I know you guys haven't heard as much as a peep from my corner of the world for what seems like the same amount of time that it takes for "Game of Thrones" to start season three. For that I am truly not sorry at all - I have a job and a life and you can't make unpaid demands of me because you aren't my parents or a sassy talking cat. Besides, about four people total read this blog and one of those four is me so it's really three but WHO'S COUNTING?
All of the other actors have headshots on the Facebook page for Scissr. I should submit this right?
Anyway, since our last time shooting the shit, I've gotten a new job marketing for a startup wine e-commerce website (lotta words there, I know), became an iPhone user, gained about ten pounds in cookies and Jewish guilt, and signed up to act in a lesbian web-series called Scissr. I know you only really care about the latter, so let me inform you that it will be a homosexual, racially-inclusive version of "Girls" mixed with a financially-obtainable "The L-Word." I will play the co-creator/writer/actor's best friend, Taylor, because that outrageous bitch wrote the part FOR ME. She's one my dearest friends and for some twisted reason thought I was cool enough to disregard the fact that I have absolutely no acting experience or mass-appeal and asked me to play the role of, well, me. I'm excited and terrified and I only hope that I can muster enough confidence to just be myself and not become hyper-aware of the way I act and fuck it up (like how if you pay attention too much to your own breathing you're all "I. CAN'T. BREATHE." See, it's happening now). Who knows, maybe I'll hit it out of the proverbial park and become the next famous non-actress actress like Jemima Kirke.
Sassy twat.
I also purchased a new water bottle (LIVING LARGE) and am semi-successfully trying to toilet train Shadow the cat. I say "semi-successfully" because we're only at step two and so far she hasn't fucked it up with her stupid little cat brain. They say to give them positive reinforcement when they complete the next step without any issues so that they know they're doing something right. This meant that as Shadow came out of the bathroom after the first time that I rigged up her CitiKitty (I had to carry that home without a bag just FYI), I (very gently) applauded her and gave her a thumbs up while saying in my high-voice-reserved-for-animals, "You did it! Yay! So proud!" In retrospect, the thumbs up was probably unnecessary given that Shadow doesn't have thumbs and maybe thought I was flaunting them at her, but she seemed to like my enthusiasm well enough because about two minutes later she was galloping around the apartment as if to say, "I pooped and you loved it!" I wish I received as much praise every time I successfully defecated.
At this point you're probably thinking "This post has absolutely nothing to do with Lunchables! I was seduced with false hopes of round miniature ham slices!" I respond by using the previous sentence as a terrible segue to talk about Lunchables (so there!). This topic stems from an earlier conversation with my co-workers when we all realized that we had two things in common: our strong desire to put any and all Lunchables in our mouths and having parents who refused to let us do so. I don't know about you guys, but my dad preferred to make weird artisanal sandwiches that involved bananas and curried chicken (not at the same time...well...maybe) that I had to simultaneously consume and explain while I watched my (usually rich) classmates spread tomato sauce on their ice-cold, Lunchables pizzas and feel my heart shrivel up and die of envy. I'm sure it wasn't the $7 price tag or suspect ingredients that deterred my dad, but his utter loathing of my happiness. And that's why we still aren't on speaking terms (JK I talked to my dad the other day). Was anyone else deprived of Lunchables and do you want to carthart (this is now the verb form of catharsis so deal with it) about it?
There's no way to really end this post since it's pretty much a clusterfuck of awful, so consider this sentence me slowly bowing out while tipping some sort of hat with Mariachi music playing in the background.
There, I feel better now that I have that maternal disclaimer up there. I don't think I could stand to look her in the eyes after I wrote a post that references The Human Centipede. When I went to IMDB to get the link for that last sentence, I noticed the actual title is "The Human Centipede (First Sequence)." Will there be a second sequence in our future? Since Harry Potter has now officially reached its end, I guess I do need a new movie series to follow (I kid).
"The Human Centipede" centers around a creepy douchebag whose main goal in life is to haphazardly sew women together in order to make a working centipede out of them. In the movie, which I have yet to see (the one star rating on Netflix isn't really swaying me either), he somehow captures three women and is able to make his centipede-y dreams come true. Don't ask me how he is able to successfully kidnap three women at once but hey, the female gender is just that helpless, amirite? EDIT: three people. There was a dude involved in the ass-to-mouth fun. In order to create THC (not referring to home-brewed weed here), he sews one woman's open mouth to the other's butthole and has them kneel on their hands and knees in a single-file line. Thus, with each meal the first lady centipede link consumes, she poops it into the lady link behind her's mouth, and so on down the line. Forever. Charming, right?
Upon hearing this description, it's natural to feel an intense wave of revulsion and anxiety. Go on, take your time to say "blehhhhhhh" aloud if you haven't already.
Now that that's taken care of, I'd like to state that I don't think being the Human Centipede would be all that bad. Before you freak out and judge my personal life, let me clarify: I don't think being the first in line in THC would be all that bad. Yea, I said it. Granted, I wouldn't choose to poop into some girl who was sewn to my butthole if I had the option, BUT, if I was forced into a THC-y situation, you best believe I'd volunteer myself to be the head car. If you ask me, that's the best seat in the centipede house.
Like this, except not at the Sears portrait studio.
Picture me as the little boy in front: soaking up all the
pleasure without giving a single fuck.
At this point you're probably asking yourself, "But Taylor, what does this have to do with your high school choir?" The answer? Massage trains. Each day, before we started warming up our vocal cords, our instructor thought it would be beneficial for us to warm up our bodies. Since we were in rows, we would start by turning to the person to our right and massaging their neck and shoulders. Then, we would turn the opposite way and massage the person to our left. This was to ensure that everyone both received and gave a massage at some point. If we didn't change direction, there would be someone in the front who was getting the wonderful pleasure of a tension-reducing massage without having to do any massaging themselves. This, my loyal readers, is the philosophy behind choosing to be the first centipede link. However, instead of giving the person behind me a mouthful of human shit, I was receiving a wonderful massage from a 16 year old peer.
So, if you're ever kidnapped with two of your besties and told that you're going to be sewn ass-to-mouth-to-ass-to-mouth, don't freak out. If you remember what you learned from high school choir massage trains (or girl scout camp massage trains or interpretative dance class massage trains...) and make your way to the front of the line, the future may be that much less like 2 girls 1 cup brighter for you.
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.
If you're female, you have heard this suggestion at some point in your life. Sometimes it's legitimized and in response to something like "I haven't gotten my period in five months and my stomach feels like there are tiny feet playing a tiny soccer game in it." Sometimes, it's in response to mundane things that happen frequently to most of the population, including males. I'm writing this post now, on behalf of all women, to tell everyone that unless you are 100% certain that the person in question is actively trying to get knocked up, you should shut the fuck up and keep your pregnancy foreshadowing to yourself.
The future people force me to imagine.
Pregnancy would absolutely ruin my life. I am far too selfish to care for something that isn't small, furry, and poops in a portable box. If I tell you I woke up nauseous and had to stay home from work because I felt pukey all day, do not, I repeat DO NOT, tell me that it's because I'm probably pregnant. Those are nightmare words for me to hear. Sentences like that cause horrible mental imagery of me holding at least nine spitting, crying, pooping babies and looking like my soul died. They also make me incredibly paranoid. I start thinking of all the scenarios in which I could be pregnant: maybe someone replaced my birth control with certs, maybe some guy jacked off into the washing machine and then when I washed my underwear some fusion occurred, etc. (THIS CAN'T HAPPEN BUT THIS IS WHAT THE WORD "PREGNANCY" DOES TO ME). I also don't want to hear you suggest pregnancy if I've been eating like a heifer recently. Maybe I'm just hungry. Maybe I eat my feelings (I do). There are plenty of other reasons why I would be consuming everything in sight other than having a bun in the oven. Also, don't you know how rude it is to comment on how much someone is eating? News flash: it's very rude.
I love how casual the
pickle outside of the jar is.
Lastly, if you're female and love pickles THIS DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MEAN YOU'RE PREGNANT. I just fucking love pickles, ok? When did they become emblazoned on the metaphorical pregnancy flag? They are low calorie, satisfyingly crunchy, salty, garlicky goodness. I would like to enjoy all my pickles or be able to freely declare that I want 54 of them in my mouth at once without someone gasping and saying "maybe you're pregnant!" Maybe you're making horrible, earth-shattering assumptions that will ruin my life forever (or at least for the rest of the day). So again, on behalf of all women who eat their weight in food, get nauseous sometimes, and heart pickles; please stop convincing us that we are carrying Rosemary's baby. Thank you and good day.
One leads to the other and for the past four or so years, I've been convinced that I have the latter. I told the following story on my Livejournal many moons ago and due to a recent influx in requests to retell it by my co-workers, I'm also going to retell it here.
Back in 2009, when I worked as a veterinary assistant/receptionist at a practice in Greenwich Village, I was told an interesting story by a patient of ours (or client I guess, since the patients are the animals and none of her pets were feeling especially anecdotal). She had come in for one of her cats' annual exams and I couldn't help but notice that she had lost about 30 pounds since I had last seen her. This was when I was at my heaviest, so of course, I had to know what her secret was. Here's where it gets creepy...
She had gotten extremely ill a couple of month earlier and it got to the point where she had to go to the emergency room because she couldn't stop vomiting. After a battery of tests at the hospital, the doctors decided that it would be best if they removed her gallbladder. Being very apprehensive about surgery (as most people should be) and big into holistic medicine (as most people should only somewhat be), she decided
All intestinal parasites look like
mini Beetlejuice sandworms, right?
to check into a cleansing facility and heal herself by removing whatever toxins were causing her to be ill. This facility started off the cleanse with a couple days of fasting. On her second or third day there, she went into the bathroom to do her business and when she got up, she discovered a long, white WORM in the toilet. Upon further investigation and explanation from the staff of the cleansing facility, she discovered that she pooped out a tapeworm and that it was quite a common event in that facility (can you imagine working in a place were tapeworms were the rule and not the exception?). According to them, when you don't eat anything, tapeworms often migrate down the digestive tract (closer to the colon) looking for food and will actually end up being passed with waste in search of said food. Horrified, she decided to go see a well-respected parasitologist stationed in New York City.
Upon further testing, it was determined that she had two different types of parasites in her body: one was the tapeworm which she had acquired on a recent vacation to Bora Bora and the other had been living in her body for 16 years. 16 FLIPPING YEARS. The worms were in her lungs and all throughout her body. They were causing her to be tired all of the time and, despite being an active person, hold onto 30+ pounds. They were also what was causing her to constantly vomit. She was given medication and once she finished her course and eliminated the worms from her system, she lost all of the weight in the blink of an eye. After her experience she referred three friends to the parasitologist to get tested (these friends weren't even showing any symptoms); two of them tested positive for different types of worms/parasites.
She then decided to pass some of the doctor's insight onto me and, along with the story she had already told me, scare me into a wormy panic for the rest of my natural-born life. The parasitologist estimated that over 60% of the population is hosting parasites and don't even know it. Think of all the things you touch without washing your hands, all of the food you buy from a questionable source, everything single thing you do! And there I was, having worked as a vet assistant for the past six or so months, where I rubbed puppies and kittens all over my face only to have their stool tests come back the following day positive for disgusting shit like giardia and coccidia. I was convinced that I was infected with a plethora of worms and parasites. I could actually feel them crawling around in my intestines at the very moment she finished telling me the story.
Around this time, I went on my first date with Sam. Much to his dismay, I'm sure, I gushed about how I was convinced my bowels were infested with worms over our sushi dinner (I have absolutely no internal filter). I guess he digs girls who are good hostesses (get it?!) because this coming Saturday, we've been together for a whole year. What is wrong with him?
Anyway, a couple of weeks later and after hours of online research, I ended up buying some strange black walnut and wormwood tincture that tasted like fresh butts and cement. It was rumored to be a natural dewormer and after I started taking it, every bowel movement was a terrifying gamble with fate. Was this the time I would look into the toilet and see a giant worm? Lucky for me (or unlucky for me) it never happened. At least if I would have seen a definitive worm, I would know that I didn't have them anymore. There were only two options: either I never had worms (less than a 40% chance of that!) or the tincture was ineffective. I guess the only way to know for sure is to hit up the parasitologist and explain my paranoid wormy thoughts to him. One day.
Just to set the scene, on Saturday and Sunday I went to Bombfest in Hartford, Connecticut. On Monday I went to the beach in CT, then go-karting, and then mini-golfing.
Me and Aparna: twins
♥ A single Mentos is a "Mento."
♥ If you're wearing the exact same outfit as someone, you're twins. For example: If I put the AA Skater Dress on myself and my friend Aparna, we are then twins. If I do the same with my cat, we are also twins.
♥ Connecticut is brotastic.
♥ Everything in life is better when there's a body of water nearby.
♥ Everything in life is better when there's pizza in my mouth.
♥ If you can't decide whether you are hungry or have to go to the bathroom, you should really make that decision before you enter the Porta Potty.
♥ Snoop Dogg is adorable.
♥ If you have longish hair with bangs, and you painted your whole face so that it had a mouth on it and then put a nose and a pair of eyes on top of your head, you'd look like a man with a huge, long mustache (e.g. Yosemite Sam).
♥ If someone is jokingly mocking you, and you think they're just being annoying so you start mocking them, you are mocking yourself.
♥ Children/young adults should not be present during most competitive sports or games. I have a foul mouth and cannot contain myself when I'm 18,047 over par in miniature golf.
♥ Sea glass is the shit.
♥ Go-karting is still awesome, but the "no bumping" rule makes me sad because I'm violent.
♥ Sock puppet handjob blowjob: if you give yourself a handjob with a sock puppet on, you are also getting a blowjob from a sock puppet.
♥ If you hold up three fingers on each hand and move slowly, you're a three-toed sloth.
♥ If you hold up two fingers on each hand and move slowly, you're a two-toed sloth.
♥ If you hold up one finger on each hand and move slowly, you're E.T.
♥ Pantomiming rubbing chapstick all over your body can get confusing.
♥ Coheed and Cambria sound like a hive of bees being smashed by a rock that sucks at music (this was Sam's addition, but I wholeheartedly agree).
♥ EDITED TO ADD: Seinfeld sucks and is just about white people in New York complaining about soup.
♥ Kazoos are stupid.
This may be edited later because I am currently so tired that I can't remember half of the things that happened this weekend. I do know for certain that I ate a lot of mini donuts though.
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.
Not once, or even twice; I've hock-tooied all over my own face at least three times this year alone. Before you become concerned, it's not a matter of extreme self-loathing. Last night, for example, I dreamed that someone was feeding me loose powder makeup and then I woke up to me spitting all over myself. It's like some unintentional, recreation of a Flavor of Love episode except I don't even get to fight anybody.
This picture sort of looks like it could be from a dream.
These aren't the only recurring dreams I have that affect me in real life. I have zombie dreams at least once a week, if not more. That probably has something to do with the fact that I am constantly talking about zombies. Why? Because I heart them and I can't wait for the zombie apocalypse. The dreams, however, wake me up and then leave me paralyzed in fear because my brain makes me think I'm still participating in the zombie apocalypse and that I fell asleep on the job. Suddenly, my roommate who got up to go to the bathroom is a rabid zombie ready to bite my face off and here I am, NAPPING.
I'm not sure if this post really has a point, other than to tell you that I spit on myself in my sleep sometimes and love zombs. I guess it could be worse though, right? I've definitely had dreams about peeing and pooping and have yet to wake up covered in my own excrement (thank God). But at this rate, who knows? If I can spit on myself while I'm unconscious, what awaits me in the future?
My boyfriend is currently visiting his grandparents in Arizona and for the next couple of days, he'll be tied up playing shuffle board and eating prunes and other things of that nature. He has added me to his blog and asked me to write a guest post for him while he's away so that his blog doesn't remain sad and dormant. I think he wants me to infuse his techy blog with some immature humor. I also think he made the biggest mistake of his life.
I've decided to mix our two greatest passions together in order to come up with a blog post that will appropriately combine our interests. Sam loves machines. I love cats. So, naturally, this post will be a series of scientific findings (Sam also enjoys science!) as to why cats are robots.
Materials:
♥ One aloof, gray cat with a penchant for (purposely) vomiting and diarrhea-ing on people she dislikes (this includes an ex boyfriend, an ex roommate, a current roommate [Aidan, seen below with said cat], and Sam).
♥ http://icanhascheezburger.com/
♥ A phone with camera/video capabilities, a real camera, a camcorder, etc.
♥ Two Yak Bakwards'
♥ Snacks
Methods:
Much like how Jane Goodall lived with chimpanzees for science, this experiment requires you to have spent at least three full years living with a cat (Felis catus). You must go about your normal, daily routine but simply add a cat to the equation and observe it's behavior in your spare time. After the three year period is up, you can eat the cat. You can also keep the cat as a pet (recommended) and eat the snacks you prepared for your materials. Make sure to have your phone (camera, camcorder, picture-taking, video-making device) handy at all times in order to record traces of robotic glitches during these three years.You may use http://icanhascheezburger.com/for scientific research on Felis catus. Finally, meet up with a friend and use the two Yak Bakwards' to record the reverse section in the chorus of "Work It" by Missy Elliot to find out what she's really saying.
Data and Results:
Example of robocat laser eyes: Shadow with my roommate, Aidan.
Also, the following videos which show clear evidence of mechanical malfunctioning:
Discussion:
As you can see from the findings above, nothing about cats is fucking normal or natural. In the first picture, Shadow demonstrates the laser cat eyes that have been documented with photographic evidence many times before. I've heard bullshit about how this has to do with some sort of reflective layer behind their retina called the tapetum cellulosum or tapetum lucidum, but I'm not buying it. I mean, what the fuck is a "tapetum" anyway? It sounds like scientists just added "um" to the end of some fictional words in order to sound legit and therefore, cover the fact that cats are dangerous, genetically-engineered, laser-eyed robots.
The subsequent videos support this theory even more with documented examples of feline self-mutilation, robotic noises, and sudden changes in complete facial structure. The latter is clearly a defense mechanism in order to camouflage the robocat using Mystique-esque, shape-shifting tactics. The other two are obvious examples of glitches in the robocat software; perhaps there is a short circuit or someone spilled a glass of water on the subject. It has now also come to my attention that both cats and machines historically dislike water. Coincidence? I think not.
Conclusion:
Cats are definitely robots (possibly from outer space but that is TBD since I still haven't found Shadow's spaceship BUT I WILL). They will most likely try to overtake mankind one day and we will all be royally fucked. Lastly, the backwards part of the chorus in Missy Elliot's "Work It" is just her saying "I put my thing down, flip it, and reverse it" again. Can you believe it?!
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...
