Monthly Archives: February 2012

Mendin’ broken hearts and making…WEIRD SCIENCE!

This might be short. Well, let’s be honest, short for ME. Which is still long for NORMAL HUMANS. I have about an hour and a half to write this or else I’m going to miss MY PROGRAM. My program (shut up, I call the shows I watch “my programs,” I do that because my grandmother does and it makes me laugh and laugh, WHAT DO YOU HAVE AGAINST LAUGHTER) is Justified. There is no WAY I’m missing Justified. Sorry. Even though I love you all ’til my face hurts, Raylan takes precedence. I mean, look. LOOK.

Honestly, he makes me make that "humuna humuna" noise, you know?

So, in order to make my weekly date with Raylan, I’m giving you all short shrift. SORRY.

Oh, and before I forget, HAPPY LEAP DAY. According to 30 Rock, nothing we say or do today counts. So I guess do whatever you want. Make out with strangers. Eat tainted meat products. IT IS YOUR DAY.

Also, we’re supposed to get like 5-6″ of snow here over the next 24 hours? So I went to the store? And it was STOREMAGEDDON. Things I saw: a man lying down in the bread aisle throwing lower-level bread to his wife who was filling a cart with it; people yelling at each other at the deli for “cutting line,” a woman screaming into her cell phone about the upcoming storm in the ice cream aisle; and a woman randomly weeping in the cereal aisle. Also, they were out of my favorite popsicles. WHAT THE HELL. Less than a foot of snow makes people stock up on sugar-free popsicles? THOSE ARE MINE BITCHES. I felt like I’d entered a madhouse. I was scared. SCARED FOR MY LIFE.

Anyway, I totally have a theme and shit today, don’t even think I don’t. I mean, I stole it from Ken, but I still have a post idea. I think that counts.

Last week, Ken went to a one-man show which was probably not all that interesting for him, since he had to sit through it, but it was a hell of a lot of fun for those of us who follow him on Twitter because he tweeted the one-man show, so that was the best thing. It was like I got to go to the theater while sitting at work. I mean, how many people get to do that? Well, I guess people lucky enough to get paid to work in theaters. But other than that, NONE. So, thanks, Ken, for the awesomeness.

Anyway, at the end of the one-man show, the man (there was only one of him, hence the moniker) told a story about a rat. Well, some rats, I guess. Ken blogged it. You’re totally not going to click that, are you? I’m torn. I want you all to click, because you will all fall madly in love with his blog and then he’ll get CRAZY-ASS BLOG TRAFFIC which, let’s face it, he deserves. All my people that I follow do. I don’t follow just any yahoo, come on. What do I look like here, just some random blog-follower? NO I AM NOT. Anyway. Torn. OH YES. But if I DON’T put it here and you don’t click, then your’e going to be lost and nothing I say from now on will make sense and you’ll be all, “whaaa?”

OK, I’ll happy-medium this, how about that. I’m going to give you a TASTE of the story. You need to click the link I have OH SO HELPFULLY ADDED ABOVE and read it on Ken’s blog because it is awesome. The blog. Also Ken. Listen, I totally set my blog up so that it opens links in a new tab and everything, you won’t even lose me, I promise. You can just come right back.

OK, in a nutshell: scientists put a rat in water that it couldn’t get out of. It swam for 45 minutes and drowned. Then they did the same thing with a second rat, only after a little while, they put in a platform so the rat could climb out.

The next day, they did it again to that same rat, only they NEVER PLANNED ON PUTTING IN THE PLATFORM. But the RAT didn’t know that. So it kept swimming. And swimming. And swimming. For seven hours. Until it drowned. Waiting for that platform to appear.

OK, I’m not here to be all “animal testing bad” because I know there are scenarios where animal testing is important. There are some scientific discoveries we could not have found without animal testing. Some drugs that we’d have never known if they worked or not. There are situations where it’s necessary. I get that. Listen, I eat meat. I’m totally not crunchy-granola-hippy-commune-peace-love-dope. Don’t get all up in my grill, homeslice.



This is CRUEL and UNUSUAL RAT TORTURE. That poor rat! Waiting and waiting and paddling and all, “where’s my platform? Guys? Guys? Did you forget me down here?” Ugh.

I get what they were going for? That, with the carrot (even imagined) at the end of the stick, an animal (human or otherwise) is capable of more than it even imagines? But this seems INSANE to me. An INSANE way to get there.

So then I thought, what the hell other shenanigans are scientists up to? I’d have asked Andreas but I was worried he’d tell me something I didn’t want to know like “grafting puppies onto kittens!” or something and I just don’t want to know that, Andreas, even if you ARE Lucy’s Football’s official science guy. But he’d totally say it in such an enthusiastic way I couldn’t be mad. I CAN’T BE MAD AT YOU ANDREAS! Wait, I was just thinking, maybe you should be Lucy’s Football’s science dude. I kind of like that. ANDREAS. What say you? Science GUY or Science DUDE? You could also be Science Guru but I think that makes you sound old and a little creepy, to be honest. But I’ll leave it up to you.

So I found this site that had some random scientific experiments on it and one was SO GROSS that I’m totally not even going to link to the site. But one was the funniest so I researched it and am linking to ANOTHER site because it’s too funny not to link to, seriously.

This is a recap of something from New Scientist. I think Andreas may have warned me against New Scientist. Or told me it was ok. I’ve already forgotten. A lot of shit comes in and goes out of my brain on a daily basis, it’s hard to process it all, honestly.

OK, this one’s only a wee bit cruel. There’s a little animal death. And there are some…um…little deaths. That will make sense if you like euphemisms. Or Sondheim.

So scientists (I’m not sure why. Because they could?) wondered, “what revs a turkey’s engine?” So they made a fake female turkey with removable bits and a male turkey humped the shit out of it because apparently male turkeys are horny as hell, I don’t know.  Then they thought, “hmm, what if the lady didn’t have wings?” The turkey still did the nasty. No legs, tail, feet, etc. – that didn’t matter to our feathered lothario. The only thing the turkey needed to do his business? A HEAD AND GENITALS ON A STICK. Nope. I’m totally serious.

Yep. I TOTALLY FOUND A PHOTO. Is this not the worst thing? I know. You're welcome.

Then they did the mandatory “we’re scientists, might as well kill something” portion of the program by – well, here, I’m just going to quote this:

“Schein and Hale then went on to investigate how minimal they could make the head before it failed to excite the turkey. They discovered that a freshly severed head on a stick worked best. Next in order of preference was a dried-out male head, followed by a two-year-old ‘discolored, withered, and hard’ female head. Last place went to a plain balsa wood head, but even that elicited a sexual response. They published their results in 1965 in a book called Sex and Behavior.”

Um. This…seems like they thought it out. A LOT. I also like that they just HAPPENED to have a withered, discolored, and hard two-year-old turkey head just HANGING around like that. “Hey! Hale! CHECK IT! I KNEW this shit would come in handy, and you were all, ‘Schein, you’re such a HOARDER!'”

I guess my biggest question here is…who funded this? And how did it further science? Did we need to know these things? And if so…why? I bet Andreas knows. That’s why he gets paid the big bucks.* (*the big bucks are Twizzlers. I pay Andreas in Twizzlers. I have yet to pay him. Don’t remind him, ok? I can’t be sending Twizzlers overseas every five seconds, am I MADE of Twizzler money?)

So then I did FURTHER research because I love you so much my little popcorn balls. Guess what I found. NO GUESS. Fine, fine, I’ll tell you.

Do you know about the Milgram experiment? I’m down with the Milgram experiment because a., it was on humans, b., I think it’s fascinating, and c., IT INVOLVES ACTING. OK, so in the Milgram experiment, which took place in 1961, there are three people. A subject, an actor, and the scientist. The subject is told that the actor (who the subject is unaware even IS an actor) is going to answer some questions. For every question the actor gets wrong, the subject has to give the actor a painful electric shock. The subject sees the shocks happening. The actor acts the shit out of the shocks. The subject thinks they are causing someone serious pain. With each question wrong, the voltage increases. The scientist keeps encouraging the subject to keep working.

What do you think the subjects did? Did what they were told – continued shocking the actors? Or conscientiously objected?

65% did as they were told. Sure, they were all questiony and “I don’t know, this seems wrong” and “um…I’m a little worried about that guy” and whatever, but 65% kept on keepin’ on, you know? Milgram thought this was fascinating and said a lot about obedience and command and authority. I totally agree. I am blown away by this experiment and have been since I was young and first read about it. (Also, women were more likely to follow orders than males. I’m curious if this was recreated today, the results would be the same.)


Were you aware that a few years later, a couple of other scientists were all, “Shit, we can top that” and recreated it?


No, I’m totally serious. Only, the puppies? WERE NOT ACTORS. And the shocks? WERE REAL.

Yep. Totally scroll to the bottom of that Wikipedia page up there, I’m not making anything up.

I mean, the scientists SAY the shocks were harmless. But the subjects were forced to SHOCK A PUPPY if the puppy didn’t stand in a certain part of a room. And the subjects got VERY UPSET. And cried. And tried to air-traffic-control the puppy through the glass separating them. And the puppies were YELPING.

But 50% of the men and 100% of the women participated until the very end.


No no no. No shocking puppies, please. I get what this was trying to prove – much as I get the rat thing – but PLEASE STOP IT.

Also, I know people are all “I would NEVER” yet the results prove you…well, would, you know? But you could not make me shock a puppy. Nope. Yes, I know. I put animals to sleep at the humane society. Totally different scenario; that was not PUPPY TORTURE. This was PUPPY TORTURE. And 75% of the people TOTALLY TORTURED BABY PUPPIES WTFFFFF. I don’t care WHAT scientist-dude was all, “this is important you must do this.” I don’t care if it was ANDREAS. My OWN BLOG’S Science Dude or Guy or Guru or whatever he decides. I AM NOT TORTURING A PUPPY.

OK. It’s Raylan time. Seriously, YOU GUYS. Boots. Hat. Gun. Last week HE TOTALLY TOOK HIS SHIRT OFF I AM SO NOT EVEN JOKING.

I know, I know. There are a LOT MORE THINGS we can talk about with weird animal testing. I’ll talk about it another day, promise. Until then, go back and look at the turkey sex photo. Seriously, I’ve been giggling about that for like an hour, no joke. THOSE TURKEYS ARE IN LURVE.

Frühstück of Champions (sorry, had to, look at those luscious umlauts)

OK, first, before I forget, Ken’s been doing some super-scientific research for me that needs to be addressed. Remember how someone wanted to know why Germans love Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and I said I’d asked Ken but he never responded? Well, he SAYS he never saw that tweet, and I’ve chosen to believe him because I’d just be crushed beyond belief if the internet was built on lies and deceit, you know?

So, to make up for the not-seeing of that tweet, Ken has taken it upon himself to do some very intense man-on-the-street German research for me. Since I’m not IN Germany, it’s obvious I can’t take it upon myself to do this research. So far, Ken has three people.

First, his wife. Here is their conversation, straight from Ken (so, in other words, the “me” here is not me, Amy, but Ken, and the “wife” is KEN’S wife, obviously, and not MY wife, as a., I am not married, and b., if I WAS married, it would be to someone of the male persuasion):

Me: Do you like Breakfast at Tiffany’s?
Wife: The one with Audrey Hepburn? Yes, it was ok.
Me: You didn’t love it? Germans are said to love that film.
Wife: Hm, not sure if I should change my vote. No. It was ok. Go talk to other Germans. I’m busy right now.

(On a related note, I think Ken’s wife and I would get along like a house on fire. She and I seem to have a similar style when dealing with annoyances. Shoo them. Shoo them away.)

Then two friends of his:

I think we can see, based on this very scientific cross-section of THREE GERMANS, that, as a matter of fact, Germans do NOT love Breakfast at Tiffany’s. They like it just fine, but they do not LOVE it. What’s that? You all think that Ken needs to do further research, and that three Germans really isn’t a large cross-section of Germans considering that there are approximately 82 million people living in Germany as of the statistics that Google gave me that are from two years ago so probably I’d assume MORE now, I mean, I can’t imagine that Germans just stopped having babies for two years, that would be insane, although of course we do have to take into account that some Germans have died, I suppose, but I’m sure more are being born than are dying. THIS IS NOT THE TIME OR PLACE FOR A POPULATION STATISTIC DISCUSSION. Anyway, yes, I agree, I already told Ken he needs to get a clipboard and go out on the street and poll random Germans. I don’t know how keen on this he is but he’s a good sport. I mean, he understands, this is IMPORTANT and SCIENCY. The WORLD needs to KNOW.

(Also, “breakfast” in German? Frühstück. SO MANY GORGEOUS UMLAUTS. I can’t even. TWICE IN ONE WORD. Swoon, swoon, swoon.)

OK, so that’s our science portion for the day. I mean, what’s a day without a science portion? It’s like elementary school where everything was very balanced out. You had your science lesson and your language lesson and your math lesson. NO, I’m not going to give you a language or math lesson, STOP ASKING. I think what we’ll have instead is an awesome section. Would you like an awesome section? Of course you would, who wouldn’t.

I had the best thing happen this weekend, you guys. Just the best. No joke. Like, after it happened, and it sank in that it happened, which took a few minutes because sometimes I can be frighteningly slow on the uptake when it comes to good things (however, bad things? I’m on them INSTANTANEOUSLY. Zap, says I to bad things. I AM ONTO YOU. I think that’s because there are more of them than good things, so I can recognize them more readily, maybe. Like one of those guessing games where you have to flip over cards and remember what’s under the cards and match them up? I was always horrendous at those, by the way. This would always crack up the children I babysat for. I didn’t even have to pretend to let them win. Because they ALWAYS won. I could NOT remember what cards were where. Ever. Unless what was on the card was either frightening or stupid. THEN I could remember. And how often in a pre-school guessing game are the images frightening or stupid? They’re usually frogs or suns or something inane. So I think we know where my mind is: firmly entrenched in the frightening or stupid camp. I ALWAYS expect the world to give me frightening or stupid in lieu of a frog or blindly cheerful sun) I just kind of stood there, basking in the awesome. But I am putting the cart in front of the horse! Get back there, cart. This is not the place for you. You’ll totally get squashed.

Now you’re all “whatever is this best thing” and you think I won a million dollars. I did not win a million dollars. I’d tell you if I did. No, wait, no, I probably wouldn’t, because then you’d all want loans and I’d feel terrible having to tell you all no because I’d need that money to purchase my farm in the wilderness where I will have all my three-legged horses and rescued pit bulls and one-eyed goats and such. So probably I’d keep my millionaire status on the downlow. But someday, when I purchase my wilderness rehabilitation farm, you will just know, “Oh, Amy totally won a million dollars and/or married Dr. Ruffalo who was totally down with the wilderness rehabilitation farm plan because he is her SOULMATE OF AWESOMENESS and they are SYMPATICO.”

(SIDE NOTE. This has nothing to do with anything. We have this catalog at work of things you can buy to motivate people? Like packages of post-its that say “you put the “yay” in team” or whatever? Yeah, I know there’s no “yay” in team. Someone threw away the catalog so I can’t actually research how stupid the phrases are. THAT IS NOT THE POINT. The POINT is that one of the things they were selling? Rocks. Plastic rocks. That said “you rock” on them. They weren’t even REAL rocks. And they weren’t even heavy enough to use as paperweights. Or even to bludgeon or maim the person who gave you this shitty present. What purpose do those serve? You know what I’d think if someone gave that to me? “This person thinks little enough of me that they spent actual money that they could have put in my paycheck buying me useless garbage.” Which would not especially motivate me to do anything but spend hours making fun of the plastic “you rock” rock. And then no work would get done, now would it? The last two “we appreciate you” gifts I received here were a huge stack of post-its – APPRECIATED, who can’t use post-its? –  and a pen and pencil set with my name totally engraved into them. BAM that shit’s fancy. See? Useful. I like useful gifts. Not plastic rocks. Who needs more garbage in their life? You find me someone that actually NEEDS more garbage in their life. No, seriously. Find me that person. I will get them a subscription to “Motivational Crap Magazine.” That’d be like Playboy to them, seriously.)

OK, where were we. I was told today we’re supposed to THINK before we WRITE, can you even imagine THAT concept, whoo.

OK, so I was at the theater, and I was running around like a crazy, doing a gajillion things at once, and someone asked me how long before curtain, and I checked my watch and tried to do the math (for you non-theater people – the stage manager, among other things, keeps time for the actors, box office, crew, hospitality staff, etc., and gives them calls. Ours are 30/15/10/5/places. Once we give the actors those calls, the actors are supposed to respond with “___, thank you” – like, the stage manager will say “Five minutes!,” and the actors will respond with “Five, thank you!” – so the stage manager knows the call has been heard. I know! Don’t you totally feel in the know now? Now the next time you’re at the theater – which should be SOON, dammit, go see a show! It will feed your soul and help your local arts scene monetarily, it’s a total win-win! – and you overhear someone saying “Ten minutes!” you’ll know that’s the stage manager! And you’ll know to stay out of his or her way, because he or she is one busy little bee while the show is on, seriously!) and came up short. Because math quickly is not my strong suit. I knew I had just given fifteen minutes and I knew we’d been talking for approximately two but I also knew I had to put carrots on a plate and the plate had to be on the stage and I needed to get a pitcher of ice water and I needed to flicker the lights so the audience would sit down and I knew I needed to check the music and I knew I needed to run to the bathroom otherwise I was going to have to pee all through the act and that’s just uncomfortable for everyone and that’s a lot of things to know and math just wasn’t a priority.

I know, I know. I said the best thing happened. It’s coming. But, side note, I’m totally not all Math is Hard Barbie about math, no no no. I’m quite good at it and am not in the least bit scared of it. I just had a million things in my head and time wasn’t one of them at that moment. Stay in school, kiddos. Also, Advanced Calculus? One of my favorite classes in high school, no joke. I LOVED that class. It was like a mystery! A mystery with MATH! I mean, I’ve totally forgotten it all NOW, but MAN did I love that back in the day! There aren’t many things in the world that make me want to have kids, but I do wish I could have a daughter so I could encourage a love of math and science in her (along with, of course, a love of language. How about a love of LEARNING ALL THE THINGS?)

Anyway. So, I said something like, “It is now two minutes less than the last call I gave you, please math that for yourself, sorry! Have to run! See you all soon!” and started to run away. And one of the actors, who just recently started reading this and has been very complimentary, said “It’s ok, Amy, you’re a writer, not a mathematician.”

So I laughed and ran downstairs and went about my business and did some things and then I stopped, dead, in the middle of the kitchen, preparing the prop plate with the carrots on it, and it actually sank in, what he’d said.

He’d said, actually said, “You’re a writer.”

No one has ever said that to me before. Not said it and meant it. I mean, I think probably it was said, kind of condescendingly, when I was a kid, because all I did back them was write. Constantly. Scribble, scribble, scribble. It was kind of a mania with me, back then. (Someday we’ll delve into Amy’s childhood journals. I’m saving them for when we all need a good belly laugh. Which they will provide. Trust me on this.)

He didn’t say it condescendingly and he didn’t say it jokingly and he didn’t say it in such a way where I could laugh it off and say “oh, it’s just my blog, I just screw around on there” which is what I always do because LISTEN I can NOT take a compliment to save my LIFE, here is an example: someone will tell me, invariably, “oh! I like your nail polish!” because I am INSANE about my nail polish and love it to be crazy and sparkly and fun and so it stands out NO not like those looneys you see on the television, just sparkly or whatever, it isn’t 3D, that would totally get caught in my hair, no thanks, and people seem to like that and I know I like that. Now, a normal person would say, “Yes! Thank you! I do, too!” or, “That’s so nice!” but no, not me, queen of compliment-denial! I say, “Oh, this? So cheap. $2 at Rite Aid” or something like that, because I can NOT let someone say something nice, ever, without turning it into a self-deprecatory remark, I just can’t. I don’t know. Is that a female thing? Is that a me-thing? Whatever, this is not the time for pop psychology any more than it is the time for population density statistics.

(SIDE NOTE. Stop doing this. STOP DOING THIS. We ALL need to stop doing this. I’m one of the world’s biggest offenders. I’ll stop if you all will. If someone compliments us – WE NEED TO START TAKING THE COMPLIMENTS. We are AMAZING. We DESERVE these effing compliments, seriously. No more self-deprecating. No more “oh, this old thing?” No more “oh, I got it on sale.” No more “oh, that’s so sweet” and then changing the subject because you don’t know how to handle it. NO NO NO. You OWN that compliment. You DESERVE that compliment. And I promise I will start trying to be better about this, too.)

He could have said, “You’re an administrative assistant, not a mathematician” or “You’re a stage manager, not a mathematician” or “You’re an answering service tech, not a mathematician” or, hell, just “You’re not a mathematician” but writer came out of his mouth, just like that. It wasn’t even something he had to think about and wasn’t even something he made a big deal about. It was, most likely, the first thing that came to his mind. It was how he thought of me.

And I know, I know, we’re not supposed to get our self-worth externally, because we’re all supposed to know how amazing-special-shiny-unique we are just by looking in the mirror and seeing our TRUEEEE COLORS SHINING THROUUUGH but you can’t even tell me that sometimes, seeing how others see you isn’t a good thing, right? I mean, sometimes it can lead to further self-awareness. If someone tells you that everyone sees you as a shrill harpy-beast that no one wants to spend any time with, maybe you might look into changing that, I mean, assuming you didn’t WANT people to see you that way? And if someone tells you that people see you as a huge pushover, and that’s why you’re always getting stepped all over, maybe you’d go about changing that, if you were tired of getting footprints all over the back of your good sweatervests? (Come on people, how many sweatervests? FOUR SWEATERVESTS!) And if someone tells you that everyone sees you as a geek, well, maybe – I mean, just maybe – you push up your glasses a little higher and keep on keepin’ on, you know, because some things just don’t need to be changed, because they are amazeballs with a side of awesomesauce.

And if someone tells you you’re a writer? And that’s how they see you?

Maybe you’re doing something right. Maybe all the time you spend writing isn’t just screwing around. Maybe, for the first time in your entire LIFE – which is a while, my little Dum-Dum lollipops (the root beer flavor, of course, those were always the most delectable) as I am no spring chicken – you might have fallen into the thing you were meant to be doing all along and the thing that you love doing so much that some days, you just laugh aloud with the fizzy deliciousness of it all, really.

Nope, I’m not a mathematician. I’m a writer.

And him saying that, somehow, gave ME permission to say it. It opened up a door that I had been kind of half-heartedly holding closed, the “it’s not good enough it’s not as funny as other people it’s not serious it’s not anything it’s just a joke, really, PAY NO ATTENTION TO ME I’M JUST A SILLY GIRL HA HA HA” door.

Then I put the carrots on the plate, and I put the plate on the stage, and I ran the lights and the sound without a single error (I’m also an excellent stage manager, as if you ever had a doubt) and it was like this shining secret inside of me as I worked in the dark.

I might be screwing around, and I might be having fun, and I might not be writing the next War and Peace, and I might not be getting paid for it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a writer. Because I am. I am a writer. Holy shit, look at me GO.

Also? I’m happy. I’m probably at one of the busiest times in my life, and there are a million shitty little things happening right now, and some personal things crashing around, and this and that – but I’m happy. I’m so happy, I can’t even tell you.

So remember I told you up there I didn’t win a million bucks? Well, I mean, I still didn’t, I still don’t have my wildlife rescue hermitage. But I kind of feel like I did. Win a million bucks, I mean. Maybe not the kind of million bucks that buys animal rescue hermitages or shiny new laptops but the kind that makes you glow.

Don’t tell anyone – I’d still take the cashola, those animals aren’t going to rescue themselves – but I think I might have gotten the better end of the deal.

Thank you all. You’re the peanuts in my butter.

(I made this last night, because Ken made one. It was decided – it’s a curious thing, chatting to people daily and not knowing what they sound like, isn’t it? So some of us read each other poetry online. Which is just delightful. And it ties in today, without me even meaning it to. Funny, that. So here’s me in all my somewhat-insane glory reading you a poem about writing. Enjoy.)

Interspecies friends (we ain’t kidding, mac!)

Happy Monday! Whoo, weekend, you are like a candle in the wiiiiind with your quickness.

It is random Dad story day. I was going to tell them over the weekend but someone who likes them the most named Jim does not read my blog until Monday so I saved them. YOU’RE WELCOME JIM.

My dad told me a story recently and he was all “THIS ONE’S FOR YOUR BLOG.” I think because animals were involved and he knows I’m a sucker for animal stories. Like, if this were caveman times, that would be how the cavemen would court me. With good animal stories told around the fire. I am a SUCKER for them. But then Dad told me ANOTHER story and it was MORE bloggy. The original one was kind of meh. The second one was kind of weird. I like weird even more than I like animally. Best? Weird AND animally.

But out of deference to him I will tell them BOTH even though he didn’t tell me I could tell you the second one. Although he didn’t specifically say I COULDN’T, either. So I’m going to go with “it’s ok to tell both.” I mean, G.I. Joe used to tell me that knowing was half the battle but I’m pretty sure that not-knowing is a good part of the battle, too, because then you can claim ignorance.


He went to visit his best friend (listen, he and his BFF have been BFFs since they were wee kiddos and they are in their 60s, how adorable is that? The most, is how) and his best friend has a camp and there’s this thing that I don’t 100% understand up there where the BFF stores corn. And he put 100 pounds of corn in it, and the next day the corn was GONE. And he was all, “Amy’s dad, where could the corn be, that is a lot of corn.” So my dad, who’s totally Black Ops when it comes to surveillance, I think because he’s sure that the government is watching him but I can’t guarantee that, set up his night-vision camera and they all tee-heed their way away and then the next day pulled the SD card to see what’s up with the corn thieves and guess what it was?

No, totally not a penguin, ALSO my guess, ALWAYS my first guess, or a fisher, because I was hoping it would be a fisher again, those things rule.

How cute is this? This raccoon is totally singing a tune, no joke.


The raccoon was climbing up a little ladder thingy and spinning this wheel thingy and corn was falling out. Then THREE OTHER RACCOONS were below, gobbling up the corn. OH. And here’s the best part, ready? Guess who ELSE was eating the purloined corn?

Nom nom nom.


So the raccoon family was FRIENDS with the porcupine! They were all eating the purloined corn TOGETHER! I know, right? That is too cute for WORDS! It is like an Animal Planet SITCOM! I asked my dad if the porcupine and the raccoons were friends and he said, “Well, the porcupine wasn’t quilling the raccoons so I guess they got along alright.” Hee! Quilling.

Apparently my dad’s BFF wasn’t amused by the corn thievery so my dad and his BFF set up some sort of raccoon cockblockery where the raccoon couldn’t get into the corn again. I find this sad. Interspecies friends are ADORABLE. What will they talk about now? It’s not like they have television programs to discuss, or bowling. I guess they could discuss the kids, or maybe the weather, but how far will that go? That friendship will get stale fast. This might be the end of their friendship, seriously. I am totally bummed about this end of a friendship.


The second story is just kind of bizarre. So my dad has a friend who is handicapped and can’t walk. (I promise I’m not making fun of this guy, I barely know him, I’m not enough of an asshole to mock the handicapped, and he was injured in Vietnam which I find admirable. Well, OBVIOUSLY not that he was injured. That he served.) So he found a thing online where you could get – no, wait, I’m totally not even kidding – A HELPER MULE.

These mules don't look especially helpful, but I'm assured the one he bought will be.

I was not aware that this is a thing but my dad swears that this is a thing and I have to assume it is. Who would make up “helper mule?” I am not having luck finding anything on the interwebs about this other than a random mention on Wikipedia that such a situation exists.

Anyway, so this guy BOUGHT A HELPER MULE and he’s totally getting it shipped to him.

So my dad and I had the following conversation:

Me: So, wait, what’s he going to DO with the helper mule?
Dad: Ride it.
Me: Wait, what? Ride it? Ride it where?
Dad: I don’t know. Around.
Me: He has a Rascal scooter. Why does he need a mule?
Dad: It’s a HELPER mule.
Me: But the Rascal scooter’s helping him, too. Is that a Helper Rascal scooter?
Dad: That mule is trained to help people.
Dad: I don’t know. Apparently, it kneels down so you can get on it. Then ride it.
Me: HE HAS A RASCAL SCOOTER. WHY DOES HE NEED A MULE. YOU DON’T LIVE IN THE OUTBACK. Or the Grand Canyon. He lives in TOWN. This is suspect.
Dad: I’m not 100% sure why. He hasn’t answered me when I ask him that. Why do you keep calling it a Rascal scooter? It’s like you’re calling it by its first and last name. Like Abraham Lincoln. Or Bob Dylan. I think you can just call it a Rascal. Like Cher.
Me: I don’t know. Just calling it a Rascal seems ambiguous. “He has a Rascal!” You might think I mean he has a scamp who lives with him, I don’t know. ANYWAY. That Rascal scooter is perfectly adequate for his needs. I feel like maybe he just wanted a pet mule. Which I can’t really fault him for. Who doesn’t want an awesome pet, now and again? But maybe you should have encouraged him to get a helper MONKEY. Those things can open cabinets and bring you foodstuffs. Helper mules most definitely cannot open cabinets or bring you Hohos or Sunkist sodas.
Dad: He can open his own cabinets. It’s his legs that don’t work. His arms work fine. Also, he has a wife, she can bring him TV snacks, I suppose.
Me: Damn, then I guess he doesn’t need a monkey. Probably for the best; in some movie I watched like five minutes of one time before it freaked me out too much and I changed the channel, a helper monkey got possessed by the devil.
Dad: That’s probably an unlikely scenario.
Me: I don’t know. Monkeys are evil, remember the time we went to Parc Safari in Canada and they tore all the detailing off the guy’s car in front of us?
Dad: Heh. Yeah. That was funny.
Me: It totally was. But also frightening, because it could have been your face they were tearing up so efficiently, you know?
Dad: Probably not, unless you got out of the car.
Me: True. I was NOT getting out of the car. Not with all of those dastardly monkeys with their quick hands around. I was wearing a sparkly shirt that day. They obviously were drawn to sparkly things. I would have been TOAST. So, wait, who’s going to take care of the mule?
Dad: I don’t know.
Me: His wife? I can’t imagine his wife taking care of that mule. She’s totally classy. And he can’t. The Rascal scooter would get mule poo and mud in the wheels and then it wouldn’t run.
Dad: True.
Me: I feel this mule plan is not well-thought-out. Unless maybe he’s moving to the Grand Canyon and needs it to scale the paths and pack in water and granola bars or something.
Dad: I don’t think he’s doing that.
Me: I kind of want to pet that mule.
Dad: I knew you would want that. We’ll go see the mule when you come home this summer.
Me: Will it let me ride it?
Dad: You’re not handicapped.
Me: No. But it’s a HELPER mule. I can’t imagine it wouldn’t want to be helpful. And that would be helpful. I only got to ride a horse once, for like three minutes. I would feel extraordinarily helped if I got to ride a mule for longer than three minutes.
Dad: I can see your point. We’ll talk to the mule about helping you out this summer. You can be like his community service project.

So this really is exciting animal day. We have: raccoons, porcupines, AND mules. I know. I think it’s only a matter of time before the National Wildlife Service wants me to come and work for them, right? I would be the BEST at that, no joke. Oh, wait, that would involve a lot of walking. I hate walking. SNAP. I could totally ride a helper mule. This is a very good plan.

I like that I have my life all planned out now. I feel really good about this. I’m going to name my mule Sal. I think you have to, right? There’s a song about a mule named Sal and everything. Then I can sing the Erie Canal song TO my mule, which he or she would love, as Sal is totally a unisex name, and we would be INTERSPECIES FRIENDS.

Seriously, this is just the best. I’m going to start packing now! Huzzah!

(P.S. Happy birthday, N.! With apologies for changing this a bit to our mutual love, Stephen Sondheim, what would I do without you? How would I ever get through? Who would I complain to for hours? Who’d bring me the flowers when I have the flu? Have a wonderful day, and more than that, have a wonderful year!)

My place smells like ghost bananas. Related: I might be overtired.

I totally feel like ick. I can’t decide if this is because I’m exhausted from all the theater hullabaloo or if it’s the medical situation or possibly a government conspiracy like my dad’s always telling me about. Maybe ALL THREE.

But anyway, it’s Sunday, and it’s closing day of my show. Which is nice, because I can go back to my hermit existence in my hermitage and be hermity, but also a little sad because I really did enjoy working on this one, and the cast was lovely. That doesn’t always happen. Usually you have one or two people in the cast who are juuuust a bit of a handful, to be frank. And it’s fine, you can work around them, or avoid them by hiding in a closet (NOT THAT I EVER EVER HAVE DONE THAT HA HA HA) or something. But this cast is lovely. There’s not a bad banana in the bunch. Just a whole bunch of lovely bananas. (Also, here is a story about bananas.  The other morning, I started smelling bananas in my place. And I was all, “what the hell with the bananas” and then I thought that a., I was probably showing signs of a seizure disorder even though the LAST time I thought I was having a seizure because I smelled bread baking Twitter informed me that it’s only when you smell burning toast, not just bread, so probably also bananas weren’t a sign of epilepsy; and b., I was losing my mind and/or craving bananas. Or maybe GOING bananas and that’s why they called it that. And then I was in my kitchen that night and I was looking for a bag of cat treats because Dumbcat was out of them and I knew I’d stashed another bag of them on top of the fridge and he was all “MEEEOOOWWW” because it was CAT TREAT TIME and he WILL NOT BE DENIED when it is time for treats – also, he totally knows how to beg for them, no joke, my old roommate taught him, he’ll sit up and pat your hand for them with his paw, so we’re totally going to hit the circus circuit like, any day now, the only thing that’s been holding me back is the preponderance of clowns on said circuit – and I thought, what is this bag up here? And the answer was, bananas that I’d purchased JUST A FEW DAYS AGO. Yep. I bought two delicious bananas as a treat for myself because I never buy bananas but I caved and bought bananas and then FORGOT I BOUGHT THEM and they were sitting on top of the fridge getting brown for days smelling banana-y. I KNOW. I’m pretty sure I’ve lost it. Side note of my side note: I had one on my cereal and it was HEAVENLY.)

Anyway. So the play is done, and I’ve planned out my theater-going for the month (FOUR PLAYS! I know, I’m totally stoked. Three straight shows and a musical. It’s a banner month for awesomeness in Amy-land) and I’m totally going to (eep) clean my place after the show’s over, because it kind of looks like the “before” shot of a Hoarders episode at the moment. And return people’s email that I’ve been remiss about. And write for my other two blogs that I’ve been unable to find the time to write for. And catch up on my programs that I’m weeks behind in watching. I’m so behind it’s like I live in a time warp right now and the past-me is hanging around the current-me wearing slouch socks and jelly bracelets and complaining about not having a date for the prom.

OH! Also, I’m behind on giving you THE MOST EXCITING NEWS. Remember my secret boyfriend Dr. Ruffalo? Yep. That’s totally progressing in a stellar fashion. The latest report? HE HAS READ THE BLOG. And? WAS NOT SCARED AWAY. Even MORE exciting, his FAMILY loves me (well, via my blog, anyway), and apparently want to come and spirit me away to Dr. Ruffalo-land so we can, well, court, I guess, I don’t know, whatever, it’s very exciting.  Honestly, family has always been a stumbling block. I tend to scare families away. I say the MOST INAPPROPRIATE THINGS. Like, ever. One time I made a joke about suicide in front of someone whose son had committed suicide. (That sounds awful. It wasn’t a JOKE. It was a flip remark, more than a joke. Even I don’t go around making “putting-your-head-in-the-oven” quips, come on.) It’s been two years and I have not yet finished beating myself up over this. Thing is, I KNEW HE HAD KILLED HIMSELF. I totally had forgotten, but it was in my memory bank somewhere. Probably wherever I keep my “I bought bananas” knowledge. My mouth was just being my mouth and not THINKING before it was TALKING. I am death to families, seriously. I can only imagine the conversations that are had once I leave my “meeting the family for the first time” dinners. “Um, beloved son, she’s NICE, and all, but…maybe…play the field a little more! Here. Here’s $100! Go find a nice prostitute! Daddy and I will pay for STD testing when you’re done. Shoo! Shoo!” “WHEW Myrtle that was a CLOSE ONE can you imagine having THAT WOMAN as a daughter-in-law? YIKESAROONIE.”

So, anyway. DR. RUFFALO! Are you STILL reading? Because that would be the true test of our complete and total undying love, right? I feel like I should say something scintillating and flirty but listen, you will learn this about me once we’re totally and completely in love, Dr. Ruffalo, I mean, assuming we aren’t already, I am just the crappiest at flirting. Like, you know how there are movies about people who are horrible at flirting and they try to wink at someone and the person they’re trying to wink at says, “Do you have something in your eye?” I wouldn’t even WINK, I’m so bad at flirting. I would quietly continue to read my book in the corner, and if you approached me, I would most likely say something blunt and insulting, like, “Did you really think it was a good idea to wear that shirt out of the house today? Did your mom advise you so? Because she was wrong.” Then I would be befuddled why you didn’t ask me out. I’m like an Amish person, or maybe an alien, when it comes to interpersonal relations. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND YOUR WAYS AND MEANS. I’ve tried. If it’s not be insulting you or ignoring you, it’s me crazy-eyeing you. Sorry. I get really excited and then it’s just scary for everyone.

(Here is an “Amy tried to flirt one time” story. I had a crush on a guy. Who I KNEW was bad news. I COULD NOT HELP IT. He was TALL and FUNNY and SMELLED GOOD. So I was all, “I will MAKE him MINE.” So I proceeded to crazy-eyes him to DEATH. Well, that wasn’t my intention. That’s just how my flirting came across. And I’m completely serious. We’re not even friends anymore. He sees me and he totally books it the other direction. I scared him. I think when he has fever dreams they’re me coming after him with knives and EYES EYES CRAZY EYES WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME CRAZY EYES. And then this other guy I had a crush on got married, I think to escape me. I mean, I have no proof that’s WHY he got married, I SUPPOSE it might have been because he fell in LOVE with the other woman, but that’s my take on the situation. Don’t tell his wife that. It might hurt her feelings. I CAN NOT HELP HOW CRAZY MY EYES ARE I WAS BORN THAT WAY.)

So, Dr. Ruffalo, if you are still reading, probably you will have to handle the courting portion of our courting. Sorry to put that burden on you. If it helps, I’m ridiculously easy to please as long as you use good grammar and punctuation and aren’t like a crazy racist hillbilly. I also have a love of your home country, so we’ve got that going for us. And today I totally stuck up for you on Twitter when you were VICIOUSLY ATTACKED by a HATER who I will NOT NAME who IMPLIED that you were NOT a REAL DOCTOR. I know, right? So there was a complete warning that I would bust out the fisticuffs and then he dropped the subject. Or maybe he just had something else to do and wandered off. Twitter can be kind of transitory like that. See, Dr. Ruffalo? I am really an excellent choice, because I will BUST OUT FISTICUFFS. Well, virtual fisticuffs, let’s not get crazy, here.  I don’t want to end up in the police blotter for fighting. How embarrassing would that be? Wait, does one end up “in” the police blotter or “on” the police blotter? They both sound equally likely, don’t they? I don’t want to find out. Hence the VIRTUAL fisticuffs.

Anyway. Enough Dr. Ruffalo. FOR NOW. You just wait, though, when we’re living happily in our home with pets and a million books and laughing about grammatical mistakes in literary journals and making meals together that include ALL THE FOOD GROUPS and not just me eating leftover pork chops while watching Desperate Housewives THEN you’ll all be sorry you were scoffy.

Oh, AND, it’s Oscar day, right? I haven’t seen a single movie that’s nominated, I’m useless. I don’t know if I’ll even watch. I know. It’s like the world’s coming to an END, here. DOGS AND CATS LIVING TOGETHER.

Happy Sunday, everyone! Enjoy the day!

My seasons in the sun are fading. I think it’s like, late fall for my seasons in the sun. THANKS SEVENTEEN MAGAZINE.

When I was a totally angsty teen with very tall Aquanet bangs and a regrettable perm (SHUT UP IT WAS THE 80s AND SOME OF THE 90s) there was nothing I liked more than Seventeen magazine. It was just the best. It taught you all the smart things: how to dress, how to get guys to like you, what to do in difficult situations like if you caught your BFF smoking dope in the bathroom. VERY HELPFUL.

The best things were the quizzes. My friends and I would just obsess over these quizzes. We’d get the magazine and we’d all huddle around each other in study hall and think VERY SERIOUSLY about our answers and then score them on scrap paper like we were taking the SAT and wait none-too-patiently for our results and then discuss our results. VERY SERIOUS STUFF, this. Like, “Does He Like Me More Than a Friend?” And “What Will I Be When I Grow Up?” and “What Haircut Is Best for Me?” I mean, seriously. HOW were we supposed to plan our lives without Seventeen quizzes?

So today I was thinking, probably I need help, let’s see if Seventeen quizzes can help me out. I totally have a lot of questions. Seventeen was always so helpful, yo.

Um. Apparently I am very, very old. Or Seventeen got really stupid. Or a little of both. I think I failed all the Seventeen quizzes today.

What started all of this was that I was typing in “How to…” into Google to look something up and you know how it autofills shit and sometimes it’s hysterical? One of the things that popped up was “How to Make Out.” What? People worry about this? Was I supposed to worry about this? I just did it, I mean, back when I used to do it. Not NOW. I’m not doing it NOW. Grumble. ANYWAY. Was I doing it wrong all those years ago? I mean, no one COMPLAINED. But I didn’t go online and look up HELPFUL TIPS, either. SHIT. Now I feel like I probably should have had a makeout to-do list and I let a lot of people down. Dammit.

So one of the results was a Seventeen quiz about “What is Your Kissing Style.” Well! I mean, I’ve gone almost forty years without knowing what my kissing style is. Probably I should figure that out. I mean, the next time I’m on a date and I start having ALL THE SEX that’s totally right around the corner according to Dr. Ernie probably that imaginary boyfriend’s going to be all, “Amy, what is your kissing style, I don’t date just any yahoo WHAT IF OUR KISSING STYLE IS NOT SYMPATICO” and what if I didn’t know the answer? That would be alarming. And who even knew there were STYLES? A-LAR-MING.

So you KNOW I had to take the quiz.

After asking me some totally weirdo questions, one of which was squeeing about Pattison and Twilight and sparkly vampires (I don’t like the direction Seventeen is going with this) I found out this:

“You’re a Phi Beta Kisser! When it comes to kissing, you’re at the head of the class! You’re kissing M.O. is simple: Smooch well and smooch often, even if it’s on your first date with a guy! As long as you keep things from getting too heated up, why not have a little fun?”

I think Seventeen just called me a cocktease. A sorority cocktease.

Then I was totally pissed at Seventeen for implying I was a cocktease (SEVENTEEN, it’s like you don’t know me at ALL, I TOTALLY put out) so they recommended I take some Hunger Games quizzes. I like The Hunger Games. I’ll totally take some Hunger Games quizzes, Seventeen.

So first they wanted to know what Hunger Games character I should date. Well, really the only viable answer is Haymitch. Because anyone else would be jailbait. I was fairly sure that Seventeen would figure this out about me, because Seventeen is nothing if not savvy.


OK, fine, I’m all about Team Peeta, but not to DATE him. I’d like to feed him a cookie and tell him to stay in school, Seventeen. I’m old enough to be his MOM. Seriously, Seventeen, I’m starting to doubt your veracity.

However, I’m not taking any more of these Hunger Games quizzes, Seventeen, they’re creeping me out.

But I was NOT DAUNTED. Next Seventeen indicated that I should take a quiz to find out which “HGP” was right for me. What’s a HGP? I don’t know. Research tells me it is “Hot Guy Panelist.” Um. I don’t think this is going to end well at all. BUT I PERSEVERE. It’s what I DO. There’s isn’t a dead horse between here and Antarctica I haven’t beaten into submission, seriously. One time Ken gave me an AWARD for it. SHUT RIGHT UP. It was NICE of him. It’s because I LOVE awards. And he KNOWS that. Even for horse-beating. That is NOT A EUPHEMISM.

Now, already, on the first page of this thing, it asked me what my dream date was, and I sat here for like three minutes confused by one of the answers. Answer C was “You like your date to go all out — candals, mood music, dancing, the whole works!” And I was all, “What the hell is a candal? Is it a sandal? Why would he bring me sandals? Or am I wearing sandals? I hate wearing sandals, I never do that, toes are ick. Or is HE wearing sandals? If this asshat can’t even be bothered to put on real shoes for our dream date, we are SO OVER.” But then I realized it was “candles.” Who is writing these things? I could do a better job with my eyes pecked out by a flock of sparrows.

Then on the next page, it wanted me to describe my “flirting style.” Since my “flirting style” is pretty much to ignore the object of my affection and be confused why they don’t psychically understand I want them, and that wasn’t one of my choices, I was forced to choose something else. Some of my choices were “baking for him” (um…I’m not Betty Crocker, make your own damn brownies, lazy) and “writing your crush a song” (hee! Yep! That would TOTALLY get him for me. I am SO the next Sondheim. I would totally throw in jazz hands which would NOT AT ALL scare him off!) I chose “showing off your smarts.” I think that could be interpreted as “sitting in a corner ignoring him until he gets the psychic call I want him to lick me like a summertime popsicle,” right?

Then it wanted to know if I have a big date, what I wear. THIS IS SO MUCH WORK. One of my choices was “A flirty dress and ballet falts.” WHAT THE HELL IS A BALLET FALT. I am not impressed with your copyediting skillzzzz, Seventeen. I don’t remember this being that bad when I WAS seventeen. And I was a totally snotty spellchecker even then.

Then Seventeen won my love again by having one of the options for “what is your biggest turnoff” be “bad grammar” because you KNOW it totally is. Well, that and being a psychokiller but that wasn’t an option.

Then Seventeen told me this was my dream date.

I feel dirty right now. This is distressing.


He doesn’t even have any CHEST HAIR. I mean, come ON. Also, what’s with that HAT? It looks like one of those hats you get free with purchase if you buy really shitty beer or an oil change at Jiffy Lube or something. Also, too many lady-necklaces and bracelets. I AM NOT IMPRESSED WITH THIS CHILD SEVENTEEN. Even if he DOES list “people who screw up your and you’re” as his biggest turn-off. Aw, Hector. Stay in school, here’s a cookie.

Well, I have just had enough. There was a whole section of “Vampire Quizzes” and I know ALL THE THINGS about vampires but much to my chagrin they were all Twilight-related. THERE ARE OTHER VAMPIRES IN THE WORLD SEVENTEEN. Even my new friend Hector probably knows that.

So THEN I thought, Seventeen! You are NOT helpful NOT AT ALL. So I will MAKE YOU BE HELPFUL. I found a quiz about “Could you Date Justin Bieber?” If Seventeen says yes I can? Then Seventeen is DEAD to me. You all KNOW I could not date La Biebs. His lips are too red and moist, I’ve TOLD you this. They squick me OUT.

I’m already having a really bad feeling about this. None of the options are “Does Justin Bieber squick you out?” Also it’s asking me questions I can’t answer honestly. Like, “Which MTV reality show is your favorite?” and I’ve never SEEN any of them but I have to answer this or I can’t go on to the next page and is getting really mad at me all, “please answer question four PLEASE ANSWER QUESTION FOUR” and I hate when people or webpages yell at me. Also, it wants to know which of these three teen girls I want to hang out with and has photos and names and the only one I’ve ever heard of is Miley Cyrus and I KNOW I don’t want to hang out with her because she annoys me but I don’t know who the other two are. I AM VERY WORRIED I’M GOING TO LOSE THIS QUIZ.


OK, I’m thinking that probably NONE of the answers were “you can’t date Justin Bieber” because then there would be a rash of teen suicides. Right? And who wants that, so much mess to clean up. But I don’t want to go to the prom with the Biebs. First, is he even 18? I think I’d be arrested. Second, THOSE LIPS UGH they look like FRUIT ROLLUPS. Third, the blurb where I won this date with Justin Bieber says that I am a “girly girl to the core” (what? I KNEW I picked the wrong teen girl to want to hang with) and that on our date we would be “spend(ing) serious quality time together (slow dancing, anyone?)” I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS I THINK I HAVE A PRIOR ENGAGEMENT THAT NIGHT WHAT IF HE TRIED TO TOUCH ME WITH THOSE RED RED LIPS THEY’RE LIKE CLOWN LIPS SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS SERIOUSLY.

I know I said Seventeen was dead to me but now I have to have one more palate-cleanser to get the thought of being forced to attend the prom with Justin Bieber out of my head.

Are you Emotionally Ready for Sex. AWESOME. I’ve always wondered. (They would NEVER, BTW, have had this quiz when I was a kid reading Seventeen. They were so not talking about sex in Seventeen in the late 80s/early 90s. They pretended we were all anatomically built like Barbies and Kens back then.)

Um…this test is bogus. One of the questions is, “What’s the reason you want to have sex” and my options are “I really love him and he really loves me,” “All my friends are doing it,” or “He’s pressuring me to.” THERE NEEDS TO BE A D. “Because sex is awesomesauce, momma.” Sheesh.

YAHOO. Seventeen totally thinks I’m ready to go all the way. This is fortuitous news! But it thinks I need to talk it over with a parent first. Probably I should call my dad. I think he’d love to have this conversation again and it would not at ALL give him flashbacks to when I was seventeen and he found out the FIRST time and there was all the screaming and yelling and crying. Cool cool cool I’ll call him tonight this won’t be awkward at ALL. THANKS SEVENTEEN!

Well, what have we learned today, ladies and gentlemen?

Seventeen is NOT GEARED TOWARD OLD PEOPLE who totally found enough white hairs on their head today that they have a little skunk-stripey thing going on that is the most awesome and they love it but probably other people won’t love it as much as they do.

Or people who like things to be typo-free.

Or people who don’t like Twilight.

Or people who think Justin Bieber’s mouth looks like the mouth of the Flukeman from The X-Files.

Would you rather go to the prom with this...

...or this? The answer is obviously "I'd stay home and play videogames."


This is just the worst, no fooling. Shit. Sorry. I have to go. I have to go prom-dress shopping, I think probably if I don’t go soon I’ll end up with the leftover dregs. Does anyone know what Flukeman Bieber wants me to wear to prom? Anyone? Sigh. This is just going to be the worst date ever, and one time I went out with a guy who had just gone off his meds and kept threatening to jump off this footbridge all night but the footbridge was only about a foot high (ha! FOOTbridge, get it?) so I kind of wanted to be all “whatever, go for it” but that seemed rude because he was threatening suicide and all. See what it’s come to, Seventeen? SEE WHAT YOU DID? Shame on you, Seventeen. SHAME.

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