tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52303391419249425902024-03-13T11:14:42.359-04:00Haley's ComicHaley's ComicHaley Wolfehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14399387185963938367noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-60270460387200496742014-02-14T16:34:00.001-05:002014-02-14T16:34:12.402-05:00Cat Conversations<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-58218080824835438282013-10-12T13:16:00.001-04:002013-10-12T13:16:35.788-04:00Finding Out Your Mole was Benign: A Handy Chart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-65196765665246628822013-07-30T21:44:00.000-04:002014-11-20T22:27:09.573-05:00Jet Ski<div class="p1">
It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school. I had just spent the night with my friend--we'll call her Katie--at her grandparents' lake house. Our friend Lisa, who had always been inseparable from Katie, had recently moved away, and this sleepover was clearly a test to see if I was potential New Best Friend material.</div>
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So far, I was botching it pretty badly.</div>
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"Lisa always used to change the CD while I was driving," Katie announced during the 45-minute trip to the lake, so I stretched my arm awkwardly in front of her face and rummaged through her visor-mounted CD case. </div>
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"Oh," she said when the CD I picked started playing, "I guess that's okay."</div>
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After a fitful night on the upstairs couch "where Lisa always used to sleep," I slipped downstairs shortly after daybreak, careful not to wake Katie, who was burrowed in her own bedroom. </div>
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"Why didn't you wake me up?" she demanded when she emerged several hours later, looking refreshed and well-rested. "Lisa always used to wake me up."</div>
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Now Katie wanted to go jet skiing on the lake. I had never ridden a jet ski before, and I was immediately alarmed by the lack of anything to hold onto whatsoever. In the driver's seat, Katie had the handles and foot pedals to anchor her; riding behind her, I had no grips, no straps, no footholds. </div>
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"Are you sure this is safe?" I asked.</div>
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"It's fine," Katie shrugged, already revving the engine. "Lisa used to ride back there all the time."</div>
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This was likely my final chance to squeeze some magic memories out of this awkward, exhausting weekend. <i>Katie would know if this was really dangerous</i>, I assured myself. <i>I mean, she has a jet ski license.</i> </div>
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We careened away from the pier and into the open water.</div>
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It took a full thirty seconds for me to yell <i>"SSSTTOOOOPPP!"</i> as my arms flailed uselessly behind me and my ankles lost their ineffectual grip on the hard plastic seat. </div>
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The roar of the engine died away. Katie cast a cursory glance over her shoulder as the jet ski bobbed in the water. "WHAT." </div>
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"I'm falling off."</div>
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"Just grip my waist," she barked, and we sped away once more, now with my hands resting hesitantly on the sides of Katie's life preserver.</div>
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The wind was churning up some impressive waves that day, and Katie's objective was to hit each wave hard enough to send the jet ski briefly flying through the air. Shortly after we started moving again, a wave slammed against us, and I lost my timid grip on Katie's life vest. I barely had time to process what was happening as I flew through the air in a graceful arc.</div>
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I hit the surface with a giant, full-body slap, then tumbled head-over-heels underwater at breakneck speed. My field of vision consisted of swirling water and streams of bubbles. I had no idea which way was was up or which way was down. Not that it mattered, since I couldn't feel any part of my body. I'm actually a pretty good swimmer, but it's impossible to swim when you literally have no control over your limbs. I was like a floating head caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhumKLAfNAWoX2_fC43T6ll8wpWRXHMyXHYQduMZ985hwk26PxAtyCP_MSQm4MdUphRK2QdQGlvm2xHen48_MyNu51ITol6-yBUJK-8JITOPeE2-WQ9wM-lbWYjLNxbFavBz6IJ-tqe7E/s1600/5+Water.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhumKLAfNAWoX2_fC43T6ll8wpWRXHMyXHYQduMZ985hwk26PxAtyCP_MSQm4MdUphRK2QdQGlvm2xHen48_MyNu51ITol6-yBUJK-8JITOPeE2-WQ9wM-lbWYjLNxbFavBz6IJ-tqe7E/s400/5+Water.png" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is pretty much exactly what was happening in front of my face.</td></tr>
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Finally, I lost my momentum, and my life vest buoyed me upward. I broke the surface of the water, gasping for air. Katie circled around on the jet ski. As I floated there, watching her approach, I prepared myself to gracefully accept her apology for dragging me into what was clearly a deathtrap.</div>
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At that moment, I realized there were things I absolutely would not do for friendship, and that being flung off the back of a jet ski was one of those things.</div>
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I spent the rest of the day watching TV with Katie's grandmother in an air-conditioned room, while Katie rode her jet ski around the lake. I was not invited back to the lake house.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-25851650351974672132013-06-30T23:03:00.000-04:002013-06-30T23:03:30.181-04:00Recap!<div class="p1">
I haven't been blogging this month, but stuff has still been happening to me.</div>
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<b>I went to a concert with my mom like a cool person.</b></div>
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This concert was at a standing-only venue in Asheville that serves beer in plastic cups. The show was sold out, and the uncirculated air closely matched the internal body temperature of the horde of human beings inside. Just as the show was about to start, I was nudging my way back through the sweltering crowd from the bathroom, when I somehow collided with a plastic-cup-wielding girl who splashed beer down my leg. </div>
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I had been looking forward to this concert for a while, and I wasn't about to let one damp, yeasty-smelling leg ruin it for me. But as I stood there, waiting for the band to take the stage, I realized something: All these people are milling around with, at most, six square inches of personal space per person, and roughly two thirds of them are carrying beer in unlidded containers, consuming said beer and getting progressively drunker and, consequently, less able to steadily grip said containers as the evening progresses. <i>We are all basically standing here taking a giant beer shower.</i></div>
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It was a mind-blowing realization.</div>
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<b>I got way too emotionally invested in <i>Game of Thrones.</i></b></div>
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This actually started when, determined to find out what all these memes were talking about on Pinterest, I put season one of the show in our Netflix queue, at which point Ari announced that neither of us was allowed to watch the TV series until we'd read the books. (I have a sneaking suspicion he only said this so that he could move <i>2001: A Space Odyssey </i>to the top.) So a couple of weeks ago, I finally picked up the first book in the <i>Song of Ice and Fire</i> series, and found myself sucked into a state of psychological turmoil the likes of which I hadn't experienced since my <i>Harry Potter</i> days. </div>
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Seriously. I literally found it difficult to concentrate at work because I was so concerned about the characters' safety and well-being. <i>Who cares about wrapping this order? <b>Arya is trying to escape from the castle and I DON'T KNOW IF SHE MADE IT.</b> How can I be expected to sweep when NED IS LOCKED IN THE DUNGEON?!</i> For about a week, my existence consisted of sleeping, working, and then practically dive-bombing my bed at the end of the day so that I could indulge in another marathon reading session.</div>
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I have no regrets.</div>
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<b>My car did something weird, so I took it to a mechanic, but then it immediately stopped doing the weird thing, and now I feel like an insane person. </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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It's amazing how one barely-detectable lurch or vibration or mysterious noise in my car takes me from zero to cray-cray in a matter of minutes. On the bright side, the mechanic didn't charge me for my visit, which I am going to choose <i>not</i> to interpret as an act of pity toward the girl who was clearly having a paranoid episode. My car has been driving fine ever since, so I've decided to just stay calm and assume my engine is going to explode at any moment. My solution to this impending disaster is to treat my car with especial kindness, as though my goodwill and affection will convince it to continue functioning properly.</div>
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So as you can see, I'm in a really great place mentally.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-16701554475009778522013-05-23T22:37:00.000-04:002013-05-23T22:40:39.148-04:00How Uther Pendragon Begat King Arthur in a Slightly Awkward Way, Part 2If you haven't already, I highly recommend reading <a href="http://www.haleyscomic.com/2013/05/how-uther-pendragon-begat-king-arthur.html">part one of this post</a> (aptly titled "<a href="http://www.haleyscomic.com/2013/05/how-uther-pendragon-begat-king-arthur.html">How Uther Pendragon Begat King Arthur in a Slightly Awkward Way, Part 1</a>") before reading this post.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-62564602153917161312013-05-16T22:04:00.000-04:002013-05-16T22:04:41.525-04:00How Uther Pendragon Begat King Arthur in a Slightly Awkward Way, Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-77250885559697273072013-05-06T13:15:00.002-04:002013-05-06T13:18:06.059-04:00Grocery Guilt<br />
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Friday night, I did something I never, ever do. I went to the grocery store on my way home from work. This is a recipe for disaster, because I'm always starving after work, so I want to buy every single food item I see, and I'm also exhausted, so I don't have the strength or willpower to argue with the little voice in my head that says, "Get those tulips. They'll look so good in the front flower bed. You deserve to come home after a long day at work and see an aesthetically pleasing flower bed. What is work for, anyway, if not to earn money with which to buy tulips?" </div>
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But I had a coupon that expired that day, so to the grocery store I went, with an empty stomach and very low resolve.</div>
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And thus I came home Friday night laden with reusable bags and shame.</div>
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Seriously. Of all the things I bought, fewer than half could be eaten as an actual meal. This is how I end up with lunches that make no sense. My co-workers come to work with nice, neat little containers of things to eat for lunch, like sandwiches, or a healthy vegetable stir-fry, or leftover pizza. I bring a huge bag of cheese puffs, a jar of peanut butter, a handful of caramel corn, and if I'm feeling really responsible, an apple.</div>
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The good news is, I don't feel guilty about it anymore, because the moment I dumped my bags of failure-groceries on the kitchen counter and started lamenting my spending habits and personal choices, Hubs revealed something awesome.</div>
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Ultimately, it all comes down to priorities. Some people like eating from all the food groups. Hubs would rather buy 82 packs of Ramen for $5 and play Skyrim. As for me, I don't mind eating cheese-filled tortillas for every meal and continuing to wear the same pair of sandals I've already glued back together twice, as long as I can have chocolate ice cream with swirls of marshmallow and caramel and tiny fish-shaped fudge pieces.</div>
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Having low standards is really the key to happiness.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-49406172030765326982013-04-30T10:01:00.000-04:002013-04-30T10:01:43.932-04:00Z is for Zombie Bob!It occurred to me that a lot of you might not have met Zombie Bob yet.<br />
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Zombie Bob got fired from his corporate job after contracting a mysterious virus that rendered him incapable of uttering any words other than "brains."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">WOW these drawings are old.</td></tr>
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As you might imagine, Zombie Bob's condition makes it hard for him to interact with non-zombies.<br />
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Oh, and he might or might not have eaten some small children one time.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ncqfUnyJQfGpehNbX-Zx7B-ImyVPxEMYzVKYI1CFwpWBLXt50zO4ezC-6QvlUxw0QAENI_MLQnNOjlcHM1h7LVZGh9PhAeREqzgz8Jz15tg6AZjX5i8jHNyiC7rv30zrrcf6J-8RCBg/s1600/Frame+13+Braaains.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ncqfUnyJQfGpehNbX-Zx7B-ImyVPxEMYzVKYI1CFwpWBLXt50zO4ezC-6QvlUxw0QAENI_MLQnNOjlcHM1h7LVZGh9PhAeREqzgz8Jz15tg6AZjX5i8jHNyiC7rv30zrrcf6J-8RCBg/s400/Frame+13+Braaains.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I left that one sort of open-ended.</td></tr>
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So now you've met Zombie Bob. He hasn't made an appearance in a while, but hopefully he will again soon. I still have some adventures in mind for him.<br />
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Sure, Zombie Bob. Sure.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-6009583930392944082013-04-29T11:39:00.002-04:002013-04-29T11:39:37.180-04:00Y is for Ye Olde Comick<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-26967155023737573792013-04-27T16:28:00.001-04:002013-04-27T16:28:20.018-04:00X is for Xerxes I
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Xerxes I was an ancient Persian ruler who kept it real.</div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">LEADERSHIP…</span></i></b></div>
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When Xerxes I's older brother claimed the crown after the death of their father, Darius I, Xerxes I was all like, "That's mine, bitch," because Xerxes I was a man who knew how to be assertive.</div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">AUTHORITY…</span></i></b></div>
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When a bunch of uppity Babylonians were like, "Hey, uprisings are fun," Xerxes I put them in their place by melting their sacred golden statue of Bel, because Xerxes I was a man who knew how to rule some Babylonians.</div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">JUSTICE… </span></i></b></div>
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When Xerxes I was invading Greece and a storm destroyed his army's bridge across the Hellespont, Xerxes I ordered that backstabbing, two-timing river to be whipped 300 times, because Xerxes I was a man who knew how to punish a river.</div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">VISION… </span></b></i></div>
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When Xerxes I's men burned Athens to the ground, Xerxes I ordered them to march right back over there and rebuild the whole thing, because Xerxes I was a man who appreciated the iconic Athens skyline.</div>
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<i><b><span style="font-size: large;">PRIORITIES…</span></b></i> </div>
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When word reached Xerxes I that those damn Babylonians were uprising again, Xerxes I abandoned his invasion of Greece and returned home, because Xerxes I was a man who would not be fucked with by Babylonians.</div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: large;">LEGACY… </span></i></b></div>
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Although he never finished invading Greece, Xerxes I went on to build some very impressive palaces and things, and his greatness is still remembered today.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-14731527903000561642013-04-26T10:34:00.001-04:002013-05-16T22:09:36.836-04:00W is for Welcome to My BlogI seem to have picked up some new readers over the course of the A-Z Challenge. Yay! I feel like I need to personally reassure all of you that you won't regret this decision. Except that's not really a promise I can make, because the Internet is a fickle mistress, and sometimes I work on posts so long that by the time I publish them, I have no idea whether or not they're actually funny, so I just sort of throw them out there and hope for the best. <i>Now</i> I feel like I need to personally beg all of you for your hypothetical forgiveness just in case I need it sometime in the future.<br />
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However, in the event that I continue to post funny things and you like them, you might find yourselves thinking, "Wow, this blog isn't awful! I wish there were some way I could help it become famous and take over the world!" Well, you're in luck, because there is a way! If there is a post you really like, sharing it on social media is one of the most awesome things you can do. I even spent an afternoon putting little share buttons at the bottom of each post for Facebook, Google+, and Twitter. So even if your busy schedule doesn't allow time for tedious things like copying and pasting links, <i>the buttons are right there!</i> Many of you have already been using these buttons, and you guys are my special favorites.<br />
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And now, in the spirit of welcoming my new readers and thanking my long-time readers and giving us all a moment to take a breather after almost a month of non-stop alphabetical posts (okay, maybe this is mostly for me), here is a heartwarming recap of some of my personal favorite moments from the A-Z Challenge so far.<br />
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<a href="http://www.zazzle.com/haleyscomic/gifts?cg=196109008253259166"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgist8jyhETljRF9afC_lVw1gt_V5BHrY-bQqHQXJc2abmn6xWjdoM18KPUmmEsR5DwqjHUUusB-qvSNhalMLqgsxKkNkWQKlNR_fM-vSEVV43aBASkNykcno6VIG8Lkhz333WduvNQmRo/s640/7-8+Hours+of+Sleep+Combined.png" width="425" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.zazzle.com/haleyscomic/gifts?cg=196085213168287347" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtxqkCxlQRUL9_2cLLaSONlaf9aWnLuA6s4ObvaTtsF8qSmwiXIuD5Yu2cKQZphbUFKzcROZxMjCpOwCW5P3ZgXDU3c-diNN7V3cPKWwrQd2CmhJMs7QDP28KKo39lR_Z-Jm7mu2EW8g/s640/Automatic+Towel+Dispensers.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.zazzle.com/haleyscomic/gifts?cg=196085213168287347">Stitching all these drawings together took forever and made my laptop really angry at me.</a></td></tr>
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<a href="http://www.zazzle.com/too_much_caffeine_shirt-235978114219610593"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDYHTEydAsWm4IlbYOEHzPg-8CGtGOWxiIu4MpSSp_MpJWhE-dk-T3nik7plypPpbeU8gqOlC-h5uvKlhcSe2yoOcaTtQUP2-WDohsbt0xDOJVc65hz8HhbdXLflDWzcJFxaSV4N9NxuE/s400/Caffeine+ADD.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.zazzle.com/curse_you_and_your_infallible_logic_shirt-235535719126113624"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinEdDUcGldJA11H7rnJkzreWSVHlseKxVrgiS2N58YFzAEgmeBIdKy4teR2t7NOQQ9C7V9UO0EJeEnREFT9Ly8eX4KhUvA_-2j23mH3IsWk0GfjvkGEa-sf2EnJcaR08iRv6O0ACFXT_A/s320/Curse+You+and+Your+Infallible+Logic.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.zazzle.com/cannibalism_shirt-235616775767010998"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDippLma74VTPPRdUXXEG04PISHa-9193xXMKqEoAxoe_GYUF1SoF6Cqj2dfE1AwlwBP0oEfKWaN9i1Y1iXWVOzzyed_O3VZPIOlKiYHBW3kuHkNDDz1KzfiafCBk034bC015ZznKRZJg/s640/I+Think+I+Want+to+Eat+Some+Mexican+Tonight+-+Combined.png" width="425" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://www.zazzle.com/mutant_zombie_bear_shirt-235963889703541080"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuJAxN3DsdaKIfhNKNtzV4c1jGwt1pOr0FoN89QtO9eqC1tCr7Cze_lRWbmUPrNgByucakaSA66MWOG2s7CMX3V3L-LxPlRzr3o9APPvJv3G_O1smaTEyppZ7-FXnWSbl7UE17H3XFLxg/s400/Mutant+Zombie+Bears.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I sleeked it up a little bit.</td></tr>
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Incidentally, if you are some kind of magical wizard who somehow manages to have money in your bank account (Seriously, <i>how are you guys doing that?! </i> Wait, don't tell me, it will take away the mystery), all of those images have been added to the <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/haleyscomic">Haley's Comic store,</a> as of 12:30 AM last night when I should have been sleeping. Just click on the picture or the caption to see stuff that has that drawing on it.<br />
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That's right, you can actually <a href="http://www.zazzle.com/pick_up_line_performance_reviews_letterhead-199937994597705372">buy copies of the Pick-Up Line Performance Review</a> to carry around with you and give to people. This is going to change the world, guys. And it will be hilarious.<br />
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Or if you're like me and all this "disposable income" sorcery is still eluding you, do what I do: If you see something you wish you could buy, post it on Facebook and hope some long-lost friend or relative buys it to surprise you. Hubs did that one time, and it got him an X-box 360. True story.<br />
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There are some other drawings I'm planning to add to the store as well, but I ran out of time. And I'll also put those drawings on more products eventually. If there are any other drawings you really like that you think would look good on a product, let me know! Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-60072653384885310292013-04-25T09:45:00.000-04:002013-04-25T09:45:09.510-04:00V is for VegetarianI avoid telling people I'm a vegetarian. When I do finally have to mention it because someone is offering me meat or inviting me to a steakhouse, I cringe inside. Vegetarians get portrayed as preachy health-nuts trying to push their eating habits on everyone around them, but let me tell you, carnivores, plenty of you can be just as annoying.<br /><br /><b>So, do you eat chicken?</b><br /><br />I am utterly horrified by the sheer number of people who literally <i>do not know what meat is</i>. Regardless of whether or not you eat meat, you should at least be able to identify basic food groups.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCd9UUnDoJPQ8fvICQDippn6SconPUtjd0ADlWoT0SUm6__iTe29vwcUEJMsYohAEwXIPw5nxMCe32Hgfzql4CrUbJicGr7FII9t6u4sPZjmXgjhTAtHQZqaQijORmfGuWOETWPxIg2I/s1600/Meat+Not+Meat.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuCd9UUnDoJPQ8fvICQDippn6SconPUtjd0ADlWoT0SUm6__iTe29vwcUEJMsYohAEwXIPw5nxMCe32Hgfzql4CrUbJicGr7FII9t6u4sPZjmXgjhTAtHQZqaQijORmfGuWOETWPxIg2I/s400/Meat+Not+Meat.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Look, you can have a salad!</b><br /><br />If you are at a restaurant with a vegetarian, you do not need to assume personal responsibility for choosing their meal. Vegetarians have eyeballs and are perfectly capable of reading the menu.<br /><br />Not to mention, vegetarians eat things other than salad. Personally, I eat non-salad foods on a regular basis, and I especially avoid eating restaurant salads. Most restaurant salads consist mainly of iceberg lettuce, which tastes like solidified water and has little to no nutritional value.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVGY0TPcczWp77smOUkI9st5okl3FW8MUh2rAqGz0fATZSq3TzoNrveOsm7RVHLlN4xdCw7ZmsV47VpFCPVQ7UYL_QL6q7B_f4-UH3ShCA69GwC_nqADXwCeOf1DFR6jLigfptbkvWwM/s1600/Salad+Diagram.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVGY0TPcczWp77smOUkI9st5okl3FW8MUh2rAqGz0fATZSq3TzoNrveOsm7RVHLlN4xdCw7ZmsV47VpFCPVQ7UYL_QL6q7B_f4-UH3ShCA69GwC_nqADXwCeOf1DFR6jLigfptbkvWwM/s400/Salad+Diagram.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<b>But how do you get enough protein?</b><br /><br />I've been a vegetarian for almost six years, and I've managed to not only keep myself alive, but also to go hiking all the time without passing out, so obviously I'm getting protein somewhere. I am not going to list every source of protein in my diet for someone's personal edification and amusement, because that is boring and awful.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb13eNCuyj9y8N890M3AmsszREf3RLqmntcr4iRGlVe1dzBmaMc_qIATsLs6jA3sPvoNpKjJBtzHFZshKFZyg4WfcN4Rf2KCOP0lO6wRUl-cXx3mNJwmjkIhUQQRBjRFRVLWyU1-rUiY/s1600/How+to+Tell+if+Someone+is+Getting+enough+Protein.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEb13eNCuyj9y8N890M3AmsszREf3RLqmntcr4iRGlVe1dzBmaMc_qIATsLs6jA3sPvoNpKjJBtzHFZshKFZyg4WfcN4Rf2KCOP0lO6wRUl-cXx3mNJwmjkIhUQQRBjRFRVLWyU1-rUiY/s640/How+to+Tell+if+Someone+is+Getting+enough+Protein.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<b>Why are you a vegetarian?</b><br /><br />I feel like people expect me to have a long philosophical rant about the evils of meat-eating memorized and ready to be recited at any moment, but my reasons for being a vegetarian are pretty dull. Some people in my family have high blood pressure and high cholesterol and heart problems, and one day I thought, "Maybe if I don't eat meat I won't have to get my heart cut open someday." Although I must admit, when I see a cute animal, I do derive a tiny bit of satisfaction from knowing its muscle tissue will never end up in my digestive tract.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRK20bE3zqeIJH1OnN9T3h4y1XTLgfclAa7epy9e2jf7A5QdqyQ4C2FZ9aRo0WDihOiMwJ7UQbAwrxcZAIKbW1fnbZ6o6ePjvN3npAoeUM6Pph5_N49hhlhdtaoQRiRbEtBOyqRZLsDg/s1600/Someone+Will+Kill+You+and+Eat+You+Someday.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRK20bE3zqeIJH1OnN9T3h4y1XTLgfclAa7epy9e2jf7A5QdqyQ4C2FZ9aRo0WDihOiMwJ7UQbAwrxcZAIKbW1fnbZ6o6ePjvN3npAoeUM6Pph5_N49hhlhdtaoQRiRbEtBOyqRZLsDg/s400/Someone+Will+Kill+You+and+Eat+You+Someday.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now I'm afraid someone is going to be reading this while gnawing on a
giant hunk of beef and be offended. Please don't stop reading my blog,
beef-gnawing readers. I respect your life choices.</td></tr>
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The reason that question annoys me is because the person is usually asking so that they can then proceed to argue with whatever reason I give. "Well, sugar isn't healthy, are you going to stop eating that too?" "Plants die when you eat them, doesn't that make you feel bad?" It shouldn't matter why I'm a vegetarian. Whether I did it because I thought it might be healthier, or because aliens came to my room at night and told me to, I shouldn't have to defend my reasons to anyone. I don't ask people why they eat meat, and I really don't care. We should all just eat what we want and not have to talk about it. If you want to spend the rest of your life eating mud soup, I support you! (Just don't offer me a bowl, because, gross.)<br /><br />Now that you're all panicking and wondering if you've ever annoyed any vegetarians, let me reassure you:<br />1. You probably have annoyed them, but<br />2. It's not a big deal because they probably know you didn't mean to, or<br />3. They are harboring a deep personal grudge and plotting your imminent demise. Move to another state immediately, or even better, move to Siberia. No one goes to Siberia.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-68755092463832560692013-04-24T09:48:00.001-04:002013-04-24T09:48:04.678-04:00U is for UnpackingI have moved five times in the past six years. First I moved into my college dorm; then into my first apartment; then into the first apartment I shared with Hubs; then into the trailer-cabin on a mountain; and finally into our current house.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJgqSS7LesxEnlw3rQwcyhMddIsQ3Mh-zLK7FlvRlDmbbNj6v4Sj4teK_jvRhkSq6xFXy6o-CrNBpT-qN3DNGql3jaljujeEDvWl_U4sWm7FohpEotuFoAFlA6In7IjwP_diB4ujRvjM/s1600/Living+By+Myself.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhJgqSS7LesxEnlw3rQwcyhMddIsQ3Mh-zLK7FlvRlDmbbNj6v4Sj4teK_jvRhkSq6xFXy6o-CrNBpT-qN3DNGql3jaljujeEDvWl_U4sWm7FohpEotuFoAFlA6In7IjwP_diB4ujRvjM/s400/Living+By+Myself.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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By the fourth move, I was literally labeling boxes with phrases like "Stupid junk" and "Clutter for storage." As a result, by the time we moved into this house, we were the proud owners of two closets full of mystery boxes that hadn't been opened since 2010. These boxes were packed not when we moved out of our last place, but <i>the place before that.</i><br /><br />The worst part is, all this crap is mine. Hubs hardly has any boxes full of random, unidentifiable stuff. So there is absolutely no way to slough this task off on him.<br /><br />This year, I have assigned myself the mission of unpacking these boxes and sorting through their contents. And I must say, it's turned out to be surprisingly awesome. Most of the things in the boxes are being donated, but every once in a while I find something I genuinely liked and completely forgot I owned. It's like temporarily losing all your possessions and then, just when you'd given up hope, finding them again.<br />
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<br />
So if you want to give your future self a surprise gift without actually spending any money, just box up a bunch of your stuff and let it sit in a closet for three years. Afraid you won't be able to afford presents at the holidays this year? Start causing your loved ones' belongings to mysteriously disappear over the next few months, then kick back and revel in the joy* on their faces when everything magically reappears under a thin disguise of gift wrap.<br /><br /><i>*joy might gradually morph into dawning rage</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-68938226436466968822013-04-23T09:35:00.000-04:002013-04-23T09:36:02.461-04:00T is for TheftAdjusting to the structure and routine of preschool was difficult for me. I viewed our scheduled activities more as general suggestions. I zoned out during the pledge of allegiance. During the hokey pokey, I just stood awkwardly, moving random limbs at intervals. I took my macaroni art and coloring pages in edgy new directions that were never well received.<br />
<br />
The only thing I liked at preschool was free play, when we were unleashed upon huge plastic bins of toys to do whatever we wanted. Other kids occasionally asked me to play with them, but I couldn't comprehend why anyone would willingly squander their free play time doing what some other kid wanted to do.<br />
<br />
I had one aim during free play, and one aim alone: to find my purple unicorn. She was the only toy I played with. At the end of each free play, I tucked her safely in the very back of a bottom drawer where she would patiently await my return.<br />
<br />
Then one day, when I reached into the drawer to retrieve my faithful companion, brimming with new imaginary adventures for us to embark upon together, something terrible, <i>unthinkable</i>, had happened.<br />
<br />
Some ungrateful heathen had smeared sticky stuff across her proud, graceful torso.<br />
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<br />
I was outraged. Clearly, I could not permit such an abomination to happen again. At the end of free play, amid the commotion of kids returning their sticky, bourgeois toys to their bins, I shoved the purple unicorn in my backpack.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, as soon as our car was safely out of sight of the preschool, I proudly introduced Mom to the newest addition to our family. She wasn't nearly as impressed by my heroism as I anticipated.<br />
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"I couldn't just leave her there!" I said. "Those kids will ruin her. They got sticky stuff all over her, look."<br />
<br />
I don't know if it was the bizarre logic behind my decision, or sheer exasperation, but I got to keep the purple unicorn. I brought her home and dutifully stowed her away with all my other toys, and then I never played with her again. I mean, she had sticky stuff all over her. Gross.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-447428334613562482013-04-22T10:23:00.002-04:002013-04-22T10:25:54.138-04:00S is for ScaryI was inexplicably scared of many things as a child. The sound of an air conditioning unit or loudly flushing toilet sent me fleeing in horror, and those were just the normal fears. Here are a few of the other, less standard things that incited terror in my young heart.<br />
<br />
<b>1. Loved ones wearing costume</b>s<i> (Strangers in costumes? Totally fine)</i><br />
<br />
My grandparents were relatively young when I was born--Meemaw was in her late fifties, and Pappaw was in his mid-sixties. One night when I was two or three years old, they decided it would be funny to show up at our house dressed as really, <i>really</i> old people, hobbling on canes and speaking in croaky voices. They whitened their hair and applied makeup to make their faces seem extremely wrinkled. Mom played along and pretended they were two total strangers. Meemaw was carrying a baby doll wrapped in a blanket like a real baby, because this was all an elaborate ruse to make me believe this baby had been entrusted to me by two mysterious strangers of the night. <br />
<br />
Mom invited the elderly "strangers" inside, and they approached me as though meeting me for the first time.<br />
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Their plan began to unravel when I took one look at them and realized these people were Meemaw and Pappaw, except something was horribly, horribly wrong. Some evil wizard had sucked away their youth, and apparently their memories as well. And my stupid mother had let these zombie-grandparents into our home without a second thought. If I was going to survive, I had to accept that these were no longer the grandparents I loved, but mere empty husks now bent on sucking the youth out of me as well. As you can imagine, that's a lot for a toddler to process.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6E86AHoI_yzgjJaVgwDk37AzJgjXKE8HszyFOm0zYv1LTVVTiZ4h53FcKjdrYTSIhDcqFpoI2pg_I2frRmoqDaH24WzCYgHTHs_5Mqtf9RjBRUAgg7rMdHk_DJjWxQCLWvDAtujWhXH8/s1600/Toddler+Meltdown.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6E86AHoI_yzgjJaVgwDk37AzJgjXKE8HszyFOm0zYv1LTVVTiZ4h53FcKjdrYTSIhDcqFpoI2pg_I2frRmoqDaH24WzCYgHTHs_5Mqtf9RjBRUAgg7rMdHk_DJjWxQCLWvDAtujWhXH8/s640/Toddler+Meltdown.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If this is your idea of humor, then yes, this night was hilarious.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<b>2. Babies</b><br />
<br />
Sensing the tension in the room, Meemaw skipped ahead and gave me the doll she had brought me, hoping to distract from the psychotic meltdown I was having.<br />
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It was a rubber doll designed to be a reasonable facsimile of a real, sleeping baby, right down to the fact that its eyes were closed.<br />
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It took the rest of the night to calm me down, and even then, "calm" is a strong word. By the time Meemaw and Pappaw left, I had achieved a state of quiet hyperventilation. Meemaw later painted eyes on the doll so that I would grudgingly play with it.<br />
<br />
<b>3. Costumes again</b><br />
<br />
That wasn't the last of my costume phobia. When I was a little older, Pappaw wanted to surprise me one Halloween by dressing up as the scarecrow, my favorite character from <i>The Wizard of Oz</i>. He and Meemaw spent hours on his costume, and when he made his grand entrance into the living room, looking forward to seeing the delight on his sweet granddaughter's face, I shrieked violently and bolted upstairs, where I took sanctuary on the top landing and had to be coaxed down to continue my night of trick-or-treating.<br />
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<br />
<b>4. Anything without a face, really</b><br />
<br />
Several years later, Meemaw and Pappaw took a trip through Amish country and brought back an authentic Amish doll for me. Amish dolls traditionally don't have faces. At all. Absolutely no facial features. An ideal gift for the girl who was horrified of a sleeping baby doll. Although I didn't panic as badly as I did with the eyeless doll-baby, I was obviously not warming up to the Amish doll.<br />
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So, yet again, Meemaw added facial features to the doll to assuage my fears, except this time she sewed them on. Sorry, Amish people.<br />
<br />
<b>5. Passing vehicles</b><br />
<br />
Like many families, we lived on a street. It wasn't a particularly busy street, but cars passed our house on a regular basis. I had been given the standard warning not to approach any strangers in a car and to come inside if an unfamiliar car pulled down the driveway. I took this to mean all cars were bent on kidnapping and murdering me, so I decided my safest bet was to treat every vehicle like approaching doom. When I was playing in the yard and heard the approaching roar of a car, I sprinted from wherever I was to the safe area behind the house and crouched there, out of sight, until the sinister sound of the passing car faded into the distance.<br />
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On the bright side, I got plenty of exercise, and I was never kidnapped.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-82164762405698909872013-04-20T12:10:00.001-04:002013-04-20T16:34:10.473-04:00R is for Rated RThe kids in my fifth grade class had all sorts of cool things I didn't, like expanded cable packages and inattentive parents who let them watch <i>South Park</i>.<br />
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I spent the whole year laughing along awkwardly to their best Cartman impressions, wondering if I could get away with throwing "Oh my God, they killed Kenny!" into a conversation or if it would just seem forced.<br />
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The following summer, I observed dejectedly as <i>South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut</i> was released in theaters, resigned to my fate as a pariah who had never actually seen Kenny die. And then one day, Meemaw took me to the movies.<br />
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I skipped innocently up the steps to the ticket counter and saw it--the theatrical poster gleaming like a beacon from its frame near the entrance. I never expected to find such forbidden treasure right here, at my hometown movie theater. Surely such a hip, artful film would only be shown in meccas of civilization like New York, or Los Angeles, or Pensacola. This was my redeeming chance at coolness, a shining moment in which adulthood was being offered to me by a benevolent universe.<br />
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The movie opens with a relatively benign song about the quiet mountain town of South Park, where Stan, Kyle, Cartman, and Kenny are on their way to the new <i>Terrance & Philip</i> movie. To someone unfamiliar with the show, this would seem like just another animated musical, albeit with a weird sense of humor. I watched raptly, following every lyric, finally seeing with my own fresh, unadulterated eyes the controversial cartoon that had captivated my friends all year.<br />
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Then the boys finally see <i>Terrance & Philip: Asses of Fire</i>, which opens with the aptly titled song, "Shut Your Fucking Face, Uncle Fucker." Those are, incidentally, also the main lyrics of the song.<br />
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As "Uncle Fucker" blared from the surround-sound system and two cartoon Canadians hopped around the screen, lighting each other's farts on fire, I was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that my grandmother was sitting next to me, hearing every "uncle fucker" and "cock sucker." Her reaction would likely be somewhat different than mine.<br />
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Certain that I was about to be escorted out of this movie theater in shame, I stole a glance in Meemaw's direction.<br />
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<i><b>She was asleep</b></i>. Bored with the first few minutes of this cartoon musical that clearly only her granddaughter would enjoy, she had fallen asleep.<br />
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This was a certifiable miracle. I truly was divinely ordained to see every perverted, foul-mouthed minute of this movie. I drank in every precious curse word, devoured every scrap of sarcasm and social commentary, even the subtle nuances that were still beyond my maturity level, and I laughed along with that audience of eighteen-to-twenty-four-year-olds like one who had reached the promised land.<br />
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And unlike the kids in the movie, when I got home, I was smart enough to keep quiet about all the new words I'd learned. For a few more years, anyway.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-71958663111780334722013-04-19T09:47:00.001-04:002013-04-19T09:47:13.224-04:00Q is for Questions I Hate Being AskedAs you might imagine based on my job as a cashier, I talk to lots of complete strangers on a daily basis. This is unfortunate, because most people respond to meeting a new person by making small talk, and making small talk is the most painful act that can be committed with the English language. (I don't know about other languages. Maybe small talk is more eloquent and engaging in, say, Welsh or Greek.)<br /><br />I wish people would ask each other original, thought-provoking questions when they first meet, such as, "Do you think a pterodactyl would win in a fight with an eagle?" or "Do you have a survival strategy in case of a zombie apocalypse?" But no. Small talk consists of repeating the same dull questions with everyone you meet.<br /><br />Apparently, when someone sees a girl who appears to be between the ages of 18 and 42, the first thing they ask is, "Are you in school?" I used to naively long for the day when I could proudly announce, "I graduated!" But the conversation that follows is even <i>worse</i> now. I immediately get a sympathetic look that roughly translates as, <i>Oh, and you're still working as a cashier</i>. Probably wondering what horrible decision I made to bring such a fate upon myself, they now ask, "What did you major in?"<br /><br />I resist the urge to crawl underneath the sales counter, unfold one of the largest paper bags, and shove it over my face, before finally answering, "crtv wrtng," hoping that if I say it really fast they won't realize I said "creative writing" and will instead assume I said "nuclear engineering" or "theoretical physics."<br /><br />But they do understand my garbled response, and now a look of dawning comprehension crosses their face.<br /><br />"And what do you plan to do with that?" they asked smugly, the same way you might catch a thirteen-year-old sneaking into an R-rated movie and say, "And where do you think you're going?"<br /><br />I've tried every possible response to this question. I've tried telling the truth and saying I write a blog. They never know what a blog is, and when I try to explain the crude collection of sentences and occasionally-disturbing drawings that is this blog, their eyes just fill with even more pity. I've tried saying I'm working on a novel, assuming "novel" is a more palatable word than "blog," but then they ask, "What's it about?" and I'm stuck trying to explain the definition of "dystopia" to a middle-aged man who has never heard of Ray Bradbury.<br /><br />It doesn't matter what I say. They aren't asking the question because they want an honest answer; the question is their way of saying, "I disapprove of your life choices and you should regret them." Nothing I can ever say will satisfy them. Except maybe this.<br />
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Then there are the people who assume that because I studied literature in college (creative writing was a concentration within the literature major), I can identify, from memory, every poem ever written. They start rattling off some obscure poem that made an impression upon them during the one literature class they took their freshman year of college, as though the fact that they know a few lines from this one poem will make me exclaim, "Finally, someone I can <i>talk</i> to! All these years, I've been waiting for a genius such as yourself to show up and quote some Keats to me!"<br />
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As much as I hate small talk, some of the worst questions come from people I actually know. My close friends and family know I hate being asked how my writing is going, but plenty of well-meaning acquaintances innocently believe I'll feel special and appreciated if they ask, "How's your book going?" or more sadistically, "Is your book finished yet?" That's all fine, until they act completely shocked to discover I still haven't finished writing my entire novel in the three weeks since we last spoke.<br /><br />Some people go so far as to ask if they can <i>read</i> my unfinished manuscript. That would be like me showing you guys a bunch of half-finished drawings and swearing they'll make sense eventually.<br />
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Actually, trying to read someone's unfinished manuscript would be even worse than that, because that was surprisingly fun.<br /><br />This is why I want to spend the rest of my days in a blanket fort drawing cartoons and writing about how much I hate people.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-19350450345829034842013-04-18T09:58:00.001-04:002013-04-18T09:59:04.795-04:00P is for People You Encounter in RetailWhen I worked at the Big Fancy Resort, I interacted with a wide array of people, most of whom clearly had personality disorders and deeply ingrained emotional issues. Many of them were literal embodiments of stereotypes that I previously didn't believe existed in real, flesh-and-blood life. Here is a nifty guide for properly identifying some of the common people you will encounter in a place such as the Big Fancy Resort, and what to expect from them.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Tacky Rich Lady</b></span></div>
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<b>Identifying Features</b>: Despite having all the advantages a rich husband and/or divorce settlement can buy, still manages to look like a train wreck. Never met an animal print she didn't like. Sequins are the staple of her wardrobe. Gravitates toward the hideous items you thought were never going to sell. Tries on everything in the store five times in front of the mirror because of crippling self-doubt. Perpetually annoyed facial expression.<br />
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<b>Frequently Asked Questions</b>: Does this look good on me? Is this on sale?<br />
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<b>Enjoys</b>: Dieting; tanning salons; amassing credit card debt.<br />
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<b>Hates</b>: Animal cruelty; earth tones.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Embittered Career Woman</b></span></div>
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<b>Identifying Features</b>: Spent years clawing and backstabbing her way to the top only to discover that she still hates herself. Hasn't slept more than four consecutive hours in over a decade. <br />
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<b>Frequently Asked Questions</b>: Winners don't ask questions. Winners make <i>demands</i>.<br />
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<b>Enjoys</b>: Berating service personnel; waiting for her Botox to kick in; finding new ways to deprive her ex-husband of joy.<br />
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<b>Hates</b>: Laughter; youth.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>GIRLS NIGHT!</b></span></div>
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<b>Identifying Features</b>: Raucous and full of margaritas, these ladies will ransack your store in a matter of minutes. The moment one of them asks you a question, her friend will interrupt because she found something SO CUTE. As soon as you finish ringing up one of their purchases, the others will convince her to exchange one of the items for something completely different.<br />
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<b>Frequently Asked Questions</b>: Are you sure you don't have four more of these in the back somewhere? Are you sure you handed my credit card back to me? It's okay if we have our drinks in here, right?<br />
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<b>Enjoy</b>: Mani-pedis; chocolate; "retail therapy"; giggling; backhanded compliments.<br />
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<b>Hate</b>: Exes; their children (secretly).<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Confused Tourists</b></span></div>
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<b>Identifying Features</b>: Wandered here after being told they "HAD to see the Big Fancy Resort" before they left Asheville. Have been trying to find the bathroom for three hours. Cannot grasp why everything is so expensive. Endlessly fascinated by every "fancy" detail.<br />
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<b>Frequently Asked Questions</b>: Why is everything so expensive? Can we tour the spa?<br />
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<b>Enjoy</b>: Free parking; buffet-style dining; air conditioning.<br />
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<b>Hate</b>: Walking; standing in the sun for any length of time; all these kids walking around with weird haircuts.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Emasculated Husband</b></span></div>
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<b>Identifying Features</b>: Sends you an apologetic glance after his wife throws a tantrum in your store, but for the most part, all traces of personality withered away long ago. Now spends his days trudging doggedly under the weight of purses and shopping bags, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. <br />
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<b>Frequently Asked Questions</b>: Can I get that on the rocks?<br />
<b><br />Enjoys</b>: Days when his wife needs some "girl time"; imagining the sweet release of death.<br />
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<b>Hates</b>: Opening his credit card bills; waking up in the morning.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Persnickety Older Man</b></span></div>
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<b>Identifying Features</b>: Rare but to be dreaded, this man rivals even the bitchiest of women. Specifically wants <i>mauve</i> pants. Longs to return to a simpler time when sales clerks would shine his shoes for a nickel.<br />
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<b>Frequently Asked Questions</b>: Why does everything in here have your logo on it? Why would I want to wear your logo? Don't you know of any places in town that have mauve pants? Isn't that your job?<br />
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<b>Enjoys</b>: Mani-pedis; scoffing; freshly ironed chinos.<br />
<b><br />Hates</b>: The riffraff this resort is letting in these days; open-toed shoes.<br />
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~*~<br />
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I hope this has been educational and informative. And remember, if you were particularly offended by one of the portraits, that just means you <i>are</i> that person. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-3889037950144269012013-04-17T08:51:00.001-04:002013-04-17T08:53:48.110-04:00O is for Only ChildPeople are always surprised to learn I'm an only child. "Didn't you wish you had siblings growing up?" they ask. <br />
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I never did. I went through a phase, around age five, when I constantly wished my best friend, Sarah, could be adopted as my sister, but that was less a wish for an actual sibling and more a desire to have a sleepover every night.<br />
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Maybe some people would have been lonely or bored growing up without siblings, but I was far too busy playing with my vast collection of toys, sleeping in my enormous bedroom, bathing in my private bathroom, and domineering my parents' undivided attention to really notice. I was not just my parents' only child, but my maternal grandparents' <i>only grandchild</i> as well. I was received like a messiah of innocence and joy.<br />
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<br />
I've only encountered one aspect of adulthood for which being an only child left me wholly unprepared.<br />
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<b>Board games.</b><br />
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When you're an only child, you mostly play board games with your courteous, respectful parents. When you have siblings, board games are a cutthroat competition for dominance and your parents' love, a desperate attempt to defend your fragile sense of self-worth, fraught with gloating and betrayal.<br />
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The first time I played a board game with Hubs, who grew up with an older brother, I was nearly reduced to tears.<br />
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You could say that I lack the healthy sense of competition and ability to cope with failure that are fostered by childhood sibling rivalries. You could say that the survival skills taught by sibling relationships prove an invaluable tool throughout adulthood.<br />
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Yet somehow, through brazen self-assurance and sheer stubbornness, I have an uncanny ability to negotiate a solution in even the toughest situations.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmvjdR4Ulokb5ANu7zwWX_Qc8qU8y3F_MvtFq5whQpAdopnXzLlDVOq31FntnvZ4ihVXz8-nvSA6xeQL-fas-yiIRVE4jRf6cUl1n-1Sh3i03n3mieK6M4NZlEDbifOdsxx1Fam4m3wU/s1600/How+We+Play+Monopoly+Now.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcmvjdR4Ulokb5ANu7zwWX_Qc8qU8y3F_MvtFq5whQpAdopnXzLlDVOq31FntnvZ4ihVXz8-nvSA6xeQL-fas-yiIRVE4jRf6cUl1n-1Sh3i03n3mieK6M4NZlEDbifOdsxx1Fam4m3wU/s400/How+We+Play+Monopoly+Now.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is how we play board games in our house now.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-52168918973985860702013-04-16T09:40:00.001-04:002013-04-16T09:42:52.751-04:00N is for Notes I Write to Myself that Don't Make Any Sense LaterI keep a tiny notebook where I jot down ideas for future blog posts. Apparently I need to include more explanation when writing these notes, because when I flip through the notebook, looking for inspiration, I instead find bizarre, hastily-dashed observations that make me question my own sanity.<br />
<br />
For example, at some point I took a moment to scribble, "<b><i>It's hard to write a blog when you're a velociraptor</i></b>." I have no idea what prompted that, although upon reflection, a velociraptor probably <i>would</i> find blogging difficult.<br />
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On another occasion, I noted, "<b><i>I almost bought a bag of marshmallows because it was lying on the floor and I felt sorry for it.</i></b>" That is exactly the sort of thing I would do, but I can't imagine how I intended to turn that into a full-fledged blog post.<br />
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I also found a tiny, rough sketch of myself, holding a fist aloft and exclaiming, "<b><i>CURSE YOU AND YOUR INFALLIBLE LOGIC</i></b>." What infallible logic was I cursing? It will remain forever a mystery. But I drew it anyway.<br />
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From now on, I'll make my notes more clear so that you don't miss out on any more of these obviously brilliant ideas.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-58423323661970260592013-04-15T12:03:00.003-04:002013-04-20T12:11:55.159-04:00M is for MarblesEach time Meemaw and Pappaw visited us--which was often, since they lived ten minutes away--Pappaw brought me a palm-sized bag of marbles, wrapped in stretchy plastic netting. Together, we poured each bag into a large, clear glass jug. I watched them trickle over the other marbles, clinking against the glass. When we moved, the weight of the nearly-full jug had left permanent indentations in the living room carpet.<br />
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It was July 1999, just after my eleventh birthday. We packed all our belongings into a lumbering yellow rental truck and made a six-hour trek from the white sand beaches of the Gulf Coast to the gentle plateaus of the Appalachian foothills. We arrived at our new rental house late in the afternoon, already exhausted before we even began the task of unloading the truck. We were elated when two neighbors walked over and offered to help.<br />
<br />
We gathered around the truck. Someone lowered the metal ramp and lifted the door with a deep rumble like thunder. <br />
<br />
And with a gentle, steady hiss, like an enormous wave washing over us, hundreds of marbles poured over the ramp, bouncing onto the gravel driveway. We stood in silence as they collected at our feet. Each time all the marbles seemed to finally trickle out of the truck, a new tide would swell from the dark recesses of boxes and furniture and gush across the ramp.<br />
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When we moved out of the rental house eight months later, we were still finding marbles embedded in the gravel, sometimes whole, sometimes crushed, the occasional glinting reminder of those years spent pouring tiny bags of marbles into a jug.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-17663294218488089082013-04-13T09:44:00.001-04:002013-04-15T12:09:22.704-04:00L is for LizzieI had been working in the gift shops at the Big Fancy Resort for a year when Lizzie was hired.<br />
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Lizzie was about my age. She had long, straight hair that she occasionally wore in a side braid. She lived in Montford with some roommates. Every day she brought bizarre snacks related to her detox cleanse. One day it was a quart of water, lemon juice, and ginger. Another day she had a plastic container of cashews submerged in water. She explained the medicinal purposes of these snacks in her signature slow monotone.<br />
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None of the gift shop clerks were quite sure what to think of Lizzie.<br />
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Lizzie counted her cash drawer twice at the beginning of each shift and twice again at the end. On the night shift, she would leave rambling, urgent-sounding notes for the morning clerk to find. Sometimes the clerks read these to each other for entertainment purposes.<br />
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<i>A woman was here looking for a gift for her boss's daughter's best friend. She was so nice. We talked for a long time. Her favorite food is watermelon! She did not find a gift. I really hope she finds one. If she comes back, show her the journals because I totally forgot to show her those and she might have liked them. Tell her I said hi. I hope you have an excellent day! </i><br />
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Lizzie once left a co-worker a five-minute-long voicemail thanking her for swapping shifts and elaborating upon what a kind deed that was. Another co-worker found her meticulously lining the sales counter with dozens of perfectly measured squares of tape.<br />
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The Big Fancy Resort was not exactly known for its amiable clientele. A typical customer would not even let you say, "Hi, how are y--" before barking "JUST LOOKING" and proceeding to not make eye contact with you ever. Others would ask for help finding some vague item--a popular request was, "I need the perfect gift for this person I don't know anything about at all"--and then dismiss all your suggestions with an exasperated, "No, not <i>that</i>." At the other extreme, some people would bring you the most generic item possible--a cheap scarf made in China, a ring imbedded with oversized plastic rhinestones, a nightlight shaped like a daisy--and say, "Tell me more about this," as though expecting a touching backstory involving an underprivileged Cambodian orphan who overcame the odds and started her own rhinestone factory using only organic, sustainable materials.<br />
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These people were spoiled, cranky, demanding, entitled, and petulant. And they loved Lizzie.<br />
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They loved her because she would launch into a ten-minute speech praising anything they displayed even the slightest interest in. She would extoll the most trivial item as though it contained hidden wonders. She was oblivious to curt tones and rude remarks. <br />
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One day I walked in to find Lizzie brandishing her plastic container of cashews and water in front of two customers, who were listening raptly.<br />
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The managers were thrilled with all the positive comments guests left about her. <i>We had so much fun talking to Lizzie! Lizzie was so helpful! Lizzie was extremely knowledgeable!</i><br />
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Lizzie and I bonded unexpectedly one baumy night in early autumn. We closed one of the stores together, and just as we were ready to leave, we noticed a moth fluttering around one of the lights.<br />
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I looked up at the moth, batting its dusty wings against the imitation Craftsman light fixture. It had drifted into this place on an ill-fated air current, and now it would be trapped here until it shriveled into a dry husk and died.<br />
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I helped Lizzie pursue the moth around the empty store until she finally caught it. She carried it downstairs to the employee entrance, cupped between her hands, and I opened the door so she could release it into the night. We watched it beat a jagged path through the heavy air until it disappeared in the buzzing orange glow of a streetlight.<br />
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Not long after that, Lizzie left the key to her cash drawer lying unattended in the break room and got fired. I envied her. She was set free, like the moth.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-81977515717227216662013-04-12T08:39:00.004-04:002013-04-12T08:40:30.597-04:00K is for KickballOnce upon a time, I loved PE--back when PE consisted of innocent games like tag, and jump rope, and four square. But in sixth grade, I developed a burning hatred for PE that smolders within me to this day.<br />
<br />
It's not that I didn't want to exercise. I would've done a million jumping jacks if that was what they wanted. No, I hated PE because all we ever did was play <b><i>kickball</i></b>.<br />
<br />
We had two gym teachers. One was tiny and alarmingly muscular; the other was morbidly obese. At the beginning of each class, they led us through ten minutes of cursory sit-ups and toe-touches, then divided us into teams and barked, "Kickball today!" before adjourning to the other side of the gym for a 50-minute conversation.<br />
<br />
Every kid at this school knew all the rules and regulations of kickball by instinct, except me. It took me two months just to get a general sense of what was considered good and what was considered bad, and even then, I spent most of my time near the back of the gym, with no idea who was winning or losing, hoping with every fiber of my being that the ball wouldn't come toward me.<br />
<br />
That ball was my arch nemesis.<br />
<br />
In kickball, if you catch your opponent's ball before it hits the ground, they're automatically out.<br />
<br />
But from an evolutionary perspective, if an object the size of your head is hurtling toward you, your immediate instinct is not to stand there with your arms spread wide. Your immediate instinct is to cover your head and flee.<br />
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I could not bring myself to catch that ball. Not once.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOUCLMjWIY8gCyKzvZH-BUlIJrOQ2scW_2DezNSWiZsRUEn_NpunsG6nY-BoF6Qkc7H_U-oG_U31QiGaDRBR5n-vuEY9ol-TKZFjUyANovJnhXNJfppyCvjlwhAWjQ2Ui4l08ofsl8rQ/s1600/Kickball.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOUCLMjWIY8gCyKzvZH-BUlIJrOQ2scW_2DezNSWiZsRUEn_NpunsG6nY-BoF6Qkc7H_U-oG_U31QiGaDRBR5n-vuEY9ol-TKZFjUyANovJnhXNJfppyCvjlwhAWjQ2Ui4l08ofsl8rQ/s400/Kickball.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrk350BxYdkLfz203NwOycGwM99fmvIhBM1uswpv80TVdMzauGvfq97t_2PL8sDKJDfAVJRHEDlPEEhVdGxvvnaS6u7gPdoL2pJNoV2ZjjXQ4b9D2Q3ZrjWgSinA2ES13CY5U1-xWjbQ/s1600/Cowering.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqrk350BxYdkLfz203NwOycGwM99fmvIhBM1uswpv80TVdMzauGvfq97t_2PL8sDKJDfAVJRHEDlPEEhVdGxvvnaS6u7gPdoL2pJNoV2ZjjXQ4b9D2Q3ZrjWgSinA2ES13CY5U1-xWjbQ/s640/Cowering.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
My teammates hated me.<br />
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But that's okay, because if the earth is ever pelted with blazing asteroids, I will have a distinct advantage.<br />
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So in the long run, I win.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-3991130080602373262013-04-11T08:56:00.001-04:002013-04-11T08:57:57.214-04:00J is for Just KiddingWhile I was visiting my parents last month (and watching way too many back-to-back episodes of <a href="http://www.haleyscomic.com/2013/04/h-is-for-house-hunters.html">House Hunters</a>), my dad went to the doctor. He called us on his way home, and I answered the phone.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlcJHryR7CQ6jZycRKiQI9Ctb_VXx8kBdBmj6u_oP7Oqt9BaCAS1cbj7cjMQ4bSzZCnPnX_1Od-p_CvY9L0Ja_ro83ouQrASsDfgJgw0fSVTKjgy3PO_2Mdc6LyuDZSiuAXYjw7lKgs4/s1600/You+Suck.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPlcJHryR7CQ6jZycRKiQI9Ctb_VXx8kBdBmj6u_oP7Oqt9BaCAS1cbj7cjMQ4bSzZCnPnX_1Od-p_CvY9L0Ja_ro83ouQrASsDfgJgw0fSVTKjgy3PO_2Mdc6LyuDZSiuAXYjw7lKgs4/s400/You+Suck.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My dad did this. He really did.</td></tr>
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<br />
This probably explains a lot about my twisted sense of humor.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00456921804028323025noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5230339141924942590.post-4431065714372411932013-04-10T09:03:00.002-04:002013-04-10T09:03:19.432-04:00I is for I Promised You BearsBack when I announced that I was participating in the A-Z Challenge, I said there might be bears. I didn't really mean to say this. I just sort of typed it, and then I thought, "except there probably won't be bears," but I didn't bother deleting it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_oAe3KcvXg4nybnxEh4lhyphenhyphenRbp8M1pU1ExRr0mgHI-DvOAQVooWjXLrRhun38Tg4RzmP6PIbLuABLRqfyOuPSN901fH9qhbcBHcB-u1orjUHXMGHMLWIDXFK9k6wzNESlm8JwHn1OFm2I/s1600/Promise+of+Bears.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_oAe3KcvXg4nybnxEh4lhyphenhyphenRbp8M1pU1ExRr0mgHI-DvOAQVooWjXLrRhun38Tg4RzmP6PIbLuABLRqfyOuPSN901fH9qhbcBHcB-u1orjUHXMGHMLWIDXFK9k6wzNESlm8JwHn1OFm2I/s640/Promise+of+Bears.tiff" width="640" /></a></div>
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Then, when I posted the announcement on Facebook, I made it even harder for myself by making them <i>mutant zombie bears.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zQFzKSb34sfimtl2aLagSQOfzyL6h-B9DnX_tl6GwwB1EadPAdm4YXVBR8aDdrcx6_ZnZ_D807Vj-jc-dk8HbVdB7Yc6fF2AabdUs8Uf9EVfdsqbAd8bvnhtU6bRd-c-Q466k_3ETQo/s1600/Facebook.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6zQFzKSb34sfimtl2aLagSQOfzyL6h-B9DnX_tl6GwwB1EadPAdm4YXVBR8aDdrcx6_ZnZ_D807Vj-jc-dk8HbVdB7Yc6fF2AabdUs8Uf9EVfdsqbAd8bvnhtU6bRd-c-Q466k_3ETQo/s640/Facebook.tiff" width="518" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Well, Hubs, I already HAD an idea for an "M" topic, so I'm sneaking this in as my "I" post instead. See what I did there?</td></tr>
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<br />
Now I feel like I need to deliver this promise of mutant zombie bears. I also can't stop thinking about what the hell a mutant zombie bear <i>is</i>, exactly. So here is my interpretation of what mutant zombie bears would probably look like, if the bear population ever mutates and contracts a rare virus that causes corpses to reanimate as brain-eating monsters.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSu_ck1CEMo-HJVF3GTldpQjvUfazmyheKAi6shGRyZlfhRzGF1oJ8ZqQfbMapVFOFOl29ZDS-tdjam4Ljr44x62mfLwe_gBnRXcJqeKzwtmYUqGOisKrre2oRlg-CT70yHNRzCDqb9o/s1600/Mutant+Zombie+Bear+with+Fish+Tail+and+Antlers.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSu_ck1CEMo-HJVF3GTldpQjvUfazmyheKAi6shGRyZlfhRzGF1oJ8ZqQfbMapVFOFOl29ZDS-tdjam4Ljr44x62mfLwe_gBnRXcJqeKzwtmYUqGOisKrre2oRlg-CT70yHNRzCDqb9o/s640/Mutant+Zombie+Bear+with+Fish+Tail+and+Antlers.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one is capable of attacking by land or sea. If you manage to dodge his razor-sharp teeth, he'll just gore you with his antlers instead. He also enjoys sushi and long walks on the beach.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbHLvqYnd8D6HflAd8MM_YUrp5qNVyWT6FgjCt79XjZz8Bf25kSQZ1d5VzScouJpaWTcs9gzBTX5l6hdDZLbn0L8BevAsW4XjTd2TS93DA1hknH5eAzgbjXHUeNotSnFR8f3BDPE1OIk/s1600/Flying+Mutant+Zombie+Bear.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkbHLvqYnd8D6HflAd8MM_YUrp5qNVyWT6FgjCt79XjZz8Bf25kSQZ1d5VzScouJpaWTcs9gzBTX5l6hdDZLbn0L8BevAsW4XjTd2TS93DA1hknH5eAzgbjXHUeNotSnFR8f3BDPE1OIk/s640/Flying+Mutant+Zombie+Bear.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You thought bears were fast when chasing prey on their four powerful legs? Now they can fly, too! Think twice about the popular "climb a tree" strategy. Actually, you shouldn't do that with a regular bear, either. They can all climb trees.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3UwTRD3PeerCRj9Mid83v7cAeDeBb7JfnKV6ChTCHON4mRL7CcUM8ISaMIc7uCP-_eLfP4fxLI0SWvMH8fCR_Ft0Asp7nfaYB2R5fvJV59iUCqlUDL9IbK283MbXmTYjcjjICv-8814/s1600/Two+Headed+Mutant+Zombie+Bear.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR3UwTRD3PeerCRj9Mid83v7cAeDeBb7JfnKV6ChTCHON4mRL7CcUM8ISaMIc7uCP-_eLfP4fxLI0SWvMH8fCR_Ft0Asp7nfaYB2R5fvJV59iUCqlUDL9IbK283MbXmTYjcjjICv-8814/s640/Two+Headed+Mutant+Zombie+Bear.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If these guys catch you, you're pretty much screwed. But if you look on the bright side, your mauling will be over three times as fast. Also, if you're capable of any movement whatsoever, you have a distinct advantage, because running with that extra leg looks like it would be awkward.</td></tr>
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