There is always jelly

This is a repost from a note I scribbled on facebook a few days ago. I thought maybe I'd revive the ol' tales from the quip and instead of looking amused and depressed at the same time when someone asks me what I do for a living, I'll say, "Oh, I'm a writer" at which point, everyone will immediately lose interest in talking to me about it, lest I venture too far into self obsessive conversation about my "art". DAMN I love good ideas like this.

Anyways.

"Sometimes I find it very hard to believe that I turned out to be a neurotically obsessed housewife. But, here I am. My house is clean. More than clean. My bathtub is bleached, my counter tops are sparkling, my dustbunnies---terminated. As I've aged, I have not stopped pondering the mysteries of the universe, I just do it more slowly, with less soap opera "Oh my god Charlie is in a coma and sleeping with my husband!" drama, and more quiet epiphanies that make me chuckle and move on to whatever else I"m doing.

Now the other day, I was in the process of tidying up the kitchen. I had deep cleaned the house after a bout with illness, and was quite pleased with my work for the day. I finished wiping the counters and stood in the middle of my kitchen for a last inspection. "Nice job kelly, oh thats very nice" I happily ran my hand over the exqusitely clean surface and ran my hand directly into a large jiggling blob of grape jelly.

quivering.

sticky.

FREAKING GRAPE JELLY I JUST GODDAMN CLEANED THIS HOUSE.

Outwardly there was no reaction. Perhaps a slight raise of the eyebrow. Inside I felt the insanity of this blob of jelly rising. Pulsing in my right temple.

HOW IS THERE ALWAYS MORE JELLY? ALWAYS!

Theres always one more freaking sock. One more crumb. A disturbingly dusty pair of underwear the cat dragged from god knows where. ONE dish after you did all of the dishes.

and after about 30 seconds, I stood there and thought, "Well fuck it, thats life" In a good way I mean, I mean the fuck it part, I'm not that pessimistic, it just sounds that way because you're the reader, and you must be seeing it through a pessimistic lens, seriously, try to be more open-minded. Anyways. We always want more. We want to obtain perfection, the perfect life, the perfectly clean house, the perfect body, the perfect spouse, the perfect song, the perfect painting. And everytime we HAPPEN to ram our hands through a pile of unseen grape jelly, we go apeshit. There is always jelly. Its there. Waiting. Waiting to spring on you at any moment. The point is, if it werent for that jelly, life would end. It would just cease to exist. You would cease to exist, in a good way probably.

I could tell you what I mean by that, but you can probably figure it out for yourself.

anyways.

The jelly must be dealt with. Just dont be so surprised when it shows up you know?

I am the jelly. I am one with the jelly. "

On the awesomeness of Grandmas in general

If you are reading this, you are probably feeling just about like the luckiest guy/gal in your county considering its been awhile since I've bothered to hand over one of my cherished memories. I'm sorry its been so long but you see, I've just been so busy wandering around my house in my underwear, making trips to the grocery store, checking my e-mail and other things that go along with being an unemployed directionless twenty-something in general. Anyways, I recently got in touch with a long lost childhood friend, and it reminded me of some really awesome times.

I know I've made subtle and hilarious references to my childhood bedwetting, and lets face it, sometimes the adult variety , so I thought it was about time I shared some of those heartwarming anecdotes before you all were overwhelmed and perhaps had accidents of your own.

I didn't have a whole lot of friends as a kid, but I had a few awesome ones. I was about 11 or 12, and my best friend and I got to go on this trip to Kansas to see her totally cute brother and all his teenage friends play in a music festival. We were all staying at her Grandma's house, the harem of pubescent boys stayed down in the basement and us girls slept on the couch in the main living room. Now, I'm convinced that a lot of the rather humiliating problems with bladder control that I struggled with as a child were due to my rich and diverse dreamworld.

In particular, I had a rather terrifying recurring dream in which, now don't you dare laugh, I was held captive by a gigantic pink version of the hamburger helper glove which would say all sorts of mean things like "YOU'RE SO STUPID AND UGLY LITTLE GIRL, I HATE YOU!" and tickle me until I cried and peed. Now, I know it doesn't sound hellish and utterly terrifying, but I assure you it was the most serious of night terrors. So you can imagine how poor little 12 year old me might feel after enduring hours of torturous tickling and verbal abuse only to awaken to that old familiar and most horrible of slightly warm and moist sensations. Oh yes.

So now its really hit me. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut hoping perhaps I'm still dreaming. But no. Its true.

I peed on my best friend's grandma's couch and heirloom quilt that was probably made by great aunty matilda during the civil war with nothing but a hairpin and her tattered ruined farm clothes. Now what do I do?

My friend snores quietly on, unknowing of my treachery. I get up and survey the damage. It doesn't look good. There is no hiding this. The hamburger helper glove really did a number on me this time. I shamefully tip toe to the bathroom in search of cleaning supplies. Apparently scrubbing bubbles was not intended for use on fouled 1980's furniture, and the giant spot only grew larger and bubblier. So I did what anyone would do. I flipped the cushion. Bam. Problem solved.

With my spot resolved, I knew I had another serious issue on my hands: the soiled quilt. I did a lot of walking back and forth mouthing the worlds "Oh my god, oh my god," trying to think of something. When I found the laundry room, just beyond the kitchen, I was saved. I thanked baby Jesus and started to throw it in the wash. Oh no. A load of old peoples clothes stared back at me, menacing and damp. So obviously, I did the most reasonable thing any 12 year old could, threw the quilt in the dryer, turned it on "FLUFF" and ran back to the couch to act as if nothing had happened.

The next morning I stumble sleepily into the busseling kitchen, full of pimply faced teenagers, and grandma making delicious chocolate chip pancakes. Everything appeared alright, I was home free. And then, Grandma says "Why in the world is the quilt in the dryer?" My palms started sweating, I thought my sneaky little 12 year old heart would give out.

Her kind old lady eyes fell on my guilty as sin form. I probably had the most pathetic look on my face I could muster because all she said was "OH I remember, I put it in last night" and winked.

Later on I pulled her aside and confessed, and she just gave me a cookie and told me not to worry. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why Grandmas are the shit.

So be nice to grandmas, they hold many secrets!

On the dangers of binge drinking

Hang on to your butts folks, as Samuel L. Jackson would say, it happens to be a two-fer-one day. Good fortune has smiled so upon you because as I was considering what amusing anecdote to relate on this day, I stumbled upon not one, but two (at least) stories that happened to end in the same way.

We've all seen advertisements warning young adults on the dangers of binge drinking, perhaps you've even seen a lifetime movie or two tackling that issue. However, while we may all have that one crazy night we are lucky to have survived, the biggest danger you face while drinking too much isn't alcohol poisoning, its (you guessed it) public humiliation. Don't drink and drive? How about, don't drink and pee in a fountain?

My wisdom unfortunately comes from personal experience. At the tender age of 15, puberty was in full swing, I had finally grown some teeny tiny things that I called breasts, and was wowing all the boys with braces and such fascinating extracurricular activities as marching band. I was lucky enough to get to go to Europe to play my flute in a band, which was more like a massive ensemble of horny adolescents given free reign to humiliate themselves in 10 countries and 3-4 different languages. I played my part.

One of the hotels we stayed in had not only a bar, but a real-life honest to god "DiskoTeka" or whatever lame name the Swiss have for their dance clubs. Attempting to get over my natural weirdness and once again, fit in with everyone else, I decided that what I really needed to get down, was half a liter of orange vodka. And get down I did.

The patrons of this club consisted of a few big toothed English tourists, 1-2 french speaking Asian break-dancers, and about 50 of us marching band kids ranging in age from 15-21. I was feeling good. I was feeling more than good, I was feeling obliterated. I, oh-so-cooly, passed my "Booty Mix 2001" CD to the DJ and proceeded to climb onto a railing that separated the two dance floors. I inherited many gifts and talents from my parents, but dancing was simply not one of them. Usually, I'm aware of my disability and take pity on those around me, but I had succumbed to peer pressure and was fully immersed in my drinking binge.

I was feeling the beat. I just knew I was going to meet my future swiss husband in this club, and he was going to be stopped dead in his tracks by my gyrating, and full body thrusting as I balanced precariously on the railing. Luckily, I had a large 2'x4' which hung low enough from the ceiling that I could stabilize my flailing body with. Unluckily, this large board was also at head level.

The music began to crescendo, I was in the zone. I began a series of violent hair tossing movements and as you can probably guess where this is going, I slammed my alcohol-numbed forehead directly into the wooden cross-beam. The next thing I remember is looking up into the amused/annoyed/slightly concerned faces of the asian breakdancers whos sick reverse air baby/turtle spins my flailing body had violently interrupted. To add insult to injury, the head injury also caused acute belligerent drunk speak, and I had to be carried over a friends shoulder up the fire escape to avoid being caught out after curfew.

Now sometimes in our lives, it takes making the same mistake twice for the lesson to really set in, as evidenced by the fact hat you get two stories for the price of one today.

I wish I had the hormonal ragings of puberty to blame on this one, but unfortunately it was just the regular old hormones at fault here. Jump forward about 5-6 years. I was in a long distance relationship at the time, and also had a pretty nasty drinking habit that if you recall, had begun in my XXL Pink floyd sweat pants some years before. After guzzling, semi-socially, a bottle of the sophisticated "99 Bananas" which for those who dont know, is a 100 proof banana flavored alcohol which you could probably power your lawnmower with, I was feeling frisky.

It was my boyfriends lucky day, oh yes it was. I adjusted the mood lighting and flipped on the webcam and commenced to give what in my mind, would be a sexy striptease. intermittent stumbling, and probably hiccuping, I slid off those sweat pants, and did the little helicopter fling with my oversized hoodie. I decided maybe he needed a better look at the toned ass that gaming 20 hours a day had gotten me.

I threw my leg up onto my computer chair and began to do my slow turn around. Oh the humanity. Are you at a computer? If so, look down and note that most computer chairs are on wheels. It was this particular feature which was, quite literally, my downfall. The chair slipped out from under me as I mouthed the slow motion, "nooooooooo," just before my head slammed into the wall that I had previously not thought was a serious danger to me.

I awoke to my phone ringing. Not only had I knocked myself completely unconscious, apparently I fell directly in the webcams field of view, butt first, in such an unflattering and disturbing way that my boyfriend felt compelled to try to rouse me by phone.

So seriously folks. If ever you feel tempted to indulge in a drinking binge, think of my awkwardly positioned unconscious form, and think twice.

a brief era that everyone is happy to forget about

Since the masses have cried out for more with much furiosity, I am reluctantly going to oblige with some touching reminiscings on this lovely afternoon. I know you may find it hard to believe, but I have once again sliced my index finger open, not once, but twice during cooking adventures and it is quite painful to type at my usual unfathomable rate. Additionally, I have a vindicitive little bitch of a cat who has a favorite activity of prying off my laptop keys and then mutilating them beyond any hope that I might snap them back into place. She also hates books. So you all better be grateful every time you see any of the following:

a 1 e = ,

and their associated shift characters, respectively. Anyways.

I have already mentioned my brief stay in the mental health facility, and perhaps you might be wondering, "I wonder what happened after that!" (! is 1's shift character, so you owe me one hail mary)

Well since you asked, after my enjoyable holiday at "High Pointe" The extra e makes it a classy jointe, I decided that what I wanted to do the most in the world, was become a massage therapist, and attend the internationally respected Blue Cliff College of Lafayette Louisiana. I moved into my fathers rent house in the even more respected and quaint town of Eunice, with attractions such as the snow cone stand in the music store, wal-mart and local gem of a bar "the purple peacock" Not a gay bar. I dont think.

My first priorities after moving to a new place, was to make friends, do well in school, lose weight and pursue some hobbies. So obviously I started playing online video games, gained 10 lbs, shaved my hair into a really really lame mohawk and drank oh I dont know, a 12 pack of budweiser every night.

I will say that for all of its merits, any town where more than a handful of people believe that lying down and taking a nap by the side of a road is a good way to spend your free time, is probably not the best town to make new friends in. In fact, people in this town did a lot of horizontal posturing, as shown by my poor concerned mother standing for hours in the laundromat who's otherwise ample seating was occupied by 3-4 gargantuan townies who napped peacefully as their moo moos and shower caps tumbled through the gentle cycle. Others were simply so foreign to me I was stupified into silence during encounters. Once while walking my dog in my lovely neighborhood, I nearly lost control of my sweet lab pointer mix because as we rounded the bend, we came upon 5-6 grown men in a front yard, dressed head to hood in camo, with a smallish deer missing most of its skin hung by its backlegs onto (I hope) one of their offspring's elmo swingset. I figured we probably didn't have a lot in common and kept walking.

This was also a town wherein upon seeking help for my (already diagnosed) case of bronchitis at the town ER, was given a pepcid AC and told to wait 20 minutes for drug interactions. I digress.

Many of the adventures I undertook while living in Louisiana imbibe themes of previous childhood humiliation blog entries, for instance, trying to reinvent myself into someone worth knowing. On a health kick, I had decided to become vegan and take up smoking. It wasn't cool enough to just smoke the things, I wanted to roll them too. The only problem being that the only thing I knew how to roll, was a big fat splif. I was also of the just shy age of 20, my birthday being in november. So I cleverly solved this problem by simply converting the 11-9-84 of my drivers license to 1-9-84 with blue sharpee. I would then go to bars where terrible bands played and look introspective while sitting at the bar, smoking my big fat splif cigarettes, reading some god awfully depressing poetry, and guzzling whiskey. Needless to say, the only friend I made that way was the tooth-missing bar fly who waddled up with his voice full of hope and said "HAY You smokin ganja in here!?" Our friendship just wasn't one made to stand the test of time I suppose.

I also tried to get into the tagging scene by creating a crappy television shaped stencil and sneaking around like one shady son-of-a-bitch in downtown lafayette with my backpack and wifebeater. I only had the balls to spray one half of one stencil on, before chickening out and just getting drunk.

For the most part, however, my time was taken up by playing a little game called "WORLD OF WARCRAFT," Wherein I frolicked about the mythical land of Azeroth as an azure blue troll, who incidentally also had a mohawk, and shot various forest creatures with my bow and arrow for hours, and hours, and hours while, IRL, I sat drinking heavily in a par of XXL pink floyd "dark side of the moon" sweatpants my mother hesitantly purchased for me at the local wal mart. She had always reluctantly let me dress myself. Thanks mom. I think. Anyways, my world of warcraft career spans so much time that unfortunately there will probably be multiple entries involving my escapades in Azeroth, and I figure its getting kind of late.

Its really quite a miracle I made it out of this period in my life, and it just goes to show, when you find yourself with dykey mohawk, crying in your empty house every day, everything is going to be ok. It really is.

On being the better man

I hope you all feel lucky, because I had a very serious injury while laboriously attempting to chop up a butternut squash last night, and my index finger is causing me considerable distress. I'm thinking of calling AFLAC. In spite of my disability, I find myself stranded on this icy Thursday and I thought perhaps telling you all a story would serve me better than my current activity of shoveling Mike and Ikes, (Tropical Typhoon), into my mouth while checking my empty email inbox over and over.

Let's face it. As we go about our daily lives, we often encounter people who "just have it coming." The douche-bag*(see bottom) who cuts you in line at your local blockbuster, or swipes the last snow shovel from your grandma, or the Biff in the Ed Hardy bejeweled long sleeve t-shirt who loudly points out the unattractive fat girl just trying to get a fucking drink.

We all have to deal with these people and sometimes, just sometimes, we are tempted to take our sweet revenge, especially when a tantalizing opportunity to teach them their lesson presents itself. But two jerks don't make a right, and we should really be striving to turn the other cheek, so to speak, mainly because the cost of taking such action can often outweigh the benefits of your savory vengeance. Case in point.

When I was a kid, I was lucky enough to get to go to summer camp most years. I loved camp--the teachers of the school year are replaced by horny college students who have little interest in your actual obedience and you get to swim and ride horses. At church camp, however, there are sometimes those counselors who are not cool, and in fact are the nosy moms of campers who wear really high cut jeans and look disapproving at least 75% of the time.

In addition, kids don't just magically lose their inherent meanness after memorial day and twelve is a terrible age for a girl who didn't mature at a freakish rate because of the massive amounts of growth hormones consumed in our chicken nuggets. At the same time, twelve is also a notorious year for BOY CRAZY, during which the girls develop ridiculous crushes on little boys who want nothing more than to throw dirt at each other and play with GI JOES. This odd mismatch causes a lot of problems.

Anyways, there was this dreamy boy I went to camp with during the summer of twelve, and by dreamy I mean he had a mysteriously shaved head and was the all around badass of the capture the flag course. I was stricken. Thus, you can imagine my excitement when before chapel one day, he called me over to talk to him! I was floating on my flip flops. Unfortunately, my happiness quickly turned to horror, as he began to recite a sonnet he had composed in my honor, to the uproarious belly laughs of my peers (Yet again):

"Roses are red,

Violets are black,

I'm sorry your chest,

is as flat as your back"

Aside from being confused about the obviously false statement that violets are in fact black, and not violet, I was humiliated. I looked down in misery at the great plane that was the front of my kool-aid stained t-shirt, and promptly ran away and cried.

So being young and naive, when the opportunity for justice presented itself, I seized on the reins ands whipped those ponies until the wagon wheels fell off.

The monkey bars are a true test of playground prowess at almost any age. Only the strong survive. The unfortunate incident of the chapel poetry reading was old news by camp standards by the time I found myself playing on the same piece of playground equipment as my clever lyricist. We were all taking turns climbing on the top of the monkey bars and leaping mightily to the ground. Yet again I was at the mercy of the cruel man-child, who had posted up directly in front of me, and refused to let me pass or jump off.

I had had enough of these shenanigans. Luckily my flat chest allowed my arms free movement and I flung them out and shoved the would-be poet. To my horror, he lost his balance and toppled over the side of the monkey bars. I wish I could say that was the end of the story, but this particular set of monkey bars had an additional pull up bar, about halfway down the side of it. So adding to my dismay, and most assuredly his dismay, his body managed to flail its way to position one leg on either side of said pull-up bar, firmly lodging it into his fledgling testicles. Gravity then took its final course, and he landed directly on this wrist in the dirt, as children circled laughing, and little tattle tales flew like the wind to give me up to the authorities.

Did this kid deserve it? Well, he definitely deserved some form of punishment, but I'm not sure he deserved a trip to the hospital at the tender age of twelve to have his business extracted from the body cavity. And as a result of my violent action, the previously mentioned super high pants wearing mom counselor attempted to convince the camp director that I was a sociopath and needed to be sent home. (Apparently I threw the kickball too aggressively as well). Perhaps worst of all, I was forever more known at summer camp, even in the following years, as the girl who ripped little jimmy's balls off.

So before you get back at someone for their insolent behavior, consider being the better man. It may save you an embarrassing nick name.

** I just learned that spell check does not accept douchebag as a proper English word, but you may become grammatically appropriate by cleverly placing a hyphen between the bag and the douche.)

On making mistakes

Recently I've been reading a book on yoga that I was given this christmas and the author talks a lot about action and consequences. We all know, at least theoretically, that every action has a consequence, whether it be positive, negative, violent or even just slightly uncomfortable. The whole point of talking about it, is that we should be striving to be present in every action we carry out, carefully considering what the effects of our action will be. I'm highly in favor of this approach, even though none of us are very good at it.

I would like to motivate you somewhat, with...you guessed it...a story. A story about certain types of actions, and their consequences.

Sometimes when we act, we act out of anger or excitement, possibly we act out of ignorance. I'd like to take you once again, to the more hilarious period in my life known as "childhood," specifically to a unremarkable day in second grade (there it is again). My mom worked a lot when we were young, and as a single mother, had to do things-- dirty, shameful things, such as putting us in the smelly afterschool program at the elementary school. Well lets be fair here, I tortured my sister so much she couldn't handle babysitting me anymore.

The afterschool program took place in the gymnasium, where we were kept like a bunch of monkeys, and thrown snacks and jumpropes and other various toys we could fight over. All in all we were remarkably unsupervised, and the dodgeball could get pretty ugly.

Adding yet again to your mental picture of me as a child, you may add "freakishly small," to the list. Freakishly small, yes, timid, no. There was a sixth grade boy, (I've always had problems with men), who was bragging about how high he could jump. Knowing physics at an early age, I began to badger him in a very whiny voice about how he was full of shit (doo doo).

"NUH UH, I CAN JUMP SO HIGH I CAN JUMP OVER YOUR HEAD, SHRIMP!"

ok. Now we have a problem. This is the part where your action will determine the outcome of the situation. Unfortunately I took the low road and replied,

"I'd like to see you try, idiot!"

What a stupid bully, that guy didn't understand the subtle nuances of verbal taunting. I didn't want to literally watch him attempt to jump clear over my head, because unless his parents had been forcing him to train for the olympics, it was sure to end in disaster. I realized my mistake early on and began to think of an exit strategy.

Children are pretty simple so my exit strategy was: turn around and run the other direction. The difference in size between a tiny shriveled second grader, and an overcompensating bully type sixth grader is pretty substantial. Everything turned to slow motion. I was pumping my tiny legs as fast as I could, but I could hear the horrendous thud of his light up nike sneakers gaining fast. It was cheetah vs antelope, and the cheetahs only goal was to clear the top of my head.

This would not be the first time physics would flatten me. He was going for it. I imagine his sneakers sparkled tiny red lights upon the forceful contact with the back of my skull, and as I fell face first onto the gymnisum floor, I thought to myself "Told you you couldn't do it."

My victory was short-lived however, since my chin had exploded on impact. I spent the next hour or so watching the gigantic bubble where my chin had been grow to enormous proportion. It resembled something like a biodome, and I imagine there could have been tiny Pauli Shores and rare species of fern co-habitating there.

SO anyways. I blame the ridiculous story of David and Goliath for giving me false impressions on the probability of success when combating larger opponents. Sometimes its a good idea to shut your shrimp mouth, and listen to those animal instincts.

Perspective

It is always a useful exercise to imagine your current situation from new perspectives. We all have the tendency to assume that someone else is seeing the same situation in the same way, and it can cause all sorts of problems like extreme road rage, or unwelcome and awkward romantic advances.

Like everyone, I've gone through a few very dark periods in my life and I've learned that even the most despairing situation can seem a little better when you change your perspective, even momentarily.

I won’t go too far into detail here, because the story is rather sad and not as funny as I'd like it to be. However, the experiences I gained from this sad story are as priceless as gold, which is about 1100 dollars an ounce right now, I think. Anyways, I have always struggled with a bit of mental instability, which probably doesn't surprise you considering the spike clowns, bedwetting and teeth grinding. Anyways, there was a very rough period where I couldn't seem to control myself and, long story short; I ended up in an in-patient mental health treatment facility.

If ever you are feeling crazy, or depressed, or have the feeling that you can’t seem to function correctly, I invite you to visit one of these facilities. From the minute that I awoke from my one and a half day, drug induced coma, I realized a few things:

a) I am not at all crazy

b) It is a terrible thing to be crazy

c) Many people caring for crazy people are they themselves, crazy.

The halls were painted various shades of circus-themed colors, which given my history with clowns and my current suicidal state, I didn't enjoy so much. I recently discovered a few pieces of notebook paper that I scrawled on during my stay there, shoved into an old journal. One of the pages contained the following analysis.

"...As if they think the bright colors will make us feel less like killing ourselves and others. Let's hope it works"

Adding to your mental picture of this particular place, each room shared a suite-style bathroom with the adjoining room. Now, perhaps this doesn’t sound too strange. Quite normal. Like college right?!

I had checked in, and was moved to my own room under cover of darkness. When nature called, I made my way to the bathroom and peered in. I instantly shut the door tightly, because the door on the other side of the bathroom was wide open! If you've ever seen Girl Interrupted, or One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest, you can imagine why I was (yet again) absolutely terrified of using the bathroom. There could be a full on psychopath sharing my bathroom, who perhaps would have an irrational fear of toilet flushes, or maybe even a violent way of saying hello, the possibilities really were endless, and I wasn't about to reach my hand and the better part of my arm into a crazy person's room to close the door. On top of that none of the doors in this place lock. Cool.

My fear was reinforced by "group therapy" the following day. "Group Therapy" consisted of sitting in a circle while a nurse's assistant asked us three questions.

1) How are you feeling today?

2) Any suicidal thoughts today?

3) Any homicidal thoughts today?

I was pretty zoned out until I heard this combination. "Pretty good; yes; yes." I later saw the same fellow leaving on a weekend pass to visit his family. Hope that went ok!

Anyways, my story now takes you to the common room, in which there was a TV which was never turned off of the MTV Hip Hop station. I found out why shortly. All of the chairs in this place where specialty items specifically designed to prevent their use as weapons, i.e. extremely heavy. Like, I couldn't move them...at all. There was a man/boy who was always in the common room and would spontaneously drop into pushups at the command of some unheard drill sergeant, and also (much to my entertainment) knew all of the dance moves to the most popular rap songs of the day. Since they wouldn't let me continue sleeping my existence away, I was enjoying music videos against my will this day, stopping occasionally to glare at the nurses’ station and imagine their violent deaths.

One of the other patients decided he had had enough of the rap music. A channel change. No big deal right? I mean, sometimes in suburbia this could result in a severe Indian burn or a wedgie or perhaps even a passive aggressive silent treatment, but the mental hospital is a different world. Our spontaneous push-up guy was not in favor of a change, and roared with rage. To my utter disbelief, he effortlessly picked up one of the chairs which had to have been made of lead, and threw it at the other patient. The channel was promptly changed back and our guy happily went back to push-ups. So if you want to be able to throw retardedly heavy objects, do a lot of pushups, I guess.

I made a mental note and continued to stare blankly at the wall until our hip hop loving friend decided he wanted to be my friend. Previous to my stay at this lovely facility, I had spontaneously shaved my head, and currently looked like either a really sad lesbian, or perhaps a political prisoner falsely accused of smuggling heroin in Thailand.

So anyways, my super strong companion sat next to me and struck up a conversation. Important lesson: even men who are completely out of their minds will still try to hit on you. So while my hands sweat profusely, he turns and regards me carefully for a minute and then looks me dead in the face and says quite seriously,

"You ever think about growing out your hair?"

no shit.

That is a refreshing perspective. So perhaps next time you look in the mirror, and whisper all sorts of hateful things to yourself, either because you see every flaw, or every mistake that has brought you to your current physical or mental state, you should stop and imagine how a schizophrenic, super-buff bachelor (or bachelorette), who spends every sad day of his life in a circus themed prison, might see you.