I told this really horrible joke to the resident (who, it being July and he was just transferred in from school, only looked 14), about all the cool kids with astrocytoma always picking on me, and I thought he pissed himself. I thought it was fairly clever myself. My mom didn’t. Se was a little busy channeling the inner Sarah Burnhardt over there.
BTW, radiation’s probably gonna be in the works. There’s a good clinic up in Philly we’re gonna drive up and see (already have an appt), to get another opinion on what kind of radiation to get, but it seemed like all in all, most of the people we saw and my general team of doctors are in favor of me doing something about this sooner rather than later. Especially while I’m under that golden 25, and my brain’s not done growing.
I really like this doctor, first off. He really advocated me getting other opinions, and not just hearing what he had to say about his specialty. I respected his opinions on everything a lot, but he also really seemed to understand that I’ve been dealing with this BS for 14 years now, and even if I have to deal with it for a lot longer, I’d appreciate it if that waiting game wasn’t Manhunt.
So, I have this new fascination with the card game Cards Against Humanity. If you haven’t heard about it or know it’s general rules, think about playing Apples to Apples but with horribly filthy cards. So…the first game I played when my own deck came in the mail was with my new roommate, Amy, and my mom, and Kathleen. The black card read ‘What’s keeping you awake at night?’
My white card- my first white card I played- was ‘a brain tumor.’ I laughed until I snorted. It was really unattractive.
Speaking of unattractive, I went out with Kathleen and her son Branden around town today (because now that my surgery date is in T-3 days I am the hip new thing to do!) and we were driving to Toys ‘R Us, and Branden needed a tissue. While this was going on, Kathleen was yelling at him that she needed to give her back some money for something he didn’t spend. So when she reached her hand back to supposedly obtain some mythical money (which she was on some serious narcs for expecting), Branden snotted all over her hand. I really almost pissed myself.
And appparently Branden is a grown-ass twenty-something who maintains a membership card to Toys ‘R Us, which I don’t find surprising at all, but ass a general fact I find very funny.
And then he made fun of my boobs a great deal. He told the boy in Rita’s to quit fucking staring at them.
So tragic………so funny
So, one of Kathleen’s brothers, who also happens to be my good friend’s dad and I’ve known for a very long time, is what should really be known as a redneck handyman.
Redneck handyman. Just think about what this entails.
Exhibit A: The Door. Kathleen’s brother is a construction worker, and this was a temporary door made at one of the building sites. If you look closely, although this may not be easily seen, that door is in fact made out of poster board. Meaning, science-fair poster board. As well, the hinges are constructed of painter’s tape, and it is clearly marked ,”DOOR”. Something is not right here. Nope.
Exhibit B: The House. Kathleen and Shawn’s mother, Eileen, had a rat problem. This is natural. His response is not natural. Although I do not have a picture of one instance, he did on one occasion prop the rake up into the hole and balance a rat trap and rat poison on top of the rake, which was the hole where the rats were getting in. Well, then they just had a dead rat problem. See, nobody considers this factor. However, pictured is his second contraption in which he broke a soda bottle, sprinkled rat poison on it, shoved it all in the hole, yes, and waited for the rats. You make your own judgments.
Exhibit C: The Windshield Wiper. Shawn’s sister-in-law’s windshield wipers are bent, and so they’re sort of squeaking, and until they can afford to fix them, Shawn puts a sock over the blade so it does not scratch the windshield.
Oka, so this really doesn’t have to do with anybody else’s blog- it’s just about blog traffic and all that-
But does anybody ever check the search terms used and- it’s definitely REALLLY OBVIOUS that whatever they were searching for is definitely not on whatever they found? Just because I found over the last month two people Googling “Clothing optional housing” and found my blog, and today “housing authority january 31 2014” and found me again.
I guess whatever gets the job done.
For the first time in a few weeks, I’ve finally had time to go work with my old roommate, Kathleen, at her cooking classes at our art center. So, we got out of class later, like 5, and we’re in this gas station parking lot buying cigarettes. Notice now that although she is the one with a job I am the only one who can afford a smoking habit. Has to do with gas, I suppose. So this dog comes down the street with some dude one a leash (the dog’s on the leash) and Kathleen starts flipping her shit that this dog look EXACTLY like her old dog, Synadai. So naturally, she actually starts CALLING for the damn dog. We stood there in the effing cold for ten minutes calling for a dog she knows is not hers that died about six years ago.
Needless to say, I didn’t even stop for ice cream after that. We just went home.
Has anyone ever knitted a whole bunch of really long projects, then just ended up with tiny balls (hehe) in weird colors you don’t know what to do with??? Okay, right, so for argument’s sake let’s say this is not an uncommon occurrence.
I had leftovers from a sweater I made a week ago, so I was all like, ‘I have enough to make a scarf, too. That’s a good use of my time. It’ll look so cool.” Not really the case. I finished it last night, and it looks like the weirdest hipster mess in the world, and suddenly my dad comes in asking if he can have it. My 60-something, Tommy Bahama pops. And I think moreover, the thing that bothers me the most is it’s one of those wrap scarves, and he keeps wearing it wrong just to piss me off.
This is my family. Dear God, give me strength…….
So- funny story, kiddies,
I was checking out my Stats button on my own blog, and I’m genuinely convinced someone Googled a porno and found an article on my blog instead. Just happenstance. But Oh my God, I saw it and I died for just a minute.
Things to make your day brighter. Always remember, you could be me, housing porn addicts.
Have a nice day!
Okay, so I may have done something somewhat awful. I’m a bit upset with my Creative Writing teacher for bitching about me not having any more romantic feelings towards any more students in his class, so the day some administrator came in to audit the class, I decided to totally fuck with him.
See, it started with this guy Anthony. That’s the guy who said I was pretty. Well, our assignment in class that day was we were all staring at fruit and supposed to write poems about them. Actually, we were just throwing them at each other. So, anyway, Anthony left the classroom to use the bathroom or something, and I realized he had only finished half the assignment (12 total lines).
I finished the end of his poem with DEATH DESTRUCTION PATRICIDE SERENA MY QUEEN SERENA ROSEES AT THE FUNERAL KILL ALL YOUR FRIENDS SAY GOODNIGHT, GRACIE!
Then I volunteered to collect all the papers before Anthony came back from the bathroom.
No one has to remind me that I’m a terrible person for this. I just will stop at nothing for a laugh.
So, we’re supposed to be on this poetry unit, and I’m kinda bored because I took this class last year. So, our assignment was to write a poem about our favorite food. Sounds like a dumb thing, right? Yeah, not when you’re writing about crabs! Holy CRAP, there is no humanly possible way to make anything written in prose involving crabs not to sound incredibly dirty……..
So halfway through I just gave up. Like, I’m just done. I handed in this poem that sounds mysteriously like third base, and now my teacher’s really pissed at me because ‘cuz it looks I seriously put effort into being an asshole on this project. But it’s impossible! I want him to write a goddamn poem about crabs that doesn’t sound like literary pornography! It’s not easy!
I give the f^ck up.
Just saw a pic of my ex on Facebook (yeah, we’re those weirdoes that still stalk each other on Facebook) at legitimate cheerleading practice. And not even making fun of it, he was actually, like, practicing. Oh my God, I thought I was going to die. I mean, this and……the fencing team and- I’m so lost. Fencing’s a sport now? They’re just plastic swords! That’s not a sport, that’s a Shirley Temple! Whatever. Tiny spiteful ex moment. We all have them, don’t even lie.
I feel so Grace Adler right now it’s ridiculous, but probably only the first time when she thought it was funny.
My Chemical Romance put it perfectly.
I mean, being one, I can neither really defend nor be terribly shocked, but high school is weird. Was high school always this weird? Was it weirder ten years ago? I’m lost, man.
Anyway, point of the personal conversation. One day at lunch, teenagers happened to be scaring the particular shit out of me. And the administration walking by. We were discussing my funeral plans. This was about six months before I was re-diagnosed. So I was simply having a bipolaroid moment. Subsequently, the group of them were.
With many of these stories I have, it’s like with the game Clue, I have The Usual Suspects. And, of course, there was my ex, before he was my ex before we were dating (which means this was before he said two words a day to me, so we were on good terms).
– That casket has to be purple (I’m slightly colorblind from the radiation, just to shades, so browns bother me. Yes, I care about this postmortem)
– Funeral procession (WTF) dressed as grim reapers
– My friend Matt has to work into the eulogy us going Black Friday shopping dressed as drag queens
– They want me to buried in my blue dress that makes my boobs look good
– Their after party has to feature MCR’s “Cancer” (Naturally, right?)
– No Jesus-y sermon shit- I’m atheist. Not happening.
-Violet violets, not fucking blue!
– No crying. Absolutely no effing crying. Unless you were sad I was alive, do not cry. Or get out. I’ll haunt you.
This was released onto the Inter-webs of sound mind for better or worse. Names were not mentioned to protect the semi-innocent. If you tried hard enough, you could track the others down.
This was the story of everyone’s lives at the brain tumor camp I went to over the summer.
Wait, A has no correlation to B. The fact that it was a brain tumor camp is just a specific focus group, and unfortunately we are all horny teenagers, which was blindingly horrific whether we wanted it to be or not.
I totally wasn’t a participant of any of that gosh darn thomasfoolery, I tell you.