April Foo- Fuck you.

 I may add illustrations to this later.
EDIT: I added some illustrations!  Woo!

You know that thing where I'm the daughter who is really neurotic and has some really fucked up anxiety issues?

And, remember how when I was a kid, people said I didn't have a sense of humor because I couldn't bring myself to laugh if something wasn't funny?



...

As it turns out, I still can't take a joke.  At all.   Oh my god.


So, well meaning boyfriend has this plan in his head, and it's a funny plan.  It pokes fun at all the issues we've had and conquered and he knows I can take it because I'm a smart cookie.

So, after I've had a long day of sitting for six hours with a man who talks a lot but says very little, and I've been looked at and scrutinized for this person's make up class and then made to look quite literally like a clown... I come home.

...The make up part wasn't so bad.  It was the application of the base that was bad.  The teacher had to explain, loudly, which areas of my face needed to be covered up.

Apparently this is how some people see me: 

Which makes me feel like this:

So, I go home.
We have a wonderful rest of the day. 

I am very happy.

Typically, I'm so paranoid, that when I'm happy for too long, I flip shit, thinking something horrible will happen to screw it all up.

...

Why make me right for no reason??  WHAT?

Boyfriend was just gone for ten days across the country with a friend of his and I missed him dearly. 

Boyfriend today says, via text, "Soooo...  I have some interesting news..." and waits for me to come up with all kinds of ridiculous and exponentially more and more horrible things until he finally says that he is going away for a couple of days with said friend.

...Kay.

So, seeing that it's April 1st, I say, "Or, it's just an April Fool's joke.  Good one."

He tells me that he wishes it was.

Here is mistake number one.  When your neurotic, anger prone girlfriend who has abandonment issues calls you out on fucking with her, the joke should be over.

No no.  Not my boyfriend.  He's an all or nothing kind of chap. 

Hate.

So much.

I hate everything.

So, I ask if he'll be back home tonight or if he's leaving right away.  ...and he doesn't answer for a while.  I start ranting about how he should at least CALL ME like a decent human being and how, no, I don't think he's so evil that he purposefully brings me so high up just to drop me farther down. 

...

He gets home, we chat for a while.  I show him that I'm okay with him leaving.  I'm upset, but okay.  We laugh.  We are very cute and happy.

Then, he tells me it was all a joke.

To anyone else, this would be hilarious.  Watching it happen, it would have been.

No.



...No. 

It takes me a while of asking him very quietly to stand up so I can hit him as hard as I can in his stomach.  I tell him I won't go for his balls, and I will let him tighten his abs first. 


I'm five foot nothing and I weigh about a hundred pounds.  He's a foot taller than I am and significantly stronger. 

I was so angry that he was honestly a bit concerned for his well being. 


This is the most rational thing he did this evening.

I resort to plucking out a nose hair of his that had been bothering me for a couple of days.  If I'm going to cause him pain, it may as well be productive.  Then, he hugs me, and I send him on his merry way.

So... Never mind.  It was a joke.

...I can't tell if I'm happy. 

...I hate this holiday.

Of Vomit, Fire Water, and Hospitals

Typing this right now is really difficult, so I'll start off by telling you why. 

I just managed to burn both of my hands with boiling water.  How? 
I was making pasta, a simple enough task.  ...But sometimes, with my arms the way they are, my hands give up and I drop things.  This time, that "thing" happened to be a pot of boiling hot water.  I effectively poured it all over my left hand, made a horrible noise, then tried to catch it (I don't know why) and wound up pouring the rest on my other hand and wrist. 

...Ow my fuck nuts. 

It's particularly uncomfortable because I managed to hit my RIGHT wrist...  The one I use for writing and drawing...  The one that is already in worse deformity-related shape than the left...  Yeah.  That wrist. 
On the other hand, it hit my fingers, which sucks, but sucks the most on my ring finger.  This is my derpy finger.  The top joint can straighten, but not on its own (meaning you can push it straight, but it'll limp back to crooked) and will actually ache to the point of me feeling nauseous if the top joint gets bent too much. 

Fingers bent:

Fingers straight:

...YAAAYYY lets make something icky that much worse with FIRE WATER. 

Of course, as it turns out, I can still pick things up just fine.  That's how screwed up my hands are normally. 
I'm going to take this as "Yay, I have super powers" rather than "WOW I'm so broken."

This morning wasn't much better.  I finally got whatever my boyfriend had. 
Last night, my hip was killing me, but I figured that's kind of normal, as I need to see a chiropractor for that. 
...But then around 2:30AM, the pain shifted to my stomach, and I vomited everything ever, on and off, for three hours.

I also managed to stab myself in the right wrist with a knife from the dish rack, attempting to put shit away.  ...Again. 

So, good morning! 

...

It served to remind me that when I'm sick enough, all dignity goes out the window and I tend to just stop caring who or what sees me vomit and/or shit myself.  I'm sure my mother has some allergy related horror stories involving me. 


Which leads me to the following memory to tell you now:

I was in a hospital getting some oral surgery done.  ...I don't remember which surgery it was, as I've had so many that most of them just kind of blend together now.
I think of this as a very good thing.
It may have been the posts for the dental implants?  I don't know.  Doesn't matter. 

Either way, I was terrified, and I always respond really horribly to laughing gas.  It makes me flip my shit and start crying hysterically, feeling like I'm about to die.  Instant panic attack. 

Mind you, when going under, I'm not that much better. 

There's a famous story about when I was getting my eyeteeth taken out and my canines dragged with a chain in their place, where just as I was about to go under, I begged to see my family one last time.  I wanted to tell them that I wasn't angry for having me go through this horrible, scary procedure.  Unfortunately, they popped in just as the drugs to put me under took hold, so all I said was "I hate you!  I hate you all!" while sobbing, right before conking out. 

...So!  Back to the other surgery. 

Again, none of these were THAT bad that I couldn't have just been numbed up, but with my anxiety issues and paranoia and severe nightmares...
Just knock me the Hell out, okay??

So, after this particular (something front teeth related) surgery, I was flat on my back on the gurney, still pumping sedatives through my blood, and woke up to my own moaning, gasping for air.  Had I been more conscious, I would have said, "Hey, could one of you nurses please prop my head up a little?  I'm having some serious trouble breathing and it's scaring me." 

Instead, I couldn't breathe, I couldn't speak from being all drugged and numb, and so I just continued moaning. 

Instead of saying, "Oh shit!  She needs assistance!  I'm so sorry!"  The nurses yelled at me to shut the Hell up.  Niiiiiice bedside manner, bitches. 

So, at this point, someone a bit nicer comes over after hearing the commotion, helps me out by putting a pillow under my head, and tells me my parents want to see me.
...In my brain this happened right after I got yelled at, like she had come to rescue me.  It was apparently a long time after the bitches went away.  Oh well. 

In any case, instead of saying "I want to see my parents", I just kept on asking for my at-the-time-boyfriend. 

I imagine that would suck for a parent. 

I was in and out for a while.  I briefly remember seeing my boyfriend of the time and my parents.  ...Then, I was told to get up, and a nice lady was helping me.  The problem was that I was in a little hospital gown and the curtain to separate my side of the room from the creepy old man next to me was pushed open. 

I attempted to grunt that I wanted it closed or that my ass should be covered in some way or that in general I was just exposed and helpless and everything was horrible...

I failed.

Now, in order to let me leave, they had to know that I had peed to some extent.
...Hooo boy this was complicated for my tiny drug addled brain. 

See, she put this thin rope in my right hand, and I'm right handed, and the toilet paper was on the right side of my body.  She told me that if I dropped the rope, she'd know I'd keeled over and she'd come in to make sure I was okay.
...Well, I wasn't about to fall over or die, but I sure as Hell couldn't figure out how to get that rope into my left hand, or how to reach over to get the toilet paper. 

So, I dropped the string and happily touched the toilet paper.  I distinctly recall feeling proud that I had made it so far, like I had solved some very intricate puzzle. 

Well, thinking I had fallen and couldn't get back up, Super Nurse came in to rescue me.
She looked at me.
I looked at her, confused.
She put the rope back into my hand.
I looked at it, then attempted to explain the problem to her, but she was already gone.

I'm not sure what happened next.  I must have done something that was close to peeing by myself, as they let me out... but I don't really remember anything between that and going home. 

What's upsetting is that I have a lot of stories like these.

Psychoanalytic Nonsense and Amusing Pictures

We made ink blots!  ...Then I tried to make them into what I saw, using pen.  ...Except for the blue one because I just found it pretty.  Weeeee

Okay, so this first one wound up some kind of evil dark warlord or something.  ...Possibly something from Kingdom Hearts.  Note the giant hands and tiny, almost pretty, skull-like head:

Next up, I first saw this one as a fish, so I drew that on the side.  In the end, I decided it was a dress.  Very moldy... but a dress:

This one is pretty.   Lookit:

This one wound up like... the cover for Moth or something.  The three chunks of book are called "Moth", "Black Widow", and "Wasp":

Feel free to read into these all you want.


ALSO!  We did the scribble game.  This is where one person draws a scribble, and the other draws a picture using that scribble.  In most of these, you can't really tell where the scribble was:

Everything I make is either derpy, has breasts, or is frightening.  ...What the fuck?

My Mother Has Super Powers

This will be a quick post.  I just wanted to inform the world that my mother has this ability to just... not give a shit about bad things happening.  The woman just got her knee replaced, is going through physical therapy, and even though it sucks, all I hear from her is "YAY cookies!"  I'm sure my father doing his best to wait on her and treat her like a princess helps.  Of course, I feel like she has some secret elves or something who would gladly come up from fairy land to help out if it was needed.

I swear, my mom is an escaped Disney princess.

Again, just had surgery, yet sending me this:

...Just to clarify here, I'm 26 and she just had surgery.  Either one of those would be reason enough for a mom to stop this, but no.  You know why?  Because my mom is badass, and freaking loves the Hell outta me.

Be jealous. 

The end.

A Tale of Two Furbys

Okay, so, some of you may remember Furbys.  They were cute little bird/mammal... things... with no arms.  There had been a copyright issue with the original design looking like Gizmo from Gremlins, but apparently that's all been sorted out, as there seems to be an official Gizmo Furby these days.

Now, the Furbys I'm going to speak to you about are not the ones of today.

The ones of today are even worse.

The ones of today can walk forward, smile and frown, and are at least twice the size of the old ones.

The ones of today could fuck up your day pretty easily if they ever became sentient and wanted to kill us all.

No no.  I'm talking about the ones that came out when people still marveled at the idea that your toy effectively did not need you, and could play just fine without you.

I don't remember asking for a Furby.  I remember asking for other stuff, like when I was even younger, asking for a Barbie movie theater and a Barbie motorcycle.  I remember asking for a lot of things, and in all honesty, I remember getting most of them. 

I was not particularly tantrum happy as a kid.  If anything, I am more so now.  If I don't get my way, I throw a fit until I somehow manage to get whatever stupid thing it is. 

As a kid, I didn't care so much.  ...about anything, really. 

So, I don't remember having any want for a Furby, beyond in passing thinking they were kind of cute.  I saw friends of mine frantic and screaming for one.  It just didn't seem to be worth the effort.

I wanted a toy I could put in a box and not feel guilty later.  A toy that couldn't tell me when it was hungry, because toys don't actually need food.  A toy that I wouldn't need to talk to... because that's just very sad.  (And a bit scary)  I personify objects as an adult enough as it is.  In some ways, that may be the Furby's fault. 

Like that episode of Twilight Zone with Talking Tina. 

And yet, I got a Furby.  

In fact, I got two. 

One of them was completely white, like a gumdrop and a marshmallow had some horrible sex experiment go wrong and produced this atrocity we called a child's plaything.  

The other was a Halloween edition, which was awesome to me.  It was black and orange and sported a witch hat. 

Neither of them work anymore, but that second one never did.  It would wake up, say "Bwelo coco" and then snore and go back to sleep.  Narcoleptic Furby.  Great.  I figured it was a special Halloween one, so maybe it just woke up on Halloween? 

...Nope.

The white one used to work just fine, but it still... wasn't... right.

My friends would complain that if they were changing in my bedroom, it would conveniently wake up to say "Bor-ring!  Bor-ring!  HELLO!" like some infantile construction worker stereotype, checking out a hot babe. 

Well, eventually, we got used to the pervert and the sleeper. 

Then one day, the white one started making scary noises.  I'm not talking about the Furbish or random English phrases.  No.  I mean it started making horrible demonic sounds. 

Well, I figured the battery was dying, so I opened it up to take out said battery. 

I did not realize that these things had backup memory.

It's logical.  I mean, that way you don't lose any... progress?  ...as you... teach it... things. 

Anyhoo, when I took the battery out, it's backup memory kicked in and it started talking normally.
In my early teen brain, all I understood was that this thing had been talking demonically, I took out it's batteries, and understanding that I was onto it, it started talking normally as if to prove that it was okay and that I should let my guard down again so it can eat my soul and oogle my friends. 

So I repeatedly bashed it's damn head into the kitchen table until it stopped talking.

I still have them.  They live in storage, forever silent.  Perhaps one day, the sleeping one will awaken. 

...The white one better not. 

All I gotta say.



EDIT: Apparently the demonic Furby/talking without the batteries and scaring children thing happened a lot.  A couple of my friends have read this and told me so.
...Is that in the instruction booklet?

Showers, Baths, and Referring to Poop Too Many Times

Showers and I have a strictly business relationship. 

I get in, I do my business, I get out.  While some have a more loving relationship with both the shower and the toilet, I treat both with some amount of disdain. 

"You, Mr. Shower, are here to get me clean.  The end.  No funny business."

"You, Ms. Toilette, are here to catch whatever happens to come out of me.  Good luck."  *shakes toilet-hand*

EDIT: A friend/apartment mate of mine, Dustin (at http://www.flickr.com/photos/wiserobot) took this picture:

 
He had asked me to give the toilet eyes and arms.  Without question, I said "HELL YES" and did it.  So, now I can actually shake it's toilet hand.  Our apartment mate says it makes him feel like he is now one step closer to golden showers, having now peed in something that has eyes.   There are actually some pictures of me directly up on his site too...  Just sayin'.

In general, I'm just very uncomfortable while taking a shower.  I like feeling clean, but it's the standing up to do it that bothers me. 

Maybe it's my heritage and I have a strange association between showers and Nazis? 
More likely though, I've just watched Psycho too many times.

Fun fact, until a surgery leading to where she had to take showers instead, the star of Psycho took baths, often with someone in the room, due to the film. 

I love baths.  I could easily say to my apartment mates "Hey, I'm going to be in the bathroom for at least ever, so I need you guys to use it while you can." 
These are the guys who have had no issues peeing outside when the bathroom was taken, so they would be all, "Sure!" "No problem." *salutes* "Have fun in your bath, Princess!" 

But I don't ask.  Living with three to four people in an apartment with one bathroom makes me needlessly nervous and ultra aware of my bathroom time. 

Even having to take a crap becomes a stressful endeavor, once I feel I'm taking too long. 
I start thinking progressively more irrational things like, "Oh god.  Oh god.  What if someone needs this?  What if someone is really sick?  What if a cute little girl just came to visit and she needs to poo and I'm in here and so she has to go outside like an animal??"

I'm even the kind of person who turns the fan on, in hopes no one will hear me do what is meant to be done in the room with the toilet. 

Like I'm pretending to be some magical creature that excretes gummy bears instead.

Again, I know my roommates would be more than happy to ignore me while I crap.  This has nothing to do with reality or how people actually work.  This has to do with my screwed up brain. 

But baths... Man.  Baths are awesome. 

When I was a kid, I would make a fuss about getting into the bath, and then once there... I was sooooo freaking happy! 
And then I'd make a fuss about getting out.



I'm still like that, to a certain extent.  

And then I get in and it's, "Oh.  Right.  I like this.  This is awesome.  I forgot."

My mom would put this metal...plastic... who knows what it was made of...  It was white and it was a grid type thing that went across the bath tub.  Then, I had a series of cups and toys and even Little Mermaid figures.

Sometimes, Ursula would sing songs.  Sometimes, I was a mad scientist. 

I was awesome.

As a grown up who's too weird to ask to take a bath, I either take baths when no one is home, like some secret guilty pleasure, or I take showers begrudgingly. 

It helps to shower with someone, but even then, it's strictly business for me.  I have to be convinced to do otherwise. 
My boyfriend is there to wash my back if I ask for that.  ...He puts up with a lot from me, actually.  The whole typically-endlessly-patient thing is rather nice.

He doesn't wear glasses in the shower.  Just so we're clear. 

I will admit, there is a kind of comfort to showering with my boyfriend.  I figure, with him there, I won't get stabbed.  If I slip, he'll catch me.  Things like that. 
And washing my back if I ask.

He and I both have an issue with one sensitive eye.  ...Meaning that we each have one sensitive eye... Not that we share one.

His reacts to light.  Mine, as sucky as it is, reacts really poorly to water and sometimes to wind. 
...I wish I was kidding. 
It's from an old dog-stepping-in-my-eye-while-I-was-on-the-ground-after-falling-down-a-flight-of-stairs related injury. 

Therefore, washing my face is done very carefully, and often outside of the shower. 

The only other issue is that Boyfriend likes his showers boiling hot.

Oh well.


Also, I drew this a while ago.  It always bothered me that Flounder was not... a flounder... so I fixed it.

As It Turns Out, I'm Actually Not Terribly Friendly

To start, the "art" for this one was "scanned" using my phone.  I'm still visiting my homeland, so I've made do, in order to bring my thousands of fans (read: about six) this blog.

So, here goes.

I've been noticing more and more that I am a pretty angry/bitter woman.  This comes up mostly when interacting with total strangers, unless it's in a more planned setting.  If I'm at work, for example, this is not a problem.

If I'm in a hallway at school, it's not really an issue.

If I'm at someone else's job, and I'm the costumer, I am pleasant as can be.

...If I am in an airport, or a mall, or in a theater... whatever, and someone treats me in a way that I deem unfair... I am a monstrous beast of a person.

We'll stick to the airport, as this is a prime example of how I am a crazy, anti social loon.

I get upset if no one helps me when I'm struggling, even if I don't ask...

AND if someone tries to help without my asking.

I assume they either wouldn't help someone who was on fire, or they must think that I'm completely useless as a human being... depending on the situation.  No one can win.


Likewise, well meaning people who are jovial and joke can expect to be met with a harsh version of my usual pleasant (enough) self.  A simple "good job" from a stranger, no matter how obviously sincere, leaves me thinking they are being condescending.

...In all fairness, this was spawned from years of people assuming I was a lot younger than I really am.  If something would be an appropriate thing to say to a small child, it is generally a pretty rude thing to say to an adult.

On top of this, when an older man ignores me, or just does not immediately speak to me, I assume he has something against women.  The worst part about this is that I'm often right.

Nice men don't realize how often this still happens, in this day and age.

Either way, mostly, I keep my mouth shut, aside from some after the fact "I should have said", or internet ranting.

The only time this differs is in a movie theater.

Disturb my viewing experience and you'll get a disturbing experience of your own.  I've slammed back against stepped on and rocked seats.  I've loudly proclaimed the maiming that would occur if a certain person didn't shut up... Any anger management issues tend to show themselves during movies, and it's never at the film itself.

I've made grown men (read: teenagers) tremble from the awesome power of my getting pissed off during a film.  Other than that though, I let things slide.

In fact, I tend to let things slide a bit too often when I shouldn't.  I bottle in bizarre ways.  That though, will be a topic of another blog.