Friday, October 28, 2011

My friend is trying to kill me.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am completely awesome at injuring myself. I am a complete and total walking disaster. Let me sketch you a quick background:

People who know me well lovingly remember me as the girl who once knocked herself out cold while skiing. (See what I did there? Skiing? Out cold?  Arngh, forget it. *shame*)  No lie, though. When I finally regained consciousness, there was a crowd of people surrounding me and the paramedics had already cut off my ski pants.  Cut. Off. My. Pants. It wasn't embarrassing at all. Luckily for me, I wasn't really injured. And luckily for everyone involved, I was wearing jeans under the ski pants. 

I have a true talent for falling down and bumping my head. I gather scrapes and bruises like it's my job. So my friends shouldn't have been too surprised when I damn near sliced my foot off.

Let me back up.  I live in Florida.  Did I tell you that?  Well anyway, usually it's around Octobertime when we say goodbye to the beach to face the cruel, harsh Florida winter that lies ahead. Last weekend, my friend Stef and I decided to visit the beach for one last tanning session of the season.  Okay, SHE went to get a tan.  On the other hand, *I* just come along for the ride because if I were one shade paler, I would be transparent and I have abandoned all hope that I will ever have a decent tan.

Getting a late start on the day *cough* because Stef is incessantly late *cough*, we decided that we didn't have time to drive all the way to the white, sandy, utopia beach we had planned to visit:

Instead, we went to a closer beach that is twice as beautiful.

Did I say twice as beautiful?  Because what I meant was "twice as disgusting as a sewage treatment plant".

The universe tried to tell me this was a bad idea.  The broken bottles in the parking lot should have been my first clue. After we parked we noticed that the sky had instantly changed from a brilliant blue to a "get the hell out of here" gray.  This, my stranger friends, is what we call foreshadowing.

Then as we unloaded the car, we found that our drinks had spilled all over the back seat, creating a slushy mess.  Mayday.  Litter was everywhere. With an environment like this, we thought, surely the water is crystal clear and free from debris.*

* denotes sarcasm

Despite the beach's junky appearance, Stef and I remained undeterred. We set up camp and I got my "tan" on. After a while, I ventured into the water to pee cool off. No sooner had I called out to Stef to join me than I stepped on the biggest, sharpest, MEANEST fucking barnacle ever to set barnacle in Tampa Bay. I screeched like a banshee. I did a hoppy dance. I shouted obscenities with no regard for the children nearby. Out of the 300 people in the water, *I* was the one person to get injured. Of course I was.

As I hippity-hopped back to shore, Stef glared at me with disdain. This conversation followed:

Stef:  Oh, stop whining. It's probably not that bad.

I look like a Civil War amputee. Pre-amputation.

Me: (*death glare*) Yeah, I'll just rub some dirt in it. (grabs towel to soak up blood)

Stef:  You don't need stitches.

Me: (pretty sure Stef is trying to kill me with gangrene) Sure I don't, Doctor Stef. I have shells and seaweed INSIDE my foot. I might die. Here, hold this. (tosses bloody towel to Stef)

Stef: Eeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!!!!! Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew!

Me: Sorry. It's just a little blood. I can't stop bleeding. I'm going to bleed out on the ghetto beach.

Stef:  It's okay.  Here, lemme help you. (pours fucking antibacterial hand sanitizer into my sliced off foot)


Nearby children and parents: *shock and disbelief*

I don't know if you've ever had someone pour straight alcohol onto one of YOUR foot, but I don't advise it. It feels like someone is trying to saw off your foot with a rusty butter knife circa 1863. And then they spit into your open wound for good measure.  And then they set it on fire.  And then they insult your mother.

When I got home and my foot had finally stopped dumping the contents of my body on the the beach, my foot looked like this.

Despite the very real possibility of succumbing to gangrene or tetanus, I decided to forego the stitches on account of the hefty price tag. $300 for stitches?  pssshaww!  I can heal myself for free. I'm not cheap; I just prefer to spend my money on more important things, like vodka and Extra Sugarfree Gum.

In the end, though, my body healed the shit out of my heel.  I WIN THIS BATTLE, GANGRENE!!!! But my rockstar recovery begs the question: how will Stef try to kill me next?

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Fuck Abraham Lincoln.

Who was it that said, "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt"?  It was Abraham Lincoln, right?  Yeah, fuck that guy.  He died in 1865 when talking was frowned upon apparently, and therefore his advice is completely irrelevant in today's world. Where would we be if we listened to Lincoln (who, by the way, SPOKE OUT to give us that advice, the hypocritical jackass)? We'd be in a world full of frustrated mimes, that's where.

Abraham Lincoln gives Ford's Theater 2 stars. If I got shot and killed somewhere, I might go ahead and opt for the one star, but hey - maybe I'm being overly critical. This is supposed to be a caption, but I haven't figured out how to insert captions yet, so deal with it.

Anyway, my new philosophy goes something like this: I have an insatiable urge to stay stupid things, so I'm gonna indulge myself.  I have my reasons.  I say stupid shit all the time unintentionally, but I try to limit the unintentional stupidity to strangers if possible. My real-life pals get all judgey when I tell dead baby jokes. And my work colleagues get all judgey when I use words like "judgey."  That's where you, my stranger friends, come in. I can offend you until the Cubs win the World Series (which, in case you aren't a sports nut, will happen forever from now) and I'll probably never even know you hate me. Unless you send me hate mail.  Then I'll know, and I'll probably deserve it.  But it'll be just fine, because I will be super excited to get any mail associated with this blog and I will probably invite you to be my best friend despite your death threats.

It should be evident by now that I have no fucking clue how to write a blog, but my therapist friends said a blog would be an excellent creative outlet for me, so here goes. I can't guarantee this will be entertaining to anyone but me. I can't promise that I'll even learn how to add pictures or proper captions to my posts. But what I CAN promise is this: I will be my jackass self . I'll give you a heaping helping of gratuitous profanity. I'll provide you with liberal doses of obnoxious insight and sprinkle in healthy portions of self deprecation. I will teach you things. I'm lying; I'll teach you nothing. You'll probably be dumber just for reading this. In fact, you'll lose 10 IQ points just for finishing this post.  Let's spiral into mental retardation together, shall we?

On a wildly unrelated note, I have already learned something from writing this post. I smugly thought I was a stellar speller, which I'm quickly realizing isn't true at all.  Apparently I am incapable of spelling "deprecation" and "obsolete."  Aye caramba.

What next? Oh! I should probably tell you a smidge about myself.

1.  I hate onions.
2.  I really like chocolate.
3.  I'm pretty hungry right now.
4.  I totally judge people who don't acknowledge the difference between "you're" and "your".
5.  I am borderline brain dead where technology is concerned.
6.  I am painfully clumsy.  (Both figuratively and literally.)
7.  Boom-shaka-laka.
8.  I am a lawyer.  Yeah, I'm surprised too.
9.  I have guilty pleasures. Wanna hear some? Of course you do. I like Nsync, the smell of rubber, an old Nickelodeon show called Salute Your Shorts, and swizzle straws in my vodka drinks.  Also, I was a Girl Scout until I was 18, and I'm a whore for the holiday season and decorations and the Christmas spirit.
10. I have two orange cats named Pumpkin and Tang and I will most certainly blog about them immediately, if not sooner.

So there you have it.  Now that we're acquainted, I hope you'll stop in from time to time to make sure I haven't fallen down a manhole or something.  Because I would totally do that.  No, really.

PS:  Yes, I know Mark Twain is known for the whole "Remain silent" quote too, so fuck him too.  But fuck Lincoln more.

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