All About The Pennies, One-Click Shopping Is Just Evil, I Think I Might Be A Tad Odd, And Other Marginally Meaningless Mumblings

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So I have this bizarre goal now.  I have gotten it into my strange little brain that I simply have to find out exactly how much my big ol’ Crayon bank holds…in pennies.  See, I got to thinking about how, a long time ago, someone told me that a Jack Daniels bottle, when completely filled with pennies, holds approximately $25.  So I started to wonder, if a J.D. bottle holds that much, how much does a big Crayon bank hold?  So I started collecting pennies to fill my bank.  I quickly realized that this could be a far lengthier process than I had initially foreseen.  I have become a tad bit desperate in my quest for pennies–begging folks for their unwanted pennies and hounding innocent bystanders every chance I get.  I fear I still may be decades before I even get close.  But I’m not giving up, darn it!  I will discover how many pennies it takes to fill up this damn bank if it kills me!  Unless, of course, I die of old age before I get it filled up.

I’ve decided Satan invented one-click shopping and now sits back and laughs at all us poor, defenseless book addicts as we click away.  I swear I find myself saying, “Oooh, it’s only $.99!” often enough to make my bank account cringe.  I try to have willpower!  Truly I do!  It’s just that…well…it’s books!  I devour books the way a fat kid devours birthday cake!  I totally resist the urge to buy all the other stuff I dig on Amazon and such–I didn’t even give into the urge to buy the hilariously snarky socks or zombie Yahtzee!  But books are another matter entirely.  They’re like my crack or something.  And evil old Amazon one-click shopping is my detestable dealer.  I wonder if I should contact the Intervention folks about this.

I don’t go out drinking or bar hopping or any of that.  I thoroughly enjoy watching documentaries about all sorts of things.  I adore all things zombie.  I read staggering amounts of books of all kinds (a non-fiction book about a holocaust survivor followed by a zombie book then a nice apocalyptic novel and a non-fiction book about the 1900 Galveston hurricane).  I spend most of my time alone, chilling with my cat and watching stuff on the DVR.  I am completely freaked out by leeches and maggots and lice and such, but find autopsies and all that absolutely fascinating.  I own gobs of ridiculously goofy things that I obtained simply because they make me smile, regardless of how silly they seem to others.  My biggest fan is a 7 year old little girl and that’s awesome.  So, overall, I think I’m a teensy bit odd.  But I’m cool with that.

Randomosity:  What is it about maggots that instantly makes me behave like a hysterical school girl?  As soon as I see those nasty little buggers, I’m all flailing and shuddering and spazing out.  It’s like bats–All logic just vanishes, leaving behind nothing but that shrieky panic voice freaking out in your head.  Like, logically, you can be all like, “Maggots can be a good thing and are even used by medical professionals to remove dead tissue and aid in healing.”  Or, “Bats are no more likely to carry rabies than any other animal and they don’t purposefully attack your head and attempt to snare your hair and they are actually quite helpful and eat all sorts of nasty insects.”  But the second you’re faced with the vile beasties, that logic dis-a-frickin-pears–evicted by the illogical, screeching voice of pure, unadulterated panic.  And there you are, a wailing, hollering, whimpering, flailing pile of spaz.  Puzzling shit, that.  I bet it would be neat to have a pet pygmy slow loris.  You could totally take him with you everywhere!

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I think I’d name him something like Barnaby Alowishus or something like that.  Seriously, how fricking adorable are these things???  So they have a little problem with a tiny toxin issue, so what?  They are just too darn cute!

Hasta manana, Piranha!

Golf Sucks And Way Too Many Vaginas And Further Nonsensical Irrelevances

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So I agreed to be the designated driver for my buddy Justin and two of his friends a couple weeks ago.  First off, we went…wait for it…golfing…yay!  In case you weren’t sure, that was sarcasm folks.  Golfing is not my thing.  I went golfing once before, and it was NOT a delightful experience–I couldn’t hit the stupid little ball to save my life so the guys confiscated my club thingy and made me just ride in the stupid golf cart and watch them golf which is about as thrilling as watching water boil and then Justin tried to kill me by going all Duke-boy wannabe in the golf cart which threw me right out of the stupid cart and my poor leg ended up swelling up like some demented balloon!  With that experience still painfully fresh in my mind (even after more than a decade), I was not thrilled to be returning to a golf course with Justin.  Unfortunately, I agreed to D.D. duty before I found out there would be golfing involved.  And then , the night before this whole drunk-sitting adventure, Justin informs me that this stupid golf course has a fricking DRESS CODE for crap’s sake!  A dress code!!  To go hit a stupid little ball with a crooked stick and then walk after it/drive after it!  And I wasn’t even going to be doing any of that–I was just chilling in the cart with my book and working on my tan and threatening Justin’s life whenever he made a joke about doing a repeat of the whole Duke-boy wannabe moment.  And there’s a dress code?!?!  WTH?!?!?  But I survived it…even though it was hot and there were bugs and the golf cart wasn’t very comfy.  And I really had no problems taking them to some random little bars, especially when I got to chow on some breaded cauliflower, which is one of my fave yums ever!  I was even okay taking them to the stupid strip club…mostly.  I would have been totally kosher to sit there and read my book while the guys ogled the strippers (and yes, I was literally reading a book on my kindle while sitting in the strip club–why not?)  Except…well…vaginas…and Justin.  See, first of all, Justin was wasted even before we got to the strip club and he was getting to be a tad bit…how can I say this nicely …ANNOYING AS HELL.  He was all stumbly and repetitive and whiny and such.  He kept repeating things over and over and over and over and over again.  And then there were the vaginas.  I’m not sure if I ever knew that the strip club we went to was a full nudity sort of place, but I had forgotten about it if I ever did.  There I was, minding my own business, reading away, when I happened to glance over at Justin.  I started giggling over the googly-eyed look on his face as he looked up at the chic…and then I made the mistake of glancing at the dancer.  I’m fairly certain I actually squeaked out some bizarre sort of sound as I realized that her vagina was, like, right there!  She was shaking her vagina at the guys around the stage!  So, whenever she was all sliding up and down the pole, her vagina was all over it!  EEEEEEWWWWW!  However, it does explain why there was a big jug of rubbing alcohol/sanitizer looking stuff next to the stage that they used on the pole before they went climbing and sliding on it and such.  EEWW again.  And it wasn’t just her…oh no.  Seemed like every time I looked up to check on my drunken charge, BAM!  Another vagina all on display and such.  Got to the point where I was trying to recognize Justin by his shoes, so I wouldn’t have to look up and see any more vaginas when I was checking to make sure he hadn’t fallen over or anything.  I kept having this picture flashing through my head of my big, doofy friend stumbling around and then tripping and falling on one of the strippers.  And what is up with the shoes those girls wear?  Holy crap, I would break my neck just trying to stand up on those things!  And one girl was wearing this string thing that looked an awful lot like a mankini except way skimpier–I suppose it may have seemed sexy to the guys watching her, but all I could think is how god-awful uncomfortable it looked.  Could you imagine trying to dance around with some freakishly high high heels and some ludicrous thong thing all up in your booty-crack??  Does not sound like a great time to me at all.  And why on earth would men want to be slapped across the face with some strange woman’s sweaty boobies?  Just ick, y’all.  But I digress.  Anyhow, lucky for me, my dear old pal Stacey loves me so much that she came out to keep me company and to keep me from throttling Justin, so I totally survived the designated driver experience.  And so did Justin.  Next time, I’m charging him double.

Randomosity:

I hate sidewalk sales, especially when I’m working rather than shopping.  Is it strange that seeing the repair fellas working on our toilet in the parking lot at work made me have a flashback to another toilet incident?  It made me think about the time the repair guys had to pull Stacey’s toilet out and they had it in the yard, trying to figure out the problem, and I had to call her and tell her that her toilet was in the yard–actually quite an amusing incident, that.  Never knew how much stuff a kid could shove down a toilet until that day…even the repair guys were impressed at Jagger’s ability to cram all sorts of toys in such a small space.  I really adore my new pink shoes…they are totally snazzy and cute and such.  Jenny Lawson’s new book comes out in a few weeks–I cannot wait to read it!  That woman is fricking hilarious.  Damn it spellcheck, fricking is totally a word!

Gotta scoot, newt!