You know when you're assigned a paper probably over a week from when it is due? You've been doing the assigned readings for class of the hearty novel <i>Atonement</i> (excellent novel, that Briony is a real cunnilingus though), so, naturally, you expect the essay to be on said novel. You've even been putting tiny yellow post-its in the parts that count because, from past experience, you know it is a real bitch to go <i>back</i> in a book to find the necessary quotes to make a strong paper. All is well in the land.<br />
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You finish the novel, feeling a bit depressed, confused and victorious - for you've just killed Briony Tallis by flipping the last page (reaaaally did not like her). Ah, time to get this essay done early, you say, giving yourself a solid two days. You whip out the essay topics, an action that you perform with the utmost distaste. You slowly and superciliously cast your eyes down to the paper once you deem it worthy of your glance. <i>What topic can throw me?</i> you wonder, since, you are a master of <i>Atonement</i> at this point. Hell, you feel like you're the one who got between Cecilia's legs. And then it happens.<br />
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<i>What. The. Fack.</i><br />
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Your eyes instantly widen, your mouth slightly agape and nostrils at full flare. You even feel a subtle sheen of sweat begin to condense on your unwavering forehead like water drops on a glass of iced tea that has been left on some old woman's porch for far too long. <i>Unsweetened</i>. You cringe at the thought and slap yourself back into reality. <i>Defining the identity of woman and what it means to be woman during the Great War (</i>WWI - obviously it was not called WWI before WWII). Not the plan... You purse your lips in confused disappointment, set the paper down (still looking at it), walk into the kitchen.. and warm up a s'mores Pop-Tart. It's the only thing that seemed to salvage the situation aside from telling the professor you had somehow lost both of your hands and would not be able to write the essay. The Pop-Tart seemed less dramatic. Of course, this is all hypothetical... -_-Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3743272155118541730.post-83543566433202359622011-12-08T16:43:00.001-05:002011-12-08T18:29:55.941-05:00Luxuriously Linguistic: Don't Fuck With My BritaOkay. So, this was written last semester around finals week.. I realize now how violent it sounds.. that's my disclaimer. So, don't think I'm a crazy person, please. This is one more post written in the same style as the first Luxuriously Linguistic post. Enjoy.<br />
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I violently jostle my key into the ill-fitting lock and twist the door handle with rage. Only the sound of the door slamming open carries through the air as I stare at the back of my roommates’s abhorred, kinky Jew-fro.<br />
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My Brita, drier than the savannah, the garbage, more overflowed than weeping eyes.<br />
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In one quick second, I snap. Chin in full bottom jut, eyes full of fire and blinded by rage, I “EEEHH” like one who has just had a stiletto driven through his foot, and my roommate jumps in terrified response. He squints and covers his face as I scream my most uncensored insults and simultaneously screech like an eagle, and make the face of the fat girl on Glee when she pretends to be a vampire.<br />
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Like lightning, my arms are shot at his head and my clawed and bloody hands dig into his scalp, ripping out sand-dry, frizzy curls as they clench. He screams like that of a girl without a parpouse (Irish accent) and stands up to make an attempted escape.<br />
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My hands still in his hair as he tries to run, he immediately falls down and his head is jerked back violently. Instantly, I am upon him. His face is simply disgusting. With one last EEHH I slam his head into the wall. He let’s out a freakish grunt like a wild boar and his head recoils from the wall, bouncing off it in a nasty whiplash.<br />
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His unconscious body is limp as a whet noodle. Frothing from my mouth I throw his stale cheerios and almonds on his face and jump out of my first floor window, glass shattering in an icy tail of escape.Quimsical Audectodeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08048150687643383172noreply@blogger.com0