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

Monday, December 31, 2012

Fall Risk (part1)

I'm known for diving right on in, so ... let's.

Photobucket But perhaps I should back up a little bit here? Far enough back you'll end up whipping your lash, but take the ride with me.

I'm Nico Morley, and I'll be your alcoholic today.  Also, to get the boring details out of the way, I'll brass tacks this shit and say that it all came to a crushing head for me on Christmas day. I just threw my hands toward the ceiling and said, "Take me somewhere. God help us, every one."

I took one last shot of Kentucky's finest vodka, and was escorted out the door on a mission to grab a Christ-forsaken Filet-o-Fish on the way to my doom (which right there is an alcoholic antic if ever one existed), but McDonald's refused to be open on Jesus' birthday. I mean, honestly.

I was dropped off at an ER entrance with nothing but the clothes on my back, my purse and my iPod. As I closed the car door, I turned to my husband and said tearfully, "this is going to suck." before I crammed my hands more deeply into the pockets of my hoodie and walked inside. Yes, walked - not stumbled. According to husband, I only appeared to only have a buzz going. Ha!

(Before you call my husband a jerk-head for letting me do this on my own, it had to be done that way. We have two small children and no family within close proximity and/or good health to assist. I'd also made my bed and planned to lie in it.)

I entered the building and answered the age-old question of "how many people does it take to help a hammered-to-death Nico find the ER reception desk?" with "at least two." I approached the desk and announced immediately, "I can not fill out paperwork."

The sassy black woman stared at me from behind the glass for a moment then mouthed, "Suicidal?" I nodded yes, knowing this was the only way to get help immediately. Sure, I wanted to die, but truth be told, there was no way in hell I'd have actually done it. I have babies. Her next question was, "Homicidal?"

I answered, "Well, I wouldn't kill you, you seem lovely." She laughed and promised to take care of me if I'd just take a seat. I plopped down and did my best grumpy cat until someone came to retrieve me an ... uh, undetermined amount of time later. I was very drunk. It couldn't have been very long, I didn't even start considering throwing shit.

Eventually, after many tests of my physical body and my mental will to remain charming and civil, I was taken to a room - a proper room - not a bed separated from another bed by a curtain. I was instructed to put all of my belongings into a plastic tote - along with all of my clothing - and put on what I can only describe as the most inscrutable hospital "gown" I've ever encountered. It had like, three fucking head holes, no arm holes, and it was all crazy-ass snaps that didn't match up in any logical way. Even once I'd sobered up, I tried to get that accursed thing to make sense and came up with only "wtf, come on, you can't be serious."

For real, though - you hand a desperately drunk girl a fucking puzzle and expect her to solve it while basically naked? I'd have cried if I wasn't so busy being utterly perplexed. I finally gave up and sat on the only thing in the room - a table that I am sure they wanted me to think was a bed - covered myself in a blanket and looked around the room. It was your basic hell hole. The walls were painted plywood, the floor painted concrete. In the corner, there was a used band aid. I still can't find the words I need to say about that.

Not to mention, I was locked-in. If I had to use the bathroom, I had to knock on a very sound attenuating door and beg a guard (a fucking guard!) to let me out.

Meanwhile, I waited there sitting, for an interminable amount of time (probably about 15 minutes). I finally gave up and laid on my back and decided to stare at the ceiling. Fuck a dog backwards, there was a television up there! In that moment, I found that to be literally the most comedic discovery of my life, and cackled riotously until someone finally entered the room to speak with me and give me informations.

At this juncture, let's think back to how I'd sauntered into that hospital all by myself, not looking like a hobo clutching a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. Now, let's discuss my blood alcohol content. The legal limit for getting a DUI in the States is .08% ... mine was .30%

I could have shat a Twinkie when they told me that.

What was almost worse than finding out that people have died at the blood alcohol content I had most likely at some point Skyped at was the fact that the ceiling television was set to a western movie marathon and everyone in the hospital claimed the channel could not be changed. At one point, a nurse came in to take my blood pressure to make sure I was still alive (she couldn't tell just by asking, apparently) and I said to her, "I am going to list my grievances in no particular order of importance and with as much humor as possible ... this room is a shitbox, this gown is an enigma wrapped in a stumper, and you've got me watching a John Wayne marathon when I already want to kill myself."

Still, I waited. John Wayne got fatter and more fucking annoying the more sober I got. I was in that resort for about nine hours, laying on what amounted to an examination table with no pillow but every blanket in the hospital stacked on top of me, before I was finally picked up by an ambulance and transferred to the detox center by some of the nicest EMTs ever.

There's really no humorous spin to put on the fact that I'd said to the guy, "I didn't even get a Christmas cookie." as he was very thoroughly strapping me onto the gurney (wrapped up in blankets as he put it, "like a Nico burrito"), and just as we were about to exit the building, he stopped short, ran into the snack room and grabbed a bag of Pecan Sandies and dropped them into my lap.

(Seriously, you'd be amazed how cheerful and kind even people who have to work on Christmas and deal with assholes like me can be.)

But wait ... there's more! Stay tuned for the tale of me being admitted to the detox center while very much in the throes of alcohol withdrawal. Oh, for fun!

Fall Risk (part2)


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Tuesday, December 4, 2012

I Play Sims (part46)

Suri. That can't be your mess. Tell me it's not.

Good news - your mother's here. Bad news? She's preoccupied with the dishwasher being broken.
"Oh hay guise, what's going --"
"Uh ... anyone care to explain what am I stepping in?"
"You're effing kidding me! The dishwasher is broken!?"
"Screw you maniacs. I'm going to the hospital."
I don't think he's going to make it into the hospital with you.
Forgive him. Hats are fricking hilarious.
"Hell yeah, I can make a whole other human!"
"Anybody else need impregnating?"
Aww! Welcome little Robert Wilson! He likes bottles, so far.
As you'd expect, having a newborn baby in the house can make everyone a little bitchcakes.
It almost seems like something might be developing between Frida and Logan?
Eh. Nevermind.
Although, Rachel's taken to levitating again, which isn't even cool.
But, while at least we can still form a proper clump in the foyer ...
This jealousy continues. So fun.
IF I could explain this, I assure you, I would.
Oh, I've seen this problem before. MUST we confab in the bathroom, ladies?
Sing it, sister!
Stanley, you better not be fricking pregnant, so help me.
I need to know more than one language in which to ask, "what the fuck is happening here?"
Honestly, I have as many questions as you do, dude. If not more.
Oh please. Don't act like that garbage can just attached itself to your head.
No shit, bitchy lady. She is NEVER having that baby.
I Play Sims (part47)
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Tuesday, November 20, 2012


Oh my god. I voluntarily watched a movie with Kirsten Dunst as one of the leads. I don't know what came over me to make that decision, but what's come over me now is a deep - yet somehow floating - depression.


It opens with slowest-mo you've ever seen, set to classical music (the internet informs me it's Tristan and Isolde by Wagner). Just all sorts of wacky next-level shit going on. Things that beg such questions as "why is that horse sitting down?", "boy, that's a lot of butterflies, innit?", "should a golf course be that squishy?" and "why is Kirsten Dunst wearing clothing?" as well as, "when did she become a Sith Lord?"

Oh, like you're so magic, Kirsten Dunst.

It's since occurred to me that it was only done that slowly because they were trying to make each vignette feel like a painting. God damn that's fancy, and not at all funny. Work with me here, movie. You just made me use the word vignette on my blog.

Fine. Be that way.

Although, a film about the tense relationship between two sisters while an enormous planet hurtles through space on a collision course toward Earth is hardly where you'd go to get all chucklehouse. Unless you're not only desperately bored, but also probably confused into thinking it's a science fiction-y space romp. If such a thing exists.

(I googled it. Nope.)

Melancholia is separated into two parts - each part focusing on one of the sisters. The first part is devoted to Justine (Kirsten Dunst), the second to her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg).

Part one centers around the wedding reception for Justine and Micheal (Alexander Skarsgård). I'd love to speak in detail about the absurdity, discomfort and "oh no she didn't!" that resides within, but I don't want to ruin it for you. Suffice it to say that it was absurd, uncomfortable and oh hell yeah, she utterly did. All of those things. Also, Claire's filthy rich husband, John (Kiefer Sutherland) is privileged buttface who owns a golf course with 18 holes and don't you dare forget it.

O rly, Kiefer?
What you learn in the first part is that Justine is either severely depressed or has reached and exceeded such levels of "I can't be paid in gold doubloons to care" that even Simon Cowell would be like, "Damn. That's kinda rude."

Claire's part of the story answers the question as to whether or not these rich people know that a large planet is headed their way, aiming to greet their upturned faces with a mighty smack. They do - they just think it'll pass right by, no big whoop. Probably slipped that planet a hundo.

Should have tried at least twenty large.

Let's just stop for a moment right here and talk about the "science" in this movie. If you have even a general interest in science or astronomy, paired with consciousness, you are going to have to suspend your disbelief so hard, it'll likely bruise you. Lars von Trier doesn't just take artistic license, he takes it from behind and he did not buy it dinner.

Now, back to Claire's part of the story, which occurs at some point after the wedding reception. Justine arrives all by her lonesome at her sister's palatial property (where the reception took place) pretty much unable to give herself a bath, so heavy with the weight of the world is she. Although, this does afford one a few glimpses of Kirsten Dunst side-boob, so there's that. But, the closer Melancholia (the name of the planet coming to eat Earth) gets, the more functional Justine becomes while Claire starts to come apart at her under-fed seams. John tries to comfort his wife, but it's hard to take anyone who walks around his own damned house wearing a vest while looking through telescopes and cooking sausages on the terrace seriously, so I get it.

Kiefer, darling. It's okay to take a casual apocalypse is a-coming day.
Now, some people call me fancy (Logan), but I honestly have a hard time with a film like this. I often sit there in utter confusion for most of it, just dazzled by the shiny stuff, yet understanding nothing. Color me shocked that at the end of 2 hours and 10 minutes, I didn't feel robbed of my time and actually came away with something that made sense. In my own brain. Which you really don't want to explore.

Although, immediately after, I really just wanted to kill myself. Or hug a puppy. And a box of kittens. While feeding sticky rice balls to a slow loris.

To sum up, this is the first time I watched a movie with Kirsten Dunst and didn't spend every moment she was on screen thinking, "God, I fucking hate you, Kirsten Dunst. Put your goddamned pants on and stop jumping around like brainless twit. You and your damned adorably crooked teeth. Eat a bug, I mean it."

Anybody want a peanut?
Should you watch it? I dunno. I just watched it for you. I suppose if people complain that you're too damned cheerful, this might bring you down to Earth. Which is about to be hit by Melancholia.

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Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Let's Omegle

In honor of election day, I'm going to sit here and eat Greek yogurt, be as greasy as possible, and force you to witness my new hobby: Omegle chat.

For the uninitiated, you are matched with a stranger to have a "conversation". You can also opt to be presented with a question that you discuss with a stranger, or ask a question you can watch two strangers discuss.

In my infinite boredom and insomnia, I spent a few nights skulking around this place, addicted to asking questions, and here are the results.

This is a great place to start, because it informs why the freaking hell I was even there:

As you'll see, the questions I ask, and the replies I make are not indicative of sobriety.

Those jerks tried to get scientific on my ass. That's not cool at 5am.

Speaking of science:

I think this is probably fact. Also, it's blueberry Greek yogurt, because I know you were wondering.

I'm dubious. I wish he'd allowed Stranger 1 to weigh in on this issue.

This question is honestly not based in my mental craziness. I promise. Watch this.

I'm pretty sure I had the wrong answer, there.

God. Now I'll never know if my balls are freezed. Fuck me!

But this ... this made up for all of it:

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Tuesday, October 30, 2012

I Play Sims (part45)

Hey, I didn't see Notzo Curious walk in. Guess the party's starting.
And he's grumpily delivering hot dogs. This is going to be a great celebration.
Everyone seems to be in a huge rush to get the party started. They must have heard about the nitrate platter.
Super Afro Boy is a little more chill with his entrance. He's decided waffles = rager.
No one ever brings vodka.
I see the King is in a party frame of mind.
Although, I'm not sure if I approve of little miss uninvited guest trying to canoodle with weird guy.
Ooh, where ya running to, Super Afro Boy?
Well that's ... probably creepy.
This ... is a lot to take in.
Welp, we've lost Super Afro Boy. He'd rather talk to Poppy in the foyer.
However, she's definitely shooting him the "whatever you say, mister." eyeball.
King Travis finds this scene so unwholesome that he's been driven to literature.
I don't think His Highness understands how books work, though.

Where is everybody else?

Found Stanley. He's guarding the hot cocoa.
Frida's cracked. Maybe it's because she's been pregnant for a million years, without
actually getting bigger or giving birth. What's the deal with this chick.
Here we see one of Logan's favorite activities - tuning out the shrieks of some crazy lady in favor of sports.
Gah. This pool thing has spread to outsiders now. Yet nobody swims in it!
Hrm. I wonder why Suri's glowering at an angle.
Aha. Logan, you should know that you're not allowed to talk to other women.
Looks like this party is over. Everybody out!
Well, that wasn't too difficult to resol - good lord, not the pool again!
You really better be walking to that pool, or I'll be forced to do something drastic.
Chess, huh? Did not see that one coming.
Fuck me. Yes, pool.
Dammit! I'm going to see what's up inside the house.
Um, no ... I suppose I haven't ever seen a pregnant woman in lingerie eating a hot fucking dog.
I'm leaving, before you unhinge your jaw.
Oh dear. What's happening now.
Here we see Logan doing his best "chill, woman!" pose.
Now we have the crouching Rachel, devious Logan thing going on.
I wonder what his plan is.
Sleeping in her bed before she can get to it? Unorthodox. It could work.
But you'll have to get right back up, unfortunately.
It was probably that hot fucking dog.
I Play Sims (part46)
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