“What Meat Do You Want?!”: Free Food, Electrocution, Camping, and Other Things That Don’t Normally Happen But Are Occurring This Week

I was having some kind of out of body experience yesterday morning.

It all began at 5 a.m., when Soldier Boy texted me because he was sitting in Maine on a lay over on the way back from his latest stint in Afghanistan. At the time, I was all sorts of disoriented – I could comprehend that the text was from him, but for the life of me, I couldn’t read what it said. I groaned, rolled over, and started dreaming of Werebears and unmitigated violence against cubicles.

Then my alarm rang, because it was two hours later and time to get up.

In the shower, I was so distracted I couldn’t remember if I had shampooed my hair. There was something off. Someone had tried to contact me, and I suspected it was Soldier Boy, but I was kind of creeped out because dreaming about your exs is just not kosher. Finally, soaking wet and frustrated, I picked up my iPhone and discovered this:

Soldier Boy: “I know its early and I foot expect a response but boo!”

Umm. Well, I certainly felt better about not being able to read the damn thing. It didn’t make any fucking sense. Homeboy was either drunk, or more tired than I was.

I texted him back.

We ended up launching into a text message conversation that lasted the entire length of my before-work routine, and nearly caused my unfortunate demise.

See, while holding the iPhone in one damp hand, and the blow dryer in the other, I tried to plug in the blow dryer and somehow ended up with my wet fingers on the prongs when they made contact with the socket. I have never made this mistake before, no matter how disoriented.

OH MY HOLY HAIR STYLING.

I don’t think I’ve ever been electrocuted. Except for that one time on purpose in high school science class for a lab project. I had zero idea of what was going on, except that my right hand had acquired some kind of spontaneous disease in which it fell asleep and was stabbed a million times with a million invisible needles.

3.7527 seconds later, I was like, Oh holy fucking hell, I am a retard, I JUST ELECTROCUTED MYSELF.

Quite the Monday-morning shocker, if I do say so myself. (Haha, I just realized I made a pun. Go me.)

If Monday sets the tone for the rest of the week, than me electrocuting myself makes quite a lot of sense.

See, this Friday, I, Blonde Beyonce, and Culture are hitting the road to potentially be murdered on a vacant lot two hours away from Los Angeles. We know this totally awesome volunteer from work and she invited us to go camping on the property she and her husband own north of Santa Barbara.

We were all like, Hell yeah, we’ll go camping with you awesome volunteer lady whom we all adore!

And then, last night, The Source is like, Wait, who the fuck are you going camping with?!

And we’re like, it’s cool, she’s really bad ass! And she’s going to set up the tents beforehand during the day, so we don’t have to set up in the dark on Friday night!

Which means, of course, that we have to drive up there ourselves in my ancient Mercedes which hit an astounding 200,000 miles last night.

Why in my old car? Well, because Culture’s car is less powerful than my once-top-of-the-line Mercedes and more likely to get stuck when we DRIVE ON A DIRT ROAD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO RENDEZVOUS WITH OUR VOLUNTEER BUDDY!

Plus, apparently, when we get there, the only cell reception we will have will be in the ocean.

So, in summary: We are taking an old high mileage car onto an isolated dirt road after dark to meet a woman we barely know, and the only way we can contact the outside world is by running into the ocean with our cell phones.

This is turning into another one of those serial killer posts.

It’s all okay though, I’ve got a plan. In the case our buddy turns out to be a murderer who has lured us unsuspectingly onto several acres of vacant property to stab us and throw us into the Pacific Ocean, one of us will grab the tent stakes, while I get the car – we will fight her off while we get into the Mercedes, lock the doors, and then floor it into the ocean, where we will call 911 and turn my car into a boat by using the tent as a sail – because her large four wheel drive vehicle will surely destroy us and beat us to the highway if we try to make a run for it.

[Obviously, I will be the first to die, since I am inside the halfway submerged vehicle. If your car is sinking, you have to wait until the pressure is equalized (aka, your car is full of water) before you can open the door to escape. Not my best plan.]

Brittany and Crew, 1. Serial Killer, 0.

Please, don’t doubt my ability to stay calm in the face of danger or take on serious missions. I have the determination of a college kid on Adderall the night before a final exam. In fact, today, I was so determined to eat breakfast that Culture and I sprinted out of the office while yelling, “We’re on a secret mission! Be back later!” and rushed to Subway because they were giving out free breakfast sandwiches and coffee before 11 a.m.

And, if there’s any fact you should know about my town of residence, it’s that the homeless population is larger than the population of people with homes. This means, when Subway announces free food, the place is instantaneously transformed into a mental health ward that smells of toilet-bowl moonshine and sweat.

Culture and I didn’t care. We stood 6 inches behind Smelly Toothless McGee and got our free breakfast sandwiches. When the Subway lady yelled, “WHAT MEAT DO YOU WANT?” to Smelly, he replied, “Ghhhharrrrg, myyantabal jusrter nuts!” and we nodded our heads like, “Yeah, get that dude some jusrter nuts! I’ll have sausage!”

[This is the part where you're like, wait, doesn't this blogger work in a homeless shelter and shouldn't she be nicer in her portrayals of homeless people? Okay, look, if you worked with homeless dudes, you would understand that I am being very fair and accurate. Plus, I have a true fondness for these smelly nut jobs because I've kept their shopping carts from getting stolen. That's more than you can say.]

And that, my friends, is why I’m not going to get murdered this weekend.

P.S. Thanks to Soldier Boy's cousin for telling me that "What Meat Do You Want?" would be a good blog title. Because, truly, it is.

My Poetry is Sexier than Your Old Smelly Chotchkies

Every other Friday, my keepers let me out of the windowless dungeon that is my office and send me off to make money for them by working in the local volunteer-run thrift store.

I used to hate thrift stores.

The thought of paying money to wear the nasty, smelly old duds of some (probably) diabetic crotchety old lady with head lice made my gag reflexes act up. Now days, people use the word “vintage” in the same way they use “designer label” – like it’s a good thing. These people need mind enemas. The word vintage makes me think of urine-colored lace that reeks of mothballs.

However, working at the thrift shop has become a tiny beacon of light in the shitty dark tunnel of lameness that is my work week. It’s like being Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean – you’re locked up in jail, and then one fine day you’re busted out and you take to the high seas to look for buried treasure. And while I don’t get to carry a sword, I do get to battle completely bat shit crazy people and hunt for interesting loot.

When I say interesting, I mean the funkiest crap on the planet. Some of the stuff I’ve seen makes me wonder not why someone bought it, but how it was even manufactured in the first place.

Even better, the store is often teeming with loonies.

Looney type number one is the type of customer who smells like death and tries to get discounts on things that were only a dollar to begin with. They mostly live under bridges.

Looney number two comes from the super old volunteers who are on power trips because they’ve volunteered longer than other people. These crazy woman have become dictators of thrift – they ask you ridiculous things like, “Do you know how to properly use a hanger?” Shut it, grandma. I’m not retarded.

Well, anyway, I realized the other day that I had quite the little collection of camera phone shots of weird thrift store merchandise. And, what better way to express their complete and undeniable lameness than through haiku?!

Hence, my photo slash poetry essay on the high culture of thrifting:

Oh! Michael Jackson
Mated with a French hooker
On polyester.

Bedazzled denim
Once met a pink tutu
And never let go.

High School Musical
Was not about teen trannies
Or girls named Ryan.

Fairy salesman
Goes leaf to leaf with products –
Angel dust and meth.

This rusted razor
Promises sunbeams on your
Wrists, emo slut.

Bozo the clown was
A custom shirt, but is now
On the dollar rack.

Fred, the gay cowboy,
Loved his sequined get up –
And zoophilia.

Creepy siblings
Assault your eyes and brain,
Assault each other.

Stop staring at me
Alligator brown bear thing –
You got a boob job?

I Don’t Even Know What I Want From Life Anymore, Except for Dogs to Stop Peeing on My Face and - Oh Yeah - a Real Job

Ahhh, Monday. A fresh new week to conquer. I smiled, stretched out my arms, and then, like a gruesome and swift omen from God, a dog pissed on my head.

Not a joke.

Okay, well, actually my roommate's puppy missed my face with his stream of urine by about two inches. And therefore urinated on my pillow. I should have heeded the warning, but instead I got up and readied myself for work. And threw my wet, smelly pillowcase in the sink.

[God did not want me to even attempt getting through this Monday unscathed, obviously.]

As I got in my car, I was still smiling. The world was sunny and peaceful – that is, until, a completely inexplicable power outage struck just as I was about to pull into an intersection. The red lights flashed, and then died. It was my turn for a green, so I started to drive – albeit slowly – like the other cars in my lane. But the power was back on as swiftly as it had gone out, and, apparently, God thought the traffic moving in the opposite direction should have a green.

I only barely made it out of that one alive.

When I finally made it to work, Blonde Beyonce gave me the news that the Big Boss was trying to sabotage the event we had been working on for weeks – and, it was very possible that we would have to call up the volunteers we had already informed of honoree status, and tell them they were no longer being honored. Because Big Boss didn’t think they were worthy. Even though we had gone through all the other directors to make our decisions. And the event is less than a week away.

Ah, hell no.

This is all on top of our impending homeless situation – one of the roomies is fighting an epic battle with the economy and is unfortunately losing. But we can’t get out of our lease anyway, so it’s kind of like being trapped in a sinking ship full of Ikea furniture.

Also, my Americorps service ends in July, and there is not one job in all of Los Angeles that is not a soul sucking fuckhole with 300 other applicants.

Hello? Life? This is not how our relationship is supposed to be! I’m supposed to be fabulous. I’m supposed to be spending my second decade of life vacationing on the beaches of remote islands, counting my butt loads of cash. And having sex with super models. And rocking four inch $600 heels on the deck of a yacht.

I’m totally going to break up with you, life.

Oh. Wait.

If I keep running with this analogy, I’m going to have to commit suicide, huh?

Scratch that.

I’m just going to get drunk and practice archery in an illegal location, like the beach at midnight. (That’s fucking awesome, right?!)

Luckily I have coworkers who don’t question my sanity – they just assume I’m preparing for the zombie apocalypse.

My Epic Drunken Pole Dancing Skills Have Already Made an Impression on the Expat Population in Korea, and I Haven’t Even Gotten There Yet.

[I realize that drawing a picture of myself pole dancing on a pole holding the South Korean flag is incredibly disrespectful. But, umm, it's totally relevant. And it's funny, right?]

I have excellent friends.

The kind of friends that abandon me and move to Korea. Which, actually, is very nice because then I have an excuse to return to Korea and a free place to stay. But not nice, because when I get there I will have to fight off the hoards of men who think I’m some kind of crazed drunken whore.

Kirin – the friend who has relocated to South Korea – has apparently been talking about me. To dudes. We were talking on Gchat this morning (well, it was morning for me) when she drops this bombshell:

Kirin: My co-worker Desert Boy is disappointed that you are bringing The Boyfriend to Korea.

Me: Umm, why?

Kirin: [ridiculous emoticon that means “I’ve done something horribly un-friendly and you will soon want to murder me”]

Me: Errrr…..

[30 minutes later]

Kirin: Yeah, my friends are excited to meet you. Desert Boy in particular.

Me: Uh oh.

Kirin: …I may have told him that you like to dance on poles when you get drunk.

WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTT????!!!

Okay, dear readers, yes, if there is a pole, and I am drunk, logic alone dictates that I will probably dance on it. But I do not actively seek out poles when inebriated. I do not swing around on things that are not stripper poles, just because I am drunk and require a pole. And this paragraph is beginning to sound very phallic and wrong.

But this drunken pole dancing has nothing to do with trying to look sexy. I only drunkenly pole dance because it is fun. It’s like a swing set for adults!

So I had to explain to Kirin that drunken pole dancing was the sort of thing you wanted a boy to be surprised by, not the sort of thing he should be expecting when he meets you.

Well, no biggie, she explained. It only came up because I was trying to explain my connection to your Korean Boyfriend!

(This is what I get for hanging out with gay chicks who do not care whether or not they are impressing guys. Yup. Haha, my friend Brittany is so funny. She drinks too much and dances like a stripper. Oh you want to meet her now? Cool beans!)

[See, there’s this boy in Korea who I met last time I was there, and he is completely adorable and I call him Opa. And he has now started hanging out with Kirin because she moved to Korea.]

Okay, well that totally makes sense….no, wait, it doesn’t.

Kirin: I don’t remember why it came up….

GAH. Okay. Let’s retrace the steps of this conversation Kirin had with Desert Boy. She hung out with Korean Boyfriend, and Desert Boy was like, how do you know this Korean dude? and then she was like, oh, well, my friend Brittany knows him, and she dances on poles when she is drunk…

Nope. Sorry. THE DOTS ARE NOT CONNECTING.

I mean, it’s all very nice and all that my amazing drunken pole dancing skills have already impressed the population of expats living in Seoul before I’ve even arrived in Seoul.

And I’m sure it will make a great talking point when I get there. And I will have many instant new friends. Like last time. Because I am blonde and my name is Brittany, and every Korean guy thought it was awesome when I lost a drinking game so they could sing, "Oops, I Did it Again."

But...

...Goddammit, I am so going to have to cancel this trip.

Please Sleep With My Friend Turco. He Rides a Motorcycle and Doesn’t Have Herpes. [UPDATED]

The Boyfriend’s roomie Turco has been a little dry in love department lately, but I assure you, it is because he just hasn’t met the right kind of girl. And, apparently, if I find him such a girl, I win a pizza. Or a personal check for $30. And since we all know I’m poor and hungry, please forgive me for compromising this blog’s integrity in the name of nourishment and cash.

So here goes it.*

[Turco can get very philosophical, especially when it comes to food and death.]

Turco can offer you a chance at internet stardom in his closet. Your fans will include his old drum set, the bodies of deceased girlfriends, and a cat called "Baby Grey".

[Only you, and this sexy feline, can repair the damage done to Turco's heart by neglect.]

It’s true, Turco does have a few flaws. One of these is that he is really much too buff and certainly not fat. Another is that he is simply too good of a drummer to be fully appreciated by the inferior ears of members of the human race.

Turco promises to shower his future gal pal with large sums of money in the form of bad checks.

He enjoys long motorcycle crashes into parked vehicles. Also, he loves to eat carrots - but only if they are followed by the words “cake” and “marshmallow filling.”

Females with expert zombie hunter skills are preferred, but not required.

Inquiries can be made in the comments section.

*This post was co-written by Turco via Facebook chat.

[UPDATE] Turco would like all his potential lady friends to know that he lives in an exclusive area called Rolling Hills Estates. He will escort you to his beautiful four bedroom home, and show you the rustic scenery and his (occasionally) heated pool.

Also, his fingers are extremely strong and agile from playing Left for Dead on XBox sixty hours a week. Take from that what you will.

A Heroic Tale About How I Defeated the Mexican Supermarket and Their Bigotry Against Hamburgers

I do all my primary shopping at a Mexican grocery store because shit is cheaper and I am poor. This wouldn’t be so bad if said supermercado carried all the normal things a grocery store should carry – but often it doesn’t.

However, what it lacks in cheese and produce selection, it (usually) makes up for in ridiculousness. Such as chicken feet and beef tongue. And insane mariachi tunes that are cranked up so loud you can’t hear yourself think. Until today, when my beloved Mexican super store failed me in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible.

It didn’t have hamburger buns.

What the hell?! This is not possible. How can this damn store not have hamburger buns?

I began searching high and low. And, as if it could sense my desperation, the grocery store resorted to trickery.

It became blatantly obvious that whoever ordered the bread products for the supermarket was a deranged worshipper of hot dogs. There were hot dog buns everywhere. Shelves and shelves of them. And whenever I thought I had finally found hamburger buns – alas – they were really hot dog buns in different packaging than the previous hot dog buns.

Insanity, I tell you!

Now, it’s true, I could have changed meal plans. But I had come too far. My shopping cart was already filled to the hilt with hamburger ingredients. I couldn’t give up now! Blonde Beyonce and I appealed to an employee, hoping he could help us track down the secret location of the hamburger buns.

The conversation went as follows:

Blonde Beyonce: Excuse me, where are the hamburger buns?

Employee: Ay, senorita! Esta en aisle tres! (or something like that. With much more English)

How had we not seen them? How silly of us! We rushed over to aisle three.

Ummm…what?

There were no fucking buns or bread of any kind in aisle three. But there was flour…

Blonde Beyonce figured out the puzzle quicker than I did. Duh, our Hispanic homeboy thought we wanted to bake our own buns! Of course!

Well, I am not that awesome. Or that committed to my hamburger making. I was about to give up entirely when I spotted some pan de leche. OH HELL YEAH. I’m making fucking mini burgers! And sticking them on some tiny sweet rolls! Problem solved.

Oh, sweet victory.

[That's a mighty tiny burger. But it's filled with awesome!]

Take that, Mexican supermarket bitches!

So, the Real America Doesn’t Have Hills and a Goat Wants to Piss All Over My Inevitable Internet Fame

I returned to Los Angeles from Dallas, Texas, yesterday afternoon and nearly kissed the graffiti and gum covered sidewalk at the airport in my elation.

As much fun as I had picking up dead animal parts and being chased by beavers – not to mention tortured by small children – I think I was meant to live in an area of the world that doesn’t look like this:

But I should probably go hide now, because I might get my ass shot by a Texan with a shotgun. Those people have more pride in their state than is even possibly healthy. Oh yeah, and they sincerely believe California is a foreign country, as demonstrated by the barber who cut my brother’s hair in Coppell.

Barber: So, ye go to school, eh? (I can't write Texas accents - only pirate ones)

Brother: Yeah, I go to Whittier College – it’s basically in Los Angeles.

Barber: Ah, well, welcome back to America!

Brother: Umm, yeah, I’m actually from Los Angeles.

Barber: I see. Well boy, welcome TO America!

So, as it turns out, I’m not American. I’m Californian. This is totally okay, because if the real USA is a tribute to strip malls and BBQ, I totally understand the perception that the rest of the world has of us.

I liked Texas. I really did. The neighborhoods were beautiful – all the houses were in brick, and life was quiet. I gained a million pounds gorging on fried chicken and country gravy. And laughed at all the freeway-related things that were named after George Bush.

But I’m really hoping there are some more happenin’ cities than Dallas, because I had run out of things to do by the second day of my Texas expedition. So, if I am completely out of line here, please set me straight! Is Austin awesome? Are there some balling night clubs? Is my view completely skewed because I spent my whole trip trying to keep a nine year old out of a turtle pond?

Well, either way, Los Angeles still wins because it has hills.

Yes.

The lack of hills in Dallas was literally giving me fucking nightmares.

It was like I had landed in a never-ending, landmark-less, apocalyptic wasteland. All the buildings were brick, all the grass was green, all the trees were the same kind of tree, and I never had any freaking idea where the fuck I was.

In Los Angeles, there are fucking hills. With iconic shit on them.

So, yeah, the biggest problem I had with Texas was how retardedly flat it was.

Hence, me making out with a Los Angeles sidewalk.

So, my first order of business upon returning to “faux America” was to establish a financially secure future by becoming famous on the internet, so that I could afford to live in a place with hills. And a beach.

AND IT’S TOTALLY HAPPENING, YO!

Well, not the financially stable part. But I got my first comment from a person I don’t know personally, and it was a good one:

And, even more exciting, NICOLE ANTOINETTE LINKED TO MY TWITTER ON HER BLOG!!! GAAAAAAAAAAH.

Nicole is one of my top five favorite bloggers, because she’s totally bad ass. And hilarious. And I totally did not solicit her in any way, shape, or form. Nope, people. Nicole was inspired to link to my Twitter because my bio gave her a “heart boner”.

I am officially awesome. (Evidence below)

["And also I forgot to tell you that I have a new hobby: stalking people's Twitter bios to find ones that give me the biggest heart boner. Like this chick (ME!) whose bio says, 'Basically starving to death because the economy sucks and I have an Asian Studies degree.'"]

Plus she follows me on Twitter now, and direct messaged me to tell me she had linked to me.

Well, basically my brain was exploding with blogger internet nerd happiness and I completely failed as a girlfriend because I was really, really distracted.

See, while I was madly commenting on Nicole’s blog post and tweeting simultaneously, The Boyfriend’s goat was chilling at his bedroom door.

And I was all like, eh, he’ll stay there.

And suddenly there was that sound that you only hear when A) someone turns on a faucet, or B) they release all the fluid in their bladder.

Oh. God.

THE GOAT HAD CROSSED THE THRESHOLD. AND HAD IMMEDIATELY STARTED URINATING.

DAMMIT!!

I threw the laptop aside and stood up, so that I could start yelling some incoherent phrases at the baffled animal while looking like I was somewhat in charge. What came out of my mouth was something like, “What the…goat…shit….fuck…ummm….GET OUT!”

Well, Surly (the goat) just stood there. And continued to urinate. Is this goat fucking disrespecting me??! Something tells me that when a goat stares dead in your eyes and continues to piss all over the carpet, what they are really saying is, fuck you, human person.

ARRRRRRRRGHHHHHH.

Sadly, before I could resolve the situation (and before Surly had emptied his extremely large bladder), The Boyfriend marched in to see what all my incoherent muttering was all about.

What he saw was his girlfriend, standing in the middle of his bedroom, letting a goat piss all over his carpet.

Well, he started screaming obscenities, and it became obvious that the goat was much, much more respectful of him because it got the fuck out in two seconds. But then it took a dump on his porch.

Wow.

Then The Boyfriend turns to me with an accusatory why-the-fuck-were-you-letting-a-goat-desecrate-my-bedroom stare.

Which, really, was completely appropriate given the situation.

Luckily, The Boyfriend understood that I had been so swept up in my dreams of internet fame and glory that I didn’t realize the goat had entered the room. And, it was only upon hearing the sounds of goat pee flowing like the Niagara-fucking-Falls that I fully grasped the situation unfolding in front of me.

If I have learned anything from this experience, it is that lusting for fame is dangerous.

And potentially smelly.

P.S. So, the million dollars worth of medication prescribed to me by my dermatologist is working. And by "working" I mean that my face is on fire. And it's falling off. I would cry, but the tear trails would burn like a mutha fucker and probably become permanently branded on my skin. Fuck.

Beaver Attacks, Severed Animal Paws, and Other Reasons I'm Convinced I Have Rabies

So I legitimately almost died from fear last night. We were searching for beavers in the dark, and found about six million of them. In the lake. Where they belonged.

But then the bushes started rustling on the opposite side of the walkway from the lake. And, obviously, my brother, cousins, mother, aunt, and myself all started screaming and swinging the flashlights around like crazy people. But, as it turned out, our portion of the walkway was right over a beaver trail.

The beaver in question was harvesting branches from the other side of the walkway, and then dragging them through his tunnel down to the waterfront.

Whew. Mystery solved.

There are an exceptionally large number of beavers in Coppell, Texas. Today, on a nature walk through “the jungle,” we hit the beaver dam mother load.

I’m fairly certain this is where the mutant three hundred pound beavers live. So I stayed the fuck away from there.

However, my hesitation did not stop my intrepid young cousins from venturing into mutant beaver territory. This is not surprising, considering my youngest cousin brought home this in his pocket today:

Unfortunately, I thought that thing was a piece of plant matter, and I tried to demonstrate to my cousin that it wasn’t a squirrel tail (as he suspected). I picked it up off the ground and discovered that the “plant,” though flat, most definitely had distinctive toes and claws. OH MY GAWD.

Dear friends, if I start foaming at the mouth at your next house party, please assume I have rabies and shoot me. Old Yeller style. Even though, honestly, I’m pretty sure you can’t catch rabies from dead animal parts. But you can probably catch other things, which is why I almost burned off my own hands with hand sanitizer and soap. And also why I don’t think you should hug or hold the hands of any males under the age of 13, because they are probably covered in disease from the dead animal paws they carry around in their pockets. Or maybe that’s only my cousin.

The rest of our adventures where fairly mellow…

[This is the Texas state flower, the blue bonnet.]

[Little cousin is scary good at finding body parts of dead animals. It's bordering on obsession, and I'm getting concerned.]

[My brother is king of the mother fucking forest, yo.]

…and my family fully embraced the idea of a dead piranha tagging along.

Also, I’m sure a lot of you have heard stories of my very peculiar eleven year old cousin. So, just to prove that I’m not one to over exaggerate (well, at least not all the time) here is video proof of the insanity:

The Back of Your Head from Brittany Swanson on Vimeo.

Have an excellent weekend, dear readers.

Obviously, I'm Destined to be a Famous Wildlife Photographer [UPDATED]

I've been in Irving, Texas, for only a matter of hours and I've already taken the next cover shot for National Geographic.

Really, universe. I am obviously tremendously talented; why am I so poor?

My fantastically flamboyant eleven year old cousin is watching Ninja Turtles - he took one look at that journalist chick April and said, "Whoa. Where did you get that amazing one piece?!"

Yes, this family is destined for greatness.

More to come.

UPDATE: Nevermind, I am not cut out to be a wildlife photographer. The dragonfly photo was a fluke. This is my second best photo of the day:

Is it still wildlife photography if the wildlife is dead? And what the hell?! This fish was dead and about four yards away from the lake. This fish was suicidal. And apparently an Olympic long jump champion.

On another note, my eleven year old cousin decided that my dragonfly photograph could stand some improvement:

Ah, yes. National Geographic, here I come.

I’m a Professional Asshole (Or, I Stayed Up All Night Drawing This and You Should Look at It Because It’s Awesome)

My default setting is douche bag. It doesn’t matter what situation I’m in, my response is always to say something sarcastic and wildly inappropriate. And then cackle evilly.

My family and roommates alike tell me that I have no soul, but they totally egg on my life-bashing antics. So I ignore their silly requests to cry during Nicholas Sparks movies, attend therapy, or be nice to old people, because I know they would find my company much less enjoyable if I didn’t have a devil sitting on my shoulder.

But I do try to keep things in check.

This is mostly accomplished by not insulting people to their face.

But threatening small children who can’t hear my lamentations is totally acceptable! Hence this comic strip, which I totally spent hours upon hours perfecting. Can’t you tell?

See, yesterday, Blonde Beyoncé and I were driving to our favorite grocery store – Numero Uno – when my ability to park was delayed by a little girl spinning around and around in the middle of the parking lot.

Most people would say nothing.

But I said the following things that are so beautifully illustrated below:



Blonde Beyoncé didn’t actually stare at me like that for very long. Instead, she doubled over and laughed until her eyeballs watered. Oh, and then told our other roomies how disgustingly horrible I am. But that was probably to get back at me for making fun of her for liking love stories about comas and cancer.

When Your Dermatologist is a Perfectionist, Part Deux (Or, I Think I Have Forehead Cancer) [UPDATED]

UPDATE: So, I've been notified via text message by one of my 3 readers that this post makes it sound like I legit have cancer. I don't! Don't worry! I'm just being ridiculous. Always assume that I don't have cancer. Unless I'm writing in super emo speak. Then, yes, assume away about the cancer. But no, right now, I'm just the ugly chick with the normal type of cyst.

Oh, but actually, the murdering of my face with a syringe was successful and I am basically cyst free now!

However, Blonde Beyonce did point out to me that this whole episode really didn't matter because I have bangs and no one can tell if I have a cyst or not anyway. But it's nice to know that I don't have to have bangs for the rest of my freaking life now.

So you may carry on without fearing for my life.

Original Post:

I had to ask some very pertinent questions of The Boyfriend today. Questions like, would you still like me if I was disfigured for the rest of my life? and, what’s better? A scar or a lump?

I’m sort of concerned, because I’m not really getting an answer. Unless you count, “Awww, Cysty! Could be a pretty name!” as an answer to either of those questions. Which it isn’t. Because I threatened to punch him if he ever said anything like that again.

Which is maybe why he isn’t responding to my questions.

Anyway, I’m stressing right now because there are so many arbitrary things that can go wrong with your body! It’s ridiculous! In fact, if this was a hundred years ago, I’d already be dead. I would have died at the age of twelve. Of pneumonia. So every year after that has been thanks to the miracle of modern science.

Fucking A.

I mean, I’m generally pretty healthy. I have a stomach of iron (hey, if I can eat dog meat off a street cart in Hanoi and not even get the slightest bit ill, that must mean something, right?). I get over basic colds quickly. But when something goes wrong with my health, it goes really, really wrong.

This past year has been pretty eventful – what with testing positive for tuberculosis (yay! No one will insure me! And I have to take nine months of meds which could potentially destroy my liver!) and then there was that thing with my kidney.

I thought it was a lower backache.

And then I thought I had the flu.

I unfortunately have a very high tolerance to pain and other forms of physical suffering. Which means I do stupid things. Like, when at the age of twelve, I ran a mile in physical education with pneumonia. No biggie. I just coughed up some blood and inadvertently caused my English teacher to suspect child abuse/neglect.

And, a few months ago, my kidney nearly up and died on me. But I just took some ibuprofen, and went on a road trip. People, listen to me. THERE IS A HUGE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LOWER BACK PAIN AND YOUR-ORGAN-IS-COMMITTING-SUICIDE PAIN. I know this from experience. I also know this because I walked myself to the hospital after I started urinating blood, because I am smart enough to figure out that ibuprofen doesn’t solve that problem. Plus the nurse took one look at me, moved me to the front of the emergency room patient list, and had me hooked up to an IV in 3 minutes flat.

Apparently, running a 103 degree fever for a week is really bad. The only upside was that I was amazingly skinny, because I hadn’t eaten in two weeks, and I had sweated all the water out of my body. Oh, and I cleared up my brother’s misconception that kidney donors had to be the same height as kidney donation recipients. Which is good, because next time this shit goes down, he’ll know that I already own his right kidney. And there won’t be any unsportsmanlike muttering.

What this experience has taught me is to not underestimate my health problems. Which is why I’ve jumped to the other extreme, and decided I have FOREHEAD CANCER! GAH!

Really people, it’s not that insane! Cancer Dad had his first round of cancer at the age of 22, so really, I’m right on schedule. Only his was lymphoid cancer or something, and they had to take off half his face (don’t worry, they put it back. Plus he regained feeling and the ability to move it, which was not expected). I only need a sharp stab to the forehead. And then everything will be okay!

See, I have this cyst. Nobody can tell it’s there, but I can. And dammit, that’s a fucking problem. Said cyst is standing between me and perfection – perfection I have suffered for! If I had to go through all this topical medication crap, only to have perfectly clear skin marred by an inexplicable forehead cyst, bitches are going down!

See, I got the stupid cyst injected with cortisone a while back, and it basically disappeared – except, since I have to live with my face, I could still see it. And feel it. And so I went back to the dermatologist today to get it looked at again.

If you haven’t read my other post, go read it now, because it’s essential to understanding my love-hate relationship with my dermatologist. See, I go to see her about getting rid of my potential forehead cancer, and instead she prescribes me $70 worth of other shit, because apparently my acne medications are just not working up to her standards.

She’s all, if your face is peeling, then it’s working. And I’m all, but it was peeling, it just isn’t anymore – isn’t that a good thing? Am I supposed to choose between acne and snake face for the rest of my life? Or does this have a happy ending, dammit?!!

See, she gave me a choice on whether to up the strength of my medication, because apparently my skin is up to normal people standards, but not her standards. And she gave that I will be gravely disappointed in you if you do not follow this through look, and I crumbled. Yes, please doctor. Give me movie star skin. Even if it means I will peel like a python for the next three months.

But now back to my forehead cancer please.

Well, my dermatologist takes a look, whips out a syringe, and gives me the most painful shot I have ever had right in the middle of my forehead. Oh. My. God. It did not feel like that last time. Maybe the last chick (who was standing in for my regular dermatologist) wasn’t aggressive enough, and that’s why I still have a forehead tumor. Because this bitch just murdered my face.

And then she’s all, “If this doesn’t work, your only other option is surgical. But the cyst is so small, that the scar would be worse than the cyst.”

WHAT??!

ARE YOU TELLING ME I HAVE TO CHOOSE BETWEEN FOREHEAD CANCER AND A DISFIGURING SCAR?

Okay, this is not alright. You’re telling me humans have walked on the moon, but nobody can remove something that’s the size of a grain of rice out of my forehead without disfiguring me for life??!!

There is something wrong here.

No. I refuse to have a lump on my face for the rest of my existence. Even if it’s a lump that only I can see. Because, dammit, it’s the principle. Can’t we just laser the scar off? Jesus, are you letting a tiger maul me? Because, really, I’ve done some pretty terrible things to my face, and all the trace evidence is gone. So I’m really curious now.

But if it’s cancer, they have to remove it anyway.

So hook up the laser, and let’s get this procedure underway.

Ugh, you’d think she had told me I was going to die. I hate hearing that things will be happening to me for the rest of forever. Like when that idiot doctor told me I had blepharitis, and I went around for two years suffering from reoccurring eyelid space plague and secretly crying to myself because I was doomed to be the female version of Quasimodo, but then scary dermatologist woman diagnosed me with dermatitis and cured me in a week. A WEEK. I had been suffering for TWO YEARS. So imagine my dismay that she, dermatologist superwoman, cannot get rid of my microscopic forehead cancer!

I’M DOOMED.

P.S. Well, maybe not. The forehead cancer seems to be getting smaller and smaller since my face got murdered this morning. So, potentially, I still have a chance at perfection.

P.S.S. But what if it doesn’t go away? What if I have to choose?! Because I think I want the scar…

P.S.S.S. Now that I’ve gone and confessed this problem on the internet, people are totally going to start looking for my forehead cancer. And then I’ll HAVE to go under the knife. Fuck.

P.S.S.S.S. I JUST WANT TO DIE.

P.S.S.S.S.S. That’s a lie. I continue to be awesome. Even with forehead cancer. Man, I talk a lot about cancer and murder on this blog. Okay, new tagline: “Murder and cancer: both funny.”

Happy Easter and Don’t Catch Leprosy

I went a little overboard with Easter this year, but I blame it entirely on homeless children.

Because of homeless children, I will never get the smell of boiled eggs and vinegar out of my apartment, nor will I be able to remove all the shreds of butcher paper from my Berber carpet.

It’s such a travesty.

But really, you can’t blame anything on homeless kids, because for fuck’s sake, they’re homeless! So instead I’m just going to share with you how truly awesome I am, because I SAVED EASTER for a bunch of adorable street babies.

And just so I don’t sound conceded, I’m going to admit that Culture and Blonde Beyoncé also rescued Easter. Because we are the trifecta of mind-blowing holiday redemption efforts. So here it goes.

Our homeless shelter Easter party was to take place on Saturday – which meant we had to work on a Saturday (blarg) and also that we had been procrastinating like you can’t believe. It was Friday and we realized that somehow we were supposed to produce signage, a dump truck load of hard-boiled eggs, and some fun Easter-y type shizit for the next day.

So we dragged ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY raw eggs to the second floor of the shelter and took over one of the vacant units. Which only had two working burners. And then we were kicked out about two seconds later because the carpet cleaners were coming to make the unit stop smelling like ass (and boiled eggs).

And then we were like, Where the fuck are we suppose to boil all these eggs?!

So we carried them all back downstairs, put them in the fridge, and went to appeal to our boss.

Easter-Saving Trifecta: “Hey boss, can we go home for the afternoon so we can boil these eggs, since they are necessary to the awesomeness of this Easter shindig?”

Boss: “Can’t you just boil them after work?”

Easter-Saving Trifecta: “...”

Well, NO. NO WE CAN’T SPEND OUR ENTIRE FRIDAY EVENING BOILING EGGS. Especially since we have NOTHING ELSE TO DO. So, essentially, you are asking us to STARE AT OUR COMPUTERS FOR SIX MORE HOURS and then go home and BOIL EGGS FOR SIX MORE HOURS.

This is not going to work.

Luckily, our blank stares made The Boss realize very quickly that our original plan was best. So she sent us on our merry Easter-saving way.

And then there came the problem of transporting one hundred and twenty raw eggs from work to our apartment.

Cancer Dad, if you had seen us, you would have cried tears of blood over my ridiculous plan to put a hundred and twenty eggs in my Mercedes Benz. Because you respect cars much more than I do. But I was doing it for the homeless children. So stop yammering.

[My apartment parking garage has speed DAGGERS, not speed bumps. Every time I drove over one, I held my breath and literally prayed. “Please, God, I don’t want my car to smell like rotten chicken fetuses for the rest our time together. Which may be forever, because I could potentially NEVER get a decent paying job!]

I made it up four levels with not one broken egg. Holymolyjesuschristonaskillet.

So, once we lugged all the eggs and other supplies up the elevator to our apartment, we pulled out as many pots as our stovetop could handle, and got to boiling.

[At this rate, our egg project was going to take all year.]

But the three of us were not going to just sit around and stare at the pots until the eggs were done, so we moved onto part deux of our Save Easter for Homeless Kids project. Which was the creation of handmade paper bunny ears.

SIXTY PAIRS of handmade paper bunny ears.

We started with some prototypes.

[I fucking made mine wrong. I look like the kid from Where the Wild Things Are, not an Easter bunny. DAMMIT BRITTANY. Plus Blonde Beyoncé is going to murder me over this photograph.]

And then we started cutting.

Until the entire fucking apartment was covered in ears.

Meanwhile, we had a few egg fatalities. Which we ate. Except for the really funky looking ones (see below).

[I’m not sure how this is even physically possible. This egg is trying to grow a Mohawk. Or a castle. I’m not sure which. But nobody dared to eat it.]

Now, if you thought it was bad enough that we had to boil one hundred and twenty eggs, I’m sorry to tell you that we also had to dye them.

See, the thing about large-scale Easter parties is that you cannot get forty homeless kids to properly dye eggs and wait for them to dry. It would be a total disaster. I – and everyone else involved – did not want to wrangle forty kids covered in vinegar and food coloring. Yes, DISASTER, I tell you! These underprivileged children were just going to have to deal with a less-than-full-blown egg decorating party. Because I didn’t want to get fired over the asphalt being tie-dyed. And markers and stickers are decently fun. Problem solved.

Sort of.

Because we still had to dye a hundred and twenty eggs. By ourselves.

Blonde Beyoncé turned our cooking pots into egg dye vats – and if you know anything about dying eggs, you know there is a lot of vinegar involved. A. Lot. Now, not only did our apartment smell like boiled eggs; it reeked of vinegar.

In the end, it looked like we had tied up the Easter bunny and held him at gunpoint until he handed over the goods. Because DAAAAMN, that’s a lot of sexy Easter goodness!

We then completed our ears (by then, it was 8:30 p.m. We had started this Easter debacle before noon. What. The. Hell.)

But, in the end, it was well worth the effort! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANYTHING CUTER?!! Even my stone cold, black heart melted when a mob of homeless kids put on our bunny ears.

[Yeah, I was even the event photographer. Don’t you think I should get paid for this crap? Those are some mighty fine photos, if I do say so myself.]

And then came Easter Sunday.

My grandparents came over for Easter brunch, and to celebrate, my grandfather decided to give me lots and lots of completely illogical travel advice.

See, back in 1954, my grandfather was stationed in Munsan-ni, Korea, up by the DMZ. And, as old people are wont to do, he thinks that everything that happened to him then is relevant to my upcoming travels with The Boyfriend to South Korea.

I’ve already been to Korea. I loved it. And I did not die. But in honor of Easter, I’m going to share some of my grandfather’s insights into international travel in Korea:

1. Don’t eat raw vegetables. Because, apparently, Koreans use human waste as fertilizer and I’m totally going to die.

2. Avoid lepers. My grandfather will be very disappointed if I contract leprosy. I tried to convince him that this was not a horribly rampant problem, and he told me to shut up and be careful. Okay gramps. I’ll try not to become a leper.

3. Don’t get that internal bleeding disease. This was not very specific because Grandpa couldn’t remember what it was or how people got it.

4. Try yak juice. So, the man is telling me not to get diseases, but he wants me to try some Korean moonshine that the soldiers back in the Korean War nicknamed “yak juice.” Firstly, I might have a problem tracking it down – especially if I can’t find a settlement of 80-year-old GIs that know what the fuck I’m talking about. Also, this sounds much more dangerous than eating raw vegetables.

5. Tell everyone the random Korean phrase he taught me when I get off the plane. I promptly put this phrase out of my head, because it was the equivalent to a Korean “yo’ mama” joke, and I didn’t think it would be the most appropriate way to greet the customs officers at Incheon International Airport. But what do I know?

Anywho, wish me luck at not becoming a leper when I’m in Korea next month. Oh, and I hope your Easter was as informative as mine!

Cheers!