tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65348386081240148752024-03-12T21:21:05.440-07:00The Best Blog EVER!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.comBlogger316125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-72642633206857589672014-02-13T06:50:00.000-08:002014-02-13T07:24:27.173-08:00Car Trouble<span style="font-family: inherit;">Driving on the road at only 40 mph, my windshield was struck by what I assumed at first was a giant fucking bat. It was about 1 o'clock in the afternoon, so it's understandable that after being hit by a bat that flapped my windshield once and then flew over my car that I immediately looked in my rear view mirror to see what the fuck a bat was doing flying about in the midday. Eyes on the road? Normally, yes. But there was a bat, obviously blind from the bright sun, and who knows if it was a vampire bat and ready to burst into flames at any moment.<br /><br />The bat hit the car directly behind me. Before being whipped off, hitting the roof of the second car behind me, and then bouncing to the side of the road in the sidewalk gutter. It was while it was on the car behind me, flat on it's windshield, wings spread wide, that I realized something. It couldn't have been longer than a second, but I realized something that made time slow down.<br /><br />That was not a bat. That was a giant mustache.<br /><br />A friend had given me a car magnet. A decorative magnet you put on your car, not a magnet in the shape of a car (that would be weird, if it was a hot wheels car glued to a magnet and you could still put it on your actual car [do you have to glue the hot wheels car to the magnet? Or will it stick on it's own, because it's metal? Or is that matchbox cars? I don' know my toy cars {Or how magnets work}]) It was this two foot mustache that I slapped on the hood of my car to add some steampunk to my ride. (But anyone who saw it probably just assumed I was a hipster.) And that mustache had just ripped itself off of my car and attacked innocent bystanders.<br /><br />As it bounced to the second car behind me, I PRAYED no one would get into an accident. (Which I've already disclosed, no one did get in one.) I prayed to gods I have never believed in, because while I've never read the fine print, I'm pretty sure my insurance policy does not cover mustaches. And when the longest second of my life ended, and the mustache fell into the gutter, I looked around for the police cars, waiting to be arrested for nearly killing 7 people (that's how many I assume were in the cars total..), but there were none. I thought, maybe I should go back, and retrieve the offending mustache, so as not to litter.<br /><br />But then I said, "Fuck that," and continued to drive away.<br /><br />Moral of the story: you need to check your car insurance, because there are ass holes like me on the road.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-86613347454875658372013-11-20T23:46:00.000-08:002014-02-12T21:50:29.437-08:00Midnight in Paris<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">A healthy uterus can trap 3-5 cats a week. And by trap, I mean that it shoots itself inside out and outside of the female body, like the stomach of a starfish, and wraps itself around the feline.</span><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">The cat may put up a fight, but a healthy uterus has a thick lining for protecting itself against teeth and claws. Through the power of kegels the cat is quickly subdued, brought up into the body where it's stored for later.</span><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">The cats are later used to attack other women. This is how true ladies establish dominance in social packs. The attacker releases her feline and the defender does the same. They battle in a "cat fight". Whoever's cat is the winner gets to continue to climb up the social ladder.</span><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">A woman can be challenged at any time, so it's not only important to always have a cat up there, but also a strong one. This is also where the street term "pussy" comes from, and why less hygienic women's vaginas smell like fish.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7PMb6hlp_MI/UvxcEdO_0NI/AAAAAAAAIG8/eWWbFp9aA1A/s1600/IMG_5121.JPG" height="254" width="320" /></span><br />
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #37404e; display: inline; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-49513847165466627612013-08-22T21:48:00.000-07:002014-02-13T06:50:42.904-08:00War Face(Book)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EWhrgjeNjPc/Uvxch3mVKQI/AAAAAAAAIHE/P354ns_Q9Og/s1600/Revolutionary+War.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EWhrgjeNjPc/Uvxch3mVKQI/AAAAAAAAIHE/P354ns_Q9Og/s1600/Revolutionary+War.png" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-83865955789505942232013-02-17T22:55:00.004-08:002014-02-13T06:51:10.699-08:00I made this after spending too much time on Pinterest this evening.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kj_1BoKltw8/USHQZ1HAszI/AAAAAAAAHyQ/HLCCJ89239Q/s1600/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Kj_1BoKltw8/USHQZ1HAszI/AAAAAAAAHyQ/HLCCJ89239Q/s1600/Untitled.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-41373448226004131862013-01-22T09:50:00.000-08:002013-01-22T09:50:02.754-08:00Tips for dealing with a temporary receptionist.I'm currently working as a temporary receptionist. In general, it's pretty awesome. But I've learned that a lot of people don't know how to deal with receptionist, or temp workers. So I've complied a list of tips that apply to dealing with one or the other (or both).<br />
<br />
* If you phone in, and are an ass, I will inform the person you are calling that you're an ass.<br />
<br />
* If I offer to send you to someone's voicemail, don't reject the offer and then proceed to leave a message with me. I'm not writing anything down. That's the whole point of voicemail.<br />
<br />
* Being on hold for 30 seconds is not the same thing as being on hold "forever". I have a phone that times how long you've been on hold. If you complain, I have no problem dropping your call. I also have a phone with caller ID. You want to be a dick, good luck getting a live person on the line EVER.<br />
<br />
* I will not watch your kids while you attend a meeting.<br />
<br />
* I will not watch your dog while you attend a meeting.<br />
<br />
* If you or anyone/any animal your brought into my office area shits on the carpet, YOU are cleaning it up.<br />
<br />
* You want to know when someone will be back from lunch? I want a Mars bar. Let's see if we can make a deal.<br />
<br />
* I don't want a back massage. You stay in front of my desk, and I'll stay behind my desk. No one has to get hurt.<br />
<br />
* I have no idea how you want your coffee. That's why I asked, "How would you like your coffee?" Responding, "With a little bit of sugar" is getting us nowhere. Is a little 2 packets of sugar or 27? It's all relative.<br />
<br />
The most important thing you have to remember about temps, especially if they know that there's no chance that this temporary assignment will turn permanent, is that we really don't care. If you get more business, we don't get any rewards. If you get less business, we don't get any punishment. There are no consequences. I will do a good job, as long as you are polite and respectful.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-47923046475445276272012-12-28T09:40:00.001-08:002012-12-28T09:40:11.176-08:00I still don't have the social interaction thing down.<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The other day, Mr J and I were at a pet store, buying kitty litter. We have two cats, this is a common errand for us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The cashier, so bright and bubbly for a Saturday morning, asked us, “Do you have cats?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I stared at her, and turned to Mr J. I was lost for words. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">He said, “Yes, two.” And continued a small talk exchange
with her, as he paid for the bag of litter. As we walked out of the store and
towards our car, he asked me, “Why didn’t answer her?”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I told him, “because the only thing I could think of to say
was ‘No cats, we’re just perverts.’”</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-66602904413269393222012-11-19T15:44:00.001-08:002012-11-19T15:44:13.536-08:00How I Could Have Been An Assistant To A Cult LeaderAs soon as I decided to move, I began looking for a job. I found one, but not without first almost joining a cult.<br /><br />I was browsing a job posting site, posting my resume, and applying for any posting that I found interesting. I saw a position working for a CEO of an international company. It would require a lot of travel, which I enjoy, and met my salary requirements, so I applied.<br /><br />I got a phone call, asking to schedule a phone interview. This always seems a little redundant. Calling someone to see when would be a good time to call. If I answered the phone, it's a good time. But I wanted a chance to research the company before my interview. So I would know if we would be a good fit. I scheduled the interview for that evening, and started frantically researching.<br /><br />My interview was to be with Mahendra Trivedi, of the "Trivedi Effect." <div>
What the hell is the "Trivedi Effect?" </div>
<div>
It's a "healing energy that only Mr. Trivedi (and his wife apparently) can harness and direct into people to make them better. Sick? This energy will heal you. It will give you good luck. Your hair will be shinier. You'll have a better sex life. And cats will sit in your lap. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>If it seems too good to be true, it probably is</i>.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mr. Trivedi charges a lot of money for his energy infusion sessions. Sessions that you'll have to routinely have done to keep the effects. Because magic is like batteries? They need to be continuously recharged? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If you can't get an appointment; you can buy water from his website that has already been transfused with his energy. You can buy wine transfused with his energy. Face cream with his energy. At a certain point, I can't help but snicker, and make semen jokes to myself every time I read about his "energy".</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These jokes I began making to myself, suddenly became all too possible, as I learned of the sexual harassment and assault lawsuits against this man by previous female employees. One lawsuit, and I might give him the benefit of the doubt that he's innocent. Dozens of lawsuits, and guilt seems obvious.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What do you get when you combine a narcissistic man with delusions of grandeur and followers? A man with power, who will misuse and abuse the power. A man who has allowed himself to become corrupted by his own greed, and sick sexual cravings. Otherwise known as a cult leader.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I didn't answer the phone for my job interview.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
For more information about this disgusting man and his practices, go to this blog:</div>
<div>
<a href="http://purqi.wordpress.com/category/trivedi-2/" target="_blank">Purqi</a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-61206318730545283162012-10-26T12:59:00.001-07:002012-10-26T12:59:03.077-07:00BUT WHY?!?!?!?!I'm moving to Colorado tomorrow. I've been packing for weeks. Today, Mr. J and some of our family are loading up a moving truck (while I go to my last day of work) and tomorrow we drive to Denver.<br />
<br />
While my move isn't a secret, of any sort, a lot of people keep acting surprised by this move. Not sure why. I've been posting to Facebook about it for almost 2 months. and I told most people directly, just so they <u>wouldn't</u> be surprised. The laid plans of Jane's and men...<br />
<br />
People have been e-mailing/texting/calling me, panicked, about my move. "Why?" everyone wants to know. Everyone is awfully inquisitive suddenly. "Why are you moving?"<br />
<br />
As much as I've heard that question this past week, I would have hoped that I would have a satisfying answer. None of the ones I've given seem to sate any one's need for closure.<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Why are you moving?</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Well, I've always wanted to move away from New Mexico, go some where I haven't lived before. This seemed like a good time in my life.<br />
<br />
<em>Why?</em><br />
<br />
Well, I'm not cemented in my current job, our townhouse's lease is up, and Mr. J really misses his family. (His entire family makes up 43% of Colorado's population. I checked the numbers. Twice.)<br />
<br />
<em>Why?</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Um... Because that's how human emotions work? Ask Mr. J.<br />
<br />
<em>Why are you moving?</em><br />
<br />
To be closer to Mr. J's family and start a life up there. They have a ton of schools up there too. I might enroll after we get settled.<br />
<br />
<em>Why are you moving <strong>now</strong>?</em><br />
<strong></strong><br />
Because if we don't go now, WHEN WILL WE?<br />
<br />
<em>Why are you moving?</em><br />
<br />
FUCK! For someone who hasn't see me in person for over a decade, you sure seem interested in my business!<br />
<br />
<em>Why are you moving?</em><br />
<br />
Why not?<br />
- Ha! Do you have an answer? Not so easy, is it?<br />
<br />
-----------------<br />
<br />
There you have it, distant family members and ex-coworkers; my reasons for moving. The bitchy part of me would have said I was moving to get away from you. But that would have been rude, and not even remotely accurate. Distant family members - you live in far away states. Ex-coworkers - seriously, have we hung out even <em>once </em>since we stopped working together? I'm already away from you.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-50353467759649330222012-10-18T15:37:00.002-07:002012-10-18T15:37:42.066-07:00If you’ve ever mentioned carrot cake in my presence, you already know this.
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I hate carrot cake. I’ve
tried it. I’ve tasted many people’s versions. I don’t like it. Unfortunately
for me, carrot cake is one of those foods that when you vocalize your distaste
for it, everyone around you reacts strongly.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“What do you mean you don’t
like carrot cake?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">I don’t like it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Well, have you tried it?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Yes, I don’t like it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“But it’s so good! C’mon,
have a bite of mine. You’ll like it!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">No, I won’t. If it’s so great, enjoy the fact that you
don’t have to share it with me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">“Why don’t you like it?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">No one ever asks me why I don’t
like pigs feet. Or grasshoppers. I don’t ask people why they don’t like the
taste of pigeon. That’s because the answer will be either, “I can’t bring
myself to try it, it sound so disgusting,” or “I’ve tried it, and it just didn’t
taste good to me.” People are allowed to have their own opinion when it comes
politics, religion and what they think tastes yummy/gross. But that reasoning
just isn’t enough for fans of carrot cake.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-no-proof: yes;">So every time. I have to
justify my </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">antagonist
relationship with carrot cake. Which involves a little bit of a lie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Carrot cake, is
not cake. It’s technically a quick bread. (This is true. I haven’t gotten to
the lie yet.) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Banana nut bread is a
quick bread too. It doesn’t call itself “banana nut cake” though. Because banana
nut bread isn’t a fucking liar. Until carrot cake stops calling itself a cake,
and calls itself carrot bread I’m not eating it! (That part’s the lie.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">And truth be
told, I have to admire the carrot cake. For dreaming bigger than its peers. Carrot
bread didn’t want a life like his brothers. Being made by middle aged women
with too many cats and too much time on their hands. It didn’t want to only be
made when knitters ran out of yarn, and the craft stores were closed. It wanted
to be made for special occasions. It wanted to have candles stuck in it, and
spit blown on it after a wish is made. It dreamt that people of all ages would
look forward to eating a slice, rather than only being eaten because there wasn’t
time to make bacon. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;">Good for you,
carrot cake. I still want nothing to do with you. But keep dreaming, kid. Keep dreaming.</span></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-66188153939388884592012-10-06T12:09:00.000-07:002012-10-06T12:09:22.668-07:00No Awkward SingingIt's a tradition in my workplace, that on someone's birthday everyone gets a card and gives it to the birthday girl/boy and eat cake. No awkward singing. Which is nice.<br />
<br />
Except, I never know what to write in my card. I mean, isn't that why you can get cards with text? So that the card companies can do all the work for you?! I follow <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c8hAvrH1IaM" target="_blank">Demetri Martin's lead</a> and write whatever I find interesting at the time.<br />
<br />
<br />
Lobsters have green blood, just like Star Trek's Vulcans.<br />
<br />
Light bulbs make terrible traveling companions.<br />
<br />
Toes are weird.<br />
<br />
<br />
That sort of thing. I'm getting a reputation as the "weird girl" in the office. I just think everyone else lacks my imagination.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-40488537613773718712012-10-01T17:50:00.000-07:002012-10-01T17:50:00.060-07:00But for some reason, I never worried about "butt dialing"...Now with almost all phone featuring voice dialing, I can't talk about anyone without constantly checking to make sure I didn't accidentally call them. <div>
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<div>
I can't be the only two-faced person who talks behind friends' backs, concerned about this. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-56086837016217675712012-09-30T15:58:00.004-07:002012-09-30T15:59:51.186-07:00Willy Wonka and the Children Factory<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rqwJSH8Idbo/UGjFIxdY1rI/AAAAAAAAHRs/5ZQTnrmUaaw/s1600/charlie-and-the-chocolate-factory-20050715092055127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rqwJSH8Idbo/UGjFIxdY1rI/AAAAAAAAHRs/5ZQTnrmUaaw/s1600/charlie-and-the-chocolate-factory-20050715092055127.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Oompa Loompas achieve that orange glow <br />
by regularly bathing in children's blood.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="text-align: left;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
I know that Roald Dahl's <i>Charlie and the Chocolate Factory </i>has already inspired two movies. But I really think a third should be made. A horror-version of the beloved children's story. I mean, why not? Snow White, Hansel & Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood, and Alice in Wonderland, have inspired recent horror movies. Move over Freddy Kruger, Jason and Micheal, you've got nothing on the horrors Willy Wonka's got in store for you at his "factory". </div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;">***SPOILER ALERT***</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<i>Willy Wonka and the Children Factory</i> will be about a crazy candy maker, who has hidden a Golden Ticket in five chocolate bars being distributed to anonymous locations worldwide, and that the discovery of a Golden Ticket would grant the owner with passage into Willy Wonka's factory and a lifetime supply of Wonka products. The first four are discovered by self-centered, bratty children: an obese, gluttonous boy named Augustus Gloop, a spoiled brat named Veruca Salt, a record-breaking gum chewer named Violet Beauregarde, and Mike Teavee, an aspiring gangster who is unhealthily obsessed with television. The last one is found by golden heart-ed, golden haired, Charlie Bucket. <br />
<br />
The following day, the children gather at Wonka's factory and are welcomed inside by the candy maker himself, who gives them a tour through his factory. There, they learn of the unseen workers lurking around the factory; small, goblin beings known as Oompa-Loompas, who work in exchange for a mystery substance. While touring through a room designed as a meadow made of candy, Augustus Gloop is sucked through a pipe while drinking from a river of chocolate, resulting in his body exploding from the built up pressure in the tube. His body is circulated into the river of chocolate. Not long afterward, Wonka unveils a product he's working on; chewing gum designed to replace any need for cooking or daily meals, hopefully eliminating the gluttonous attitude of western culture, which is stolen by Violet Beauregarde. She winds up inflating into a giant blueberry that must be juiced immediately, the Oompa-Loompas sink their fangs into her, to suck out the juices. However once they begin sucking, they can't stop until the girl is completely dry. The tour leaves behind her dry, shrived corpse, as it continues. Before long Veruca Salt falls down a garbage chute, while trying to snatch one of Willy Wonka's specially-trained squirrels used for selecting the nuts baked into Wonka bars after being dismissed as a "bad nut." The garbage chute leads to a furnace where she burns alive. Soon, Wonka reveals one of his products in development; chocolate bars that can be transported to customers via television, which quickly captures Mike Teavee's interest. He escapes to test out the device on himself, only to be shrunken to an millimeter tall. While trying to flag down Wonka for help, Mike encounters a spider web, and is eaten my a spider much bigger than he. Charlie, the only child who has not been eliminated, is offered the position of heir to Willy Wonka's factory. A thrilled Charlie rides in Wonka's glass flying elevator to overlook the entire factory and it's workings. Here he discovers that the secret ingredient in all of Wonka's confectionery is children, usually those abandoned and homeless, picked up from the streets. Charlie flees the factory, vowing to tell the police. Only to find his entire family has starved to death in his absence. For time in the factory does not pass at the same rate as the outside world.<br />
<br />
The End.....?<br />
<br />
I think the ending leaves a great opening for sequels. What do you think?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">**Thank you to Mr J, who helped come up with this idea. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-5526681650615324302012-09-14T10:55:00.003-07:002012-09-14T10:55:39.907-07:00I still hope they get AIDSI work a few jobs. There’s my day job which in an office, my freelance makeup artist job which is done anywhere the clients want, and my volunteer job which is done anywhere my laptop and I are. <br /><br />My volunteer job was to create a website for a local non-for-profit (that would definitely appreciate <strong>not</strong> being connected with a blog titled anything “Suicidal”, and then to maintain it forever. <em>Forever</em>. I frequently hate this job, as I’m sure other web designers would agree, because sometimes my “client” asks for ridiculous things. Like redesigning the entire website based on a fucking postcard they recently purchased at a gas station in Arkansas, even though they are in NO WAY AFFILIATED TO THE STATE OF ARKANSAS. They’re local. NEW MEXICO local. But I’m getting upset, and there’s no need for that.<br /><br />When they ask for ridiculous things, I swear, a lot. I get on my laptop, start trying to make their website still achieve its purpose of advertising their mission while accommodating whatever artist whims they have that week. Since I’m usually at home while I do this, the entire time, I mutter curses to the entire organization. The most common curse being, “ I hope they get syphilis, and they rot, fester from the inside out. I hope they go undiagnosed, until parts of their face falls off, and anyone who looks at them knows. I hope their genitals shrivel up and drop into a sewage hole.” Happy things like that.<br /><br />Last night, I was again asked to redesign the entire website, but I had a deadline, a deadline of “before tomorrow”. I was so pissed, but I didn’t have time for usual witches cursing. All I had time to do was scream “AIDS! AIDS! AIDS!” <br /><br />Mr. J overhead me, “what do you need?” He thought I meant that I needed “aides” to help me with something.<br /><br />He’s probably a better person than me.<br /><br /> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-90088273634522384322012-09-13T14:58:00.000-07:002012-09-13T14:58:00.554-07:00I'm on to your ruseI think my friend is trying to convince me I am insane. <br />
<br />
The <a href="http://suicidaljane.blogspot.com/2012/08/why-i-went-to-omaha-last-weekend.html" target="_blank">friend I went to visit last month</a> (Corlene) and I had spent hours discussing all of our former school mates, and what they had done with their lives. She kept bringing up one girl, Nell. I had, and still don't, no idea who she was talking about.<br />
<br />
Corlene: "You remember, Nell. Tall, blonde hair, pretty eyes, Nell."<br />
<br />
Me: "You could be talking about anyone... I don't remember her."<br />
<br />
Corlene: "Of course you remember her, a little on the pudgy side. She wasn't in the core group, but she would sit with us at lunch sometimes."<br />
<br />
Me: "On the days I was sick?"<br />
<br />
Corlene: "No. Remember! She was always so sweet."<br />
<br />
Me: "Are you sure you didn't meet her after I moved?"<br />
<br />
Corlene: "I'm positive you knew her, you had biology together."<br />
<br />
I was stumped. Biology had been one of my favorite classes, but I still had no memory of "Nell". I shrugged it off, and had Corlene tell me what Nell had been up to anyway. I then promptly forgot all about this mystery girl.<br />
<br />
Until she sent me a friend request on Facebook. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I64EpAs2u6w/UFEEL_LTOrI/AAAAAAAAHRM/LWp6x5zfcg8/s1600/photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-I64EpAs2u6w/UFEEL_LTOrI/AAAAAAAAHRM/LWp6x5zfcg8/s640/photo.png" width="432" /></a>I'm skeptical. Mr. J and his brother created a fake Facebook account, to convice Mr. J's nieces (the brother's daughters) that they had a younger sister. This sister was horribly deformed, and so chose to live in their mother's attic. I'll admit, I help add depth to the deception, by developing the online account, adding "Likes" and photos of socks (she doesn't like pictures taken of her face, but is proud of her sock collection). So I know just how easy it would be to create a fake account. <br /><br />I mean look at the profile photo. That's obviously not anyone I went to school with. Everyone I went to school with became drug-addicts, whores, or got really, really fat.<br /><br />At least that's what Corlene and I decided.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-88946202686882976462012-09-12T10:28:00.000-07:002012-09-12T10:28:31.749-07:00Yes, I am a little socially awkward. Next question?I know I shouldn't post about my day job, but I don't like being told what not to do. (I take pictures of my other job, so why not?) <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
A co-worker stopped by my office, and said, "You've been pretty quiet over here."<br />
<br />
I didn't know the appropriate response to such a comment, so said the first thing that came to mind, "That's because I have mouse DNA."<br />
<br />
He stared at me, mouth slightly agape.<br />
<br />
"You know, because I'm as quiet as a mouse...?" I tried to rationalize what I'd just said.<br />
<br />
He continued to stare at me.<br />
<br />
"This is why I don't talk much." I defeatedly stated.<br />
<br />
"You're a little weird, aren't you?" He asked, as he walked away.<br />
<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
What <em>would</em> have been the appropriate responsed to "You've been been pretty quiet over here"?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-48883845790956640502012-09-10T11:46:00.000-07:002012-09-10T11:46:12.427-07:00It's good to have goals.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IZe8Lhj8o2g/UE4z3waZ_DI/AAAAAAAAHQ4/jBqaDRsD7Gg/s1600/Lizard+Pooping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IZe8Lhj8o2g/UE4z3waZ_DI/AAAAAAAAHQ4/jBqaDRsD7Gg/s320/Lizard+Pooping.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Not a picture I took. Stolen from </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tf-oto/7196327798/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">here</span></a><span style="font-size: xx-small;">. Without</span> <span style="font-size: xx-small;">the permission of </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tf-oto/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">tf-oto.</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mr J and I went for a hike yesterday. Like most people, I'm sure, we stop occasionally to point out wildlife that catches our eye. Look at that bird/squirrel/tree/cactus/grizzly about to eat us/etc..<br />
<br />
Yesterday it was - <br />
<br />
Mr. J: "Look at that lizard!"<br />
<br />
Jane: "Is it pooping?"<br />
<br />
Mr J: "It's HUGE!"<br />
<br />
<br />
We stood still, and watched a tiny lizard take a giant shit. I guess I can cross <em>that </em>off my bucket list.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-86707679098674216052012-09-06T12:29:00.001-07:002012-09-06T12:29:46.273-07:00Pear Phone<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iFs4yUDgMyE/UEjySvK6n7I/AAAAAAAAHQg/0kpuPlUXGFA/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iFs4yUDgMyE/UEjySvK6n7I/AAAAAAAAHQg/0kpuPlUXGFA/s320/1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This pig is under pear pressure</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I recently buckled to peer pressure and bought an iphone 4S. This is not a post about how much I love my phone. Because it's been a month, and eh, we've both decided to just be friends. And not even close ones. Like, only occasionally "Like" each other's statuses when they show up in our Facebook feed, friends.<br />
<br />
Where was I going with this? <br />
<br />
Oh yes, peer pressure. I didn't want <strike>those dickheads</strike> my peers to know that they had pressured me into buying <strike>into their cult</strike> a iphone. So when one of them asked me to show them my new phone, I lied.<br />
This is the lie I told.<br />
<br />
Me: "This is my new phone, pretty cool right?"<br />
<br />
Person #1 in group: "Is that the iPhone? Which model is it?"<br />
<br />
Me: "Oh, no, it's an aPhone, they look just like the iPhone but are so much cheaper."<br />
<br />
Person #2: "What's the aPhone? I don't think I've heard of that."<br />
<br />
Person #1 "Who makes it?"<br />
<br />
Me: "I'm not sure who makes it. I bought it on eBay. It took forever to get here. I think in came from China."<br />
<br />
Person #1 & #2<em>: nod in understanding</em><br />
<br />
Person #1: "So it's a knock-off?"<br />
<br />
Me: "I guess, but it does everything the iPhone does. I even have Suri."<br />
<br />
Person #1: "You have Siri?"<br />
<br />
Me: "Well, I have Suri. It's like Siri, but a guy, and British"<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">At this point in my story, please note that you CAN change the settings on your phone to have male British Siri, a female Australian Siri or a female American setting. Anyone who has played with the settings on their phone would know this. But apparently the average macintosh user does not like to customize their software.</span><br />
<br />
Person #2: "Nu-uh, let me see!"<br />
<br />
Me: <em>hands over phone</em><br />
<br />
Person #2: <em>talking into phone</em> "Suri, where would be a good place to get lunch?'<br />
<br />
Siri/Suri: <em>in a male British voice</em> "Here are the restaurants close to you that serve lunch."<br />
<br />
Person #2: "No way! That's so cool! I want one!"<br />
<br />
Person #1: "How much was it? Where did you get it? eBay?"<br />
<br />
Me: "It was about $35 dollars with the shipping."<br />
<br />
Person #2: "I'm going to tell my husband about this one. He's going to flip! We could afford to get one for each of the kids."<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
Yes my puppets. Believe my ridiculous lies! Tell your family. Eventually, someone you tell, will inform you of what a complete boob you are to believe such things. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Pig Pear Pressure Picture was taken by <span style="color: #0066cc;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bjoreman/2983392619/" target="_blank">Fredrik Björeman</a></span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-64507773582450937212012-09-05T14:45:00.002-07:002012-09-05T14:46:07.897-07:00Let's be honest...I just got a e-mail from Netflix, letting me know that season 8 of Grey's Anatomy is now available streaming. Not just one, but two e-mails. <br />
<br />
The "cool" (and I use that word very loosely) part of me wants to scoff. Netflix, why do you think this news is noteworthy enough for an e-mail notification? What about my viewing habits makes you think I'd even be<em> remotely </em>interested in watching that?<br />
<br />
But then the honest part of me is freaking out, because I can't wait to watch episode after episode, putting off sleep until I've seen every single one! And of course Netflix thinks this something I'd be extremely interested in, and worth e-mailing about, I've seen all of the other seasons this way!!!<br />
<br />
Do you think I need to restock on tissues for this view bonanza? Or is the one box I already have at home enough?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-83891509065905257302012-08-29T16:02:00.000-07:002012-08-29T16:02:00.332-07:00Shit WarIf you're a girl reading this, you already know. If you're a guy, you may have suspected.<br />
<br />
Girls do not poop. I know I've written about poop, more times than polite, and I may have joked that girls poop. But we do not. We don't fart either.<br />
<br />
However, in order to make the other genders feel less ashamed about the stinky mess coming out of them on a semi-regular basis (eat more fiber, and it'll become more regular, or so I hear), we lie. We go to the bathroom, and play on our phones, read a book, fix our hair. We also, to make the illusion more believable, <a href="http://suicidaljane.blogspot.com/2008/03/toilet-paper-art.html" target="_blank">dispose of appropriate amount of toilet paper</a> to make it look like we pooped.<br />
<br />
That ground work being laid out, I'd like to take this opportunity to compare the bathroom at my current job (in a very small office of <10 a="a" in="in" job="job" large="large" last="last" my="my" of="of" office="office" people="people" the="the" to="to" very="very">200 people). </10><br />
<br />
Round One: Toilet Paper<br />
<br />
Small office: Ridiculously plush toilet paper<br />
Large office: Two ply sandpaper<br />
<br />
Winner: Small Office - Even with the point deduction, that it's hard to make my toilet paper origami's folds truly crisp. When I take a nap in the stall, the soft toilet paper makes a great pillow, and a very cuddly blanket.<br />
<br />
Round Two: Menstruation Amenities<br />
<br />
Small office: Ask fellow co-worker for a tampon.<br />
Large office: Pay $0.75 into a tampon vending machine.<br />
<br />
Winner: Large office - This was a close call. Because that vending machine IS ALWAYS EMPTY. But even then you still ask a co-worker. And if you're smart, you ask someone you've never spoken to before, so they don't know your name and won't gossip behind your back. Which is ridiculous anyway, why any fellow woman is gossiping about you being on your period. Hello, it's a natural thing. Guys don't gossip about other guys pooping. But whatever.<br />
<br />
Round Three: Lighting<br />
<br />
Small office: Fluorescent<br />
Large office: Fluorescent <br />
<br />
Winner: Draw - Come on! Why can't we have flattering lights in the only room in the office with a mirror? Whatever bulbs are used in a Lane Bryant dressing room, that make me feel super skinny and that everything I try on makes me look like a super model, instead of looking pregnant, which is what I look like where I wear that expensive outfit ANYWHERE ELSE, can we use those lights? And not just in the bathrooms, but every where? Please?<br />
<br />
<br />
Overall winner: No one. Because as long as I have to pretend to go to the bathroom, the longer I'm going to blog about it. And I suspect, no one is enjoying this.<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-23255331846468797572012-08-28T12:00:00.000-07:002012-08-28T12:00:04.320-07:00Real life knock-knock jokeMy day job is in a office. This isn't <em>that </em>pertinent to this story, I just really like my office.<br />
<br />
One day I had to interupt a meeting to let one of my bosses know he had a visitor.<br />
<br />
Me: "Sorry to interrupt, but Rebecca's here."<br />
<br />
Him: "Rebecca? I don't know any Rebeccas. Rebecca who?"<br />
<br />
Me: "Rebecca Your-Daughter"<br />
<br />
Him: "Oh, that one."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-67161963743651815882012-08-27T12:31:00.000-07:002012-08-27T16:04:52.536-07:00Why is he so mad at me?Mr. J was out of town all week. Leaving me home alone with the kitties. Mr. J doesn't let anyone use certain things when he's home. His pillow. His water bottle. His car. His pants. No one is allowed to touch them. (<i>And I'm the crazy one??</i>)<br />
<br />
He got home yesterday. And he quickly noticed evidence that these things have not only been touched, they have been used.<br />
<br />
His pillow? - The cats slept on, because they missed him. Awwwww, how cute, right?<br />
<br />
His water bottle? - The cats knocked off the table because it smelled like him and they were angry that he was gone. Still cute, right?<br />
<br />
His car? - The cats drove it to work, so that they could fill in for him at his job so he wouldn't have to use his vacation days.<br />
<br />
His pants? - One cat wore them, while the other wore his shirts, and stood on the one-wearing-the-pants' shoulders to present a more human like shape. It must have looked pretty believable, since no one at work noticed!<br />
<br />
Why is he so mad at me? I didn't touch his stuff.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I hope he doesn't notice that the cats used his razor.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-31020169715058584092012-08-26T12:12:00.000-07:002012-08-27T16:05:14.454-07:00Today's inner monologueI should really go to the store....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
But that would mean changing from these pajamas into real clothes, and I don't want to put on a bra....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Fuck it, it's 2012! I don't need to wear a bra! My body, my breasts, I don't have to wear a bra if I don't want to.....<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Ugh, all this female empowerment is exhausting. I wonder what's on TV.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-42090670204498791652012-08-25T12:08:00.000-07:002012-08-25T12:22:29.140-07:00I'm broken too.About a year ago I had, what I like to refer to it as, a complete nervous breakdown. I'm the only one who likes to call it that. Probably because doctors don't like that term anymore, and no one else wants to call it anything. Most people don't even want to talk about it. At. All. But fuck them. I want to talk about it, and I'm the one who had it, so I can call it whatever the fuck I want.<br />
<br />
Back to the story.<br />
<br />
A year ago, I was really struggling with depression. For months I would wake up numb, go to work, feel overwhelmed, cry in the bathroom, pretend I was fine to my co-workers and friends, go home, pretend I was fine to my partner and family, try to sleep, feel overwhelmed and cry in my own bathroom, until I passed out on the bathroom floor, only be carried/dragged back to bed by my partner. Things were not great. I started cutting myself, something I hadn't done in years. And when my partner discovered it, he stopped suggesting I go to therapy, and demanded it. I told him that I couldn't. I physically could not call another therapist's office only be rejected again.<br />
<br />
Previously I had called several offices. Only to be turned down, because my insurance wasn't the right one (despite what their website said). Or that they weren't accepting new patients (despite what their website said). Or that they weren't accepting patients with my insurance. Or that they weren't accepting patients who hadn't been diagnosed. (I don't even know what to say to that.)<br />
<br />
My partner told me that he would call, and find me a therapist. It took a week. Hours everyday. But he found me one. One who didn't just put me on a waiting list, but agreed to see me, the very next day. I cried, because for once I could imagine the pain I was in, someday not being so bad.<br />
<br />
I took the day off work, and went to my first appointment. I was scared. Terrified, really. What if she couldn't help me? What if I was unfixable? What if I was so wrong, that there was no way I would ever feel better? I had every reason to be horrified. And unfortunately, she couldn't help me. She made everything worse. So much worse.<br />
<br />
In the two months I saw her, she convinced me that the reason why my step-father and I hadn't gotten along when I was a teen, was because he wanted to rape me. She gave me prescription advice, which she was not licensed to do. And told me that the only way I would ever be happy was if I dumped my partner and married someone I met in a bar. Every session (weekly) would start with her asking if I'd broken up with my partner. I told her that I hadn't, and she would berate me for the next half hour.<br />
<br />
Eventually I started lying to her. Just so we could move on to another topic. Like, why I wasn't feeling any better? I'd been to therapy in the past. I knew that things took time, but two months, and no improvement was unusual.<br />
<br />
After lying to her for two weeks, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. And by "it" I meant living. If this was what my life was going to be like for the rest of it, I was going to make sure the length was a short one. And I told my partner and mother. "If you don't get me better help by tomorrow, I'm killing myself."<br />
<br />
"May we take you to the emergency room, to get you a psych evaluation?" My partner asked.<br />
<br />
I told him that if it would help, he could. I was fully willing to be committed in an institute if it would just make the pain stop. So I went to ER with my mother, and talked to a woman named Margaret, who told me to stop going to my therapist immediately. She was very concerned that the psychiatrist that my therapist had been working with had prescribed me anti-depressants that I was having severe reactions to. Instead of feeling less depressed, the medication made me more tightly wound (anxious) and extremely paranoid. She also gave me a prescription for Xanax so that I could finally sleep. Margaret made a list of doctors she recommended. Ones who she trusted to help me with therapy, and ones who could put me on the right medication. I was released, with my Xanax and list of doctors.<br />
<br />
I took a few weeks off of work, and rested. While my family called the doctors to make me an appointment with anyone who would see me. I started seeing a new therapist, and a new psychiatrist. I was starting to feel better. I went back to work. I'd been taking Xanax daily, and was sure that I was calm enough to make it through a measly 8 hours-a-day work week.<br />
<br />
I made it 45 minutes.<br />
<br />
45 minutes is long enough to clock in, start up your computer, lie to your cubicle mates about why you had to take such a long emergency break from work, open your e-mail, start stressing about how full your e-mail inbox is, and start hallucinating.<br />
<br />
Hallucinating isn't exactly the right word. But it's much more dramatic than the correct word. Disorienting. See? That just sounds like I got lost. But if put it in the context, disorienting is much more terrifying that just seeing things that aren't there. I was sitting at my desk, when suddenly I started "believing" in things. Not about God, or Jesus. I didn't "get saved". I started to believe that despite having no evidence of such, that the air was suddenly become unbreathable. I believed that I was going to start suffocating, and so was everyone. Why was I the only one panicking? Didn't everyone know that we were all about to die? My brain was on loop, "I can't breathe, we're all going to die." I may have even said it out loud. I don't really remember. I do know that the woman sitting next to me, asked if I was okay, and when I made eye contact with her, her eyes went wide and she told me I should go home. I practically flew to my car, but couldn't figure out how to turn it on. I called my mom to pick me up, and told her about the air changing. She told me she was on her way to get me, and not to move. She stayed on the phone with me, and listened to me scream because I could see the air turning into liquid (there's the hallucinations!) until minutes before she reached me, and my mind couldn't take it anymore, and things got really calm and slow.<br />
<br />
Suddenly everything was fine. But I was so tired. Thinking was exhausting. Why did people have to talk so much? It was hard to follow the words people were saying, let alone have a full conversation! It was like my brain had shut off. I was awake, and aware, but I just wanted to sit and do nothing. That's what I did, for days. Maybe even weeks. I don't remember much about that period. I know that I ate when people told me to ate. I went were people took me. I made child-like crafts when people told me do something creative. I slept a lot. In that period of time I lost my job, because I couldn't handle talking to people on the phone to get on short-term disability. I couldn't remember or understand the questions they needed answered. I cried a lot, again. Not because I was miserable, but because I confused and scared. I felt like I had suddenly regressed to the mind of a child, and I didn't understand why.<br />
<br />
I got a diagnosis. Many in fact. Depression, bi-polar disorder, obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), anxiety disorder and borderline personality disorder. Wow! That's a lot of disorders! I joked that from what I've learned about medicine from TV medical dramas, you can't have multiple diagnoses, you can only have one thing wrong with you that describes all your symptoms (i.e. "House"). No one found the humor appropriate. My psychiatrist told me that some of my conditions were genetic, like depression, bi-polar, and anxiety. That the symptoms would pop up for the rest of my life, but that I could take medication to help with the struggles. The others, OCD, PTSD, and borderline personality disorder came from my history of being abused physically, emotionally and sexually (I call it the Power Trifecta... because saying that makes people feel uncomfortable, and it's an uncomfortable topic. Plus it happened to me, I can call it whatever I want). As a small child, teen and as a young adult (again, it happens in threes). She went on to tell me that while medication could help with the symptoms of these "reactive" disorders, through therapy I could free myself of these disorders. It would take years of work, and there was no guarantee that I would be successful, but that it was possible to get better.<br />
<br />
It was very inspirational, and I almost jumped up fist in the air yelling "I can do it!" like a character from Pokemon determined to someday become a Pok-e-Master. But then my psychiatrist told me that she didn't know how to medicate me and so couldn't see me as a patient anymore. I got dumped by a doctor, for being too sick. She referred me to a doctor who specializes in my type of disorders.<br />
<br />
I should say specialized, because when I called him, he told me that he was getting ready to retire, and wasn't interested in taking on "difficult cases" like mine. (Thanks for nothin' asshole!)<br />
<br />
I wasn't quite back to square one, because I did still have my new therapist, who really was helping me. And I still had my trusty Xanax. But Xanax is only available by prescription, and my supply would only last so long. I called every single psychiatrist in the phone book (actually my mother did, I was still playing with legos, and having a hard time of it). The second you mention "borderline personality disorder" to a psychiatrist on the phone, even one who said they are accepting new patients, they suddenly don't have any available appointments. Or they hang up on you.<br />
<br />
I finally found a doctor who would accept me. Though "accept" isn't really the right word. He scoffed at my diagnoses, and told me that he would assess my case and tell me what I actually have. (He later agreed with all of them.) Also, where my previous psychiatrist would see me for an hour each session, he would only see me for 15 minutes. Even in my first session, where he "evaluated" me. Squeezing the information usually exchanged in an hour, into 15 minutes was overwhelming, and I always ended up crying that day because I couldn't remember which pills I was suppose to take when, and would have to call the office for clarification. This doctor didn't want patients to bring in family, because he felt that patients wouldn't be honest around their family, so I was never allowed to have a witness in room, even though I just wanted someone to help me remember my medication information. He also kept prescribing me medications that my pharmacy refused to fill. I had been going to the same pharmacy for a while, the pharmacists would look at my file, see the list of medications I'd been on and was on currently and tell me that they couldn't give me whatever new medication had been prescribed, because the combination of what was currently in my body and what would be added with the new prescription would kill me. Or they wouldn't fill a prescription for a sleep aid because the prescribed amount was fatal to even someone the size of an elephant. (I know I'm a little overweight, but not THAT overweight.) He insisted I stop going to the pharmacy that kept track of my medications and go to a pharmacy on the Spanish-speaking side of town that couldn't counsel me in how to take each medication. He reasoned that I should only be taking it as he directed anyway. But then he confused my chart with a different patient and nearly gave me a seizure. I stopped going to him.<br />
<br />
I stopped even trying to find a psychiatrist in this town. I didn't have any insurance (lost my job, remember?), so I could no longer afford to pay to see one anyway. I kept going to therapy, and learned some cooping skills. I finally got my brain functions back, and even returned to work (different job, different company, a lot less stress for about the same amount of money, whoo!).<br />
<br />
But things aren't much better. I still struggle with depression. I still get disoriented, and hallucinate if I get too overwhelmed. Not to the degree as before, but it's still scary. I still wish the world would end sometimes. Sometimes I wish my life would end. And sometimes I try to make it end (I have yet to succeed, obviously). I don't have a great ending to this. Because it's not over. Even if I ended this post with something happy, how I love each day, it's a gift, whatever, it doesn't mean I would feel that way tomorrow. Some days are good. Some days are bad. Some days are very, very good. Some days are very, very bad. It's a journey. It's not over yet. I don't know how it's going to end. I just hope that if someone's going through something like this, and they read this, they know that they're not alone. Because sometimes that's the only thing that can comfort you. Knowing that you're not the only one who has felt like this. Or is feeling like this. You're not the only one. I'm broken too.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-50793412814262218492012-08-14T17:55:00.003-07:002012-08-14T17:55:32.238-07:00Why I went to Omaha last weekend.I visited a friend last weekend. Someone I've known since I was 11 years old, but hadn't seen in almost 10 years. We went to a Garbage concert, and spent more money than necessary shopping. But what I like the most was discovering what had changed about each other, and what hadn't.
Changed: I once called her the uber virgin. She now has two kids.
Not changed: She still talks to everyone we went to school with.
I didn't realize that I'd want to know what happened to everyone we knew, when I stopped talking to most of them. I'm lucky that she had the forethought to keep track of them all.
As much as I loved meeting her kids, catching up and going to see a kick-ass rock show, my favorite part of the trip was the conversation we had while getting our nails done.
Me: "Do you know what happened to Chad?"
Her: "I have no idea who you're talking about."
Me: "You know.. " In a deeper voice, "Chaaaaad."
Her: "Oh God, Chad. He was gorgeous!!!"
She remembered not only our inner jokes, but the inflections of our jokes. She's amazing.
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6534838608124014875.post-24936015255403156052012-08-02T19:13:00.000-07:002012-08-02T20:04:21.876-07:00Mr J = ClassyThe Olympic Games are on TV at the exact moment I'm writing this. Are we (Mr. J and myself) watching them?<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
What does Mr. J force me to watch instead?<br />
<br />
Watching Wipeout. The show where average people <i>wipeout </i>while trying to get through ridiculous obstacles.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-foA13c_e6r8/UBsy09mLLcI/AAAAAAAAHLo/S1BRx2DB1xc/s1600/wipeout-abc-tv-show.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-foA13c_e6r8/UBsy09mLLcI/AAAAAAAAHLo/S1BRx2DB1xc/s1600/wipeout-abc-tv-show.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sigh.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">When I expressed my disappointment in his "sport" view choices, Mr. J immediately banned me from posting about it on facebook, twitter or tumblr.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: small;">......... He said nothing about blogging about it.</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05611544742350242450noreply@blogger.com0