A Snore-ibble Night

As my hillbilly relatives have pretty much no houses among them, my grandmother invited my mom, sister and I to stay in her one-bedroom, two-room apartment for the night. My sister and I slept head-to-head on blow-up mattresses that were crammed into the kitchen.



My grandmother, thinking she was sparing us, slept on the couch. It was all good until like eleven o' clock.



Suddenly, this horrible noise began emitting from my grandmother's mouth. This is a woman who has pretty much been fortified on chicken-fried vegetables and bad meat her whole life, so her farts are colossal and sound like they're forming words, so it shouldn't have come as surprise that she snored like the dickens. It sounded like she was simultaneously dying, choking, and snorting Campbell's Chunky soup through her nose.



It went on like this for a couple hours, till about 1:00. My sister and I tossed and turned uncomfortably, trying to get comfortable on mattresses which incidentally also
made farting noises every time you rolled over. My grandmother snored on, oblivious and happily asleep, with her nostrils and lips flapping and emitting train-whistles and ship foghorns.



We lay like this for what seemed like forever. Time was sucked into an unfathomable loop of oblivion. It was as if we were Odysseus in the time of the sirens and we had to find some way to avoid the horrible keening animal-death noises. I tried stuffing my own hair in my ear, and, when that predictably failed, curling up my head in the blanket like a burrito. My mom, blissfully asleep, was using a noisemaker, but to me the noisemaker sounded like someone peeing off a cliff.

And then, around 2 or 3, Father Time decided to screw with us more. The couple upstairs was apparently young (although really? young people in a quaint country suburb named Whispering Woods?), because all of a sudden sexytime was happening. It sounded like an Irish jig coming from the ceiling. Also bad rap music.



My sister, who doesn't like my music, turned to me and pleaded for my iPod to spare her from the horribleness.



I suddenly felt this grim knowledge burst within me. Like I had discovered my meaning of life. I had been granted this iPod full of druggie songs, and, by God, I was going to use it like the weapon of awesomeness it was. I alone could save my sister and I, and in turn, save China. And Atlantis.



I went through the entire discography of Sufjan Stevens, Fleet Foxes, Mando Diao, Sigur Ros, and Blind Pilot, trying to find the trippiest, most calming music I could to lull my sister and I to sleep. We certainly felt high. But Gram's snores punctuated the music. She even snored to the beat, as if mocking us.

At fourish or so in the morning, I curled into a fetal ball and meekly accepted defeat.

THE INTERNET IS MY LIFE and when there's no new things i get sad and antsy

kaitlyn's certificate of bro-ness

the most winning fail

Driving and Why it Sucks

Counting today, four people have given me half a peace sign out their window,one's followed me and swore at me, one has followed me home to tell me not to be so suckish at life, I've had enough honks to sprinkle a birthday cake with, and several pictures taken of my bad parking jobs.

This does NOT make me a bad driver. I'd like to point out I STILL am alive. Also my passengers mainly survive, although that doesn't keep them from being sassy.





So, I'd like to take some time to celebrate all the lovely friends I've made on the road.



Driving and Why it Sucks:

Honking


You're turning right and there's a red light for two seconds and this happens:





Hearing a short light honk:





Hearing long multiple honks:





Police Cars

Once you get pulled over, you are scarred for life.

Driving in Dark:




Driving in Dark and the light behind you changes:





Today I ran into this guy:






I couldn't tell if he was a po po or if he just had serious douchetastical car bling. Seriously? Flashing tail and headlights in different colours? Who you tryin to fool, foo?

Those police cars that creep slowly behind you for miles:







Luckily I have devised a tried-and-true method for avoiding these flicker-offers and angry fat men who are delayed getting to their destination on time by two seconds and police cars that hunker down on roadsides threateningly, like a momma caribou.

Just avoid eye contact. And DON'T ROLL DOWN THE WINDOW.

Gingers

All I've ever wanted is to be a ginger and sing cutesy ukulele songs and become an internet sensation. Is that too much to ask? And adult Heelys. Also Matt Smith.

It is my personal belief that gingers are the luckiest species in the world. Seriously. Nothing ever goes wrong for those bitches. Here are some examples:

1. Ron Weasley
Gets the girl, has a famous best friend who saves the world AND is his brother in law, has a family of OTHER gingers...c'mon.





2. Katie
'Nuff said.



3. Amy Pond
Has Doctor Who as her best friend, AND Rory as her lover-man? Who created this universe of unfairness??





4. (formerly ginger) Charlie McDonnell (of Charlieissocoollike fame)
He MET Matt Smith and Arthur Darvill. Plus about a million girls would marry him on the spot.





Oh and don't even get me started on internet gingers! They seem to have a knack for getting celebrities to notice their awesome.






Meanwhile...

Attractive Restaurant Boy/Jim from Office

I'm replacing the place where I saw this person, just in case, god forbid, this person ever finds this. /awks/


This is a story I wrote at Ragdale (I'm typing it up from mah notebook). We were given 30 minutes, and our prompt was, 'free write about someone you recently talked to'. I felt a little creepy writing this honestly, but it made my Ragdale peers laugh buckets.

He turned towards the register and I was struck in the face immediately with the force of his glowy, tan skin and the sexy way he spoke, "Would you like your bagel toasted?"

Picture this like a Disney Channel movie. Only with class. All the brightness and fakeness of Disney, combined with the directing style of 500 Days of Summer, only with a scintillating plot. Also in a 30's-femme-fatale way.

I bust open the Frosty Mart door and walk in, spewing confidence like that bug-repellent stuff they spray over cornfields. Every eye in the place is on me, because seriously I am smoking. No. Literally. I have one of those fancy cigarette holder things twirling in my elegantly-done, vixen-red nails.

I tapdance over to the register, blonde hair in perfect ringlets, and as the swanky jazz music starts up, I lean casually against a wall.

Then. Attractive Frosty Mart Boy prances out of the darkness, in a spotlight, with a fedora. And in a low throaty voice he says,

"Ma'am. We are out of the pretzel bagels."

And then we foxtrot into the crimson sunset.

As you can imagine, this isn't how it happened. I waddled in awkwardly after my glamourous older friends, scruffy converse and poofy hair in all their glory, and waited casually in line, hoping Magical Jim Man wouldn't notice my face melting slowly into a colour rather like lobster bisque. He wasn't my type anyway. Boys who are attractive rarely are. I probably wasn't his type either---he probably had some lovely gorgeous ladyfriend back home, washing cars for cheerleading practice. Or maybe it was the complete opposite. Maybe he was supporting a family of seven on his Frosty Mart wage, huddling in corners and eating stale bagels to survive. I don't know, he COULD have had a bunch of kids, I couldn't tell how old he was---he had the kind of ageless look of David Bowie or Jesus. Sadly I will never know the answers to these questions because, as a lady, it is considered not classy to use bad pickup lines in a Frosty Mart. So I waddled back to Austin's car, sitting in back like a twelve year old and having my bagel handed to me like a six year old, pressing my hands wistfully against the glass window as the mystery of Magical Jim Man disappeared into the oblivion of time.