I blog. About life.

Rainy Daez

Welp, it’s been raining all day, here…

So, I fire that most people are doing all the awesome, lazy-fatass things that you can do on rainy days. It’s the ultimate excuse to be an utter (otter? lol) and total walrus. This is how my brain works on rainy days:

  1. I should go for a run
     –Whoa, it’s raining. Can’t.
  2. Clean the garage?
    -Nope. S’cold… and rainy.
  3. Do the dishes or bathe?
    -No way, Jose! Lightning might strike, flow through the water pipes and kill me dead. Better not risk it. Dishes and hygiene can wait. Survival more important.
  4. Get groceries/run errands?
    And risk hydroplaning into a lightening bolt?
  5. Do my homework or think too much?
    -Negative. The increased humidity has caused the graphite in my pencil to melt. Pens are made from metal and attract lightening.
  6. Do the bills?
    -Can’t the increase in atmospheric pressure puts greater pressure on my brain, and body. Betta not risk a stroke, just-in-case.
  7. Eat? Sleep? Board Games? Drink? Cuddles?
    -Yes, those are safe. I better be productive and do ’em awl.

Point made?

There are much better things to do with rain. Eat cookies. Order pizza. Television.  Cuddle up. Play board games. Build a cozy fire. Drink hot chocolate/tea/eggnog/coffee. Amirite?

Well, I pulled into my driveway after work planning the most epic hot chocolate, cookie, games, sleepy-time, cuddle-gasm my room has ever had. When I pull into my driveway, what do I see my roommate has elected to do with his free pass to be a fat ass?

Raking Leaves.

Yeah, you read it correctly. Raking leaves. In the rain. the fuck?

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.

You know it’s true.

Why, dear friends, are commercials so damn unrealistic? Portions look huge, frozen food looks scrumptious, plastic bags are easy to close, your hamburger doesn’t look like somebody sat on it…. and millions of other examples of lies.

In my exasperation towards awl those lieees I made a little cartoon. This one is about mascara. You know, that tube of black unicorn shit that’ll make anybody’s eyelashes one billion times fuller, sexier, and awesomer…

First of all you see a great commercial that makes you think wonderful things will happen to your eyelashes and all that surround them.


I.E. this mascara will make you beautiful, sexy, hott. Fulll lashes. Lose weight. PURE AWSUM!!!11!1one! Epic w1n. Something like that, right?


So naturally your (and my) dumb ass is drawn to it in the store. Price no matter. Must buy. NO SUBSTITUTES.


... and reality


Will the people making commercials just be real with me? Honestly , everybody already knows that fast food looks like something you’d find under a dumpster… but guess what? We still eat it.. And, you  wanna know why? Cause it’s delicious.  Just be real with me about the way it looks. I’m not going to try to convince you that my granny was just voted miss universe. Try not to tell me your shit looks awesome or works miracles. kthnxbai

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!


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.

Snow fert. Indoorz!!

So, if you’re alive, have some level of cognition, and possess some form of access to a current source of media, I am sure that you are aware that the Northeast U.S. was ass handed a shit load of snow this past weekend (Again, if you don’t recall from my previous blog, a shit load is any number greater than four.) We happened to get roughly, just that amount in around my apartment.

Welp, as I am also sure you are fully aware, it’s gotta be pretty durned cold for it to snow. Something like 32 degrees. So, we can safely assume that it’s been below 32 degrees for the weekend. I’d say that’s about “let’s turn the heat on weather.”

No. Too broad. Narrow that answer plz. kthnxbai

How about: “Let’s set the thermometer for 60 degrees during the day and 45 at night.”

That’s just enough to keep the pipes from freezing.


In  case you were wondering how my roommate lives like that? He wears his snowsuit. Indoors. At all times. It’s a pretty good look, I must admit. Snow suits, (particularly those pooofy-swishy-elastic-enforced-snow-suits-you-wore-as-a-kid) are bad ass. I mean who wouldn’t want to wear one around the apartment? They are pretty damned slimming, make you super agile, and give you the look and feel of a wordly adult.

I think I may have to purchase one and wear it at all times.

Where does vomit come from?

So my roommate never ceases to surprise me with our correspondence, and today did not fail me. As I was leaving to go to work this morning my roommate tells not to walk on the sidewalk. (This instruction was even before I even got a ‘good morning’. Clearly, indicating the importance.) But, alrighty, no problem. I drive to work anyway. #crisesavoided! He explains: “There’s vomit on the sidewalk… I don’t know if you know but the number one cause of vomit but it’s usually drunkenness. I asked the neighbors if they’ve seen vomit on the sidewalks as well, and they have. They also think it’s probably somebody who has been drinking too much and vomiting on their way home.”

Hold the phone. Number one cause of vomit? Okay, sure. I suppose I can buy that. But, I think we might really be jumping to conclusions when we assume that the vomit is caused by some drunkard on their way home from a Halloween party. We should probably first consider those second, third, and fourth possible causes of vomit. Things could get really messy if we’re only looking out for the neighborhood partier… Perhaps a passing alien got sick from space travel and had to relieve him/her/itself on our sidewalk, or maybe the neighborhood kid slipped some ipecac into the bird feeder and the aerial bio-hazards have been spewing liquid bile upon the earth . Who knows? Who knows…. I think I”ll be asking the neighbors some questions about the vomit appearances as well, but I have my own suspicions.

In the mean time, dear friends, I suggest carrying an umbrella…

Continued Door Saga

Evening Friends!

If you thought at this point in our intrawebz correspondence (as I have often thought)  that my doorway intellect was nearing at least a novice level: you’re wrong. (Are you getting tired of being wrong? Me too.) Yet, even after my epic door opening, my roommate still believes that my doorway skillz are substandard, medial, barely functional, in fact. But, worry not dear friends, worry not. I have my roommate to teach me. And, he is slowly training me, as one might train a young child to use the potty, to use this nebulous, this ever confusing device: the door.

So, yesterday, while playing on the intrawebz in my room, I received a phone call. It was roommate. He asked if I was home. After contemplating lying, I said yes (Mistake # 1) to which he asked me to come downstairs to talk. I figured that it might be about heating, utilities, or something along those lines so I agreed to scuttle down. (Mistake #2)

When I get downstairs my roommate asks me:  “Have you ever used doors like these?” *points to the door between the kitchen and dining room* (We have the old school, skeleton-key, type of doors in our apartment.) Of which, I replied: ‘Yes, I grew up in an old farm house.’

I guess my affirmation registered to him as “No, I r haz teh stoopid. Ken not haz opin teh doorz. How u do eht?” Because my roommate then launches straight into a schpeal on how to (I shit you not) close the door. I was instructed on how to turn the handle, pull the door open, and then push/pull the door until it clicks shut.

I would have never figured out how to close a door. My entire life I’ve tried so many different way to close a door:


But now, with great confidence, I can now shut a door. Fuck yeah! No more anxiety for me! No more hitching hiking into buildings, and no moar scouting for automatic doors. I am a door master! Truly.

I have learned to open and close a door…. one can only wonder at the possibilities. “Will I get a lesson on how to lock/unlock a door?” Only roommate will dictate when that arcane knowledge shall be bestowed upon me. Oh, but when it does, dear friends… when it does.