This is my blog, and it is dangerous. Do you think I want to die like this?

Wednesday, November 19, 2014

I Play Sims 2 (part5)

What's all this intensity about, compadres?
Dammit, Maura - don't encourage them.
Teenage Gretchen. Eating a forkful of nothing - but the pink hair is ... kicky.
Perfect, your tree is on fire and it's stopped raining. Not to mention, it's completely inaccessible to the fire fighter.
He just stood in the house talking about not being able to do his job, while everyone watched it burn,
and the maid bitched about walking on a triangle.
It could have killed someone, but instead it chose to become this inaccessible pile of rubble. Good times.
Speaking of good times, I thought I told you two to quit this wacky horseshit. Go blog about your hobbies.
Eugene has no trouble keeping himself busy with his invisible horse.
His kitchen primping alone requires careful scheduling.
Plus, the amount of time he spends communicating through the island counters about
"the others" doesn't leave any time for shenanigans.
But yeah, just keep doing this. It won't end badly at all.
Because it's not just Eugene who is thinking, "enough with the serenading, woman."
Geneva may not know a fork from a sword, but that dancing made her your girlfriend and she's breaking up with you.
And that's why you're old and derp now. See how that works?
Now go start a microwave fire with your noodles and think about what you've done,
and how you got your neck to do ... that.
Who ... the hell is this goober on the back deck?
Now he's cooling out in the front room! Eugene! Do something!
Watch out, weirdo, Eugene is flexing.
I've seen manlier responses to a stranger in the house, but I'm sure this sends a message.
Now you've done it. He's thoroughly offended.
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Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Tapas! (Slightly Australian Edition)

I dreamed ...

that I had a marsupial pouch. Less fun than you'd expect.

that after having an angry exchange with my MIL, I started sticking panty liners to the soles of my boots before leaving the house. I'll show her.

that a little girl was pouring cookie crumbs into my shoe. I didn't like that kid.

that my glasses broke into useless bits right before a big night out of karaoke, and I'd just given birth four days earlier (which I kept mentioning to everyone, all the time). I somehow blurrily made it to the venue, but once there, I realized it wasn't karaoke, it was some sort of show where the seats moved all around the theater - in Australia. At this point, nothing else was on my mind except for how I ended up in Australia when I don't even have a passport.


E-mails from my ex:

"Yesterday, [6-year-old]'s homework was to draw a picture of something related to fire safety. So he drew a picture of his school on fire. Also (and this was an especially nice touch) there was a gravestone in front of the school that said "R.I.P. Kid"--he said it was a boy who died in the fire. So they buried him right there, presumably as the fire continued to rage."


The last time I talked to this son on the phone, he informed me that petting dogs was not a real job.
He is the dasher of dreams.

"It was 94 degrees yesterday, and [5-year-old] insisted on wearing shorts a size too small, as well as his fleece jacket, zipped up. He finally took it off after a few hours, because he said his legs were getting sweaty."

I think someone should write a sketch about if Windows 8 were a waiter at a restaurant. Constantly bringing the wrong food. Intentionally knocking forks out of patrons' hands. Trying to shove unwanted food into every open mouth. Stuff like that."


Also, for your viewing pleasure - and to keep things fair by posting a picture my younger son drew:

Look at the schadenfreude evident in the face of the hammer-wielder.
Let's also talk about the fact that this is the same child who said during a phone conversation, "Hitler was a powerful man. But you are not dead."

Have you ever heard a more disturbingly German pep talk from a 5-year-old before?
Probably not in English.


Here's something I did on Omegle when the guy I was talking to took a phone call.

That last bit was me trying to lip-read.

And finally, here is the lone Omegle experience I attempted during Drunk Fest:
Crunk Frest only happens when it snows.

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Tuesday, November 4, 2014

I Play Sims 2 (part4)

You just had to go and have a boy, didn't you. I'm naming him Eugene as your punishment.
Hurry up and shave his hand before he the other kids give him a special nickname.
Now get to work and slay a dragon or whatever it is you do in that getup.
Nice robe, old sport.
Beer in the fridge and you're drinking out of the milk carton? You are one boring immortal.
I do so enjoy your interpretive treadmill, though. I'll give you that.
All grown up, and wasting time drinking cans of juice. Get out there and impregnate someone.
Next time, try it without coats. I highly recommend doing it coatless. And inside.
I knew you could do it. Meanwhile, am I watching this from a fishbowl?
Gretchen, you are one creepy sleeper.
Maura! You've aged into Cyndi Lauper. That is rad.
Now that's a sturdy face.
I'm going to go right ahead and assume that a whole lotta foolin' around is the reason for this hair situation.
Calm all the way down, Karen - nobody wants to read your diary.
Whatever this is, it's probably none of my business.
Ugh. Alright, fine - I'll bite. What are you knuckleheads up to?
Pork chop sandwiches! How do you even start an inferno like this with a damned tv dinner.
How much do you want to bet that this would never happen if you just unplugged
the damned thing before you started jabbing screwdrivers into it?
Alright, this look isn't exactly burning my eyeballs. Definite improvement. Loving the ginger buns.
I Play Sims 2 (part5)
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Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Drunk Fest, Y'all.

2:05am: The night begins. These assholes (my mother and step dad) have just now begun to have a twinkle in their eye about dinner. They're having "dick taters" and at least one of them is really proud of this. I simply propelled myself out of bed and stole some mashed potatoes and corn before the real shit could start. I had to run away to my bedroom, because the dog tried to eat me. More later!

2:11am: I really like corn. Need beer soon. To get rid of my headache from earlier beer.

2:18am: They still haven't started eating and my mother had to yell at the dog to stop trying to chew me, after inserting myself into the living room experience.

2:21am: "I don't want to be in love prison. I'm done." ~the tv show my parents are watching, while I pour beer down my face.

2:28am: Fuck. They're watching Jeopardy, and I just got shooshed. Drunk fest is taking for freaking ever. *pouts*

2:52am: It gets worse. They're making me watch Dancing With The Stars. DVR is an evil invention. This is horrible, it's Halloween-themed. It's like a visible fart.

3:15am: I was lounging on my back, dejectedly eating more mashed potatoes, mouthing off about Lea Thompson's wooden performance, when my mother abruptly turned off the show and announced it was bed time.

While step dad was putting her to bed, I began to set up camp. He waltzed out, and saw me trying to plug in my laptop. His response? "Why don't you ass-up the whole living room? You wanna put the couch in the kitchen?"

I was moving a tiny chest of drawers two literal inches. At this juncture, he threw a cigarette at me and told me he was going to be back later. I tried to talk to him about how it was okay to tell me he needed to poop. He informed me that some things are sacred, and now I'm here, unsure how to work this remote. But at least beer.

3:25am: I put on Kimbra, then banged my glass of beer into my upper lip. Such an expert.

Anyway, let's talk about my levels of drunk as it relates to the dog. She's a yorkie/pomeranian mix shithead.

Sober - "Gah, your dog. She's barking, fuck her."
Slightly Buzzed - "Her ear is floppy. Fix your ear! You fuckstick dog. No, stop biting me, seriously."
More Buzzed - "I am going to buy a bigger dog to eat you, you cute little fuck."
Totes Buzzed - "Smell my foot. It smells like a donut, I'm serious. I smelt it myself. Unglazed. You like that foot."
Getting Drunk - "This dog is okay, I wish she'd stop eating me. Get the spray bottle so I can tell you a story about when I was 15."
Almost Drunk - "I might nap with this adorable rat in a dog costume. Stupid dog. We never cuddle anymore. Fuck you! All you want is treats. Oh come here, I can't stay mad at you. Ouch, you bit me."
Drunk - "I can't even. *giggle* This asshole is chewing me. Oh my god, she does have a cute face. We should throw shit at her. Then I'll tell you a story about when I was ... what was I saying?"
Drunk as Hell - "I am going to poop on her. I mean it. Oh, she's licking my arm. I love you stupid dog. You are the only one who ever understood me. She bit me, fuck her. Fuck everyone. Let's play Mad Libs. Yes, I can work a pen. Give me a pen." *flips pen across room* "Mad Libs is OVER."

3:44am - Sober step dad just taught me how to break into a car with a tennis ball. We are totes gonna try this later. "Send us some numbas so we can call from jail." he says. He's from Staten Island.

3:59am - There is no way I'm this funny. I've been riffing on the tv for a billion minutes with the sound off and he keeps giggling. He ate too many mashed potatoes. I am so glad I didn't eat any of the hot dogs, since he just told me they drove from Va with them, like, eight hundred weeks ago, and they weren't stored in a cooler. He might die tonight. Let's put that on the record. I did not kill this man.

4:50am: We just went on Omegle. I will post that conversation at a later date. Mostly because I saved the screen caps with names I'll never remember now.

4:55am: Step dad forces me to promise not to show him my dick. I can keep this promise, I promise.

addendum - he wants me to make it clear he has not and will not show me his dick. so it's not weird. fucking beer. "that doesn't sound right," he says, "that sounds weird."

Also, "why don't you stick a tape recorder up my ass, so you can get everything I say?"

Someone, explain to the young people what a tape recorder is.

4:59am: "God, I'm dying." he says.

I suspect hot dogs.

He just claimed to have used rancid milk in the mashed potatoes. I threatened to punch him in the tit.

5:29am: Step dad wants to talk about a dogs balls (I'm barely listening, he probably said it was time to take his medication) but I wanted to report my recent conversation, which was how if my ex-husband won the lottery, he'd be like, "you have a house bitch!" and if I won the lottery, I'd be all, "hey you have a house now and your dream has come true. no more work, all day boys", which ... is probably the wrongest way to explain what I mean. I'm just saying he loves raising the children, and would love to Mr. Mom them all day.

Someone needs to confiscate my beers.

Also, private note to my really awesome ex. "WHY THE FUCK IS VANESSA BAYER STILL ON SNL, SERIOUSLY. I CAN'T HANDLE IT. FUCK."

6:46am: it's harder to type. I am only here because step dad needed to pee. Oh fuck, shh, I think he's back. I still have too much beer yet to drink, tomorrow will be hard. hepl.

Wait, he is still peeing, let's talk about hiccups. They have something to do with once being fish. I read it on the internet, seriously, it's a real thing. Gills and stuff. I think step dad approaches. He finds me so amusing, but does not want me to tear the giant television off the wall. I will do my best, kittens.

Speaking of kittens, he likes kittens but not cats, oh fuck here he is.

7:07am: I just tried to say "bum's nutsack" to my step dad (about my right arm pit), but totally said, "bum's nut snack." which is a totally different conversation.

He's also informed me that it took ten minutes to type that. He also wants me to tell you that he no longer has a tape recorder up his ass, he has upgraded to the 90s and has a CD player up in theres.

7:18am: okay this happened. my right arm pit was so bad, I totally grabbed some like normal lotion and rubbed it into my pit. Step dad gagged. He said it was worse than the tiny dog licking in-between my mother's toes. Wait, I'm gagging now.

It's fucking light out. The sun demands the party end, FUCK THE SUN. I have a whole more beer to drink. "Let's get a Ouija board." step dad says. HELLS YEAH.

7:23am: I am demanding step dad smells my arm pit. I banged his face with my pit. He is totally disturbed, and wiped his face with a lotion-infused tissue, but agrees is smells better than before. He feels my use of men's deodorant does not do me any favors. I feel he is running out of cigarettes. Oh wait, it's on the kitchen table. Walk to Wawa averted.

7:47am: I can't even explain - step dad went to piss, yet keeps trying to sell me every single thing in the hallway. He keeps using the word "illustrious." Who on this planet, drunk or sober can not fall on the floor laughing as he tries to sell me two for one lotion - oh my fuck, he just walked out singing "smelly cat," with a trail of toilet paper out of his pants. I can't. With this.

addendum, I am dead serious. This all happened to me.


8:27am: I hate to report this, but my step dad dared me to fart. And I did. I promptly covered my head in the nearest blanket and died. Then, my mother woke up and threw the dog at us. 

New level of drunk. I love this stupid dog. We are one.

8:33am: step dad tries to convince me to walk through like, the McDonald's drive through and get extra hashbrowns. As I can barely type, I doubt this is happ'ning. I mean, I need to hug the dog. That's where I am, I love this stupid dog.

4:38am no wait, 8:38am - so the dog made this sound like she had a bell face and walked into a wok. A WOK of all things. Step dad suspected she had something in her mouth, but that little rat ran all ups under the couch. I can't fit there.

Step dad threatens to cook fish sticks. Also, he thinks I have more farts. I do not.

9:27am: the keyboard is fulla boogers and step dad wants to know if he can go to jail for this. To put it simply, some asshole called asking for my step dad. I refused to give his oh shit it's later.

9:53am: after harassing - thoroughly - the woman who dared to call while we were basking in 80s videos, step dad accidentally called a friend of mine and we left a criminal message for him. I love you, person, you know who you are. We are both so sorry.

The dog barks. Will Drunk Fest ever end? Who knows? The shadow? Oh, the squeaking of this toy, while we try to enjoy New Order.

9:58am: we have decided to get matching Members Only jackets.

10:19am: why doesn't McDougals deliver the hashbrows? Hungry. Hungry. "ya killin' me Smalls." I have no idea why he said that, but Smalls, ya killin' us.

10:38am: hiccups. abort. put rest of beer back. the hiccups have bested me. Drunk Fest OVER.

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Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Tasting Food

My mother is obsessed with bringing home any snack food that has been recently created, especially if it's a flavor that probably shouldn't be. She honestly needs a separate storage closet just for the bags of various chips she buys that are sampled, rejected, yet never thrown away. She bought me a bag of sweet roasted corn potato chips, because she knows I love corn a whole lot and she's seen me eat potato chips. I ate about five of those chips, only because I was amused by my mouth's "oh, come on!" reaction to them. Imagine the flavors of two great things - two great things that hate each other, and brawl about it on your tongue.

Some history on my mother's new relationship with food ... my step father told me she once ate a frozen roll that was four years past the expiration date. I don't at all have a problem believing this, since there was a package of just-expired bakery-bought cupcakes when I moved here in July and they are still in the fridge, and it's October dammit, despite my trying to throw them away. She insists she'll eat them.

Which brings us to my current experiment - seeking out food items which I'd probably never eat unless I was trying to win a bet or find something to talk about on my blog.

Let's begin with tamarind nectar.

Just one letter away from being monkey juice.

Doesn't that look appetizing? It tastes like your gums are bleeding. Granted, that could have been the indestructible can it came in. After my first taste, I put it right back into the fridge, spilling a little bit on the shelf. I thought I'd cleaned it up, but when my step dad tried to move it later as I slumbered, it was so very stuck that he ended up spilling more of it during his unsticking efforts. If I were him, I'd have thrown it at my bedroom door, like my mom always did with anything I left somewhere in her line of sight while she was also in the mood to be throwing stuff.

Basically, don't drink this unless you require a liquid glue that comes in a weapon and your mouth doesn't taste enough like blood that day.


Let's eat something in a pocket now.

You can feel the organic lack of GMOs right through the box.

I love spinach and feta! What could go wrong?

I use paper plates, because ripping the cooked food away from the paper is half the fun.

That is what it looked like cooked. It's also what it looked like frozen, but trust me, it was hot enough to make you regret your lack of patience yet again. One thing I can say for this is that it's clearly magic of some sort. The spinach and feta on its own tasted the way almost anyone would expect - pretty good, once it made contact with a non-sizzled taste bud. But that pocket. That virtuous, pasty, tricksy pocket. Its lack of flavor was so power-filled, it drew in all hints of flavor within the realm of my bedroom and rendered them non-existent. I even tried licking my wall and ... nothing. Nothing has a taste as long as that dough exists.


Something sweet, now.

Cacao to cacao.

Dark? Sure. Sinful? Probably. That bar is nearly as long as my foot. Pear? Eh.

I expected so much weirder from this, but I couldn't detect any pear, and I'm not hard of pear-detecting at all. Trust me, you put something pear-flavored in my mouth, and I will immediately report tasting pear. This is just a highly edible dark chocolate and almond bar. If you like that sort of thing, please come over and help me finish this. I swear I didn't touch it with my foot.


They go with everything.

These are fantastically fun, although impossible to eat once you apply them, unless you've applied them to a friend. I did not think this one through properly. But, I definitely got quite the reaction today when I had to run to the middle school to pick up my mom's Market Day order.

I have a decision to make, though. Do I risk life and nipple to rip these off now, find the patience to wait for my night sweats to melt them off, or invite a non-diabetic friend over to treat me like a moveable, if slightly reluctant sugar rush?


Not a casserole, a PIE.

Let's heat this, according to the package directions.

Hurry up and bring me a fork!
What can be said about something that smells like unwashed socks and only has one slice of black olive laying on it? This was edible. I know this because I got it into my face and it didn't come back out of it immediately. I can't confirm that it has three layers, because the gluten-free tortilla broke apart like someone on hour eight of an interrogation for a crime they never wanted to commit.

This is something you have to eat quickly, before it cools down and before it's exposed to too much Earth air, which clearly rejects its very existence. This is something you might happily eat if you were deployed, because it tastes better than sucking on your uniform. If you're not in the military, this is something you should Hasselhoff from your living room floor after pouring a lot of strong beer down your throat.

Eating it ended as most unpleasant things do - with a measure of relief, but way too much salt all over my bed. I almost felt as though I should keep the tray, because I suspected this meal would enter me, then reassemble itself after incorporating the unholy amount of corn I'm always eating, then emerge as a fully-formed, yet slightly improved version of its past self I could convince the dog to eat.

Cedar Lane gluten-free Enchilada Pie is preposterous as a human food.

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Tuesday, October 14, 2014

I Play Sims 2 (part3)

I see you're wearing your job search kimono - and not a moment too soon, we'll be needing more money for a bigger place.
That's it - the very morning you move into the new house, shove that hand in the dirt and find a man in a sweater to date.
I'm sure if you tried, you could move faster.
Yes, I know. Too much grilled cheese can be binding.
Well, at least Geneva didn't let a floor baby disturb her brunch.
It's good that you're hosing her down, though. Let's call her Maura.
No need to look thoroughly depressed, I'm sure she'll eventually grow some hair.
Why the hell is everyone so bummed out? You have a nice, mature, child's bun now, Maura. Cheer up.
Ah, pretty pretty teenaged Maura. People might almost forget I named you terribly.
*sigh* Only a Maura would dance like that.
Melissa, you're old! What will you do with yourself now?
I'm not sure messing around with that lamp is a groovy idea.
"Fuck this shit" is exactly the stance I would have taken. You're a smart old lady.
Maura. Sounds like a cow mooing "Laura".
Yeah, I just now realized it, too.
Hey, there's a guy in a hat hanging around, have you met him yet?
Oh, I see you have. It seems like just mere minutes ago you didn't even exist.
Now Melissa is dead?! You can't even pass out drunk without all sorts of shit going down.
Yes, Geneva - I'm aware of you.

I Play Sims 2 (part4)
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