Only a true slacker genius could read my mind...

And create this...

http://www.readatwork.com/


It's an effing amazing site that allows you to read short fiction under the guise of working on all sorts of things. Best part! Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince" via powerpoint. GENIUS. The first I saw graphs whizz in, I almost pissed my terribly un-ergonomic work chair.

New Zealanders: Some day we will meet and I will tongue kiss you for this. That's right. DFK.

And The Creepiest Response Award Goes To....

in reference to my craiglist posting:


Yo [sic] seam [sic] like a very nice person! I sincerely hope the trucker sees your post and replies to you. I really think most women would be upset, close thier [sic] window and never open it again. I have been fortunate a couple times to see a women going about her business when she didn't know I could see her. I have never had the courage to honk or say anything because I thought I would be viewed as a creap [sic] and it my fauld [sic] for watching. I don't mean anything by it, but sometimes it happens. I like what I see and I don't turn my head. Does that make me a bad person? So, if he doesn't reply to you just remember you helped one person feel better about himself. If it happens to me again, maybe I'll say "thank you" to her for making my day a little better. Have a nice day!!! Tom

How I Slowly Move From Place To Place On The Internet

You Scared Me In My Bathroom - w4m - 24 (Capitol Hill)

Reply to: mailto:pers-732742994@craigslist.org?subject=You%20Scared%20Me%20In%20My%20Bathroom%20-%20w4m%20-%2024%20(Capitol%20Hill)Date: 2008-06-25, 5:21PM PDT

Me: At my sink, in my bathroom, in my 2nd floor apartment, washing my face, looking forward to a journey into slumber courtesy of Tylenol PM. Hair pulled back in scrunchy, face covered in exfoliant beads and water. Wearing Umbros from middle school and a bleach covered t-shirt.

You: Trucker of indiscriminate age, race, and appearance (my contacts were out) loitering at a red light on Bellevue and Denny, honking your big truck horn over and over and over. When I looked out the window, there you were, waving gleefully at me. I think you may have mouthed "hi" or maybe you said it and I just couldn't hear over the incessant honking. You could have stopped honking once I looked. I waved back at you and then we made awkward eye contact until the light changed and you drove away with a few final honks of appreciation for my nighttime cleansing routine. Don't worry, I don't think you're creepy... only lonely from long nights spent hauling goods across America. If you ever pass my street again, feel free to pull over and come on up. I won't have sex with you or touch you in any way, but I did just get cable OnDemand so we could watch Intervention and I can microwave you a chicken patty or something, and then you can watch me watch my face again because I guess it's pretty hot. But then you have to leave.

Location: Capitol Hill
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests



AND, one response I got:

"a little full of oneself perhaps?"


TROO

LASER DOG

Not photoshopped.

shit i will no longer tolerate by performers at local rock music concerts:

• "No" head while playing mediocre guitar riff. The self-doubt intimated by this gesture does not inspire confidence in your vision.
  
• The seizure march. Poorly attended. Alt country. Shoe gaze. Club show. NOT a Jewish wedding. Not even a quincinera.
• Referring to Seattle as "this town." Last time I checked the census, Seattle was a thriving metropolis with over one-half of one million people. And you, sir, are no John Cougar Mellencamp.

Shit I'm totally pro:

• "There will be beer" as a pun on "There will be blood."
  
• Starting your set off with "Who's gotta work tomorrow morning?!?"
  

out of fucking control

I'm stupid and don't know how to embed a video but please, please, please take the next one minute and 16 seconds of your life to watch this:

http://www.cyberthing.net/video-play.php?id=105

And don't waste you're time if you don't have sound, because you will not get the full effect.

That video was sent to me by my mother, with the subject line, "Maria, this made me sob" which is interesting because she hates animals. Whatever genius of editing sat at their computer matching up the swell of the music with the moment of climax is instantly the coolest person in the world in my book.

When shall we film the pathetic ladies version of this?

Our version complete with deciphering relationship statuses, decoding the mystery imagery of bro photos and deciding whether or not items listed in the "Favorite Music" category are ironic.

TFGIF!

A Sacred Promise

I hereby vow, on this 12th day of June, 2008 that:

IF I make it from THIS POINT in my life (24 years, 3 months, and 2 days) to June 12, 2034, at which point I will have reached the age of FIFTY (50), WITHOUT having a normal, adult relationship (constituted by a period of at least six months of partner-exclusive sex, sharing of emotions, and meeting one another's parents, if they are still alive) I agree to the following:

I shall tattoo two (2) SUNNY SIDE UP EGGS on my chest, one on each breast, with the nipple serving as yolk.

I shall tattoo one (1) long strip of bacon on my sternum, in between the two egg tattoos

I shall allow myself to be photographed for a period of seven (7) days

I shall then make my way to a beach of my choosing, discard my clothing, and walk slowly into the sea, never to be heard from again.

Reasons I am not exercising right now...

-It's sunny, but man, oh man, that wind! that wind! It could blow me over. Seriously, it's whistling!
-It was easier to take a shower--that's bending and standing, isn't it?
-Beer just tastes better than water.
-Now that i've showered, I can't get sweaty--that would be counterproductive.
-It's only Monday: I've got the rest of the week, don't I?
-I'm meeting someone in a hour and half--is this even enough time?
-I could read, that's an exercise for the mind.
-I could clean my toilet.
-The above activity took less than 1.5 minutes.
-I could clean my bathtub--but really, don't bathtubs just clean themselves when you shower? Think about it.
-I could vigorously dance naked to Cold War Kids.
-The above activity took 3:39 minutes. I took a break half way through.
-I could do Kegels. That's exercise. But for some reason, I'm always worried someone, somewhere will see me doing them and say, "I know what you're doing. I had two kids and all I can say is, total waste of time."

Thank God There Are People Who Understand How To Make/ Do/ Utilize These Things, Because I Never Will

Highway systems

Railroad tracks (the way they can run into one another depending on if a certain piece of track is activated)*

HTML coding (or to broaden it up, "the internet")

HBO's "The Wire"



* see, I can't even explain how I don't understand it.

[Insert Handicap Joke Here]

Featured on the front page of John McCain's campaign website:

Front. And. Center.

Co-Op

I joined a grocery co-op today. It's not what you think: I am not knowledgeable about fine and wholesome foods nor fair labor practices, and I generally prefer the largest plastic bag an establishment can provide (I would coat my foodstuffs in pure petrol for transport t'were it an available option). Nay, I joined the co-op out of pure paranoia. I was afraid that the fine ass honeys I scoped in the checkout line would judge me for my lack of membership. "Christ," I could hear them thinking, "I can just see her shoveling fistfuls of Cheetos puffs into her maw and chugging Mountain Dew Red (Private Reserve) while watching reruns of "My Wife and Kids."" These facts are my own private reality. Some things should be saved for the second date.

Hours have passed since my enlistment, and I do not regret my decision. I was gifted with an array of thoughtfully crafted newsletters and coupons. And my recent membership has given me a new perspective. With the multitude of benefits offered, it seems only natural the that realm of co-op-ship should extend to other commodities and pastimes. A few suggestions:

CHEAP POTENTIALLY TRENDY CRAP CO-OP
Cost: Labor for ultimately listing shit on Craigslist
Benefits: Like a dollar store, but more urban! Members are automatically entered into monthly give-aways for items that even your grandmother knows are hideous, but you insist give a certain "feel" to your digs. Insider's newsletter featuring speculations on which recycled slogans from t-shirts and truckers' hats are bound to become ironic in the current season (1999 Generic Technology Conference, anyone???)

BABY SLOTH CO-OP
Cost: Whatever the fuck it takes, per annum.
Benefits: Members only baby sloth snuggling session once a month. Collectible baby sloth character trading cards (Jailbird Baby Sloth, Saloon Girl Baby Sloth, CEO Baby Sloth) with every purchase. Coupons mailed in monthly newsletter can be redeemed for extra baby sloth snuggling, or used as credit toward the Baby Sloth and You Soft-Focus Portrait Extravaganza (held quarterly).

DRINKS N' CREEDENCE CO-OP
Is it so wrong to wish that every Thursday evening (or maybe Sunday afternoon?) good Americans could convene, throw whatever money they had in the pot, share a few pitchers and load the juke up with picks from Green River? I thought not.

Quandaries

Straightening hair in hotel lobby: tacky or time saving? Discuss.

On location: Deerfield, IL

If anyone ever tells you you are going to "Chicago" on business, and then lets you know they have booked you a plane ticket to "Chicago" and a hotel in "Chicago" please be aware it probably actually means "somewhere that is 40-70 minutes outside anything even resembling the Chicago metro area." And please also be aware that if you can't rent a car because you're not 25 then you will be stuck hiking past blocks and blocks and blocks of large corporate offices on a rural highway in an attempt to find sustenance in the eventual form of TGI Fridays, and the outfit you gleefully threw on because it's not 50 degrees and raining like it is in Seattle, which includes denim cutoffs and suede boots, will look less Urban Outfitters and more Teen Prostitute, and people driving by will react accordingly. Then when you are sitting at the TGI Fridays bar, you will be reduced to pleading with the waitstaff to rename the charges on the check because you're trying to get reimbursed by your company and don't want them to know you just downed 4 "Ultimate Electric Lemonades made with Skyy" at 4:10 PM on a Monday.
Also if they tell you before you arrive that it's ok that you don't know HTML and only know how to use the computer to check your email, facebook, look at celebrity gossip, and write endless self absorbed blog posts, it is a lie, because within one day they will be demanding that you write code and appear confused and perturbed that you don't know that something like this:

{((if_ ** color_sp BIG[--below])

/
/
//
then RETURN =/= _fontBR>>> over $$$__integer } BLARGH]

means "this costs $4".



And then you will have a flashback of 11th grade precalculus, the class that gave you your only C in high school and effectively ruined your college applications, self esteem, and your life, and remember how every time you raised your hand to ask Ms Korkowski a question you would feel a gigantic lump rising in your throat and would have to coordinate your question into short, clipped bursts of words to avoid breaking down and crying over the unfairness of math, and you find yourself doing the same thing in this class and the end result is everything you say sounds hugely bitchy and like you're not even trying... and you are KIND of trying. So the instructor and everyone else in your class hates you and you hate them right back, especially that fucking cunt with the Katherine Harris makeup who shushed you while you were struggling to open a bag of pretzels yesterday, and you cling to the one slightly nice, helpful guy in your class who on second look kind of looks a tiny bit like a fatter version of a guy you hooked up with once. And when you interrupt the instructor to say, in a panicked voice "I don't know what you mean by tabs, I DON'T know... what are tabs?" another little guy turns around and says, "so Maria, I take it you've never used this software before?" and everyone laughs and you attempt to take solace in the fact that your life is way better than his but then realize that's probably not true because really the only thing separating you from him is 20 years and the fact that he is married and therefore has been loved at some point in his life by someone who's not his mom. Then you will fake having to take part in a conference call so you can leave the conference room and go lie in the fetal position in your Marriott room and watch CNN and wish you were Michelle Obama because she would totally not be afraid to ask what tabs are, if she didn't already know, which she would.

What is love?

An actual interchange--

Boyfriend: Let's do something romantic tonight...
Me: I've got the Rape of Nanking on dvd!

Revelations

As a child, I was prone to headaches. This can be blamed on many things: the frequent exposure of my gifted-child brain to fluorescent lights, a diet high in Hostess treats and shameful stolen spoonfuls of Country Time Pink Lemonade powder, or perhaps an attempt from by my body to ease me gently into the life of head/back/neckaches, a sad destiny for the larger busted lady. Oh also I had really, really bad eyesight and spent my days from the age of 6 on squinting helplessly through thick, smeary glasses like that dumb kid from Jerry Maguire, but a girl. When I would go to my mom and say, "mom, I have a headache," the first question out of her mouth was not, "did you hit your head?" or "have you been drinking water?" or even "would you like a tylenol?" The first thing she would ask was, "well, do you have to poop?" Every. Time. And I would think about it, and sometimes I would have to poop, and sometimes I wouldn't, and we would go from there. Process of elimination. And so as I entered into adolescence and, reluctantly, adulthood, anytime I got a headache I would immediately wonder... do I have to poop? Totally having grown up with this horrible visual image of headaches being caused by having to poop SO badly that the toxins and waste are actually backed up into the cranium, I would on occasion dole out the same advice.
FRIEND: Man, my head hurts.
ME: (concerned) oh... do you have to poop?
FRIEND: No. I'm just hungover. Gross. Please don't ask me that.
So it's only recently that I have realized that this is just some weird little made up diagnosis of my mom's, stemming from god knows where. Maybe she just wanted any excuse to remind me to stay regular, or maybe she is secretly into scat. But I will go on record as saying, I think pooping can help headaches. Kind of. Or at least it doesn't make them worse. And regardless of the validity of her theories, it's a weird little special memory I will always have of my mom. Like the time when I was 8 and my dad walked into a telephone pole in Florida and almost knocked himself out and was too dazed to go out to dinner but my mom didn't want to leave him alone for a long period of time in case his brain hemorrhaged or something, so she went to McDonalds and bought like 15 cheeseburgers and she and I and my brother sat around cross legged on the floor of the Motel 6 and ate cheeseburgers and laughed at my dad moaning softly on the bed. He was OK, in the end.