How you like me now, college?!

I just aced my history exam. That's right. Let's talk about how I just aced my history exam. Actually, let's not because I don't even have that much to say except that I made that test my bitch. And I made my English Comp portfolio my hooker. And I smoked my last speech like weed.

'Kay, that didn't make any sense whatsoever. But I'm just saying that I'm awesome. I got a safe full of cherries cuz I pop it and lock it.

This is my final post that counts for a journal entry, because after this I've met my quota. And unfortunately I have nothing to really say in it except for talk about how freakin' awesome I am. Which is funny because usually I talk about how un-awesome I am. Nice change of pace, from low self-confidence to narcissist in 1 post!

Anyway. Shut up and watch this youtube video.

These pancakes are super thick, mom!

Gets me every time.

Procrastinator.

It's 2:37 am and I'm exhausted but still awake. I have been cramming and frantically writing all weekend and I'm pretty sure this is how 90% of people in real colleges feel quite often, when they have real-college assignments due and real-college finals to study for.

I just finished my portfolio for 2 different classes... Illustrations and Composition. Right up to the wire on both of them... that's my style. The last paper I wrote I finished 30 minutes before class and got a 96%. I spent about an hour on the whole thing. It seems like the less I try, the better I do. That's a horrible life lesson, kids, but it's proving to be true for me.

I put my Comp portfolio on astrobright paper. My revisions are on neon pink. And I mean neon... retina-burning soul-on-fire pink. I figure if they hurt to read my teacher will assume they are okay and give me an okay grade without really reading them because reading them physically hurts. It's genius, actually. Provided it has the desired effect.

My illustrations class was such a fun class. Like insanely enjoyable. I got to draw cute little doodles of kids all the time and I got college credit for it. And that's my kind of class.... doing things I would be doing anyway and then getting credit for it. Why doesn't my entire life work like that? Why don't I get paid to eat food and sing in the shower?

Speaking of singing, I got a part in my church Christmas program. I'm the alto part in O Holy Night. It's a quartet, and we're singing it a cappella. It makes me a little nervous, but I think I can do it. And I was really really happy to be picked. I KNEW there was a reason I went to church today! I almost didn't because I was stressed out.

Now at least I don't have to worry about school again for a little while. Now I just have to worry about finishing a pair of shoes, cleaning the house for company and baking a German chocolate cake in the next 2 days. Swell...

Movie Review: Thankskilling

Tagline: "Gobble Gobble, Motherf*cker."

My best friend and I love campy D-movie horror, so this movie was an obvious choice for us. And it had everything you could ever want in a D-movie horror flick:

1. Boobs

2. Wildly farfetched plot

3. Unlikely villain

4. Wholly un-engaging storyline

5. A slut, a nerd, a jock and a girl-next door character (who die in that order)

6. High school theatre-quality special effects

All that and more are presented in this delightfully horrendous movie. The plot goes something like this: minutes after the first Thanksgiving, a turkey comes after the pilgrims seeking bloody revenge. And then has returned in present times for more bloody revenge. 5 college students are on their way home for Thanksgiving and encounter the turkey, and all hell breaks loose.

The turkey in question is, I'm pretty sure, a rubber hand puppet. The blood looks to be teriyaki sauce and red food coloring. The lines are contrived. The very first scene of the movie features a close-up of a nipple, panning back to an inexplicably topless pilgrim running frantically through the woods, chased by the homicidal turkey. At one point the college students find a book... a field guide to homicidal turkeys of sorts that is written in a math code and can only be deciphered by the nerd of the group. It's oddly specific, too. "The turkey can usually be found in his teepee. If he's not in the teepee, he's most likely killing your friends."

In short, this movie is probably the best worst thing ever.

I will leave you with a line from the movie:

Jock: Looks like I got something you don't, Turkey!

Killer Turkey: What's that Darren... a vagina?

Brilliant.

Suck it, Iowa.

I went to Iowa this weekend and it didn’t go great. My grandmother had a stroke a few months ago and is in a care facility, and we went out to make her a nice Thanksgiving dinner and spend some time with her. For some reason we ended up having brunch instead. Don’t ask me how that happened.

My dad’s family is kind of insane. And there were a bunch of people at this brunch who did not need to be there. One was my aunt’s mother-in-law, who was 90, and one was my other aunt’s mother-in-law who is just... well the first thing she said to me was “And who are you?” I wanted to be like, “Who am I? Hooker, who are YOU?” So she was special. I'm actually kicking myself that my response wasn't "Your worst nightmare, bitch." That would have been timely.

But the 90 year old, Betty, asked about my dad, and then was like, “and you’re a nurse, right?” And I was like, “No, that’s my mom you’re thinking of.” And she proceeded to say, “Oh! I was wondering if you were his wife, but I said to myself, ‘she’s gained some weight!’ so I just wasn’t sure.” Sooooo yeah. Apparently I am fat and old now. Sweeeeet. Apparently being 90 gives you the right to be socially retarded or something.

Then. Later. We go to Chick-Fil-A. Which I love, especially since there isn’t one in Omaha. But all of a sudden I start feeling hot... and dizzy... and nauseous. So I get up and go to the bathroom. And it’s a good thing, because after leaning against the wall of the stall for a minute, I totally puked my guts out. On the dirty floor of a public bathroom. With some Christian pop music playing over the speakers. It was almost poetic. “I raise my hands up to the sky, we’re all in need of Jesus!!” *vomit* So then I was old, fat, AND puking.

And I spent the whole 5 hour car-trip home with my head between my knees trying not to lose it again.

My conclusion? Iowa can suck it.

A Week From Now...

...it will be Thanksgiving. Which, by the way, is an effed up holiday. Here's what Thanksgiving means to me: A long time ago in like the 1600's or something there were these people who came over to America (which wasn't even America back then) on a ship. They landed in what is now referred to as New England. Plymouth specifically. But the "pilgrims" as they were called, who were English, didn't know what the eff was going on and most of them starved and froze to death the first winter there. Then the kindly natives were like, "These people are harshing our mellow," and taught them to plant crops and hunt and stuff and basically to be useful human beings. So the 50 or so pilgrims who survived this whole ordeal were like, "let's totally celebrate up in here!" and threw a jumpin' party. And by "party" I mean they ate squash. And then later they shot the Native Americans who helped them survive, all in the name of irony I'm sure, and took their land. Because they were better than those savages, dammit.

So, being Americans, we feel a moral obligation to distort the CRAP out of true meanings of holidays. So we made Thanksgiving about eating a wildly gluttonous amount of food and then sleeping and watching football for the rest of the day. Isn't that just the spirit of America? A holiday that celebrates back-stabbery, racism, obesity and laziness. U-S-A! U-S-A!

Maybe my cynicism stems from the fact that I just don't like any holidays. Gatherings stress me out and make me hateful because large groups of people tend to be selfish, loud, and wholly irrational. Also, some members of my family are ridiculous and gross and prolonged exposure causes severe snark on part. I was born cynical and I grew into my sarcasm.

Can I please just run away?

I got the haircut from hell.

I payed $103.32 to get my hair cut and my streak rebleached today and guess what I got? 30-year-old virgin hair and bleach spots in my hair. Yeah. BLEACH SPOTS. Because dear, darling Cassie who doesn't know Geometry from Geography (seriously, actually came out of her mouth) couldn't seem to be careful with the bleach. Because apparently it's totally okay to be sloppy about things. And apparently it's okay to not listen to your client at all and do whatever you think will look super-duper awesome.

Hey Cassie? You can suck a big bag of dicks.

And I would have made her fix it, but I didn't know it was bad at the time. Because right at the start I got something horrible in my contact and it fell out and shriveled up immediately. And when you're only wearing 1 contact, you may as well be wearing none. Because you can't focus on anything and it makes you wanna puke. So I couldn't see anything. While I was getting my hair done. MY HAIR. Worst. Timing. Ever.

Now I don't know what to do with myself except cry and wish I was dead I guess. More than usual, I mean.

I'm Obsessed with The History Channel.

No, seriously... Ob. Sessed.

I cannot get enough of History. I mean like for realz, y'all. Ancient Aliens! Mega Disasters! Cities of the Underworld! UFO Files! Jurassic Fight Club! How the Earth Was Made! The States! I cannot get enough. I know, I know, I'm a total nerd. But like... Dinosaurs, Aliens, Space, Presidents. Those are basically all my favorite things. I'm pretty much obsessed with all of it.

I also really like that show Through the Wormhole with Morgan Freeman because mothereffing Morgan Freeman, you guys! I spent my entire day yesterday catching up on all of the shows I had DVR'd in the last few weeks. I watched 3 hours of Ancient Aliens, an hour of Cities of the Underworld about Romania and Dracula and all that awesome, and also an episode of Nostradamus Effect. I'm just like... oh my gosh, so much history!

I know I’m a nerd. But like... that’s what makes me awesome. The fact that I’m a total nerd. I mean, I was at Hobby Lobby the other day and I found a set of unpainted nesting dolls and what immediately came to mind? President nesting dolls. PRESIDENT NESTING DOLLS YOU GUYS. I just have to decide which presidents to use. I need 6. Who were the 6 most influential and/or distinguishable presidents? Washington and Lincoln, obviously. And Teddy Roosevelt. But who else? JFK? Andrew Jackson? Grant? Taft? If I did Taft I would obviously have to make him the biggest one... Get it? Because he was obese?

Maybe I’ll do Obama for one just because... you know... he’s black and everything. And it might make for some nice contrast. I just can’t decide who the most influential presidents were. It’s so hard. But seriously, I think it would make an awesome Christmas gift. Matt would appreciate it.

Oh Gosh, did I just out-nerd myself?

Organize yo life.

I'm trying to organize my life. It's not going great.

It's mostly not going great because I don't know where to start. I'm in need of a serious purge. I need to get rid of 90% of the stuff I have cluttering up my life right now and then begin anew. I just am not entirely sure how to begin doing this. It's become a rather large undertaking unfortunately and there is not a dumpster big enough to make this happen quickly or smoothly.

Here's one problem: I have over 100 pairs of shoes. What I'm wondering is how you STORE 100 pairs of shoes. Most shoe storage shelves are made for a bunch of size 7 flats. This is great, if you wear only size 7 flats. But I wear size 10 stilettos on a regular basis. I also wear knee-high boots on a regular basis. It's basically either boots or stilettos, or Toms if I'm feeling lazy. So how do you store 10 pairs of boots, 30 pairs of stilettos, 8 pairs of tennis shoes, 40 pairs of flip flops and a bunch of other miscellaneous footwear? If you have an answer to this question, you are much smarter and more innovative that I.

Here's another problem: my closet is filled with boxes. Just... boxes piled on boxes piled on more boxes. So I don't have anywhere to store my clothes, which I have too many of in the first place. So it's all this horrendous vicious cycle of mess because I don't know what to do with anything or where to put anything. And Pinterest doesn't help because everyone's dream houses are always so clean and neat and rustic but chic and modern at the same time and I just don't know how they do it.

I'm very frustrated with myself for being so messy. I'm like 4 cats away from being a TV show on TLC, I swear. I don't know what to do with myself! aizehrsgkjvehz;dfiblk HELP ME PLEASE.