Friday, December 9, 2011

Unhealthy Procrastination

Disclaimer. This is gross, personal, and more graphic than you’d like.

Some people can’t help but push things to the limit. Lance Armstrong did it when he won his bicycle race thing and sold all those bracelets. Michael Phelps pushed it to the limit when he won all those gold medals AND he was stoned. And as I recall the Wildcat Basketball team had a whole musical number about doing just that in that one High School Disney movie.

And then we have people like Steve-O, who take things dangerously close. Physically painfully (and unnecessarily) so.

My attempts to do this in the inspiring athlete way have since landed me in the Jackass category.

When it comes to physical injury, putting it off in no way classifies one as a bad ass.

But I do it anyway.

I pushed right on through and ignored shattered and dislocated ribs, fractured feet and ankles, torn menisci, kidney failure, car wrecks, cuts that needed stitches, and most recently, and perhaps most revoltingly, toenails that reached a whole new level.

Close friends (the few and the proud – only the closest had the dishonor and privilege of seeing these things) relentlessly made fun of me for how disgusting they were, begged me to seek help.

The problems started a little over a year ago when I started working retail – a short-lived career path. They made me wear footwear; a garment I’d not been required to wear in any lifeguarding capacity. So I donned my little flats, or my little boots, or whatever, and I hated them more deeply than just as unsightly. They were murder on my feet, and before long the nails had a thick yellow quality. They’d been stepped on, abused, and before long I had blood pooling beneath them.

I care not.

One day which I do not remember one of the big nails just fell off, and I was left a 9-toenailed freak. My solution to this problem was to just paint the skin, no one will notice I reasoned. A new, deformed toenail had begun growth in it's stead; from death comes life.

I’d been growing this thick, repulsive nub of a toenail for almost a full year; caked-on nail polish was my self-prescribed solution to the problem of it’s apparently mangled 23rd chromosome. Granted it was disgusting, but at least I was beginning to move back up the ranks to 10-toenailed person.

And then, tragedy struck.

I could feel the magic would not last. Out of nowhere in particular (no event I can pinpoint) it started bleeding. Not a happy toenail. I could feel it commencing to separate from it’s fleshy counterpart. The pain became so intense that I could not even sleep that night. Around the chilly, dew-kissed hour of four in the goddamn morning I decided it was time: action had to be taken. I’d had a full, relatively painless year to take action; but I thought it’d be fun to wait til right now. When it came to this.

A few, calm hours of pain-killer induced sleep welcomed horror upon their end. Doctor time.

One look at that thing and he informed me, without hesitation, of the imperative amputation or removal or whatever.

It was like a scene from Hostel.

I’m sitting on the little table with my feet straight out in front of me and he puts on his latex gloves. He takes what strikes me as an obscenely large needle and starts stabbing it in my toe with reckless abandon. Striking nerves and inducing more pain than he was relieving.

He vanishes for a moment and returns with his tray of utensils, torture instruments, pain implementers. Sharp, shiny metal scissors, gauze, tape, miniature steel ice picks, a surgical, curved wedge.

Before my very eyes he takes his ice pick and starts shoving it vigorously underneath the top of my nail. That doesn’t quite do the trick. He takes his menacing curved talon and starts DIGGING MY NAIL OUT FROM THE CUTICLE.

It’s separating, and bleeding, and clinging to it’s bed by thick, white tendrils that look a lot like I imagine tendons do, which he severs vehemently with his shears. Blood spurts from the openings and drips down the naked toe. What once housed a symmetrical, feminine (ha), painted nail was now a war zone. An open sore, bleeding and distorted, remnants of nail, flesh, and otherwise served as but memories of the casualties. What remains? A bloody, naked, nail-less, sad sad little stump.

Let this be a lesson to you. Don’t procrastinate.

Monday, October 17, 2011

The Donkey Encounter

Who doesn’t love a good family outing?

I sure didn’t. Family time during my adolescence usually involved a lot of educational speeches, intense physical exertion or even labor, and more than likely ended with someone in tears.

One time on a family vacation my father decided a good way to pass the 4 hour car ride was to put me on trial for not putting chlorine in the pool when I said I would or something to that effect. My mother was the judge, my dad the prosecution, I represented myself as the defendant, and my sisters served as the (incredibly biased – sibling rivalry can be an ugly thing) jury of my peers. The trial ended with me convulsing in sobs of self-pity, trapped in the confines of a moving vehicle with the very people who openly attacked me. (My dad later cheered me up by letting me pick a dead and dismembered pigeon out of the car grill with a stick.)

Or the time on yet another long car ride my ever-playful father invented a game where each person was to act like another family member; which quickly snowballed into a game called “capitalize on everyone’s deepest character flaws and exploit them mercilessly.”

Those were the best times of my life.

These, my fondest memories.

It was an occasion like this – seemingly fun but unbearable at the time – that this drama unfolds.

We were no strangers to Red Rock. My dad is a bit of a celebrity in the climbing world and often times the family would rise bright and early to embark on a hike of his choosing. We would attempt to start the trek with optimism; my little sister Emily charging ahead while bragging about how fast she was, how easy the hike was. My mother strode along, soaking up the nature, pointing out wildlife – “Ooh girls, Larry, look! Is that a roadrunner?!” “No, that’s a tumbleweed.”

Fast forward 3 miles.

Emily’s now riding atop my fathers shoulders, blaming her fatigue on the terrain and not her high-heeled sparkly sketchers. Valerie and I are trudging bitterly, complaining to each other in hushed tones, sometimes singing marching songs to keep us going. Mom is in the back, clutching my dad’s hand screeching “Larry! Larry!” as she struggled to conquer the rocky decline with her sub-par depth perception.

A beautiful family portrait.

By the time we reach the car we’re all in silence. Nothing left to say to each other, driving down the winding one-way road, my sisters and I yearning for the comfort of home. The sooner the better.

This is not a good time for traffic to come to a halt, so of course it does. A long line of cars and nowhere to go.

Please don’t suggest playing courtroom, please don’t suggest playing courtroom I silently pled.

We round a curve at a pace that causes me to notice a desert tortoise passing us. The perpetrator of the hold up is in my sights. A donkey in the road, and an unending line of Asian tourists stopping to take photos of the desert native. A novelty to them, an atrocity to me. We approach the ass, inch by inch, one car at a time, until we’re almost home free.

The donkey is clearly enjoying his celebrity status. He’s not moving from the middle of the road, he’s within arms reach even.

Did this stop us? It did not. My dad accelerates toward the beckoning horizon, showing little concern about the large animal obstructing our path to it.

Crash. Bang. The donkeys head hits right on the passenger side of the windshield.

Screams from my mother. Wails from my little sister. Explosive laughter from me in the backseat. Many, many Asian middle fingers seeing us off. My father, wordless, smirking. One half second totally justifying the hike which had so drained me.

Sometimes, you have to go through hell to have a little excitement.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

The Worst Day of My Life

I remember it vividly. I was probably three or four years old and I was at swim lessons.

I took the classes with the love of my life; Matt Something. I liked his little golden bowl cut and his 5 year old masculinity.

Swim lessons, however, I hated with a passion. I was the youngest, and the slowest, and the most afraid. I didn’t like the water, I didn’t like the way the water felt in my ears, I didn’t like competing because I didn’t like losing, which I managed to do every time without fail. The only thing I was good at was being the last one to retrieve a starburst from the depths.

The worst part was I was in the same class as my sister, and she was fearless. She dove beneath the surface with reckless abandon, awkward and gangly limbs flailing, beating all the boys to the other side.

I hated her, too. She made me look slow in front of Matt.

My only salvation was the popsicle we were sometimes gifted at the end of class, which I savored on the deck, recovering from the trauma I just endured. A consolation popsicle.

So this one day Valerie is effortlessly experiencing a particularly excellent class, whilst I struggle to maintain respiratory obligations at the very least. I’m left behind in every game, every race, every dive through the stupid yellow hula hoop. I come up empty handed in the starburst event, despite everyone else’s abundant spoils.

I am not happy.

The class mercifully ended and I was standing on the deck wrapped up in my towel.

I decide I’m going to tell Matt I like him. That will make me feel better after this demoralizing lesson. I’ll just tell him I like him and he’ll tell me he loves me too and he wants to marry me. That’ll work.

I scope him out sitting on the grass with a few of the other, less attractive little boys.

“Matt, I like you," I managed to choke out. Very poetic.

“Oh. I like Valerie”

I don’t know if the sound I heard was my heart shattering or my blood pressure reaching a hundred million. I turned as diplomatically as I could and ran somewhere to pop a squat and cry.

The adults must’ve sensed my agony because I was then told I would be receiving a popsicle.

There is a god.

Wrong again.

When presented with said popsicle I was horrified to realize the one with which I had been bestowed was grape flavored.

Nasty, purple, reject grape. The slow sister of popsicles. In my depression over this discovery I hung my head in sorrow and despair. It was at this point that I noticed a stinging sensation on my knee. I opened my eyeball to see HALF OF AN ANT STICKING OUT OF MY KNEE.

It was only half of an ant because the other half was INSIDE MY KNEE SUCKING OUT MY BLOOD.

Terrified, I brushed my knee with my hand in attempt to dislodge my attacker. Instead, I succeeded only in breaking the ant in half, leaving the other half inside my knee where I’m sure it still remains.

I sat on the floor somewhere and cried while my sister flirted with my one true love. I vowed I would never forget this day as it was the worst day of my young life. And the worst day it remained.

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

i should hire someone to think of titles.

Everyones favorite week of the year is here, and while all the cool kids are off getting drunk on the beach, I'm kickin it in Virginia with my sister Val and her husband Jake.

I try not to make anything on here too personal because I'm not kim kardashian and nobody cares about my life. Even though I've probably accomplished more than she has. My sisters idiot dog who can't even urinate outside has accomplished more than she has.

I digress. The point is that being somewhere new, and being forced to partake in things Val enjoys (I shouldn't say forced; whatever makes Valerie happy truly makes me happy, just totally NOT my style) provides for a wide variety of new things to observe. Observation leads to thinking, thinking leads to writing, and writing leads to this.

So, with my hosts in bed and nothing to do at night, extensive writing will ensue.


Flight at 6 am. The last time I was up this early was probably in high school. The airport is packed, I'm half asleep, I dont know where the B gates are because I've never flown east.
I get to the front of security.
"Ma'am step up to the right please"
I step up.
"The other right" (which was actually left.)

good start.

Now I get to put all my stuff in the little taupe colored boxes. I decide against taking my 349075028 bracelets off but I do take off my belt. Apparently I thought THAT was gonna be the thing that would set off the alarms. Like I said; half asleep.

I'm standing waiting for the fat little ray of sunshine on the other side of the metal detector to motion me through, but I am interrupted by the guy on the other side of the conveyer belt.
"You gotta get your stuff through the scanner" he says to me.

Ok, for those who are unfamiliar with airports, the boxes in which you put your carry-on items to be scanned are to be placed on a long conveyer belt, halfway made up of a series of little rolling cylinders, halfway made up of an automatic belt like in grocery stores. My box was like, .01 nanometers away from the electronic part.

He seriously could not have nudged it for me? Luckily he had enough energy to alert me of the situation. It's 5 in the morning. Thanks, douchebag.
My stuff went through and they concluded that I was indeed NOT a terrorist, but as I put my shoes back on I noticed a man with whom lady luck was not so generous. I watched in empathetic, disgusted amusement as the pretentious tsa agent felt up a guy who looked like he was on his way to Disneyland with his family.
America: 0
Terrorists: 1

I could go on and on about the airport but let's skip to the part where I land in Virginia.
Val and Jake picked me up...blah blah blah...boring sister stuff that you'd care a lot more about if our names were Kim and Khloe..........and THEN
she made me watch The Bachelor.

Is it real? seriously. is it?

All of these women compete for a guys "love" over the course of 6 weeks, and then BREAK DOWN AND CRY WHEN THEY GET REJECTED?
uhhh. k. where do I even begin.

The bachelor hooks up with all of these different girls, "gets to know them" (hahahaha) and then chooses one to whom he proposes marriage. And right before said proposal, he sees another girl who has met his family and is all dolled up, tells her he has real feelings for her and can't deny the spark, but he's in love with someone else. ?!?
And then she cries, because girls are stupid.

Then he confesses his undying "love" for the chosen one, and she is glowing with excitement and adoration, after STARING INTO THE FACES OF THE OTHER GIRLS ON THE SHOW DAY AFTER DAY AFTER DAY KNOWING THAT HES BEEN DOING THE SAME THING WITH THEM.
And then she accepts, because girls are STUPID.

I can sum that show up in one word: it starts with 'p' and rhymes with synthethic - just like all of those people's personalities.

turds with friends

Now trending among smartphone users: a game that has been around forever but not popularized among the younger generations until it was modified to a version on which the mentally insufficient could easily cheat.

For the most part, people write the same way that they talk. I definitely do, I usually sound like I'm speaking in verse; be it Shakespeare or a rap song. This is how I know for a fact that people are googling the letters they have and picking a word.

I don't want to play with any of you back-handed low-life scum. As soon as you put in a word that I have never heard you say, I know you're cheating, and I've already won.

Besides, words with friends is really only popular in the first place because people can play it while they're sitting on the toilet. Sit your ass down at the table and play scrabble like a man.

NOW WHO WANTS TO PLAY ME??? thug.nasty.

Friday, February 25, 2011


to anyone who reads this: thank you.

to anyone who enjoys it: you're welcome.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

through the looking glass

Today changed my life forever.

Not really. But I guess you could say I had a check off my "bucket list" (can anyone even hear those words without thinking of that movie with Morgan Freeman? I haven't even seen that movie and I think of it every time) except I didn't know it was on my bucket list (Morgan Freeman) until it happened.

I was stuck in standstill traffic, which usually makes me want to claw people to death starting with their eyes and ending with the soles of their feet, when something happened that made me grateful for the few seconds of stagnation that gave me the time to absorb as much as I could.

I pulled up right next to a girl driving my exact same car.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with my car because of the stereotype that comes with it; I do not relate to the typical "bug driver" and I almost resent being put in that category. Luckily, the windows on the other girl's car were just as clear as both my own windows, and the reassuring proof that I definitely DO NOT fall into that category. Even in the little blue monster.

Her bug is in mint condish; paint perfect, all 4 original rims, clean as a whistle, shiny silver license plate frame, flowers in her little dashboard vase. Immaculate. Adorable.
She's in there in her cute little outfit juggling her phone and her mascara, her nails all did, writing in her rhinestone planner with the glitter pen she took out of her giant pink purse. Feminine and put-together. She was probably listening to something by Taylor Swift. Or kesha. Or some other popular pathetic girl singer.

And then there's me. Staring at her. Wearing more of my roommates clothes than my own. My bug looks like it just got back from Nam. The paint has sun damage from never being in a garage. Caked with dirt. Busted headlight. Rims from walmart that are spray-painted black, the vase is empty except for a leaf and some trash. I'm trying to listen to tech9 but my water bottle just spilled all over the passenger seat, totally drenching my ipod making everything sound like distant static. And now traffic's moving. And I'm trying to fix the sound. And soak up the water. And shift gears. And watch bizzarro Madeline, who seems to be unphased by all the commotion transpiring on my side of the black hole.

And then she drove down Paradise and out of my life.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

the colossal superbowl catastrophe of 2011

The truth is that the halftime show is included in the Superbowl only to give wives, girlfriends, and other viewers that, for whatever reason, feel forced to watch football a brief intermission from pretending to be interested in the game. It also gives fans a chance to list all the mistakes the teams are making (why do they hire coaches when the fans are so much more knowledgeable?)
That does not mean that the halftime show shouldn't be awesome, though, because the Superbowl is a fairly big deal to many Americans and the exposure is huge; the talent of the performers should be at least equivalent to that of the players.

ie: NOT the Black Eyed Peas.

Synthesizing microphones, flashing electronic light-up costumes, bedazzled microphones, and hundreds of glowing back up dancers were still not enough to distract from the total lack of virtuosity among the headliners.

The four group members just congregated in the middle of the stage moving in sporadic, unsynchronized flailing gyrations and wailing like tortured animals, relying on their autotuners to correct their many vocal mistakes and their shiny LED ensembles to trick audiences into misinterpreting their chaotic motions as choreographed dance.

Slash's solo was cool for about three seconds until Fergie invaded his personal space screeching out Sweet Child Of Mine in a nasal whine that would send Fran Drescher running, and giving a disturbing visual demonstration of what an overpaid 40 year old Jezebel with the stage presence of Terry Schiavo looks like.
If Fergie ever had a "prime," she is way past it.

Usher's appearance was a relative highlight (albeit a short one; less than 2 minutes out of the 13 minute ordeal), though his support of that one preteen girl with Gender Identity Disorder does cost him points in the 'respect' category.

Conversely, consider Michael Jackson's 1993 haltime show. One man, a few fireworks, and a handful of backup dancers no one was watching anyway. Dancing like his body was made of music itself, while singing so melodically his own recording was put to shame. The man conjured more excitement standing in silence letting his moment build than the Black Eyed Sleaze managed to elicit in an entire overly-elaborate show.

Other than that, Greenbay won.

Sunday, February 6, 2011

who preys on the predator?

I have always missed out on the funnest shit because I've been sick.

Parties, field trips, concerts, swim meets, sleepovers, hanukkah, christmas, the 8th grade disneyland trip, physics day, field day, MY OWN BIRTHDAY.

I even got to stay home sick when I was homeschooled.
and I have seen every episode of the Price is Right.

Just take a minute to think about how often you use your cell phone. So much more often than you think. What else do you have that you take with you every where you go? Its always on-hand.

After going through 7 or 8 phones in a single year I've gained an insight into this profound dependency we have on our phones. Explore a couple of the conundrums in which I found myself during the dark periods...

For the love of god, what time is it. Someone tell me. Who wears a watch? How do people know what time it is without a phone? Especially in the winter, when the sun goes down at 4 p.m. and the senior citizens flocking to the buffet at Arizona Charlies feel like they're eating dinner at a normal hour, it's not easy to read the sky. I didn't even know people actually used watches to tell time until my phone broke. I just thought they were there to look flashy and establish some kind of hierarchy among CEOs and rappers.

And do people still buy alarm clocks? I was under the impression that those were a thing of the past. How do people wake up in the morning? My only decent idea was to set an online alarm, which failed miserably almost every time. You don't think about these things until they slap you in the face. Kind of like the Law.

WHICH brings me to the meat.

Chris Hansen (Dateline) is, quite probably, the ultimate sexual predator. He has to be. He is trusted by EVERYONE. He is the face of justice in that department; their Covergirl. Even I trust that guy.

But I don't trust that guy.
It makes too much sense that he created his whole show just to ensure his own security. That man is a sociopath.

But as much as I love that show, I can't help but focus on the deeper issue.

The fact that "we the people" have had to constitute and enforce laws prohibiting the solicitation of sex from a minor, AKA a 13 year old girl who's DTF, is nothing short of totally demoralizing. These "predators" who took n'syncs "digital digital get down" a little too seriously are not hardened criminals. They're not masterminds or thugs or aggressive or violent even in the slightest. They're fucking pussies.
I'm not saying that what they're doing isn't totally criminal or disgusting, because it is.
But this is a crime we have brought upon ourselves.
Somewhere out there, there are real 13 year old girls who are really having sex with 40 year old men they met online.


What the hell kind of lives do these girls have? Perhaps instead of focusing on cleaning up the ashes we should first put out the fire.
In a perfect world that would be a beautiful metaphor, but unfortunately there are no laws about instilling sound morals in your children. But there should be.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

aaaaaand we're back

did you miss me?

i'm back on this blogging kick, complete with this sweet new layout for all you aesthetic types, so go ahead and eat your heart out.

in honor of my return, i would like to play a little game i like to call what is both the best and the worst show on television?

and the answer is obviously Dog the Bounty Hunter.