UFC you later.

I have been cooking a lot lately. My vegetable consumption has skyrocketed. My countertop is covered in fresh produce instead of a Jenga tower of Velveeta Shells & Cheese boxes. It used to be really tricky for me to buy fresh fruits and vegetables, because they would spoil and grow a toupee before I ever got around to eating them. Now I can barely keep my veggie stock full. I feel like I’m buying spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes and lemons nearly every day.

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I wish I had a garden. Then I wouldn’t have to watch my food go bad. I could just pluck things fresh off the vine. Strawberries, for example, get moldy before they even reach my home from the grocery store. This pisses me off. I like potatoes though. Potatoes don’t go bad. They just grow more potatoes. I wish the other vegetables would follow suit.

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I’m in a room full of people watching a UFC fight. The two fighters in the cage right now happen to be Canadian. People in the room keep saying, “Becca, these guys are Canadian! Don’t you want to watch?”  as I type away on my computer. No. I don’t know why everyone thinks just because I am from Canada that I should give a f-ck about other people doing things who also happen to be from Canada. If there was a quilting convention being broadcasted on television and the two geriatric women needling away were both from Missouri, would you give a shit about that, Greg? I didn’t think so.

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Speaking of the Canadian thing, when people find out I’m Canadian, it is not uncommon for them to say something like, “Hey, I went to school with a guy named Jordan who was from Canada! Maybe you know him?”  Canada is f-cking huge. It’s larger than the United States. What makes you think that I would just happen to know one of the 34 million people from there? Good lord.

These UFC fights are insane. This guy’s face is completely f-cked. His eyes are more swollen than a pregnant woman’s feet after a walk for heart disease. I don’t know how he can even see. It looks like he got hit in the face with a pumpkin. Like he was standing under a building and a pumpkin got dropped off the roof and hit him square in the face. I don’t know why people sign up for this. I generally like to avoid pain, and by generally I mean as a rule of my being at any and all costs. Four minutes later, this man’s face looks like he got slapped with a weed-whacker, and there are lemons beneath the surface of his skin. This is a bludgeoning. They just stopped and put a giant bag of ice on his face. There is no other option at this point. He looks like Quasimoto.

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I am typing this in real time as I watch this match. The other dude’s nose is a wreck. It is completely smashed. I would be bawling like a baby. At this point, my body would have taken over and forced me to pass out to protect me from any further suffering. Holy shit. His face looks like a steak that just got tenderized with a spiked mallet. His upper lip is so swollen, it looks like a chalkboard eraser. There is blood everywhere. It’s like he got sprayed in the face with hot sauce. This man is going to need 4 Vicodin, a shot of morphine, a bottle of Goldschlager, and several pounds of ice when he goes home. A coma is the only way to perservere through this beating. Put this man out of his misery. It looks like somebody dropped him off a house and he smacked his face on the curb.

Well, I guess…..that’s……it. That’s it. Bye.

____________________________________________________________________

B:   “Oh. T.I. has really nice teeth.”

T:   “T.I.’s got enough money to have any kind of teeth he wants.”

Plumb Pudding.

I have a headache that could kill a man. It is actually affecting my brain. I couldn’t say “iPhone” just now. All that sputtered out was, “uh….uh…..wait…..uh….”   It’s bad. Like, my eyeballs are hurting. I have popped some naproxen sodium in hopes that it would battle the migraine pounding away in my skull like Travis Barker. So far I still feel like the Keebler Elf is chopping wood in my cerebellum. I can’t live like this you guys.

The plumber came. GOD BLESS IT THE PLUMBER CAME!!!! Our five-day sink-clog has finally been remedied. After plunging the drain and opening the trap, we discovered two plastic knives, a popsicle stick, a straw, and half of a plastic fork. That’ll clog your drain. Whoops. Due to an unusable sink for nearly a week, almost every single dish we owned was dirty and piled upon every square inch of counter space we had, stinking it up worse than Fergie at the Superbowl. The kitchen smelled like spoiled algea and pussy. It was disgusting.

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After tackling the pile of dishes, I went on a full-fledged cleaning rampage. It actually smells GOOD in here. Like, if you closed your eyes, you might actually think you weren’t somewhere completely f-cking disgusting. I Febrezed everything. Candles were lit. The floor was swept and scrubbed, the counters disinfected, the microwave cleaned, and the carpet vacuumed. SPEAKING of which, today was the day I got to try the ol’ Dyson Ball Animal vacuum cleaner for the first time. I came. It is an incredible machine. It turns on a dime, it has multiple easy-to-use attachments, it’s a beast—I love it. I can’t believe how much dirt is in the carpet. It’s nauseating. And I eat Cadbury Mini Eggs off that floor….

I won’t stop.

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I want Mexican food. I would like to be showered in queso blanco. Is that too much to ask? I could bury my face in a cheese enchilada right now if a) I had one and b) no one was around to witness it. Motorboating food is a sure-fire way to become judged harshly. (Fat). Sometimes I get over certain types of food for years at a time. From 2008 to 2010, I could not stop eating Mexican cuisine. Then I did. Chinese and Italian took the lead and I stuffed my gullet full of pasta and fried rice. Two years later, Mexican food is creeping back in. Boy is it. Give me some rice and beans, Jose. Fire up the grill.

WELL, I’m leaving. It’s none of your business what I’m going to go do.

…..but if you must know, I’m putting on more pants because there is a chill in the air. Nosy pricks.

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“Brian, you came!”

“No, I just spilled my drink.”

Polly Pocket.

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Welp, Monday was spent recuperating from the previous three days at the SnowBall Music Festival. I spent 72 consecutive hours destroying my body, mind and spirit with alcohol and elicit drugs. I couldn’t be happier. What an insane f-cking time. There were bananas and champagne and glow sticks everywhere. Got about 30 solid hours in the onesie, circa 1986 (eBay gem), pillaged roughly $180 of merchandise including Snowball shirts, Burton tees, and Burton beanies, danced like an asshole and burned 150,000 calories (all the more reason to continue my daily carb-loading routine).

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Top shows of the electronic music festival for me were:

• Ghostland Observatory
• DallasK
• Minnesota
• Bag Raiders
• Dada Life
• Bassnectar
• MiMOSA
• Boombox

Initially I mistyped “Boobmox” on Boombox. Everybody makes mistakes. Like I said, my brain is seizing. I’m lucky that my heart is still beating today. I cannot wait for next year.

I wish humans had built-in pockets. There are several things I like to always have on my person. Chapstick, tissues, my phone. I could really benefit from having the convenience of a built-in fanny pack. Basically I wish I were a marsupial.

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I can’t stop feasting on the enormous batch of breakfast burritos Trent made last week. These delicious tortillas are filled with zesty chorizo, fluffy eggs, a fiesta blend of Mexican cheese, a river of Cholula (clutch), onions, and roasted potatoes. Mmm. I’m not really sure how burritos can actually qualify as a “breakfast” food, but then again, when have Americans ever really followed the rules. I like how we slap the word “breakfast” in front of various non-breakfast items and consider it perfectly acceptable. Breakfast pizza, breakfast burritos, breakfast casserole. Just put the word “breakfast” in front of it, then it’s healthy!

We’re fat.

Speaking of fat, Christina Aguilera needs to stop wearing hats. What the f-ck was she wearing on her head this week, a Bedazzled vinyl record?

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Awful. What kind of drugs is she on, and why weren’t they available to me at the Snowball Music Festival this weekend? If it’s possible, she has gotten even more orange. I’m beginning to think it’s a biological thing, like she gets oranger with age, like a tangerine.

ANYway, time to go get more much needed REM. Adios, muchachos.

_________________________________________________________________

“Whiskey. Rum. Mali. Coke. Shrooms. Jager. Weed. Beer. Vodka.”

“This text message thread would be a gold mine for the police department.”

Ramen wild.

I am officially sick. I feel like I have been sick too many times this year. Usually I get one stubborn cold that lasts for a few days plus one more serious ailment each year, and that’s it. I’ve already had the worst case of strep that anyone has ever seen PLUS multiple annoying colds. WHAT is the DEAL? Perhaps my body is rebelling against me for filling my diet with nothing but off-brand Cocoa Puffs, macaroni and cheese, Dr. Pepper, microwavable burritos, Golden Oreos, Velveeta, and Cadbury Creme Eggs. Who knows.

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I’m a complainer. There aren’t a whole lot of funny things to say about being sick though, so it doesn’t make for great blogging material. I might actually erase everything I’ve written up to this point.

Eh.

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I was jonesing for Maruchan Ramen today due to my shitty cold. I had flashbacks to my elementary years when I ate cherry Pop Tarts and oriental flavored Ramen for nearly every meal, and my craving returned from the darkness. Unlike most college kids, I actually did not eat even one single ounce of Ramen noodles whilst in university. An odd phenomena to skip, seeing as it costs just 18 cents per package. Nope, I thrived on Kraft mac and cheese, beer, Gumby’s pizza, Taco Bell, beer, Spaghettio’s, pasta, McDonald’s, and beer.

(I was fat.)

Anyway, I am spending my afternoon filling my body with soup and watching Arrested Development. I’m not too pissed about the situation, except that I can’t breathe through my nose and I sound like a man. I did purchase some DayQuil to help numb the discomfort. We’ll see how it works out. So far I’m still snotting all over the USA. I haven’t had Kleenexes nearby all day, so the left sleeve of my sweatshirt is getting pretty unsanitary if you know what I mean.

“Decorated scrotum.”

This was a search term used by someone out there in the world wide web recently that led them to my blog. How it led them to my blog, I will never know. Has Vagazzling spread out and touched the male population as a genital decorating fad? This is disturbing to me. There is no reason to put Swarovski crystals and sequins on a scrotum. Do not decorate your scrotum. Under no circumstance should you ever draw attention to the scrotum. It is a nauseating physical attachment to the male body that should be ignored at all costs as far as I’m concerned.

I find myself craving another bowl of Ramen. This has nothing to do with scrotums.

Well, talk to you later.

 

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B:   “Dan, does this dog look comfortable?”

D:   “Yeah, I mean….I can see his asshole.”

 

 

Survival mode.

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I’ve been watching The Colony a little bit lately. If you are unfamiliar with the show, it is basically a reality show based on a social experiment (a la Survivor) in which people are placed in a simulated “end of times” scenario where there has been a giant disaster and people are left to fend for themselves: find food, shelter, create a safe environment, generate electricity, fight off marauders, etc. Basically they have to figure out how to survive and start over with little resources. The group consists of people who are experts in various fields. They have an electrician, a mechanic, a self-defense instructor, a nurse, a biologist, etc.

The point is, I would be useless in the end of times. I can’t do anything. If I were given the task of say, starting a fire, or wiring an electrical outlet, or gutting a fish, I would shit in my pants. What can I do? I mean….I could like, tell jokes. I wouldn’t be necessary to the survival or prosperity of the group. Basically they would kill me and eat me for food.

So I guess there’s that.

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I miraculously have to pee as soon as I get all of my gear on prior to snowboarding. It’s getting annoying. I purposely hydrate at night so that I don’t have to chug a half a gallon of liquids in the morning before I ride, causing me to pee one hundred and fifty times throughout the day, and just when I think I’ve emptied the tank and have put on my long-johns, socks, snowboard pants, Under Armour, thermal, fleece, and down coat, nature calls. Like clockwork. It’s irritating and inconvenient. I think my bladder is playing pranks on me. Can organs do that?

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I have progressed from just abusing the French vanilla coffee creamer in my tea by using unnecessary amounts of it to actually taking straight pulls from the bottle. Next thing you know, I’ll be doing beer bongs of vanilla creamer in the kitchen. This can only end badly. It’s just so damn delicious, you guys. How do they do it? WHY CAN’T ALL THINGS THAT ARE GOOD HAVE NO CALORIES?!?!?!?!?!?

Life’s not fair.

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I have started sending snail mail again lately. I love doing that. There’s just something about sending and receiving physical letters written with sparkly gel pens, covered in flamboyant stickers that really warms the heart, you know? Snail mail. So slow. They try to act like it’s not though. First class, priority—they all sound like the fastest one. It’s trickery.

In other news, the broken laptop situation turned out well, relatively speaking. I sold my broken computer to a dude who fixes computers for $300, and got the exact same 13″ Macbook that I had before for $700. Four hundred bucks to replace a computer isn’t so bad I guess. I’ll definitely be placing my computer on higher land from now on. No longer shall it share the same plane with liquids.

Well, time to go do other stuff. BYE!

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B:   “Are you gonna try that little jump?”

J:   “I don’t know, maybe.”

B:   “Even if you only get a couple inches, at least you’ll know what it feels like.”

J:   “That’s what she said.”

 

Lost & Hound

I just spent over an hour f-cking chasing my roommate’s dog down a f-cking river, screaming and sobbing. In my snowboarding boots. I’m livid. I was literally screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs, falling down in the snow, crying and cursing the gods. After sixty minutes, I left her for dead and she came back on her own ten minutes later. F-cking bitch.

I need one hundred beers.

In other news, last Saturday, a beautiful big white dog wandered into the apartment parking lot off the highway.

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He appeared to be a white german shepherd/wolf hybrid. He was a little timid at first, but quickly started playing with Raleigh and Bella. He was very friendly, so I invited him inside. He didn’t have a collar on, so I immediately took photos and posted an ad on Craigslist, along with calling the local animal shelters, animal control, and the police department to see if anyone had reported a missing pet. Nothing. I couldn’t possibly let this guy roam around on the busy highway, so we decided to hang on to him until we could locate its owners.

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Six days had passed, and no one seemed to be looking for this dog. We brought him in to a vet’s office to see if he had a microchip, but he had none. Ghost dog. He is the sweetest creature on earth. I love him. He loves me. I’ve been calling him “White Dog” this entire time and he responds to it now. Haha. He’s my shadow. Every  morning at 7:30 a.m., he sits on me. He’s such a lover. I desperately wanted to keep him.

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“Unfortunately,” one of the animal shelters I had contacted the day I had found White Dog called me yesterday and said that the owner was in there looking for the dog. I was flabbergasted that this owner waited six days to contact these pounds to find out if their pet had been found or not, but gave the guy permission to have the man call me. A Mexican man named Juan calls and says he’ll be by around six o’clock to pick White Dog up, whose real name was “Spike” (stupid). He lived literally directly across the highway from us. White Dog obviously loved me more than Juan. He never once tried to run back home. Haha. Anyway, I gave Juan two rubber balls I had bought White Dog because he loved them so much, and told him to keep the collar I had purchased him as well. He tried to offer me $100, but I didn’t take it.

Then I remembered White Dog did break my MacBook by spilling an entire glass of water across my keyboard. Oops. Wish I would have accepted the dollars.

I am devastated to have to let him go. I love that mutt, and miss him terribly. So does Raleigh. Someday I’ll steal him back.

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How is it that you’re always the only people in a Chinese restaurant? I have never been in an Asian restaurant that has been crowded, or even mildly occupied. It’s like, you and your mate walk in, and it’s a ghost town. Just you, all the employees, their children, and their children’s children. For some reason there are always still like eleven Asians working, and all of them rush to help you at once. How do these places stay open? I don’t even care. As long as they keep serving  delicious crab rangoon and fried rice, they can keep money laundering and drug selling in the back. I won’t ask questions.

I’ve been doing some traveling lately, and I’ve been observing the travel attire that people choose while flying. It pisses me off. I feel like I see more high heels at the airport than I do at the bars on a Friday night. You see people who dress up like they’re going to the prom in dresses, full hair and makeup like they’re about to meet the president. You’re flying to Tulsa, lady. Who are you trying to impress? Then there are the people that layer like they’re about to go watch the Iditarod with front row seats out in the open in great outdoor Alaska. Don’t you know you’re going to be stopped by TSA and asked to peel off your clothing layer by layer to ensure you aren’t concealing any weapons, you big stupid onion?

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Speaking of airport security, I have a few things to say about it. One: I don’t understand why they harass, inspect, and strip us to no end before getting on an airplane, but take zero measures whatsoever when boarding a bus, boat, train, taxi, etc. I’m annoyed. Two: I feel like I am the slowest person on earth when it comes time to go through the scanners. I try to take off my shoes, remove my liquids, take out my laptop, and get my jacket off as fast as possible, but I always feel like I can’t do it quick enough. Worse is getting all those items packed back up. I’m standing there scrambling to get it all back together as those plastic bins begin to pile up and block the entire conveyor belt. I panic.

WELL, time to go hang out with the wolf pack. Bi.

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“Kids these days. Carrying guns, raping each other—I mean, we used to literally chase a wheel down the street with sticks. I mean we were poor obviously.”

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A cut above the rest.

Well, I trust you all enjoyed the Superbowl this past weekend. I didn’t. In case you’re wondering why, you can find a nicely arranged list of reasons here:  http://wp.me/pNzT7-ZJ

Superbowl Sunday does not give me a hard-on like most people. I despise football more than Lindsay Lohan apparently despises not being in jail. I did not watch the Superbowl, but I ate like I did. On Sunday I busted out a big ass block of Velveeta, a pound of chorizo, and a can of Ro-Tel and fired up the ol’ crockpot in preparation to whip up a nice fat pot of queso dip to enjoy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it ran out.

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After cubing the Velveeta and frying up the chorizo, I took the can opener to the Ro-Tel. Moments later, I stuck my finger under the lid of the Ro-Tel can to remove the top and dump out the zesty tomatoes and chillies, when -SLICE- , the stubborn aluminum lid sliced straight across my right thumb, leaving a deep cut that bled like a bitch.

“YYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!”   I yelled (kidding, it was more profane). It was pretty deep, and bleeding profusely. Unfortunately, my father who usually stitches up my wounds is back in Iowa, and would be unable to tend to my gaping thumb cut. I had to act alone.

After applying pressure for about ten minutes with some tissues, I painted on some liquid bandage, and then tried to figure out what to do about the fact that my thumb was split wide open.

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I super glued it.

Duct tape is so 2011.

I am back in Colorado for a few weeks to enjoy some snowboarding. Unfortunately I have not  done any physical activity since March of last year. That’s eleven long months of being completely sedentary. Not even a jog. Not a single jumping jack.

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My body was not prepared. Day 1 was spent riding hard for six long hours at Breckenridge, followed by a three hour session at Beaver Creek the following morning. My body = destroyed. I need a wheelchair. My hamstrings, knees, and spine need some serious TLC. Won’t someone bring me a hot tub and some Percocet? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I hate it when people say  “slightly obsessed.”   Like,  “SoOoOo…I’m slightly obsessed with Glee.”   First of all, Glee sucks. Second, you can’t be slightly obsessed. That’s like saying you’re “slightly pregnant.”  Obsessed is an extreme. You’re either obsessed, or you’re not.

The Voice is back on television. I am absolutely jacked for a number of reasons. One, I love singing. Good singers give me a woody that could scrape the skies. Two, Adam Levine. Adam Levine is the sexiest man on planet Earth. He just is. I want to scream it from the top of a mountain. I love this show. Christina’s tits are as big as ever. They’re like beach balls. They have their own center gravity. They are just obnoxious. Blake Shelton, for some reason I like you, and I am happy to see you again. Cee-Lo, you have midget arms, but you say some funny shit.

Well, time to watch 11 more episodes of Dogtown. Talk to you fools later.

__________________________________________________________________

“If I get strep throat, I’m gonna mail you some anthrax.”

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.

I was reflecting upon my childhood diet the other day. This is all I ate from ages 6 until 11:

• Cherry Pop-Tarts
• Fruit by the Foot
• Fruit Roll-Ups
• Spaghettios
• Cinnamon Toast Crunch
• Count Chocula
• Miracle Whip on white bread (it’s true)
• Kraft macaroni and cheese
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No wonder kids lose all their teeth. It’s not to make room for new permanent teeth, it’s because our diet is made completely up of sugar, salt, and nitrates. My mouth rebelled against me (along with the rest of my body). Good thing I ran around like an ape with ADHD 23 hours a day as a youngin’. Without my incessant need to constantly be running around catching snakes and toads, I would have weighed somewhere north of 200 pounds by the fourth grade.

I’m watching an exclusive interview with Piers Morgan and Motley Crue, and I’ve made a startling discovery:

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Mick Mars is:  Emperor Palpatine.

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Am I right? Let’s take another look.

Mick Mars….?
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…..or Emperor Palpatine?
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I smell an identity theft case.

People need to stop shortening words. It’s not cute. It’s nauseating and stupid. SO STUPID! This includes, but is not limited to, “Presh, gorge, fab, adorbs, totes, fave, probs,” and “ridic.”  Yesterday I was reading reviews on a pair of boots, and this is the atrocity I came across:
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I had a half a mind to report it as inappropriate. Are you kidding me? Even the busiest person in the world has enough time to avoid looking like a stupid ass. This needs to stop.

Nicole Scherzinger needs to bury herself alive. At first I thought her mouthwatering good looks were enough to float her along, but this has just gone too far. Everything that comes out of her mouth on The X Factor is pointless, annoying, and retarded. Also, her dramatic faux emotions? Ugh. Stop pretending to be moved, stop crying, stop being a douche, Nicole. As a side note, as much as I love Marcus Canty, Rachel Crow earned her place in this competition with her save-me song. You suck, Scherzinger.
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Well, I’m going to go digest my tacos. Remember that we are now in a new prize period! The next winner will be drawn on Sunday, December 18th. To become eligible for the drawings, all you have to do is 1) be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie, and 2) leave a comment or forty!  (Find out more here: PRIZES!) Every comment you leave puts your name in the drawing for the next prize, which is a totally bitchin’ convenient and brilliant invention: the union of the cozy mitten plus an ice scraper to help make your morning car-scraping ritual a little less painful this winter.

That’s right, folks. Be in it to win it.

Thanks for stopping by.

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“Nick’s roommate pulled the ol ‘slam your beer bottle on top of someone else’s beer to make it fizz up’ (mine) and like a jack ass, I stuck my thumb in it to make it spray everywhere in a retaliation attempt, which was great. Then I looked down and noticed glass sticking out of my thumb and blood was everywhere. The joke, once again, was on me.”

-Cole

Be a winner, not a wiener.

I’m big on sending things via snail mail. There’s just something flamboyantly exciting about receiving an envelope with two dozen stickers on it, isn’t there? Letters, packages, cards. Anyway, inspired by another lass’s blog, I have decided to start doing random drawings of sorts for all of you readers out there. Basically I will be choosing a name at random every couple of weeks, and the lucky winner will receive some cool and personalized prize from me in the mail. Sometimes the prizes will be badass, and sometimes you’ll be pissed. That’s the glory of a surprise.

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THE QUALIFICATIONS!!!

In order for your name to be drawn, there are two requirements:

1) First, you must be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie.
“Will SuBsCriBiNg mAke m3 gEt a BuncH of sPaM???  i h8 gEttiNg jUnK mAiL!!!111”   F-ck no. Being subscribed simply means you receive the post directly into your email when a new one is published.

2) Since there is no physical hat filled with shreds of paper with peoples’ names on it for me to pull a winner out of, I will be drawing names off of comments on posts.  In order for your name to be drawn, you must have commented on a post during that period of time in between drawings. Each time you comment, your name is put in the metaphorical “hat!” Pretty easy. 

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Bribes. Who doesn’t love them?

The prize for the first drawing will be a personalized CD or CDs of my favorite Christmas jingles. You’ll be rockin’ around the Christmas tree and craving figgy pudding like you wouldn’t believe once you fire these tunes up in the car. Watch out: lots of Christmas cheer inside. If you don’t like Christmas carols or you’re black and celebrate Kwanzaa, you’ll have to re-gift. Sorry. There may also be baked goods involved. WE’LL SEE!!! The drawing period starts now! If you haven’t subscribed, you can click “Subscribe” in the column on the right hand side of the home page. Then leave as many comments as you want to become eligible! Good luck, lads.

Other prizes to look forward to will include things like gift cards, DVDs, posters, trinkets, t-shirts, one hundred dollar bills (yeah right), all sorts of booty. They’ll be fun. FUN times.

WELL, enjoy your Thanksgiving feasts, kids. I’ll be doubling my body weight if you need me.

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“Thanks for all the birthday wishes, pretty damn good birthday, ran a 5k this morning too! Just kidding, I threw up in a sink.”
– Chris Diez 

Card Games.

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My eyelids are itching like Ke$ha’s crotch on a Saturday morning. Yesterday I treated myself to some nice amethyst colored eyeshadow, and today I am paying the consequences. You see, I have green eyes, and purple is really a great color for them. I religiously wore violet eyeliner for nearly two years, but had been simultaneously struggling with a weird eye infection. For several months, my eyelids had been swollen, red, irritated, and itchy. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Eventually it was so bad, I couldn’t wear any eye makeup besides mascara. After a few days of not wearing eyeliner period, my eye irritation went away. I went back to bedazzling my eyelids, and the crazy swollen eye came back. As it turns out, I am allergic specifically to purple dye in makeups. This is very irritating. Allergic to purple? How does this happen. Anyway, my eyelids are freaking out today. I’m regretting my rebellion against my biology.

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Why is it when you pick up a greeting card off of the shelf at the store, its proper place completely vanishes from sight. Suddenly you can’t find where it goes. At all. Where the f-ck did this birthday card come from? you wonder, completely flabbergasted. You’ve engaged in an involuntary game of Where’s Waldo, except in this case “Waldo” is a birthday card that sings “I’m too sexy for my hair.” The cards go Houdini on your ass, just like that. It’s like you pick up the card, and in the few short seconds it takes you to read it, the rest of the cards play musical chairs and the slot that it came from goes MIA. Next thing you know, you’re stuffing “Happy 30th Birthday” behind “Sorry for your loss.” No one’s the wiser.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I’m going to be trying my hand in the kitchen. This pie is going to be a big win for me if I succeed. I love sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes are the elixir of my life. I hope this pie rocks. If it does, I’ll be bragging until Christmas. Then I’ll make it for Christmas, and I’ll be bragging until next Thanksgiving. It’s the circle of life.

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^ Some weird guy.

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My dog is dropping fart bombs like Nagasaki. If I didn’t know he loved me so much, I would begin to suspect that he was trying to pull an Auschwitz and gas me to death. It’s just one after another. His bowels are relentless. I wish he would just take a poop and get it over with. I’ve taken him out twice since this fart-fest has begun, and he trots around for a minute and resists the poop. JUST DROP THE DEUECE, RALEIGH!!!! Stop resisting nature.

Well, I wish I had more things to share with you nice boys and girls, but I just don’t have anything else to say. So….I guess….I guess that’s it.

FOR YOUR HEALTH!

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C:   I keep singing Adele outloud.

B:   Who doesn’t.

C:   I want to carry her voice with me in my pocket at all times. And take it out whenever I want to hear it.  I just invented the iPod.