somyroommate

I blog. About life.

Category: Uncategorized

Pokemon, Birthday’s, and the Human Centipede

So, yestadae I turned old. Okay, maybe not quite old, I am still the fresh age of 24. Shoop da whoop!

I mean, I know we always say this, but I remember when I thought (insert younger age:18) was old. But, then again, I also remember when gas was .98 cents a gallon.

Anyway, one of my younger, sprier, coworkers (he’s 22) asked me what I did for my birthday. Aka, if I got sloshed.

Negative, dear friends, negative. I drank two sour apple smirnoff ice, took a couple of shots of apple schnapps and watched the human centipede. Fuck yeah. Ya jelly? (P.S. Why is it that in horror films, that in general the women are utterly and totally fucking incompetent? #those bitches deserved it.)

But, do you know what I wished for when I blew out my 24 candles on my boston creme pie cup cakes? I wished pokemon were real. (Oh yeah, read that one more time: I wished pokemon were real.) I wished pokemon were real with every fiber of my aging body. ’cause you better fucking believe I’d fly my pidgey the fuck out of here and splash attack any sorry bastard in my way to the elite four. And none of that bidoof shit. I’m talking the original pokemon.

Anyway, long story short. I have insomnia right now. I still wish pokemon were real.

Bulbasaur will always be my first. ❤

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Commercials

So, I was listening to the radio while fighting my way to the grocery store today. And, I heard the old addage “Don’t touch that dial.” Which spurred some thought in me.

  • I don’t like being told what to do
  • This instruction spurred me to actively listen/watch to how many times I was instructed to do something, and I realized that when the commercial tells me to do something, I catch myself doing exactly the opposite just like angsty teenage me did to my parents.

1. Don’t touch that remote
-Telling me to sit through your commercials just pisses me off. I didn’t do anything wrong, why do I have to have a time out? I was having fun. Instead, of watching your shitty commercials I’m going to waddle to the fridge and find something to snaffle. Thanks for making me fat. Or I’m going to look for a new channel, given my short attention span I’ve forgotten what I’ve been watching and all my passion and built up on how much I hate commercials. Business wonders why my age group pirates so many movies, shows, and music. Answer: commercial free entertainment.
2. Keep listening to *insert radio station*
-To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anybody downloading commercials to their IPOD. Why? Cause that’s not why we turn the radio on, that’s not why we turn our IPOD/MP3 on… I also don’t want to hear some senseless, inane radio host babble about how hard it was to shart after eating at taste-e-taco last night. That’s what twitter is for. Play music.
3. Stop in and try out our delicious new *insert same old, relabeled food*
-Why are you repackaging your food? If I went there before, chances are I liked something about they way the food was before. Y U change it?! I don’t want skittles on my taco…. I take that back.
4. Buy 3 for 9$….
-I don’t need three bottles of ketchup. Because your store ordered too many doesn’t mean I want to hoard my fridge full of shit that can’t be sold before it outdates. Yes, I realize I could get another two, but all I needed was one, kthnxbai.

Urrraaah, (that’s an expression of exasperation, btw). I’ve never liked when my parents told me what to do, I didn’t listen to my teachers, and I don’t like when my friends try to dictate what I do. When some corporation implicitly tells me what I should do or what I’m going to buy, chances are that I’m going to intentionally reject it simply because I was told to. I want a choice, not a command. Thanks.

People I want to falcon punch:

Sorry, bromances about my non existence. I had oral surgery (heh, oral), and basically tried to die in the process. Dr. couldn’t get me to stop bleeding, got 8 stitches went home, still wouldn’t stop bleeding, had to go back in. Took the eight out and put ten more back in. Went back in a week to take the stitches out, started bleeding again, had to put five back in. Went back in a week, got AWL the stitches out…. got an infection. Bah, but, I’m all better and settled now.

In my angst of being spaced out on percocet, I had some time to think about shit that I hate. So, here’s my short, lovely message of things I’d love to falcon punch.

Preface: in case you’re unaware of what exactly a  falcon punch is.

1. That asshole who can’t drive… but who always seems to be in front of you. Seriously dude, I have places to go and shit to do. MOVE!

2. People in the gym who moan their workout into oblivion. This isn’t sex, I’m just trying to get my bod on. Please stop groaning at me.

3. Families who take the entire hoard to the grocery store. Lady, move your fucking cart and control your kids.I want some cheetos.

4. The “I’m drunk” whore at the bar. You’re still not sexy.

5. Close talkers. Your breath is bad.

6. Elevator/airplane farters.

7. Salespeople in retail stores. I don’t want to smell like old lady, desperate douche-bag, or cheap whore. I’m not interested in your discount card, I don’t want to hear about the new sale, and I don’t want to be a member. I want to get out of here with my cheetos.

My apocalyptic dinner.

So, I’m not sure if you’ve ever been asked this question as an icebreaker before, but since I worked as an RA (resident assistant) at the university for three years, I’ve heard it a few times:

“If you were about to die, but you could have dinner with anybody you chose (live or dead), who would you have dinner with? You may only have room at the table for eight people.”

There’s one answer that I think is poorly thought out: religious figures. Aka: Jesus/Vishnu/Mohammad

Like, what if “said religious person” wasn’t the entity that modern religion made them out to be, wouldn’t that be an awkward turtle?

Issue number two: if your religion proves to be the correct one in the afterlife, this entity is the one you’re going to have to spend lunch/dinner with for the rest of your deadness.

But, I get it, some people are religious. I can respect that.

My religion is internet.

not joking

Thusly, here are my (epic) eight:

1. Shocantelle Brown

2. Lorraine

3. Carol Beer

4. Tracy

5. Ken Lee

6. Diana    — this is original Diana for those who don’t know her awesome.

7. Bon qui qui

8. Ms. Swan

Pure win.

Those sitting at the kiddie table (honorable mentions):

1. Blueberry

2. Dog girl

3. Wilfred

Who would be your eight?

Where have I gone? Well, I moved. Yes, I moved out of hell’s butthole and into a wonderful, empty apartment. Roommate free. (gasp)
I’d like to say that my move was painless. Everybody likes moving, right? But, to be honest, I’d rather try to ass handle a porcupine with a pineapple than deal with roommate while moving. It wasn’t easy.
 

And, I’m sure that you remember from high-school vocabulary class that the word “move” is also a synonym for “fucking expensive.”  Sooooo, to pay for my move escape from hell, and newfound expenses therein, I’ve picked up an assload of hours at work. IE, I’ve worked the last thirteen days in a row and this weekend will be my first full weekend off in 6 weeks. Translation: no time to blog life is pointless.
That is not to mention, that you have to deal with all those billing companies during/after you move. Electric, gas, rent, and internet added to the student loans and phone bill. fml. I just graduated college. I don’t understand what these fabled “bills” are. I always figured it was just a way to scare adults into being good.
You know the “better be good or the bills are going to come and steal your money!” kinda thing… I mean, when I was younger, getting mail was the most bomb ass shit. Ever. Who could ever despise getting mail?! No, bills do not exist. College proved this idea: you get free money to make friends and have fun. Just go to class and do your homework… else the bills will come and get you post-graduate.
Clearly I fail at life because I’m getting it handed to me. And, they’re voracious too… sorta reminds me of a fucking seagull. You go to the beach (new apartment) expecting everything to be awesome, sunny, and prettyful. But, as soon as you arrive “they” greet you with ass clenching, ear bleeding scrawking, yell back and you get shit on, and after you’re quivering, shit covered mess, they steals your noms. -> Yes, bills are the inanimate form of a seagull. I have decided.
 
But, I’m finally caught up with all my bills and I have this weekend off. Thus, my grand return… to alcohol. Dear beer, I missed you. 😀

My Milkshake

So, I had a doctors appointment today… I haven’t been in for a physical in about four years. And I mean, honestly, what college student has the money to blow on

  1. insurance
  2. a doctors visit
  3. the dentist

Our refund checks are spent on important study tools like books alcohol.

Anyway, so after I wade my way through a shit load of paper, a bunch of face masked grannies paranoid that they have the Y2K virus,  an army of screaming, flailing children, and, of course, the people that are so visibly nervous that it makes you uncomfortable to be around them…. I finally get to the point where I can see the doctor and what happens?

After telling the nurse exactly what I wrote on said shitload of paper, I strip down and put an extra-extra large  paper towel in order to properly present myself to the doctor. (The label on said paper towel said it was “size normal” let’s be real ‘Murica… I could use that hospital gown as a Queen sized bed sheet.) Regardless, I have never (not even when I pissed my pants in fourth grade) have felt so sexy as I did in that moment.

You know, I didn’t get a sucker,  a sticker, one of those flaily sticky hands, or even a lame ass gold star.I was told “you should try to exercise more.” Godammit.

I guess my love of food wasn’t well received. Needless to say, I’m sitting on my floor eating cold pizza and M&M’s. Exercise my ass.

Plz Aim.

So, most of us learned potty etiquette at a fairly young age. Everybody poops. Wipe front to back. Lid up, Lid down. Flush. Keep it clean. Right?

My roommate missed that memo.

He made one of the most epic bathroom faux pas of all time.

He left some #2 on the toilet seat.

  1. spuckin’ sick
  2. Butt, (pun intended) I can’t help it if this simple equation comes to mind:

I mean, WTF?! How do you miss? How? Does he have multiple openings that make it difficult to guess which one will bestows the gift of organic degradation?
Or, perhaps his post consumer material doorway is slightly deformed… thusly making it difficult to aim…

But, honestly, I don’t give a fuck if he has One Bashillgazillionbatillionmilliontrillion unicorn shaped buhholes. He pooped on my toilet seat.

You know, perhaps, that mundo-super-ultra-grande-ultimate-flaming-hott-nacho-burrito-bean-pizza caused an apocalyptic level shart that ripped your buhhole from your body, suspending every part of your bowel into the toilet. Fine. Understandable. We all have those days. But, wipe it up!

MINE. NO TOUCH-Y

So, I like to think of myself a fairly generous person; I’ve even been known to share noms on occasion… Food, fine, but I’m draw the line at toiletries. I found a pubic hair on my soap today.

Sick. Dear pubic hair, I don’t know how you got on my bar of soap, but never again. You might be thinking “well, couldn’t it be yours?” No, dear friends. I am a well groomed man. That shit be trimmed. No sprawling manscape for me. That leaves one other person in the household. Unless, of course, there is a burglar who breaks into apartments, uses peoples showers, and leaves pubic hair on their soap. Maybe the burglar is in cahoots with the vomit birds. Who knows?

But, I’m just thinking it’s safe to assume that my roommate is pubic’ing up my soap. I mean, dear roommate, I already know that you’re using my toothpaste because I am nearly obsessive about squeezing my toothpaste from the end. No squishing in the middle and separating the paste. You, on the other hand are a toothpaste smoosher. I always find my poor tube of toothpaste like an amorphous lumpy mangled piece of playdoh. Sad day.

How I leave my toothpaste:

Happeh Toothpaste! ^-^

How I find my toothpaste:

Saddey Toothpaste D:

I mean, feel free to use my stuff, but please be sneaky about it.  Let me play the ignorant card. Nobody likes finding a big ole pube in the morning…. especially on your bar of soap. I mean, I suppose some people might like that little gem to greet them in the morning… but, unfortunately, it just made me feel nauseous and unclean. Soap is supposed to make me feel cleaner, right? Perhaps I’ll have to start protecting my defiled soap, and smooshied toothpaste… Cause I can’t have roommate (or the fabled pubic-soap burglar) skeevin’ up my bathroom stuffs.

Dear Puss,

So, this is not a post about my roommate but it made me lol so hard I just have to share with y’all.

I got a text from my sister today that said “Look at what mom’s cat did to her croc’s” with this attached photo:

How? just how?

My mom just threw her croc’s out… and the cat is going to the vet.

Moar things plz!

You know, despite us being ever so close, I have been holding out on a little confession to you. I’m a minimalist. I don’t like clutter, I don’t like a lot of stuff around my place. Simple, clean, open. Beautiful.

Clearly I pissed somebody off. Maybe I farted in public one too many times, or maybe I left the lid up on the toilet one too many times, or maybe I shouldn’t have just stepped over that guy who fell on the sidewalk (pretty sure he was faking it anyway… and besides, I had to get to gamestop. Don’t die in front of me on my off time. I’m not at work. I don’t get paid for this ((I work at a hospital))). Regardless, I’m convinced that I’m being punished for my misdeeds… I have been placed with a hoarder.

Yes, my roommate hoards. He hoards a lot of different thing but what harassed me today was his food hoarding. If he sees a deal on food, he buys as much as possible. There are currently 8 boxes of energy drinks (each box has 40ish cans in it) sitting by the entrance to the door.

The reason I was spurred by this blog is because when I walked into the front door I was falcon punchedby smell of smooshy, overripe banana. hawt. I mean, maybe if I were a hormonal  chimpanzee, that might turn me on. But I’m not. I gagged.

There’s also the little hoard of smoooshy, black spotted, rancidly sweet smelling banana‘s on the counter: about 4 dozen of ’em too. Don’t be fear, they weren’t rotting away by themselves. It was/is a communal rot. There’s also at least 2 dozen of each: apples, oranges, avacado’s, and grapefruit. There must have been a produce sale. :/ I mean, to his credit, the apartment is so cold that we basically live in a walk in fridge…

Anyway, I couldn’t take pictures of the kitchen because said roommate was happily noming away at one of those nasty banana’s. So, here are some pictures I ninja on and took of the dining room, living room, and what was supposed to be my bedroom:

This is the dining room. Can you find the table?

None of this glory in the living room is mine. And, I actually caught him on a good day. He has several boxes in the driveway to "dust". Lipstick on a pig my friends...

I was supposed to live in this room. clearly.

I’ll start putting the toilet seat lid down tomorrow.