|
| I just spent a solid two minutes struggling to open a candy bar wrapper, finally getting it open only to discover that it was already open on the other end.
Dangiiiit.
My room is so cold right now. I am freezing.
^ I wish.
I'm almost, ALMOST tempted to shut the windows. "YOUR WINDOWS ARE OPEN!?!?! Man, you CRAY-see!" Yeah, spare me. I like cold rooms. Not when I'm sitting around naked though.
Waaait.
I can't wait to hop back into bed and cocoon myself in my micro-fiber gel comforter. MMMM.
My espanol teacher kicks a large amount of what we call "ass" in America. He let us go 35 minutes early today simply because we asked. This was after I suggested nap time of course.
Anyway, that's all for now team. If you haven't read the White Power note, you should strongly consider it. It might inspire some of you to take chances in life.
Speaking of which, no, I did not suffer any bodily rejections to the questionable milk/hot chocolate, but there's still time.
VAMOS!!
| | |
| The girl next to me smells like fart. Pure fart. I'm uncomfortable. Reeeal uncomfortable.
A thought occurred to me the other day as I reflected back upon every family vacation I have ever had, road-trip style-specific, of course. Every journey toward our destination had the usual phenomena: snack stops, gas stops, bathroom stops, rest-stop stops, stop-stops, and of course the two hour stop at Cabela's.
Cabela's pisses me off. If you're unfamiliar with what Cabela's is, it's a gigantic county-sized empire-like store with zebra heads, stuffed cougars, and grizzly bears on the walls filled with everything that you could ever dream up to satisfy your hunting/fishing/mountain-hiking needs. It's the place where white trash parents bring their kids in place of the zoo (or Six Flags), or better yet go for "summer vacation."
For some reason, no matter what route we take via-vaca-destination, we ALWAYS end up "happening upon" a Cabela's, and my dad decides that we HAVE to stop in. The phrase "stopping in" strikes me as a phrase that means popping into a neighbor's house for a few minutes to say hello, but to my biological father, "stopping in" Cabela's means MAKING it the vacation.
Dad, what do you even need in Cabela's? Why are you looking at porpoise harpoons? We live in urban, metropolitan Iowa. Since when do you hunt lions? You don't need this. Bows and arrows, are you serious? "Cowboys and Indians" was a game in kindergarten. Then after you've been there for 2+ hours and you want to find your dad to harass him until he decides to leave, you can't find him because he's clad in camouflage pants and boots and is now blending in with the duck-hunting section. You're amusing yourself with fishing lures and deciding that these so-called "short cuts" were premeditated alternative routes that packed on an extra 70 minutes to the trip that Pa lied about. I'm angry just thinking about it. Next time I'm popping sleeping pills and chugging NyQuil so I'm unconscious for the Cabela's chapter of the trip.
"Kehly, I think I can smell your feet."
"Really?"
"I don't know, it might be my breath."
| | |
| Tyler Johnson, hoooot. That's "hot," not "hoot." Get with it. happy thanksgiving. | | |
| WHITE POWER ....Ranger.
hahah. That'd be a sweet shirt. On the front, "WHITE POWER," and then on the back "RANGER" with a picture of the white power ranger. Ha. HA.
That's it, I'm making one.
I have officially reached the peak of my albino pigmentation. My skin is the absence of color. Just wait until it snows. I'm going to blend into my surroundings like white on rice in a glass of milk on a paper plate in a snow storm. As far as a blizzard is concerned, I may as well be wearing a camoflauge vest in the middle of the forest. Grrreat.
I just had an urge that could not be supressed to make myself a mug of hot cocoa. Not because hot chocolate sounds especially delicious at this point in time, but because my room temperature has reached absolute zero and my extremities are freezing. I would love to hold a steaming cup of hot cocoa right now. Swiss Miss, comin' atcha.
Alright, so I moseyed into the kitchen and took out the milk, because I use milk in my hot chocolate and not water, because this is the real deal. It's what separates the men from the boys.
I glance at the expiration date: "Nov. 01." Awesome. Today is the 17th. I wasn't about to give up, however. I'm a risk taker. I take risks.
It's what I do.
I gave the jug a quick shake. It didn't appear to be lumpy or thicker than average. I even dared to sniff it. It didn't make me want to projectile vomit (immediately). I wasn't about to taste-test this potentially expired milk myself, however, so I went on a little excursion in the hallways to find myself an unsuspecting victim to be my guinea pig. It wasn't long before I ran into Kurt (who by the way is from France. Ha. The way I figure, the French are idiots anyway). He didn't cooperate.
After much self-motivation, I tasted it myself. I was taking my chances with this one. I didn't blow chunks, and it tasted alright, and I just hoped on the inside that it was supposed to say "November 10" but the last zero didn't fit. A girl can dream.
Alright, so what you fellow readers out there don't know is that I've been typing this story mid-process of my hot chocolate fiasco. Moments ago I heard the microwave beep, so I went into the kitchen to retrieve my steamy cup of cocoa. Of course the milk had boiled over the mug and had collected in a giant steaming milky puddle in the microwave, underneath the rotary plate and everything. Sweet. If the old milk didn't smell before, it sure as hell is going to now.
I've gone through far too much work for this hot chocolate. I'm probably going to knock it over and not even get the chance to enjoy it. Blast.
hopefully I don't puke in my sleep later.
...where are the mini marshmallows
(P.S. I hate that it's not spelled "marshmEllow.")
Solid, real solid.
| | |
| So Amy, Kehly and myself dressed up as newborn infant babies last night, as many of you may or may not know. It was a pretty effective set-up, complete with pacifier (affectionately referred to as a "binky," if you will--your choice), diapers (they were actually Depends), bibs, and of course the baby-ish hair styles and lack of pants (we wore tights. They were tight. Tight as in...cool, or tight like wow these are cutting off my circulation? That's for you to decide). Speaking of the Depends, people repeatedly asked us either "Where did you get those diapers?!" or my personal favorite, "How did you make those diapers??" Are you serious? I wove string out of cotton balls and sewed the diaper myself. No. I obviously bought them. WHERE did I get them? The store, retard. What really gets me is that after we answered "They're Depends," people would be like, "Ohhh!!" In conclusion, if you KNEW that Depends existed...why would you ask me where or how I "made" the diapers? Case closed. Go to school.
Anyway, during this extravaganza of sorts, it came to my attention that binkies are much harder to keep in your mouth than you might expect. Babies are constantly "spitting them out," it seems, and you always assume the child is doing it for attention: Negative. Those suckers fling themselves out of one's mouth like a rock in a sling shot. I would find my pacifier shooting from my mouth's grasp on multiple occasions. Not only does it fling out unexpectedly, but it doesn't just fall anywhere. For some reason it's NEVER easy to find afterward. It's like it grew legs and scuttled eight feet away under a coffee table that wasn't there five minutes previous to the incident. Another thing I came to find is that binkies are quite soothing to suckle on. Try it.
When and why did the Oscar Mayer company make the executive decision to stop putting those little red sticks in their pizza Lunchables? You know, it was nothing fancy, but you used it to spread the sauce around on your crust. If I'm not mistaken, a Lunchable is supposed to be ready to eat; everything that you need should be contained IN the package. Now I end up looking like a four year-old with limited motor-skills after savagely attacking a bowl of messy spaghetti. I ultimately end up with sauce all over my hands and face, and occasionally in my hair if it gets wily, all because Oscar "Too Good" Mayer wants to save half a penny per unit sale and leave us asking, "how??" I'm obviously not going to soil a perfectly clean knife to spread my sauce, nor would I go through the trouble to retrieve one when I'm eating my supposedly ready-to-eat snack slash lunch of sorts. Instead, I end up using the sauce package itself, thus getting sauce all over my body. It always turns out I get more sauce on my hands and face than was originally even IN the package. I don't know how that happens. Anyway, I'm angry. Get with the program, Oscar.
"Hey Becca, you wanna get up and do breakfast tomorrow?"
"Sure, but can we do it at lunch?"
| | |
|
