Dead or Alive.

19 Mar

I don’t like that Facebook took the liberty of making hitting “enter” automatically post my commentary. Listen up, Zuckerberg minions—I am a punctuation, indentation, and properly spaced text user and abuser, and I don’t appreciate not being able to separate my thoughts into appropriate, respective paragraphs. No one wants to read big fat blocks of text. No one. The “comment” button was just fine. Bring it back.

Naturally, however, I found a way around it for those of you who are also bothered by this new adjustment: hold the shift key while pressing enter, and you can start a new paragraph. And please do. The shit most of you type on Facebook is annoying enough already. I can’t imagine how bothersome it’s going to be when it’s stupid AND long-winded.

It’s going to be really difficult adjusting to eating like 1200 calories a day again instead of 3,000 like I have been due to my extreme levels of daily activity here in the mountains. I have somehow actually managed to weigh 4 pounds less than I did at my wedding, which I spent at least six months eating nothing but ice cubes and lettuce for. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that my diet has been made up completely of frozen microwaveable burritos, multiple bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch at a time, bread, spaghetti, Velveeta, ice cream, and Chinese food since I arrived in Colorado December 7th, over three months ago. In theory, I should weigh approximately as much as a calf.

 

Literally.

But when you’re snowboarding 4-6 hours a day, five or six days a week, hiking, and running around dog parks on the daily, you burn that shit off. Efficiently. I haven’t had this many carbs since college, and we all know how that turned out.

 

St. Patdrink’s day is 2/3 of the way over. I presume most of you are pooping out cucumber-looking terds that smell like Keystone Light, and throwing up cream of broccoli into the porcelain god, if you did things right. If you have been partying with your entourage, and were the first one to wake up, peel your face off the sticky linoleum floor, throw up in the kitchen sink, check your outgoing text messages and then log onto Facebook for clues as to what happened to you last night, you  might be wondering where your friends are, or if they are even still living. You know at least half of them made it back to wherever it is you are staying without getting arrested for public urination or sexual harassment, but you haven’t heard any of them stir in the other rooms. If you are worried that your friends have died, here’s a few tests you can run to find out:

1. Turn on Wheel Of Fortune. No matter how physically ill you are feeling, nothing except two broken legs can prevent someone from making their way to the couch in front of the television when they hear Wheel Of Fortune on the air.

2. Bang pots and pans together at an inappropriate decibel. Act like you are cleaning to avoid getting punched square in the face if this technique works. No one with a hangover from hell is going to allow this to go on for more than 30 seconds before launching out of bed, charging into the kitchen, and bulldozing the offender into the ground and beating them with a cheese grater.

3. Brew some deliciously aromatic coffee. It’s the best part of waking up.

If you’ve tried all of these techniques and nobody has stirred from the thick, dank darkness of their rooms, the last and final thing you can try is this:

4. Sneak out and bring back a hot, steaming bag of McDonald’s breakfast items. Even the dead will spring up and bash their faces into the roof of their coffins at the smell of a bacon, egg & cheese McGriddle. If you bring a sack of gloriously golden fried hash browns, delicious, hot breakfast sandwiches and pancakes, and nobody gets up to investigate/mooch, your friends are dead. Every last one of them is d.e.a.d.

Sorry.

Welp, bye.

__________________________________________________________________

T: “Ah yeah, the Connecticut Ocean.”

B: “….what?”

T: “Isn’t that where this was? Connecticut?”

B: “…Yeah, but it’s definitely not ‘The Connecticut Ocean.'”

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