You know when you go onto YouTube to watch one video and you suddenly fall into a fugue state and hours later you find yourself sitting there, in the dark, watching butterfly mating dances? It started off innocently enough - I searched "The Pierces cover" to see what horrible and delightful YouTube covers there were for one of my favorite bands. I guess I must've blacked out because next thing I knew, I was watching video after video of child prodigies. Incidentally, this is the same exact way I discovered Justin Bieber in 2008, way before Bieber Fever took the world by temperature (was I really just a hipster about Bieber?).
Anyway, I came across the following three videos which quite literally took my breath away (I've also been listening to a lot of "Shania Twain" recently so sorry for the drama).
I know some are kind of old so sorry if you've already seen them (but also not sorry because they're so good you should watch them every day). How worthless do you feel after watching those? I think I peed my pants in gym class and discovered pogs at the same age that the first girl is belting Adele. The second girl is not only talented and gorgeous but FRENCH. How dare she. I have trouble harmonizing with myself using Garage Band but the last two girls haven't even gotten their periods and can not only harmonize, but keep rhythm using freaking butter containers. My life is MEANINGLESS (Shania Twain-fueled drama again, sorry).
I don't know about you, but rather than feeling a "Wow! They're so cute and talented!" I instead feel a big "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS SHIT?!" It goes against science, logic, and geometry for these girls to be so talented (and rhombus-y). No matter how much monies I make for my company creating emails, whether I successfully toilet-train my cat (it's looking grim), how happy I am in my relationship or with the amazing friends I have, I will never be as successful as 9-year-old YouTube prodigies. That shit stings.
To end on a happier, unrelated note, do you think a banana, sriracha, and swiss grilled cheese sandwich would be delicious? I've been dreaming about it. Thank you for your time.
About two years ago, I decided on a whim that I would get a bunny. They're extremely cute and I had whimsical premonitions of walking him in Central Park, on a leash, wearing a floral dress (me, not the bunny). I did a teensy bit of research, at least enough to know how to properly care for one, and then I scoured Craigslist for a couple months looking for an all-white bun with black eyeliner (the breed is called a Hotot). Finally, an extremely enthusiastic bunny lady with at least 20 or so buns in her New York City apartment, posted a picture of a six month old, neutered, white-with-black-eyeliner, blue-eyed boy bunny. He had to be mine.
Don't get me wrong, I would never give House up now that I have him. He's going to be with me until he decides to part this realm for the great beyond. In the beginning, the cold, unfeeling, robotic, unblinking, fish-like eyes and complete lack of a affection were a bit jarring. But now, especially since I've found out which treats he goes apeshit for (any flavor of these Smaks cookies and Lacinato "dinosaur" kale), we've sort of gotten used to being around each other. He never bites me, he's pretty quiet, and he keeps to himself. Also, he's pretty fucking cute. I mean, he is a bunny rabbit afterall. However, when he does finally reach the end of the line, I will never EVER get another rabbit again. Here's why:
Poop...Everywhere
Ok ok, all animals poop a lot (except my man, the sloth!), but rabbits are OUT OF CONTROL. They poop about ten BB gun pellet-esque poops every minute. Most bunnies can be litter-trained (House is), which definitely makes cleaning up these little things a lot easier. It does not, however, change the fact that the sheer volume of pewps is absolutely overwhelming. Within about five minutes of cleaning House's cage, there is already a one-inch layer of doodie in his litter box. As if that wasn't enough, most rabbits like to leave little surprise gift poops wherever they go. I let House out of his cage and around my room to hop about freely and no, he is not an exception to the surprise gift poops rule.
Midnight Flubber
Did you guys see the movie Flubber with Robin Williams when you were a kid? If not, the movie Flubber is about an amorphous, mischievous, transparent, green glob of goo (wassup, alliteration?) that scientist, Robin Williams, creates in order to win back a girl...or something? Anyway, the most important fact to retain is that Flubber is a portmanteau of "flying" and "rubber." If let go in a room, Flubber will bounce from wall to wall, ricocheting off of everything and smashing all of your earthly possessions. Another vocabulary word to remember in this section is "binky." Binkying is what happens to a rabbit when they are ecstatic. Here is what binkying looks like:
It's a pretty spastic phenomenon (om nom nom) and almost looks like their back legs are trying to run away from the rest of their body. Why House would be OVER-THE-MOON happy in the dead of night in his cage sleeping in his own feces is unknown to me, but if your bunny is anything like mine, he will binky at midnight while trapped in his cage. What's wrong with this you ask? When in a confined space and very happy, bunnies ARE Flubber. House ricochets off of the cage bars and floor making loud banging and thumping noises until his unstoppable glee subsides.
Butt Juice
Like most animals, bunnies have anal scent glands that need cleaning. Once a month, I have to go in with a damp Q-Tip, spread what I GUESS are his butt cheeks, and swab some nasty shit out of his anal glands. This graphic cartoon from binkybunny.com describes where I have to perform this graceful routine. The little slits marked "anal scent glands" are my Q-Tips' target. If I didn't grow a set and take care of this, his butt would get all backed up and possibly explode. That, or I'd have to take him into an exotic veterinarian (not exotic as in exotic dancer but exotic as in not cats and dogs) every month and have him or her clean them and pay for it with an internal organ. It definitely makes the process more enjoyable to have your bunny kick you with his back feet as hard as he can while you poke his butt with your fingers. I assure you.
Pica 4Eva
If you don't know what Pica is, you can get yourself educated here. Pica usually refers to people who eat inedible things/inanimate objects, but for the purpose of this post, I'm using it to describe bunnies. The first day I got House, I made the mistake of turning my back for .2 seconds. When i turned back around, he was just finishing eating an ear bud. In those .2 seconds, House had eaten my roommate's pair of headphones WHOLE. Since then, he has managed to eat plants, closet doors, rugs, his own poop, backpack zippers, and probably a nibble or two out of Shadow the cat's feet. When I'm not using my removable window screens, I have to put them up as barriers all over my room just to keep him from eating anything on the floor when he's out of his cage. The days of wires and clothes on the floor are no longer. I once watched him take a quick, test chomp of a wire right in front of my eyes and go flying 14 feet in the air from the electric shock. He almost turned from my pet to my meal that day.
It might be hard to tell from this post, but I really do love House. He's my babby bunny and as far as I'm concerned, he can eat all the headphones he wants. But when he's gone, the only rabbit I'll be having in my house is a chocolate one.
People own sugar gliders and poison dart frogs and all sorts of weird exotic pets that probably should never be inside of a home. Yes, sloths are endangered, but that doesn't mean I can't take one that's already in some sort of slothy foster home, right? I mean, there's a pet shop in Florida that sells sloths and it's not like those sloths will get released into the jungle of Miami if they aren't purchased. They'll just stay in the pet store forever until they die. Unless I buy one for $2,000 (yes, that is the actual price), take a plane to South America for $5,000 (no, that is not the actual price), and return said sloth to the Amazon Rainforest, I'm not actually going to be helping with the whole endangered thing. I should probably just go to Florida and get a pet sloth, right?
Do you know that sloths only go to the bathroom once per week?! I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. I did my research and internet sleuthing and this is a fact. Not only do their outsides move slowly, but so do their insides (i.e. digestive tract). Also, they have to climb down from their tree and go to the bathroom on the forest floor because I guess they don't like to poop where they do nothing productive. This leaves them incredibly susceptible to predators since their "fight or flight" response is more like a "just flight, but very slowly" response. It seems that because of these reasons, they've adapted and evolved over time to only excrete waste once per week. This means that they are the BEST. PET. EVER. My bunny, House M.D., shoots little BB poops out his butt about every five seconds. A sloth would be a definite upgrade on my pet-related fecal clean-up (even though there is no word on how large this once-a-week doodie [best word ever] break is).
From reading various sloth-owner stories, I found out that sloths love to cling onto you like they're hugging you. I can't even deal with the abstract idea that I could have a pet that's this affectionate. Normally, I just beg my cat to come to me with kissy noises while she sits just out of reach, staring at me mockingly. That, or I pet my rabbit while he looks at me with robotic, unfeeling eyes (if you ask me, rabbits are just above fish on the affection scale). Also, sloths can barely cause any issues with destruction like most other pets. Think of how many times your dog has eaten or peed in your shoes, how often your gray cat pukes everywhere (oddly specific), or that time your bunny ate your roommates' new headphones and then she yelled at you (even more oddly specific). Would that have happened if they were moving just a fraction of the speed that they normally do and hugging your torso? Probably not.
Anyway, moral of the story is that I need a sloth. NEED. I woke up the other morning, bleary-eyed, and asked my boyfriend (Sam, as some of you may know him) where sloths come from. He started going on about how when two people love each other very much something something something and then suggested we practice sloth-making. I'm not really sure what he meant so I just ignored him and did my slothy research. That's how I found out about that pet store in Florida that sells sloths for two G's and now I know exactly where my bonus money is going!!!
In addition to that Bradypus variegatus (that's "sloth" in science talk and I'm also thinking that I'll name my sloth "Bradypus" now) tangent, I discovered some news about my blog today:
Upset most of the time?! Well, now I am! Thanks a lot. Not only that, but I'm only 24. The analyzer not only told me that I was a whiner but that I'm an old-ass whiner. Way harsh.
Vomit. Puke. Hurl. Losing your lunch. Tossing your cookies. A mouth volcano. Old unfaithful.
The serial spewer herself sporting her summer 'hawk.
I don't know about you guys, but my tolerance for the above has always been zilch. Just the sound, smell, sight, or mere suggestion of regurgitation sends my own stomach for a threatening loop. Even piles of my cat's barely-digested Purina cat food pebbles make me think twice about having eyes (and a cat). This issue has not only affected me, but can be seen taking its toll on sick, drunk friends without a hair tie, roommates with cat vomit-covered socks, and even helpless six-year-old girls with a bad stomach bug. The latter will be my subject for today.
Babysitting is the easiest thing in the world, which is why I spent most of my adolescent years and even college years sitting on babies as much as I could in my spare time. You get to be very silly for a couple of hours, maybe even sit on your ass and watch a Disney movie like you would be doing on a Saturday night anyway (just me?), and then you put the kid to bed (usually around 9:00pm or some other early-as-fuck bedtime) and watch your stories on the TV or troll the internet until the parents come home.
About two years ago in the West Village at around 9:00pm, I was doing just that. I had sang just about every Disney song in my repertoire (which is just about every Disney song in Disney's repertoire), tucked her into bed like a little Chipotle burrito, and placed her over-sized Dora the Explorer stuffed animal at the food of her bed. Then I sat in her room with her and proceeded to troll the internet from the comfort of a nearby chair.
About an hour later, and with absolutely no warning at all, she bolted up from bed and into a right angle and projectile vomited all over the end of her bed and Dora's face. I immediately picked her up by the armpits and carried her to the bathroom where she continued to toss her cookies into the more-deserving toilet. After managing to be somewhat comforting despite the fact that watching her made my insides want to be on the outside, I got her changed and brought her back into her bedroom. There I was met with the horrible realization that in order to put her back to bed, I would have to clean up all the throw up. There was no one there to save me and shirking responsibility would mean the parents coming home to a child who was sleeping in her own stomach contents. I looked down at my charge, who was holding my hand and looking very sleepy, and I knew that I had to just forget about my sensitivity to this mess and be a motherfucking adult.
A relevant coloring book illustration by Aparna and myself.
I went over to the bed with all of the paper towels I could find west of 6th Avenue and tried to scoop off what I could. The second I got within a foot of the bed, my gag reflex kicked in like I was getting x-rays done at the dentist, only worse, because at the dentist there is no giant, smiling Dora dripping with vomit. I could only conclude that before I came over to babysit, this little girl had entered a hot dog eating contest or consumed, at the very least, an entire pizza. I thought not being able to smell the disaster would help me be more efficient so I grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen and tied it around my face so that only my eyes were visible. I was the Upchuck Bandit.
Despite the fact that I could only smell dingy soap and assorted crumbs, my body would not allow me to clean up the mess. If I continued to force myself, it would only be a matter of time before the only thing adult in the room would be the size of the addition piles of puke on the bed. I took the entire comforter, including Dora (who, at this point, was definitely mocking me) and dumped it into the bathtub. Had this not been an NYC apartment and had there been a washer, I wouldn't have been so cruel about my placement of the bedding but hey, I didn't have much to work with. The bed was finally clean and I was relieved. I closed the bathroom door behind me and let myself forget that throw up ever happened that night. It wasn't until the parents came home that I let myself remember and recount what happened (I had called them earlier during the incident and left a message, but they didn't pick up or return my call). Her mom went straight to the bathroom and immediately started dealing with the barf-encrusted detritus. Not a single gag could be heard as she waded elbow-deep into the filthy remains of one of the worst nights of my life.
This was the moment that I realized that I might not ever be able to have children. If I do, they will either have to throw up alone and then promptly clean it up or watch as their mother retches along with them every step of the way. I guess I can only hope that my baby daddy has absolutely no gag reflex (that's what she said!).
So this is the very beginning of it all. The first post ever on the first page ever of my first blog ever (except not really, I have like five others). What better way to kick this baby off than to start off by telling the world how much chocolate I just ate? I'll describe it as best as I can (even though I sort of blacked out during) so you can feel as if you were there with me.
I was minding my own business, finished up the leftover Mongolian BBQ from yesterday's lunch, when a coworker quietly suggested I try someKinder Shoko-Bons. After having consumed my body mass in Kinder Buenos yesterday, I really didn't have the will power to refuse. The four Shoko-Bons were immediately followed by four Dark Chocolate Hershey Kisses, four triangular pieces of a Milk Chocolate Toblerone, two Hershey Krackel fun-size bars (fun-size indeed), one mini Milky Way, and one mini Almond Joy (which I promptly told to fuck off since I've never liked coconut involved in my business affairs). At this point, I was using the more pedestrian chocolate as palate-cleansers for the European and Mexican chocolates we had leftover from team members' various vacations. It was finally brought to my attention that I had been doing laps around the immediate office area and shoving whatever resembled chocolate into my face. As most of you may know, this is quite the dangerous endeavor when you remember how much chocolate going into your body resembles chocolate coming out of your body. Now that I've slowed down, I'm finally writing this first entry after hours of tinkering in the "Design" tab but mainly, I can't stop thinking about the more chocolate that's a couple of feet away from me.
Anyway, now that story time is out of the way, I'm sure you want to know what kind of shit to expect from my blog in the future:
♥ Food is at the very top of the list. Even if my post isn't about food at all, there might be pornographic pictures of food. This is how I roll (mmm now I want a roll). ♥ How my life relates to various episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and what this means when discussing my general mental health and well-being. ♥ Makeup and clothes: why I buy so many, where on my body I put them, and if they stop being used after the second or third go and remain in a drawer/closet for the rest eternity. ♥ I might explain why I hate any fictional media involving space. I also might not and you'll just have to come to terms with that. ♥ Feminism, sexism, racism, and ableism. Expect a lot of isms. ♥ Things that make you go "Awwww" and then your eyes or ovaries (provided you have a set) explode. An example of this is the YouTube video, Cookie Monster. May the first sentence of this bullet serve as a warning when watching this. I will not be held responsible for any dangly eyes or splodey ovaries. ♥ New York City reviews: I will complain about the subway, rave about the Brooklyn brunches, and pull my best poker face when describing the underground warehouse parties. ♥ Toilet-related things. Doodie is the best word in the world and I love talking about poop. It makes me happy and kind of proud. Hopefully you feel the same way.
That's about it! I hope everyone is pumped for the ride of their life. Since there's never a good way to end a post, especially your very first one, I'm just going to...
