I'm trying to THINK OF THE CHILDREN HERE, PEOPLE

It has been a week, blogosphere, and I still can't think of anything funny to say.

And of course, being me, that means I SAY NOTHING AT ALL.

BECAUSE I PRESSURE MYSELF, THAT'S WHY.

(If I can't be HILARIOUS, then what is the point in being ANYTHING? HMMMMMM?)

But I felt bad for not having written in SEVEN WHOLE DAYS (OMG, THE PRESSURE TO COME BACK HERE AND BE ABSOLUTELY KNOCK-DOWN DRAG-OUT FABULOUS AFTER SEVEN DAYS IS ENORMOUS) so I thought I'd write in and apologize.

As an added bonus, here is a list:

Things I'm Tired Of

(1) Snow
     (no, really, we get it, Mother Nature.  We'll write.  We'll call.  STOP HARASSING US ALREADY)

(2) Not being funny
     (see above the list)
    
(3) People reading over my shoulder as a type
     (yes, YOU.  YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE.  REST ASSURED THAT I AM TALKING ABOUT YOU.

In fact, here's a scenario.  Let's pretend YOU are working on a rough draft of something THAT YOU WANT TO BE PERFECT (because you are a perfectionist.  Just go with it.  I mean, obviously you're not a perfectionist because your manners are DREADFUL AND YOU ARE STILL READING OVER MY SHOULDER YES I CAN TELL YOU ARE OH, LIKE LOOKING AWAY NOW AT YOUR NOTEBOOK IS REALLY FOOLING ANYONE and also because you are not working feverishly at perfecting whatever it is you're writing about (note that I AM NOT READING IT) but I digress) and in this pretend scenario you do want to share your piece of writing, but not, of course, until it is PERFECT or at least as perfect as you can get it before going bald.

and then, AND THEN, some COMPLETE STRANGER starts reading your ROUGH DRAFT over your shoulder AND WON'T STOP EVEN WHEN YOU DO THINGS LIKE WRITE IN YOUR NOTEBOOK "PLEASE STOP READING OVER MY SHOULDER."


WOULD YOU FIND THAT FUNNY?

I think not!

Although apparently I'm wrong, since you're still here.)

(4) Having to change tables at Starbucks because other people are unsocialized jerks. 

(5) Snow
     (Yes, it's here twice.  I'm extra tired of it.  Shut up.)

(6) Writing this blogpost.

My Little Pony Army of DEATH

You guys, when I was a wee little girl, I had what I called my girl toys, and my boy toys.  (For example, I had an actual He-Man Power Sword that would light up and everything, but I would only play with it when boys came over.  I LOVED it, don't get me wrong, it gave me a HUGE thrill to be able to say

but I firmly told my mother that was a boy toy, and not to be used when I had girls over.)

I think this came in some part from playing with the older brother.

You see, I had an awful lot of "girl" toys, too.  I had Strawberry Shortcake toys (I even had that awesome snail that would transport them all over), and Rainbow Brites, and Cabbage Patch dolls, and more My Little Ponies than you could shake a stick at)

And when I played with them, by myself or with my girl friends, we had lovely little adventures where the unicorns winked in and out, frolicking, and the pegasuses (pegasi?) flew in and out of clouds, and the regular ponies munched on flowers and laughed and played together happily.

When I played with them with the older brother, however, THE PONIES WENT TO WAR.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I LOVED PLAYING WITH THE OLDER BROTHER.

(I can't explain this, except that somehow, when you're young and innocent and me, AN OLDER SIBLING IS A GOD.)

And I happily played G.I. Joe with him, and happily agreed to be Cobra EVERY SINGLE TIME (except once, when I put my foot down.  As I recall, THAT IS THE ONE TIME G.I. JOE LOST.)

BUT, there was a difference, somehow, between being Hooded Cobra Commander, and dying gloriously in an epic battle, and being Captain Featherwing and losing all my troops in a final assault against General PinkStar.

(note that I made up my own names for my ponies.)

I suspect that I must have expressed this emotion, because at some point, we switched to having My Little Pony Olympics, which was slightly better in that while it still involved competition, no one actually died.

...

...

...

...

...I still lost, of course.

 

My Childhood in Venn

My Hat is a Cannibal, AND THAT IS HOW I LIKE IT

Okay you guys, so I got this awesome new hat the other day, which I totally adore.  It looks something like this

So I'm showing it to my younger brother yesterday, and he is admittedly as aware of its awesomeness as I am.  Then I tell him that my favorite part is that it has a dead body in its tummy.

Brother: that's his nostrils.

Me: I thought that was the dead eyes.

Brother: It doesn't even have a mouth then!

Me: Dude, it SWALLOWED A DEAD BODY and HAS NO MOUTH.  THAT IS CLEARLY PART OF THE AWESOME

Brother: THAT's ITS NOSTRILS AND MOUTH!

Me: Then why are his ARMS connected to the side of his HEAD?

Brother: THAT'S HIS EARS

Me: THEN WHAT ABOUT HIS AWESOME FLOPPY LEGS AND RED TASSEL FEET?

Brother: THAT'S PART OF THE HAT, YOU MORON.


Clearly the younger brother must be wrong, however, because my hat is awesome, and if all those things were true, my hat would be less awesome, which is NOT ALLOWED.


Hmph.

Fictional Arguments, Real Consequences

Do you ever psych yourself up for social encounters that you suspect will involve people arguing with you by running through the argument in your head beforehand, so as to be prepared for all possible verbal attacks?

And then you get good and angry at the person you're arguing with EVEN THOUGH HE HASN'T DONE ANYTHING.

And it's not like in a dream, where you have a fight and wake up so so so INCREDIBLY angry, because you don't even have the memory of the fight, you KNOW FOR A FACT that you've simply imagined it.

But now you're really really mad, and kind of hurt (because no one knows how to press your buttons as well as you do) and so you either

(1) go to the social encounter as a bristly, raging mass of hurt and anger that explodes at the slightest touch:

 or

(2) stay home and be miserable, and secretly hate the people you pretend-argued with for making you lose out on what was probably the awesomest social event of the season:

AND PART OF YOU NEVER FORGIVES THAT FRIEND EVER EVER EVER AGAIN?

Theory of Temperature

Okay, so I had lunch out today, because even though the winter has come and made my world cold and miserable, I am a good friend and also I get hungry.

And after lunch, as I was walking back home, I passed a Tasti-D's.  Now, I'm generally trying to eat only for nutritional purposes these days, but I was freezing cold.

Here is where my theory comes into play.

I decided as a little girl that if it was very very cold out, it was extra important to eat ice cream (or, in this case, some substance that vaguely might possibly resemble a fat-free frozen yogurt type dish, if you turn your head and squint properly), in order to warm you up.

See, I figured that if I lowered my internal temperature by eating something cold, then the OUTSIDE temperature would be warmer than my body, and would therefore HEAT ME UP.

This may sound like a crazy weirdo nutjob theory to you, but you're wrong.


7-year-old girl logic is not to be denied.  You might as well live in a world with no steampunk pegasus-unicorn hybrids, which is to say, A WORLD NOT WORTH LIVING IN.

It's a true fact.  Look it up.