the boyfriend application.

i am now accepting boyfriend applications, but be ye warned, the application/screening process is arduous and the actual relationship portion taxing, in a strictly monetary sense, of course.  

__________________________________________________________________________________

Application de Petit Ami

(that’s french snob for ‘boyfriend application’)

Name: _______________________

(interesting/aristocratic names and subsequent titles preferred, although not strictly required)

Age: _______

(applicants must be between the ages of 21 and 45, unless otherwise qualified (prince/king of medium to large sized country)

Height: _______

(this requirement has less to do with actual preference and more to do with the fact that i have achieved the height of 6’2’’ with heels. if you are under this height and would like for me to pet the top of your head like a small puppy as i tower over you, then please proceed)

Yearly Income: _____________________   Trust Fund/Inheritance: ______________

(notice the space i left for all the “0’s”. although i am interested in your yearly income for obvious reasons, i am more-so interested in your disposable income, as i plan to dispose of it properly. please note that this area would be an appropriate section to place all trust funds and/or family inheritances you have/stand to gain)

Houses: _______________________________________________________________  

Vacation Homes: ________________________________________________________

Property: ______________________________________________________________

(obviously your parents’ home does not count. but wait lauren, you live at home with your parents. my parents could beat up your parents, so back off. i do what i want. now, buy a house, loser)

Please answer either YES or NO to the following questions.

1. Will you be willing to follow strict guidelines of engagement procedures which include top shelf vodka and a ring no less than 2 karats? 
2. Are you physically able to pick me up off of the ground should I decide to drink my own body weight and act like a complete and total asshole? 
3. Will you be kind to princess oreo, accepting the fact that she, like her mother, deserves to lounge around all day doing absolutely nothing? 
4. Do you know the difference between “your” and “you’re”? Are you willing to accept that anything you write to me will be graded with red pen and handed back, therefore requiring a “final draft” revision? 
5. Will you leave me the hell alone and let me go out with my friends and please allow yourself to do the same?                         
6. Can you beat me in Mario Kart (N64 or Wii) and will you help me unlock Rosalina, because I’m having a hard time and would like to kick your ass using her as my player?      
7. Do you promise to never make me touch your feet?                                                      

(if the answer is NO to any of the above questions please disregard boyfriend application altogether as you, at this time, do not qualify/are despicable) 

Signature: ____________________________________        Date:_________________

Please include a non-refundable check or cash deposit of $300 dollars to cover processing fees (bottles of wine for sorting through the thousands of applications i’m sure to receive, shoes to wear while sorting, catnip)

__________________________________________________________________________________

i suppose that now all there is left to do is sit back and wait for the numerous male suitors who will undoubtedly be throwing themselves at my fabulousness. by fabulousness of course i mean trainwreckness. and by trainwreckness i mean hot messness. i'm fairly certain that this is the process by which every great love story begins, with rules, guidelines, greed, and conditions. i'm also fairly certain that love is is a choice and not a feeling. and i am absolutely certain that you did not visit this blog to hear me pontificate about matters of love/relationships.

mean girls.

“i’m sorry that people are so jealous of me... but i can’t help it that i’m so popular”

if you know anything about me, you know that i am totally obsessed with mean girls (the movie and the group of girls i lovingly call the same name), not only because everything tina fay writes/acts in turns to gold, but also because of it’s hilariously accurate depiction of high school girls/girls in general. let’s be totally clear about this. if you are a girl, you are a bitch. whether that bitchiness be out in open like my own, or carefully hidden behind layers or syrupy (sick) sweetness, the mean girl is somewhere in there, waiting to be unleashed. the first time that i was called a mean girl was my sophomore year of college. although i made no attempts out of the ordinary to receive the honor or being called a mean girl, a delightful man, who will we refer to as “big black dad” (bbd) informed me that he had watched a movie that perfectly depicted my group of friends. seems as though bbd had viewed mean girls and immediately thought of the whitest, snobbiest, most fabulous 19 year olds he could think of and i, of all people, was fortunate enough to be lumped into this group. according to bbd, qualifications for mean girl status include: refusing to pay cover, judging/making fun of everyone, getting drinks for free, knowing individuals who allow you to get into and drink from the bar for free on a first name basis and being uncharacteristically kind to them, refusing to dance, making fun of skanks, and being extremely exclusive. i was so flattered with the comparison that i could have cried. although there is still some debate as to which mean girl i would be and which individuals have earned their place as second and third generation mean girls, i’d like to add that, as any oscar nominee would say, being nominated was an honor in and of itself and i am humbled to be considered among such talented individuals. 

my love of mean girls came to mind after a recent facebook fueled website discovery. i’m not even going to mention the site involved because it is completely and utterly ridonkulous and does not bear repeating, but it’s purpose it to allow randoms to critique and numerically quantify the value of fraternities and sororities on specific campuses, along with publicized personal opinions on the aforementioned criteria. aside from being ludicrous (i always want to write “ludacris”, luuuuuuda), i think the people posting on this site are missing the point. if you were bright enough to make it through the end of mean girls, you know that the message of the movie boils down to this, girls are mean and cruel to each other, even the fugly ones who make out with their gym coaches and have heavy flows and wide-set vaginas. furthermore, and not a part of the movie just personal brilliance, sororities and fraternities are, in their design, exclusive; that doesn’t make us mean, it makes us discerning. and sure, some of the drama that goes on in the houses of such wonderful mean girls and mean boys is petty and stupid, but the drama that goes on among the “sexually active band geeks” or the “cool asians” is probably equally as trivial. so whether you’re a sorostitute arguing over an exec position or a chubby mcfatterson wrestling over the last m&m left in the economy size bag, you’re a mean girl, it’s who we are, own it. and as for “those girls are bitches” being an accurate description for any group of girls, yeah we are, all of us in one way or another have an evil emotional monster living inside us. please for the love of vocabulary, come up with something more descriptive than that or better yet, go back to your hobo friends and tighten each others head gear, you’re looking a little gap toothed. 

this is what is referred to as the mean girl "a" team. applications for subsequent mean girls are being accepted at this time. 

go elf yourself.

it’s christmas time, hobos. tis the season to be jolly or selfish, or whatever, and i for one am elated.

first of all, let me say holy cubic zirconia extravaganza via every damn holiday jewelry commercial on television. please see my thoughts on this particular subject on facebook and hear as i audibly gag/cry over the heinous mediocrity which these advertisements so wholeheartedly support. moving on. oreo and i are absolutely ecstatic about the holiday season and we’ve been listening to santa baby on repeat since well before thanksgiving as it pretty much summarizes our desire for a sugar daddy and constant need for gifts (snacks). speaking of gifts panda bought princess oreo a beautiful pink sweater today from the target, but it was too tight because oreo insists on second helpings during holiday meals, either that or because i constantly feed her in order to gain and maintain her love and affection. back to me, excited for christmas. i’m not one of those crazy people who romanticizes the christmas holidays and dreams of ice skating and every kiss beginning with k (vomit), although i do enjoy ice skating but only like twice around the rink because then i get tired (see athletic ability under nature can suck it). i partly love this time of the year because it is the first time since last march that i’ve stopped sweating my sweet georgia balls off and i mostly love christmas because of presents. don’t act surprised like you thought i had some sort of existential, abstract, or otherwise mind blowing reason for my christmas time true loving. i love things. i love free things. i love things bought with papa bear’s money. also, i love baby jesus, so don’t get it twisted. also, contrary to what you may believe, i do not feel as though i am too old to ask for presents as i am clearly no farther advanced in my life than when i was a senior in high school. i still have no college degree, i live at home and i have no job and am therefore a child, a very small, innocent, little child. i deserve presents. now, compiling lists of desired presents is one of my all time favorite hobbies and i think i’ve really outdone myself this year. before you get all judgey about the extravagantness of this list please keep in mind that i will most likely not be receiving any of these gifts as papa bear has previously stated, and i quote, “i think you have me confused with a plastic surgeon”. it’s never too late to learn dad, never too late. for your holiday inducing pleasure, in a very particular order of overall importance/which will make me die harder if not obtained:

1. Front row tickets as well as backstage passes to the june 22, 2011 NKOTBSB concert at philips arena
2. A luxury suit inside cinderella’s castle at the magical world of disney in which to awake christmas morning along with cinderella before she was a princess (poor person) acting as my personal servant
3. A visit to the wizarding world of harry potter and a lifetime supply of (very) alcoholic butter beer
4. A $715 louis vuitton handbag which i, for the most part, find aesthetically repulsive but require as i lost about 50 snob points when the land rover exploded
5. A $2,100 black onyx david yurman bracelet, a sensible gift to celebrate my upcoming community college graduation and (obviously) a match to my unearned, yet still warn ring
6. A baby frontpack in which to carry princess oreo, complete, of course, with tail hole

now, i must admit, there are a few practical things that i left off the list or items which are not at the time feasible options (only 195 more pounds to gain before i’m eligible for gastric bypass, hurray!), but i think you get the idea of the things which i hold most important and dear. so tell me, luvahs, what are you asking for from santa (daddy claus) this year, either practical (boring) or magical?

i am a 12 year old girl, get over it

i am also a 5 year old, deal with it

if neville longbottom was brave enough to be a gryffindor, then so are you

attractive points: -100
snob points: +250

small, simple, understated, costs more than panda makes in a year

wondering if this one comes in pink...

nerd is the word.

sorry, friend. i’d love to hang out/chat/go out, but unfortunately i’m too busy solving crossword puzzles, reading fantasy novels, and grammatically correcting texts/facebook posts.

sometimes the truth hurts, and the truth is i think i am a nerd. worse yet, i don’t even think i’m the good kind of nerd who knows all sorts of interesting trivia or can carry on long discussions about “important” political or religious topics. i’m sure you’ve gathered as much, but i don’t give a shit about such monumental matters. i think i more resemble a pizza faced, dorito breathed, middle school boy playing dungeons and dragons in a too tight pokemon t-shirt than i do a national quiz bowl finalist. what i’m getting at is that i am the wrong kind of nerd. my god, i’m a 24 year old carrying around a lisa frank notebook, desperately awaiting the day when full body glitter is no longer a complete abomination (oddi, i know you agree). i find myself getting personally offended when people don’t know the difference between “your” and “you’re” and worse when they address me using the incorrect form of said word. how dare you defile my mini-feed/wall/inbox with such shiteous displays of stupidity. such offenders should be ashamed, only slightly less ashamed then their horrible, good for nothing third grade teachers. i hate books for smart people. the classics, yeah, i’ve read some of those. they were boring. books that are forced, politically charged, analytical, philosophical, and crammed with overly-complicated jargon rarely hold my interest and make me feel slightly mentally retarded. give me a book from which a popular (or not) movie or tv series is based and i will eat it up. i just read 9,600 pages of nerdiness and loved every second of it. i, of course, took the dust jackets off of said novels in order to deflect negative attention to both apparent dweebdom as well as poor taste in literature. and don’t even think that you can come back with some kind of, “it’s cool lauren, i read harry potter” bullshit, i’ve ventured much deeper into the dorky realm of casual reading than you could hope/want to. as for crossword puzzles, my nerdy obsession borders acceptable. lots of people like crossword puzzles. lots of people complete on average 3-5 a night. lots of people have multiple crossword puzzle apps on their phone. lots of people print crossword puzzles from the internet and keep them in folders in case they run out of aforementioned puzzles and have none left to do. no? weird. again, no, “lauren, i love sudoku, it’s so nerdy blah blah blah”. i hate that shit. numbers are disgusting. plus, i’m not trying to have a level of dweebiness competition with you. i’m sure everyone does things that others may consider nerdy. i do things that i consider nerdy, so nerdy in fact, that i would rather divulge embarrassing stories about hiking with you than mention, by name the nerdy things i like. don’t even get me started on video games or computer games, as my liking for those only serve to complete the dweeb profile. honestly, i think everyone has a little nerd living inside of them. i mean, sure we can keep the nerdiness at bay in front of crowds and maybe even in front of our friends, but dorky mcdorkerson is always there, rummaging around just underneath the surface. then again, maybe it’s just me. really, i wouldn’t be at all surprised if you guys have no idea what i’m talking about. 

so, reader people, this is where you have to stop being regular creepers and be participatory creepers for this damn blog. tell me about your inner nerd, dorky habits, or how you stifled/killed dweeby mcdweeberson. oreo and i will be waiting patiently.

to be a total nerd, just add glasses?

smart ass.

being the smartest kid in community college is like being the skinniest kid at fat camp. 

before you get your panties in a twist over me insulting the school i attend, please keep in mind that we all have our reasons for choosing this particular institution. for my reasons, please refer to the shriveling and dying of the money tree (papa bear’s wallet). if you know me at all, you understand that i am, at my core, an underachiever or what more kind individuals refer to as a “free spirit”. although i don’t fault myself a single bit for living at home and being a noncontributing member of society in general, you might. to me, that sounds like a personal problem. did you hear that? super sassy. anyway, i underachieve. i’ve always believed that if you set the bar low enough, success is not only more enjoyable, but downright surprising. in my humble opinion, community college is the scholastic manifestation of underachievement. it may be that i’ve finally found my passion in life (eating... i mean, cooking) or that somehow between mercer and the fine college i now attend, i obtained some sort of magical genius (doubtful), whichever the case may be i’ve gained maximum grades with minimal effort. should i feel bad about this? probably.  but you know what, i don’t. going to this school is like having season passes to a three ring circus; it gives me endless material on which the humor you, i’ve finally gotten to see what actually happens when people are raised by wolves, and i think i am building some abdominal muscles from laughing so hard at other people. in all seriousness, i like this community college thing. beyond the obvious ego boosting qualities, i get to cook shit and then get graded for it. sure, i turn crimson and astonishingly procure a mumble every time someone asks me where i go to school, but let me be candid, i quite like being the coolest kid at dragoncon. and i guess, what this whole thing boils down to, other than the fact that i am content in my laziness, is that my  lackadaisical approach to school won’t hurt anyone in the end. we’re talking food here, people (casey bowen voice). as long as i don’t inadvertently give you some kind of foodborne illness or even if i do, i think the world will continue rotating on its axis. 

my goals probably aren’t as lofty as yours. i don’t really care about changing the world. as long as there are shoes sales and bottles of vodka available, i think the world is just fine. right now, i’m perfectly content cooking things that people enjoy and writing things that make those same people tinkle in their pants, a little. 

rover over.

i won’t lie to you. i drove a minivan and i was feeling it. 

so, i had a fabulous/eventful weekend with my lovely girlfriends (not to be confused with my girlfriend, princess oreo, who, for some strange reason was not invited). for starters, my car exploded. ok, i mean it didn’t like have flames or anything shooting out of the hood, but it’s broken beyond repair and there was some boiling anti-freeze/witches brew type action which helped heighten the overall effect. after propositioning both a mechanic and a man at enterprise, a minivan was rented, transportation was set and eventful bachelorette activities ensued, including but not limited to: mint chocolate chip ice cream teeth brushing, drink spillage, toe smashage, misuse of/assault with maracas, creepy bachelors, not creepy naked old man hand holding, slow dancing, penis glitter tattoos, living a teenage dream, late night food runs in the minivan, microphone stealing, girly men drinking washington apple shots, suspicion of kidnapping, unwanted dancing attack/humpage by strangers, jersey shore marathon, general antagonizing/insulting of guidos/everyone else, removal from bar, sidewalk chilling and regurgitating of whole french fries. yes, i know you want more. you want the details. how do you brush your teeth with ice cream? where did you find this naked man? how can you throw up an entire french fry/swallow an entire french fry in the first place? for those answers, feel free to contact me/be around me in the next couple of months and my great love for dramatic storytelling will take over and you can get the whole scoop, including accurate impersonations. for now, i would like to get back to this minivan. i am kinda obsessed with it. you might not be aware of this, but minivans are nice as shit on the inside and have awesome features which were clearly not present when you or i were sitting in the back of one drinking juice boxes and feeding our fathers 3 year old m&ms from under the seat (what? you never did that? lindsey did. she’s a beta alpha beta, a bad ass bitch, if you will. we’re related, obvs). you may have noticed that minivans are still heinous on the outside; some things never change. hey, minivans aren’t perfect, but let’s be honest, i am. i have no clue what the outside of this thing looked like, other than it was van-like and fugly, and i’m not positive on either the make or model, i just know that the inside was magical, the doors were cool, and driving it was an enthralling and pleasurable experience. when papa bear told me the rover was doneso and had to be replaced, i was really tempted to tell him about the torrid weekend affair i had with this damn minivan and have one of my very own waiting for me in the garage at home. mine would have had several tiny televisions and pink track lighting. but, alas, even i’m not cool enough to rock a minivan, regardless of how truly luxurious their interiors may be. 

so, with a tear in my eye (i love you landrover, may you rest in peace/be sold quickly on craigslist) and hope in my heart for the day when i may receive a minivan to have and to hold (with automatic sliding doors, keyless start and an alarmingly roomy interior), i wish for each of you, my dear friends, a life of naked man hand holding and the realization of your very own teenage dream (vodka shots).

minivan lovin'. pure joy.

don't let his age fool you. this man had some of the softest skin my hands have ever touched, plus he helped us find the bar.

the "it looks like you're wearing a midget fannypack" description is by far the most accurate.

double stuffed.

naming a black and white cat oreo is about as creative as naming a baby girl born in the mid 1980’s lauren, but hey, panda and papa bear, no judgements here. 

panda was the philanthropist/animal rights activist who first discovered and rescued princess oreo lantz. yeah, we’re both princesses, get over it. despite being the cutest, tiniest little kitten in the world, oreo was also the most evil. each member of our family had to wear oven mits/work gloves to feed the little shit out of a bottle, lest we be accused of trying to kill ourselves via the world’s smallest razor blade (cat scratches). she was a gluttonous pain in the ass from the beginning, gulping down ungodly amounts of kitten milk while ripping the flesh from our hands and forearms. that being said, oreo is my best friend. she is a very good listener and never interrupts me when i talk, both qualities that i find necessary in a friendship relationship. she is basically motivated by food and slumber, which happen to be among my favorite things. we cuddle, but that bitch always makes me be big spoon because she is a selfish lover and because i am slightly larger. i accidentally made her obese and consequently accidentally made myself obese as well. we don’t care, more to love. oreo is also a huge whorebag. all the boy cats on our street love her and meow at our windows. i on the other hand have the occasional construction worker/mailman/jehovah’s witness try to sneak a peek of me in my pj’s through the window, very sexy. my favorite boyfriend is the brad pitt, and thanks for asking you selfish asshole, we are doing quite well (it’s love). oreo’s favorite boyfriend is the black and white cat next door who looks exactly like her and has, on occasion, been carried into our house under false assumptions of indeed being our beloved orey cat. clearly, the princess is an unapologetic narcissist, another quality which i find quite endearing. she hates outdoors/getting dirty, as these hobbies are for poor people/cats. she flat out refused to come camping/hiking/diva attacking with papa bear and i, because she is very smart (street smart + books smart combo, really). oreo never grooms/cleans herself; those are jobs for humans involving combs and pink barbie brushes. i would like to carry oreo around in one of those funny little baby backpack in the front type deals and let her scratch off the faces of individuals dumb enough to approach us. i have no idea what those midget carrying frontpacks are called as i find the idea of children appalling. the point is, i want one for my cat with an extra little hole for her tail. on a final note, i hate cats. please don’t tell me stories about your animals and be aware that i don’t really like dogs either. i only like oreo because she is the absolute worst specimen of the feline species currently in existence. and for the love of god, don't taint our beautiful relationship with some kind of vulgar cat/lady parts reference, so immature (pervert).

just when you were beginning to feel bad for me and all the ridiculousness which comprises my life story, i busted out the crazy cat lady talk. dating a cat is totally normal. 

glamour shot

example of double stuffedness/cuteness

barbie brush for "grooming"

we fixed our hairs for this one

fuglasville.

you only consider me a snob, because you deem your lackluster taste acceptable. 

now of course, this statement has nothing to do with you (people reading this blog). i would not dare to insult your intelligence or taste by comparing you to the people who live in the godforsaken town, you know, the one where i currently cease to thrive. i’m about to tell you all about this charming (sarcasm) city that i live in, but please note that the following summation will only contain factual information gathered from city archives and first-hand accounts. 

my people (parents), the german/american indians were attempting to escape from a place of academic persecution (medical school) in order that they may raise their beautiful, naturally blonde-headed indian princess daughter in a land free of such scholastic demands, when they came upon a land filled with platform flip flops and mullet haircuts. the matriarch of the tribe had always wanted to be taller and thus fell in love with this land of platform flip flops and the chief had indeed experimented with long hair in high school/college and so instantly gravitated towards the mullets in the illustrious city of fuglasville, georgia. many years passed, which do not matter because the naturally blonde-headed indian princess does not remember them and it was before she learned of shopping malls and vodka, and fuglasville began to change from the land of ultimate promise (platforms/mullets) to a miserable place to be. oh yeah, and somewhere in there the family welcomed a tragically unattractive, dimwitted, midget child who would reek havoc upon her parents in later years with her childish antics, overdrafted bank accounts, general irresponsible behavior, drinking habits and inability to find a single job and/or move out of the house (loser). a shopping mall was erected (har har, wiener) in fuglasville, it sucked and was later overrun with a child gang, comprised of 8 and 9 year olds toting guns and stealing yo bazooka bubblegum (bitches) and currently houses stores no one has ever heard of which sell either airbrushed tupac t-shirts or pink john deere trucker hats/georgia gurlllllz license tags. fortunately the indian princess was able to escape the horrible town for a brief 5 year period in which she built her alcohol tolerance to mystifying levels and rarely attended meaningless classes. then one day, on her own accord and not because her parents forced her to under penalty of the dreaded “move home or we’re cutting you off”, the beautiful, successful, scholarly natural blonde decided to move back to fuglasville to help her elderly parents. she now spends her time as their personal servant, slaving over their dinners and begging for money to survive. the poor princess finds a small amount of solace in the fact that atlanta exists a mere 20 miles from her prison and that individuals in varying parts of the state/country offer weekend escapes in their wigwams. the whole thing it quite sad.

now on to some indisputably accurate information about fuglasville. there are 5 types of people who inhabit this shithole. they are as follows:

1. rednecks
2. white/trailer trash (who vary only slightly from rednecks in that they live in trailers, duh, and have long since sold their shotguns and pick-up trucks for the supplies necessary to start their own meth labs)
3. black people
4. people who think they are rich and live in nice houses (who in actuality are in debt up to their eyeballs and live in shitty/poorly constructed cookie cutter houses with brick facade in needlessly pretentious neighborhoods with golf cart paths. these individuals also wear brighton jewelry, have never heard of lenox and drive tahoes)
5. my family (who vary only slightly from the people who think they are rich and live in nice houses in that they take dave ramsey classes, live in houses built and stuck in the early 1990’s but of sturdy materials, wear david yurman, live part time at lenox mall and drive pieces of shit land rovers which break, on average, every 5 months)

bad fashion, bad taste, bad music, bad roots, bad cars, bad bars, bad shoes, bad hair, and bad shopping are just a few of the things that douglasville does best. so, if you’ve ever considered your life or current residence less than satisfactory, why don’t you call me up and take a tour of this desolate wasteland (not being dramatic)? i’d love to show you some of the hilariously unsatisfactory things this fine city has to offer!

nature can suck it.

i hate nature, quite possibly more than i hate heinous footwear or bad grammar.


i am physically unfit. i’m not sure if there is an existing scale of physical unfitness, so i am just going to make one up. let’s say, for argument’s sake, there is a ten point scale, ten being a professional athlete and one being a fat couch potato. i am a sub one, definitely.  now, i don’t know whose bright idea it was to force my fat ass up the side of a mountain (dad’s), but that was a grave mistake. our hike was only 3 miles long, not that strenuous, just one small incline, all lies. about ten minutes into the hike, the flat, green path turned into an insane, bouldered, uphill, waterless waterfall, of sorts or, for you children of the 90’s, the aggro crag from guts/global guts sans everything that made the crag cool (safety harnesses/padded materials/intense fog machine action/showers of glitter/buttons that light up when you push them/fame and glory upon reaching the top). at this location i experienced what papa bear is now calling “diva attacks”. these diva attacks consist of two or more of the following: labored breathing, laying in the middle of the trail, forcing father to carry pack, sweating profusely, cursing nature/god/anyone in ear range, crawling, hyperventilating, loss of consciousness and/or death. i had seven of said diva attacks. i laid in the middle of the trail and let two 70 year olds walk over my lifeless body (how did they get their wrinkly old asses up there, anyway?). when we reached the top of this  godforsaken mountain there was an overlook and i guess you’re expected to stand there, in nature, and look at other nature? i took one look at that big flat rock and figured it was a great place to lay motionless for several or more minutes. i took some pictures, sitting down. i’m sure you can all read the look of shear joy/excitement on my very sweaty face. the rest of the trail was downhill and free of prehistoric rubble. this gave me some time to mentally calculate all the ways i hated the evil mastermind behind the appalachian trail (benton mackaye). i was also able to assemble a short list of things, that i knew to be true about this monster of a man. 

1. he enjoyed creating life-size human obstacle courses and watching idiots like me try to maneuver through them
2. he was ruthless/psychotic/anti-american
3. he was a delusional crackhead (granola). 

after getting down the mountain and to our campsite i was quite sure that things would become bearable/tolerable/pleasant. i rehydrated with 8 fl. oz. of grey goose, sat by a campfire, and participated in other obligatory camping cliches. and then it was bedtime. several times during the course of the night a bear entered our tent and caused quite a ruckus. when i say it entered the tent i mean it was already there. when i say caused a ruckus i mean it snored. when i say it was a bear, i mean of the papa variety. and then it rained (torrential downpour). sorry jesus, but because you invented rain we are not really on good terms at the moment. our tent partially collapsed/flooded. i woke up my father at 4:30 in the morning and demanded that we pack up all of our shit and get the hell out of this miserable netherworld (forest/tent). he said we couldn’t hike in the dark, jerk. as soon as the sun peeked it’s pathetic face from behind the horizon we were out of there. we hauled ass back to the car and drove to wendy’s where i stuffed my faced wholeheartedly to the tune of a quarter pound, while nervous employees stared at my unkempt hair and overall bedraggled/disheveled appearance. when i say we hauled ass, i mean that i hobbled, quite quickly. 

i will not be returning to the forest, possibly ever. 

as you can see from this photo, i added a pink shirt to the ensemble in order to increase overall femininity and decrease my chances of being shot by poachers.

although i am not sure the exact emotion i am exuding in this lovely photo, i think i'm going to stick with: exuberance. 

take a hike.

i am wasting time, waiting for my life to start.

if you don't know me, or don't know me very well, allow me to introduce my crazy ass. better yet, take a peek at the "about me" column, which i find to be not only precise but painfully accurate. now, back to me, waiting, life not starting. i'll be honest with you, i am well aware that, that first sentence is a bit (grossly) exaggerative. of course i am well aware that my life is in full swing. i only use that phrase because i am also extremely aware of the fact that my life in no way resembles the life of a "real" person. nothing that happens to me on a daily basis is anything that could or should be deemed normal and therefore i exist in a state of limbo, purgatory for all you catholics (daisha), balancing between actual reality and the area of that reality in which i choose to live. let me clarify. i am too sane for the crazies and too crazy for the normals. with that being said, i have a prime example of the chaos in which i live, an anecdote of sorts, written for your entertainment and shared for recognition of apparent absurdity.

as you may, or may not already know my father and coordinated/modelesque younger sister are hiking/nature/bugs/sweat/outdoor/stinky enthusiasts. ok, these people are crazy, like oregon trail, before the invention of toilets, crazy. they carry things on their backs, sleep outside, pee on leaves, and get this, drive places so they can walk to other places. insane, i know. panda (mother) and i have never been invited on such excursions and much prefer indulging in shopping trips and white wine while the men are off playing lewis and clark, exploring the new world. well, little sister has spread her statuesque wings and flown to the far away (162 miles) city of augusta, leaving poor papa bear short a hiking partner (son). i don't think i have to tell you where this is going. my dad has somehow (bribery/trickery) convinced me to join him on one such adventure, taking place this very weekend. although the prospect of a short, little, 3 mile, uphill, jaunt is somewhat intimidating for my non-existant cardiovascular health and wobbly right knee and nature does not exactly supply the most pleasing accommodations (tent), it is not the nature thing that has me spooked, but rather a force which is far more sinister. i'm not talking about ghost, or mountain lions, or wayward hobos here. i'm talking about heinous hiking clothes/shoes. i was perfectly content with wearing running shorts and a t-shirt and trudging my not so happy ass up the side of a cliff, but i am not amused by the items papa bear is so lovingly forcing me to wear. imagine, if you will, a pair of nerdy zip-off convertible dweeb pants in a swamp ass inducing shade of charcoal/artificially faded navy, an oversized burnt orange meshy athletic shirt thing, complete with "short" sleeves which reach far past the elbow and an overall shape comparable to a circus tent, wooly ankle socks which protrude far past the acceptable distance from top of sock to top of shoe and the piece de resistance, a uni-boob inducing pack-o-shit (backpack) complete with inexplicable strap across breasts. i look like a lesbian's girlfriend/granola/softball coach in this shit. after dinner, panda wanted to see the ensemble. i walked into the living room and the aforementioned white wine was spewed across the room. needless to say, i look fabulous. please keep an eye out for headlines pertaining to chubby little boys being eaten by bears in the woods this weekend.

see, i told you i wasn't a real person.