This weekend was once again spent with my therapist of the week, Leann. But things have mostly calmed down. The only therapy I now require might be medical related, either my foot or my brain...
Yes, I know that is quite a difference. You see, I badly sprained my ankle because I tripped over the dish washer. I will trip my way to my own funeral someday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
But the good news is we went to Wal-mart to begin or quest to grow our own strawberries! We are BERRY BUDDIES!
Our adventure was off to a slow start, with LeeLee carrying me through the isles, due to the annoyance of a horrible invention called "crutches". Then, to my elation, an employee said that I could use one of those carts for the disabled and eldery. That made all the difference right there. I was a real speed demon on those things; I could get my ride to go up to a foot per second when I went into overdrive! I laugh at myself; I always wanted to use that word in an everyday sentence. I just never thought it would be in this context. I think it is suffice to say that I have mad cripple cart driving skills!
And now, I feel ashamed. I spent the entire week listening to the song "Carrot Juice is Murder". Now, before the Arrogant Worms come to kill me in my sleep for my transgressions, I would like to add that I am a carnivore. I don't like vegetables either. And, I know that strawberries are in fact fruit. The only reason I say this is because we found the strawberries in the "vegetable" section at the store. So, the people who work there are to blame for this pointless side note.
Hasta la pasta!
Jello Time With Jen
Most churches I know of love to feed the kids their body weight in goldfish crackers. Another thing churches like are bake sale auctions for fundraisers. There are few things as oddly amusing as watching the entire congregation have heated bidding wars for brownies.
Anyway, the point is that watching church members bid for baked goods is fun, to say the least. Unless you go to my friend’s church, - then you get to see them battle for a jar of salsa.
Then I started thinking of how I could participate. There is always that one person who’s item attracts the most attention and bids. I think that I have potential to be that person. I don’t want to brag about myself but it is true.
Without supervision, my cooking is terrible.
(Just the other day, my dad demanded that I make a hot dog for him. I did. The next day, he claimed that I gave him food poisoning.)
So, my friend and I came to the conclusion that whatever I made would become an instant hit…because the taste is so unbelievable that you would have to try it for yourself.
Now, the next order of business was what to make. Then it hit us - Jello. It dates back to a day where we played with Jello molds. The first half of our cooking endeavors were spent cleaning up after my malfunctions. But we had a great time, so much so that we know look forward to cooking fails together. It has gone down in history as “Jello Time With Jen”. And if I had my own webshow, like all my friends think that we should do together, it would be aired as a special feature.
After reminiscing about it, a brilliant idea struck me. Instead of auctioning off just Jello, we could action off “Jello Time With Jen.” To think, people would bid over who got to have Jen in their kitchen to spend the day making Jello.
A second later however, the thought terrified me. One, I am ashamed that my ego is so big. Second, I have horrible luck with creepers. I was supposed to be hanging out with my friend as therapy from the guy who wanted me to date him…and come to his apartment…with the memory foam bed…to spend a “sleepover” supposedly watching movies. I hung my head in shame. A frightening mental image struck me, a room full of my stalkers and old men trying to buy “Jello Time With Jen”. It made me want to cry.
While I could auction off my Jello, “Jello Time With Jen” would not be avalible.
That lovely experience will be reserved for select individuals.
Anyway, the point is that watching church members bid for baked goods is fun, to say the least. Unless you go to my friend’s church, - then you get to see them battle for a jar of salsa.
Then I started thinking of how I could participate. There is always that one person who’s item attracts the most attention and bids. I think that I have potential to be that person. I don’t want to brag about myself but it is true.
Without supervision, my cooking is terrible.
(Just the other day, my dad demanded that I make a hot dog for him. I did. The next day, he claimed that I gave him food poisoning.)
So, my friend and I came to the conclusion that whatever I made would become an instant hit…because the taste is so unbelievable that you would have to try it for yourself.
Now, the next order of business was what to make. Then it hit us - Jello. It dates back to a day where we played with Jello molds. The first half of our cooking endeavors were spent cleaning up after my malfunctions. But we had a great time, so much so that we know look forward to cooking fails together. It has gone down in history as “Jello Time With Jen”. And if I had my own webshow, like all my friends think that we should do together, it would be aired as a special feature.
After reminiscing about it, a brilliant idea struck me. Instead of auctioning off just Jello, we could action off “Jello Time With Jen.” To think, people would bid over who got to have Jen in their kitchen to spend the day making Jello.
A second later however, the thought terrified me. One, I am ashamed that my ego is so big. Second, I have horrible luck with creepers. I was supposed to be hanging out with my friend as therapy from the guy who wanted me to date him…and come to his apartment…with the memory foam bed…to spend a “sleepover” supposedly watching movies. I hung my head in shame. A frightening mental image struck me, a room full of my stalkers and old men trying to buy “Jello Time With Jen”. It made me want to cry.
While I could auction off my Jello, “Jello Time With Jen” would not be avalible.
That lovely experience will be reserved for select individuals.
My Valentine's Day Contract - Just Sign Here
Exactly a year ago, I was posting cute little Valentine's Day pictures on this blog, guilt free too.
In the past, it was a day when I could just admit that I am truly a hopeless romantic at heart. It is even more evident when looking at the high percentage of SHOUJO manga on my shelf. At school, I would send singing telegrams, chocolate, and roses to myself. Of course, they were all addressed from my favorite bishounen of the year (last year it was from Tamaki and the rest of the Ouran High School host club).
But this year, there will be no chocolate, or roses, or even happiness. My inner hopeless romantic has left completely; she packed her bags in absolute misery and fled, leaving a river of tears behind.
The culprit: some weirdo, who had been following me around for a grand total of a mere TWO HOURS, decided that I should be his girlfriend. He has been texting me ever since. It has been a long six days.
I do not understand this. I am walking man repellent. But he is immune!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anyway, he went to public school. He feels the need to educate me about the dating customs of his brand of air-heads in their natural environment.
Contracts. It is true. Apparently dating teens can write contracts to date each other (and inevitably rip it up when they break up). Am I the only one who finds this slightly insane?
So, this is the feeling that Valentines Day left me with this year...it is a bit discouraging.
I am saddened that Valentine's Day isn't what it used to be. It doesn't help that this one sucks.
Moving on, I wrote this off the top of my head when I got home after being stuck with the guy who won't leave me alone.
The following is my contract (or the intro at least). I hope we can both reach some understanding.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*Since you are so adamant about me seeing your “cool” apartment, please note that I plan to come armed, at least, with an AK-47. You get nothing.
*Furthermore, I do not care about your memory foam bed, or the memory foam pillows on top of it. I know that I am a socially awkward person. I could be wrong, but talking about your “awesome” memory foam bed, right after insisting that I am going to see your apartment, is a tad bit sketchy. Isn’t there anything else in that “cool” place of yours? Like something that gives off minimal awkward vibes? Perhaps a refrigerator or a coffee maker. If nothing else, talk about the paint on the walls. I would much rather hear about that. Just don’t say that it is white and pure, like your so-called feelings for me. If you do, I will pour black paint on them as a notion of my feelings. It is only right after all to reciprocate the sentiment. I am saying this for your own good. Trust me, it is just safer for you if I don’t know where you sleep at night.
*I think I have made it blatantly obvious in the text messages that I enjoy sharp things, like knives and swords. Clearly, you are not the sharpest knife in the drawer. See the correlation?
In the past, it was a day when I could just admit that I am truly a hopeless romantic at heart. It is even more evident when looking at the high percentage of SHOUJO manga on my shelf. At school, I would send singing telegrams, chocolate, and roses to myself. Of course, they were all addressed from my favorite bishounen of the year (last year it was from Tamaki and the rest of the Ouran High School host club).
But this year, there will be no chocolate, or roses, or even happiness. My inner hopeless romantic has left completely; she packed her bags in absolute misery and fled, leaving a river of tears behind.
The culprit: some weirdo, who had been following me around for a grand total of a mere TWO HOURS, decided that I should be his girlfriend. He has been texting me ever since. It has been a long six days.
I do not understand this. I am walking man repellent. But he is immune!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anyway, he went to public school. He feels the need to educate me about the dating customs of his brand of air-heads in their natural environment.
Contracts. It is true. Apparently dating teens can write contracts to date each other (and inevitably rip it up when they break up). Am I the only one who finds this slightly insane?
So, this is the feeling that Valentines Day left me with this year...it is a bit discouraging.
I am saddened that Valentine's Day isn't what it used to be. It doesn't help that this one sucks.
Moving on, I wrote this off the top of my head when I got home after being stuck with the guy who won't leave me alone.
The following is my contract (or the intro at least). I hope we can both reach some understanding.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Chris the Creeper; the stranger who wants to date me...
*Since you are so adamant about me seeing your “cool” apartment, please note that I plan to come armed, at least, with an AK-47. You get nothing.
*Furthermore, I do not care about your memory foam bed, or the memory foam pillows on top of it. I know that I am a socially awkward person. I could be wrong, but talking about your “awesome” memory foam bed, right after insisting that I am going to see your apartment, is a tad bit sketchy. Isn’t there anything else in that “cool” place of yours? Like something that gives off minimal awkward vibes? Perhaps a refrigerator or a coffee maker. If nothing else, talk about the paint on the walls. I would much rather hear about that. Just don’t say that it is white and pure, like your so-called feelings for me. If you do, I will pour black paint on them as a notion of my feelings. It is only right after all to reciprocate the sentiment. I am saying this for your own good. Trust me, it is just safer for you if I don’t know where you sleep at night.
*I think I have made it blatantly obvious in the text messages that I enjoy sharp things, like knives and swords. Clearly, you are not the sharpest knife in the drawer. See the correlation?
*I don’t want your hugs. I don’t want your less than threes in text messages. You will never get either from me.
*Don’t call me “hun”, and don’t call me “babe”. Just, refrain from using terms of endearment in general. That would be a good rule to follow. I have plenty of names for you as well. They however convey a much different meaning. Believe me; you don’t want to know what I think. I will exercise self-control if you do, you *bleep*. Starting now.
*Evidently, you are still not getting it. I have no desire to hold your hand. I understand that hand-holding and hugging (particularly me for some reason) showers your soul with sunshine and cupcakes. But I don’t care. It makes me wanna throw up…on you preferably. I couldn’t care less if hugging and hand-holding and other such activities makes you excrete rainbows and butterflies! If you dare try to initiate such acts again, be warned that there will be an aura of malice around me, designed to make you deeply uncomfortable and run for the hills. To avoid all this drama in the first place, perhaps I should just give up and become a nun. Then it would be irrational, impossible, and against my religion!
*Here is another good reason why it is in your best interest not to date me: I will make your wallet bleed to death. Do you like money? You say you have money. Well, I have some news for you buddy; I don’t. You know who else likes money? People who make good steak. Since you are wanting to date me, there are a few things that you should know about me (especially since there is little you actually know as it is). I am a carnivore. And I really like steak. Better say “goodbye” to those Monster energy drinks that you like so much, because in addition to my steak, I expect strawberries and ice cream too. Every day. (To fill the cracks of my heart that are caused by your very presence).
*I don't care what other girls that you have dated told you. You are too observant for your own good. It fills me with dread that you would focus too long on me, for obvious reasons. You see, I do not know your intentions (and again, I doubt that they are entirely pure). Not understanding your mind means that I have no clue as to how long it takes you to mathematically calculate what it would look like without said clothes (I gagged a bit just typing this thought). If you can not force yourself keep your eyes focused on appropriate places, I will forcefully remove them.
*Don’t call me “hun”, and don’t call me “babe”. Just, refrain from using terms of endearment in general. That would be a good rule to follow. I have plenty of names for you as well. They however convey a much different meaning. Believe me; you don’t want to know what I think. I will exercise self-control if you do, you *bleep*. Starting now.
*Evidently, you are still not getting it. I have no desire to hold your hand. I understand that hand-holding and hugging (particularly me for some reason) showers your soul with sunshine and cupcakes. But I don’t care. It makes me wanna throw up…on you preferably. I couldn’t care less if hugging and hand-holding and other such activities makes you excrete rainbows and butterflies! If you dare try to initiate such acts again, be warned that there will be an aura of malice around me, designed to make you deeply uncomfortable and run for the hills. To avoid all this drama in the first place, perhaps I should just give up and become a nun. Then it would be irrational, impossible, and against my religion!
*Here is another good reason why it is in your best interest not to date me: I will make your wallet bleed to death. Do you like money? You say you have money. Well, I have some news for you buddy; I don’t. You know who else likes money? People who make good steak. Since you are wanting to date me, there are a few things that you should know about me (especially since there is little you actually know as it is). I am a carnivore. And I really like steak. Better say “goodbye” to those Monster energy drinks that you like so much, because in addition to my steak, I expect strawberries and ice cream too. Every day. (To fill the cracks of my heart that are caused by your very presence).
*I don't care what other girls that you have dated told you. You are too observant for your own good. It fills me with dread that you would focus too long on me, for obvious reasons. You see, I do not know your intentions (and again, I doubt that they are entirely pure). Not understanding your mind means that I have no clue as to how long it takes you to mathematically calculate what it would look like without said clothes (I gagged a bit just typing this thought). If you can not force yourself keep your eyes focused on appropriate places, I will forcefully remove them.
*To put this in shorter, simpler words, so that you can understand, I have no desire to date you; get lost.
And Happy Anti-Valentines Day.
And Happy Anti-Valentines Day.
Until then...
Picture of the Day
Sorry everyone. I completely forgot the official Valentine's Day picture for 2011. It isn't nearly as cute as last year. (That and I didn't have anything remotely fun to write about.)
My apologies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Apple Does Not Fall Far from the Tree
Father: "So, what movie did you watch at Black-kun's?"
Me:"Kung-Fu Panda!"
Father:"Man, that sounds really dorky."
This conversation happened a week ago. Dear audience, I know that you are thinking the exact same thing as my dad. "You are a dork". And yes, this is true. Anyone who has read my writing here can verify it.
But in my defense, it runs in the family. All of it. The nerd moments. The love for food. All of it.
All of these conversations with my father have happened the past week.
While forcing him to sit through "Despicable Me":
Father: I still can't figure it out. What are those dumb looking things?
Me: Dad, it is almost the end of the movie. They are minions. If they were real, I would adopt one for myself.
Father: *scoff* "Minions"?! How stupid can you get? They look like Twinkies....makes me hungry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today, my mom and I attended my friend's funeral. My dad, who never really met the woman, tagged along.
I have a theory that he let us go to the reception just so he could eat food (sorry, but if you knew him, you wouldn't put it past him either).
Father: Jennifer, make yourself useful. Go grab me a cookie.
Me: No, I have to say goodbye to Lindsey and her family. Get your own.
Father: Marcia, stop talking to people and go get me a cookie.
Then he left, annoyed, to get back to the car.
Father: Where is my cookie?
Mom: You left. I started eating it out of spite.
Me: You actually did something out of spite?! That isn't like you at all.
Father: Whatever. Jennifer! Run back inside and get your dad a cookie.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It really does run in the family.
After the funeral, we dropped by the park. There was a party for my cousin's daughter's 5th birthday.
And a discussion about the Wii, Wii Sports, and Just Dance 2.
I have tried to get my dad to play with me before. He won't hear me out. My aunt and cousin did a better job of convincing him than I ever could.
Aunt: Just Dance2 is really amusing for old farts like us.
Anthony: The boxing one on Wii Sports is my favorite, man.
Father: They really have stuff like that? Jennifer, is he being serious? Can you really do all of that?
(True enough. When I am "old fart", I will force my young relatives to let me play the newest video game things that come out. They will be no match for my skills.)
On the Topic of No Topics 4
Is this the fourth one? I am going to assume that it is. So, I shall continue my post about Much Ado About Nothing. But NOT the play by Shakespeare. Just...no.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My friend, Lindsey, is filming another one of her movies. She writes her own series of epicness. On Monday, we finally get to work on the third one. (I missed out on the second because of school).
My role, you ask? Myself. Look down at the cast script. Jenny is played by Jenny. Lindsey came up with characters for everyone, except me. She wanted to have a spastic, clumsy, spontaneous, clueless, happy, ect, character…essentially comic relief. And since her basis for this out-of-touch-with-reality character was actually me, who better was there to play the role?
I do all my own stunts. There is an infamous one in the first movie. In the script, there was something about me falling of a treadmill, while singing. Sad thing was, it came naturally. When the camera started rolling, I started belting out some random song. And I did not just act like I was falling off the moving treadmill. I accidentally fell off of it, yet because it was written into the script, it worked. Perfectly.
There was another scene in which I had to fall down a hill. Aced that one as well. (I even did so a second time…that wasn’t written into the script).
I hope my acting skills have improved marginally, considering that I am playing myself. That way Lindsey won't have to run around in a Hannah Montana wig, pretending to be me. First, it is a frightening scene. Second, not to brag, but I think I have more experience and expertise in the matter. Over 19 years worth of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know you are a nerdy only child when you play animal crossing incessantly. The thing is, I am oddly addicted to creating anime themed rooms (otherwise I get rather bored with the game). It began when I found an anatomical model, washed up on the ocean shore. I was instantly reminded of Hiroshi (this is all a Wallflower reference, by the way) and proceeded to build an entire collection of creepy things that remind me of Sunako Nakahara. I call it my emo corner. But I am not emo. And it isn’t a corner. It is, in fact, a whole room. It makes me smile.
Awesome right? Well, I have another awesome room. It is pretty much an Ouran High School Host Club room. Alas, it is missing two key things that the game designers regrettably left out. The first, and most important, would be the hosts themselves. Bishonen! How glorious it would be to have all of them there! Thus, the second would obviously be the presence of floating rose petals everywhere they go. But there is no Tamaki (or Hikaru, or Kaoru, or Kyoya, or Mori, or even Hunny-senpai) and therefore no floating rose petals. With that in mind, I think it is still money worth spent. So, yes, I admit to playing that game for hours each day, just to create my anime themed rooms. If there is nothing cool to buy…I call it a day. So, I suppose I am that creeper neighbor who buys miscellaneous crap and otherwise never leaves the house, to marvel at said crap.
I have the DS version, so it isn’t as fun as the one I used to play with my cousins in Iowa. We found the game amusing for the sole purpose of tormenting the neighbors. First, it is important to note that these cousins of mine are FMA fans, like me. We love Al. How could you not? But there was a character in their Animal Crossing game named “Alphonso”. Somehow that single “o” attached to the end of his name, gave him an air of…being lame. Hence, he was the primary victim of our fun. We laughed at his name while hitting his big head with a net and pushed him into holes. How we loved to watch him squirm.
I hate these games. I really do. The moral of this story: play Trauma Team; preserve your dignity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is an interesting discover I made while I was away.
Jen > Oatmeal
Jen < Ice Cream
My question of the day: What does it mean when your friends determine your value according to their love for food?
With this logic:
Dora > Steak
Leann > Hot Chocolate
Black-kun > Strawberries (on her good days)
Mon Amore > Flaming Hot Cheetos
Hari > Ice Cream
Maybe I exaggerate (and I will let the reader decide in which way).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I like getting to know which of my friends are in touch with their inner children. On the way to Phoenix with Leann and Katie, we determined that Katie is one of those people who prefers not to interact with them. She keeps her inner child on a tight leash. A very tight leash. And that is only when she lets her inner child out of the depths of the small dungeon she is in. Not that there is anything wrong with this. Hari is the same way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of Leann and Katie, I had a weird dream while spending the night at their house. Before going to bed at some obscene hour in the morning (6 or 7 ish I believe), Leann and I were engaged in some deep conversation. But it inevitably lead to talking about Disney movies. Ariel is my least favorite. So, falling asleep, I had The Little Mermaid on my brain.
I dreamed that I was a mermaid. Katie and Leann had to drive me back to the ocean for some reason. Next thing you know, I am on that pirate boat from Peter Pan. It is sinking; everyone is screaming. As if I thought it would help, I tried to get higher up on the ship and grabbed onto Captain Hook’s hook. Then it hit me, if you were a mermaid, you would never drown. I was invincible!
At this realization, I awoke to their hyper chihuahua stepping on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next time I talked to Leann at a sleepover, we had deep conversations and not so deep conversations.
“Ways to Drown a Mermaid” fell into the latter category. We concluded that swimming pools would not work, water is water. Therefore, sticking one in a swimming pool of Cool-Aid would only get them high. Cool-Aid is like pucca for mermaids.
And while we thought that closing their gills, another problem arose. Mermaids do not have gills. Well, not to my knowledge. Do they? I had a friend who claimed to be a mermaid. She didn't have gills...
Wow Jen. Way to go, asking the most important questions! “Do mermaid’s have gills?”
“Who’s trashcan is that?” (I applaud all who recognize that last one)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My friend, Lindsey, is filming another one of her movies. She writes her own series of epicness. On Monday, we finally get to work on the third one. (I missed out on the second because of school).
My role, you ask? Myself. Look down at the cast script. Jenny is played by Jenny. Lindsey came up with characters for everyone, except me. She wanted to have a spastic, clumsy, spontaneous, clueless, happy, ect, character…essentially comic relief. And since her basis for this out-of-touch-with-reality character was actually me, who better was there to play the role?
I do all my own stunts. There is an infamous one in the first movie. In the script, there was something about me falling of a treadmill, while singing. Sad thing was, it came naturally. When the camera started rolling, I started belting out some random song. And I did not just act like I was falling off the moving treadmill. I accidentally fell off of it, yet because it was written into the script, it worked. Perfectly.
There was another scene in which I had to fall down a hill. Aced that one as well. (I even did so a second time…that wasn’t written into the script).
I hope my acting skills have improved marginally, considering that I am playing myself. That way Lindsey won't have to run around in a Hannah Montana wig, pretending to be me. First, it is a frightening scene. Second, not to brag, but I think I have more experience and expertise in the matter. Over 19 years worth of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You know you are a nerdy only child when you play animal crossing incessantly. The thing is, I am oddly addicted to creating anime themed rooms (otherwise I get rather bored with the game). It began when I found an anatomical model, washed up on the ocean shore. I was instantly reminded of Hiroshi (this is all a Wallflower reference, by the way) and proceeded to build an entire collection of creepy things that remind me of Sunako Nakahara. I call it my emo corner. But I am not emo. And it isn’t a corner. It is, in fact, a whole room. It makes me smile.
Awesome right? Well, I have another awesome room. It is pretty much an Ouran High School Host Club room. Alas, it is missing two key things that the game designers regrettably left out. The first, and most important, would be the hosts themselves. Bishonen! How glorious it would be to have all of them there! Thus, the second would obviously be the presence of floating rose petals everywhere they go. But there is no Tamaki (or Hikaru, or Kaoru, or Kyoya, or Mori, or even Hunny-senpai) and therefore no floating rose petals. With that in mind, I think it is still money worth spent. So, yes, I admit to playing that game for hours each day, just to create my anime themed rooms. If there is nothing cool to buy…I call it a day. So, I suppose I am that creeper neighbor who buys miscellaneous crap and otherwise never leaves the house, to marvel at said crap.
I have the DS version, so it isn’t as fun as the one I used to play with my cousins in Iowa. We found the game amusing for the sole purpose of tormenting the neighbors. First, it is important to note that these cousins of mine are FMA fans, like me. We love Al. How could you not? But there was a character in their Animal Crossing game named “Alphonso”. Somehow that single “o” attached to the end of his name, gave him an air of…being lame. Hence, he was the primary victim of our fun. We laughed at his name while hitting his big head with a net and pushed him into holes. How we loved to watch him squirm.
I hate these games. I really do. The moral of this story: play Trauma Team; preserve your dignity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here is an interesting discover I made while I was away.
Jen > Oatmeal
Jen < Ice Cream
My question of the day: What does it mean when your friends determine your value according to their love for food?
With this logic:
Dora > Steak
Leann > Hot Chocolate
Black-kun > Strawberries (on her good days)
Mon Amore > Flaming Hot Cheetos
Hari > Ice Cream
Maybe I exaggerate (and I will let the reader decide in which way).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I like getting to know which of my friends are in touch with their inner children. On the way to Phoenix with Leann and Katie, we determined that Katie is one of those people who prefers not to interact with them. She keeps her inner child on a tight leash. A very tight leash. And that is only when she lets her inner child out of the depths of the small dungeon she is in. Not that there is anything wrong with this. Hari is the same way.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of Leann and Katie, I had a weird dream while spending the night at their house. Before going to bed at some obscene hour in the morning (6 or 7 ish I believe), Leann and I were engaged in some deep conversation. But it inevitably lead to talking about Disney movies. Ariel is my least favorite. So, falling asleep, I had The Little Mermaid on my brain.
I dreamed that I was a mermaid. Katie and Leann had to drive me back to the ocean for some reason. Next thing you know, I am on that pirate boat from Peter Pan. It is sinking; everyone is screaming. As if I thought it would help, I tried to get higher up on the ship and grabbed onto Captain Hook’s hook. Then it hit me, if you were a mermaid, you would never drown. I was invincible!
At this realization, I awoke to their hyper chihuahua stepping on my face.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next time I talked to Leann at a sleepover, we had deep conversations and not so deep conversations.
“Ways to Drown a Mermaid” fell into the latter category. We concluded that swimming pools would not work, water is water. Therefore, sticking one in a swimming pool of Cool-Aid would only get them high. Cool-Aid is like pucca for mermaids.
And while we thought that closing their gills, another problem arose. Mermaids do not have gills. Well, not to my knowledge. Do they? I had a friend who claimed to be a mermaid. She didn't have gills...
Wow Jen. Way to go, asking the most important questions! “Do mermaid’s have gills?”
“Who’s trashcan is that?” (I applaud all who recognize that last one)
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