Monthly Archives: December 2012
Below is the first of what I hope to make a popular series… Spam Comment Poetry!
The following was taken from a spam comment on an article about HIV infection rates. As you’ll notice, there’s a symbolic connection between to post and the comment – total poetry in action!
Watching the Watch Men
Celebrities have shown
Throughout history that
They can have unique tastes
There a host of
That are affordable and
Not necessarily limited editions
That can be purchased
Without having to spend
And jaw dropping
Amount as well.
The design of watch
Are often work connected in order
That it must be rugged
Otherwise you could also be longing
For a luxury
Measuring system for a night
On the city.*
*Linebreaks and line capitalization are mine. No other changes have been made.
As I’ve discussed here and there, I’m a bit of a hypochondriac, but most people don’t care, since I’m pretty damn entertaining while hypochondriacking all over the floor.
Over the last few months, I’ve been feeling a bit off with symptoms such as fatigue and memory lapses. Now I know what you armchair doctors are saying, “Perhaps, my friend, if you didn’t drink so much, you wouldn’t have to call hangovers ‘fatigue’ and blackouts ‘memory lapses.'” To which I scoff at your unlearned opinion.
My trusty friend, Mr. Bottle would never harm me, so don’t maligne him. If you do that again, we’ll sue for slander! Unless you write it in the comments, then we’ll sue for libel!
That’s right, bitches, Mr. Bottle is an attorney and knows the difference between slander and libel. So you’d better be quaking.
But back to my non-bottle-induced symptoms.
Like a good custodian of my meat-flesh, I made an appointment with my doctor to have said symptoms checked and get a much needed check-up. The next available appointment was two weeks away, which gave me plenty of time to research and diagnosis my ongoing disintegration.
After many careful hours of diligent websurfing, I realized that my symptoms were actually two separate maladies, and I had to sadly start reporting to my friends and family that I was the first case of “Mad Cow Leukemia disease.”
Now reporting it to friends and family was sad mainly because they all seemed so utterly entertained with my imminent demise. Some laughed. Some pointed out that it would soon be named after me, since I would be the first to contract both diseases at once. This brought some comfort to my distressed heart, as I would at least leave a legacy beyond, “Oh him? Yeah, I slept with him once, it was by far the most amazing experience I’ve ever had. I wrote poetry about it, wanna read?”
So on the appointed day, I sat down with the doctor, and properly underplayed the symptoms. This is an important part of the doctor dance, as “Oh, I’ve been extra tired lately,” will be listened to, whereas, “I have extreme fatigue, people with carts need to move me between the bed and the couch,” is dismissed. So I told him overall everything was fine, except I had this, and this, and that other thing probably wasn’t much, but I wanted to bring it up in case it was a symptom of something. I also made a point to say, “I’m not even sure if these are symptoms of anything, but it was just different than usual, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything of consequence,” which directly translates to, “I did NOT look this up on the internet!”
Well, the doctor nodded several times and with an uncharacteristic seriousness (he giggles during hernia checks for bejezus sake), he told me he wanted to run several blood tests to make sure it wasn’t one of many things.
And I felt vindicated.
I was right. Something was seriously wrong. Oh those friends and family that had tittered and joked would rue the day they mocked my ailments! Perhaps a few would commit ritual suicide in despair over realizing how poorly they had treated me. I hesitated before asking the doctor, “Can Mad Cow Leukemia be exacerbated by the stress of being mocked by a group of loved ones?”
I held off on that question though, as it’s obviously a question for my loved one to ask after the doctor has broken the horrific news and I’m always one for following Miss Manners’ rule of etiquette.
So blood was taken. And more blood. And still more, to the point where they were arguing whether I should be given juice and a cookie before they took the next fifteen vials. But I waved them off, a concussion would add nicely to the story.
It took a week before I got the results back. Each day I waited, looking at my phone every fifteen minutes, willing the doctor to call with the bad news.
What if he didn’t want to give me the news over the phone? It was nearing the holidays, I would be out of town, and this was information I needed to share in person with my family. I was getting desperate and told the Boyfriend I was going to call the doctor myself.
“Just wait. He’ll call you when he has the results,” the Boyfriend said levelheadedly.
“But if I don’t find out soon, I might forget what he tells me,” I said.
“Why do you think that?”
“Uhh… I have mad cow disease? It’s a thing!”
At that point, the Boyfriend poured himself another glass of wine. Apparently he was wishing for forgetfulness as much as I was fearing it.
Then, last Friday, hours before we were to leave to spend the holiday with my family, the doctor called.
“So, we ran a lot of tests and overall, things came back positive.” He started running through the list of good results:
- thyroid – fine
- testosterone levels – beast-like
- cholesterol – awesome
- blood counts – enviable
“But we did find something,” he said, and I felt my heart leap. I suddenly knew what he was going to say. I knew it with my whole being. It was one of those moments where you can hear the future speaking to you from a distance, so when it finally morphs into the present, you aren’t surprised by the words, “it’s leprosy.”
I steeled myself for this awful news. A feeling of nausea welled up my esophagus as I envisioned my perfectly shaped nose falling off Michael Jackson style.
And then the doctor said, “You have a Vitamin D deficiency. You can pick up supplements at any health food store.”
Son of a Mother! Life is so unfair!
To those of you that celebrate Christmas, don’t hurt your families.
If you’re like me, you’re now on day 3 or 4 of sitting around the house playing yet another game of Euchre or at a point where A Christmas Story on repeat is actually starting to get old.
And chances are, Santa ain’t going to be leaving the type of package under the tree that’s gonna help relieve all that stress. Granny couldn’t handle the shock and unfortunately, Santa gives based on the lowest common denominator in the house.
Which is why I never got my paint gun.
Mom thought I’d hurt someone.
I just wanted to decorate the basement.
So remember… Santa hurts artists, but you shouldn’t hurt your family.
Today, I’m writing to you from Detroit – and in honor of Detroit, please enjoy Nicklas Lidstrom, a former Detroit Red Wing and all around beefcake.
I have nothing quite this tasty to enjoy for the long holiday weekend. In fact, I’ll probably be enjoying the exact opposite, an afternoon at the mall with the goal of visiting Spencer’s Gifts.
The Boyfriend is insisting we do something fun while in Detroit and that’s the best we can come up with.
But never fear, always make the best of a bad situation, I say!
So I’ve changed me phone’s screensaver to rotate photos a little less PG than the one we have here… it’ll give me something to look at while the Boyfriend scopes glow in the dark posters, which I will promptly nix as appropriate wallwear for our apartment.
Unless of course we find a Channing Tatum poster with glow-in-the-dark nipples – it’s just sexy-odd enough to fit into my life.
Have a great Sunday and may you enjoy some of my reserve of Funday!
Today, everything I’m seeing in the world is reminding me how many wonderful, loving people are out there. Perfection for the holidays!
It was the most sincere display of appreciation that my five-year-old son has ever shown. He looked me straight in the eyes and said a very mature and worldly “thank you.” The words were full of honesty, relief, happiness and a little bit of anguish.
“You’re welcome, baby,” I said looking at him with a smile and masking the pain I was feeling. “You look so pretty.”
My gender creative son was thanking me for buying him a dress to wear to Christmas Eve dinner.
I told him no. Not because the outfit was made for girls and he is a boy, but because had I bought it then he would have wanted to wear it immediately and often and when…
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This came across my newsfeed from Joe.My.God:
Yesterday, as an older couple situated themselves poolside at the Island House in Key West, I overheard a young, muscular handsome boy say something quite disparaging regarding their arrival. Those ugly words had hardly left his lips when the apparent leader of his coterie of five equally beautiful men chastised him angrily, poking a finger in the subject’s chest: “Darling, if you are very, very lucky, you can only hope that one day, maybe, you and I and all of us will be around to enjoy a place like this when we are their age. Don’t throw shade, honey. See yourself in them.” The speaker’s friends nodded vigorously and first boy cast his eyes downward in embarrassment.
It raised my spirits on a dark and drizzly Mid-Western Thursday.
I’m what you might call a “late bloomer.”
As a child, I was insecure and focused on trying to fit in. I didn’t spend much time on developing talents or interests – which is a shame.
One of the things I wish I had spent time on was learning to draw and paint. I don’t claim to have a natural talent for it, but even without talen, I obviously would’ve become one of the modern masters of artisticry.
Now that I’m older, and have passed the age of introductory classes and free-time, I spend time doodling on my iPad, playing with paint programs. The image above is something I did a few months back.
I won’t quite my day job anytime soon, but there’s something incredibly relaxing about picking up digital drawing in my spare time. It feels like the right place for me to be.
I love social media as much as a Millennial. I love taking photos as much as the next Asian tourist. Where, oh where, could I got to combine these peanut butter and chocolate loves.
Wow, I think this may be the most unintentionally racist blog post ever. Chocolate love? Really? I’m ashamed (but not ashamed enough to hit the delete button).
But my combined love of social and photo found a home in the glorious Instagram, which was better than Facebook and Twitter, because it wasn’t drowned in all those pesky words.
But today, Instagram notified the world that our pictures are theirs and they can sell them without notification, attribution, or payment to the photographer.
Now many people have gone to Twitter and complained with the hashtag #boycottinstagram
But why waste the time? You know you’ll share your photos. Your friends will want to see what you’re up to and you want to see what they’re up to.
I can admit this to myself. So I took a deep breath and started using Instagram again at lunch.
Like my photo? (Or see it here: http://instagram.com/p/TY87-OyT-x/)
Update: Instagram has clarified their terms of service and it is not outside of regular acceptable standard: http://blog.instagram.com/post/38252135408/thank-you-and-were-listening
Picked up from the awesome Henchman-4-Hire.
Outer space? Sentient reptiles? Lesbians? That’s a lot for any inspector to have to handle. But I know us Whovians can handle this delightful mini-prequel starring Lady Vastra in preparation for the upcoming Doctor Who Christmas special.
I would add turn of the century London, one of my favorite time periods for Doctor Who, and befuddled inspectors. You know someone will end up sacrificing themselves to save London from the snow, but who will it be?
- Lady Vastra?
- Her partner?
- The inspector from Scotland Yard?
I’m so excited!
UPDATE: Holy Hell, how did I put the NPH video in here instead of Doctor Who? People, you need to tell me when this happens. You have a responsibility! Jeebus.