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Monthly Archives: June 2011

You know me, but how fucked up are YOU?

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I found this on another blog and it’s one of the funniest “tools” I’ve come across for a while. It’s a psychological word search. There isn’t a word bank that you have to find all of them–you’re just supposed to look, and the first three words you find will describe your personality.

I found this first on shrimpsaladcircus.blogspot.com, then this particular image on bitsandpieces.us, but it's all over the internet if you search for it.

The first words I saw were “crush fool rageman.” Now, “rageman” probably isn’t a word, but I’m pretty sure Mike uses it sometimes anyway. Usually to describe himself, because he’s as weird as I am. So apparently I’m a robot (because, duh, robots are the only ones who want to crush people) who wants to crush my foolish rageman-boyfriend. I worried that maybe this painted a bad picture, so I kept looking and found “malice,” then “kick,” “flesh” and “secrets.” Secrets might be good with a different group. And my worry wasn’t helped when I saw that the “man” that I’d attached to “rage” was really part of “maniac.”

So, my lovely readers. (Doesn’t that sound creepy after the above paragraph?) What three words now describe your psychological makeup? How do you interpret them, and do you agree? I’d love to know.

Neighbor Theories: The Dude Upstairs

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Do you ever sit and wonder about the people who live near you, but you never actually see or interact with? Maybe you do this so much that you create neat little made-up lives for them in your head. Maybe you don’t do this at all, in which case you are probably more sane than I am. Congratulations. But I have to tell you about this guy.

The facts: He’s lived in the upstairs-from-us apartment for over 10 years now. When we moved in, he saw the Uhaul outside and came down to introduce himself (his name is Mike; there’s also a teenager in the third apartment in our three-family named Mike–it would actually be confusing if we all interacted). He warned us that, when he’s loud, it’s usually in one particular room (and he pointed to the windows so we knew) and told us that if it was ever too loud or bothering us, just to let him know. He doesn’t have a car. (This isn’t an urban area. I don’t think there’s public transportation. I have no idea how he gets places.)

Every once in a while, I look out the front room’s windows and see him step out or in. Other than that, I think he’s pretty much always home. I think this because his music is pretty much always on. It’s not particularly loud or annoying most of the time–just a steady bass that never changes and is quiet enough that if I turn on a fan it drowns out the noise. I’m not entirely sure why the beat never changes, though. Does he just listen to the same song…all the time?

Let me explain this music. From inside my apartment, all I hear is a bass. But if I go outside on a nice day when he’s got his windows open, I can hear a little more. It’s carnival music. Creepy carnival music that plays constantly.

And that’s what got me wondering. Here are my thoughts on Upstairs Mike.

The dude inherited some money, and by “some” I mean “shitloads of,” about 11 years ago. He cleaned up affairs wherever he was and invested in Apple and Starbucks. Ever since then, he’s made enough money off his investments to pay his rent and utilities every month and he’s got plenty of spare spending money. He doesn’t have a car because he never needs to go anywhere that he can’t walk (or possibly bike, I have not confirmed this yet) to. He doesn’t have a job (because if he did, he’d leave the house).

He spends his spare money on LSD. He buys enough LSD that he can also sell LSD, which explains the occasional sound of feet going up the stairs, voices, then feet going down the stairs shortly after. His guests never seem to stick around long. He spends his time dropping acid and listening to his music.

So eventually I thought, I thought, what music might sound similar to creepy carnival music? And my theory came to being. Video game music. I bet, if heard from an open window a floor below where it’s playing, the two sound pretty similar. But this guy doesn’t sit around and play videogames. Oh, no.

Your typical Twilight Princess Goron (via zelda.wikia.com)

Have you ever played the Legend of Zelda games? Specifically, Ocarina of Time or Twilight Princess or any other game that involves a Goron temple? You run around the temple killing the bad guys and there isn’t really music. It’s pretty quiet, with a few creepy noises to let you know you’re in an evil place. But every once in a while, you’ll end up in a room where there’s a Goron just sitting there. Suddenly, the normal temple sound effects change to the Goron town’s background music. This Goron inevitably gives Link a valuable piece of advice or weaponry or lots of rupees.

Upstairs Mike puts his music on, drops acid, and sits there like one of the Gorons in the temple, doing nothing except existing in the room that he’s in. When someone comes in, he gives them something of value.

Over time, he has done so much LSD that he is entirely convinced that he is a Goron giving legendary heroes instruments that are vital to their quest to save Hyrule.

What the guy upstairs thinks is happening every time someone shows up. (Via zeldadungeon.net.)

The best part about my theory? From everything we know, it actually seems completely plausible.

Horrible Medical Advice of the Week: Ancient Native American Dandruff Remedy

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Of course, the Native Americans didn’t realize that they’d happened upon a great dandruff remedy at the time. It’s only centuries after they stopped that we’re able to look back and see how practical scalping could be.

Now, okay. Some of you may be worried. I can hear you. “Scalping? Didn’t that kill people?” Well, yeah, but so did strep throat. And if a doctor told you that a chronic issue you had could be cured with an injection of strep bacteria, which would be immediately treated with the proper antibiotics, would you go for it? Probably! Medicine’s come a long way, so let’s see where we can go with this one.

Okay. So you use a knife, I think. And you cut around your hairline. Or something. I’m not exactly sure and honestly? I don’t want to look it up because I might find gross pictures. (Note: I also don’t want to look up strep throat.) And then I guess you rip really hard, because even if skin is pretty much completely detached it still holds on pretty well. I don’t know why. I just know that I had a blister and I could see the raw and icky stuff under it but it still hurt like a bitch to pull the skin off it. So it’ll hurt like a bitch. But you’ve got options! That should make everything better.

Option 1: Don’t cut very deep. You only need to remove enough skin to form a scar, because hair doesn’t grow out of scars. Usually. So get a boxcutter that has medical-grade precision when it comes to how far out the blade sticks, and you’ll be left with raw skin that will scar over and you probably won’t bleed to death.

Option 2: Cauterize the wound. Take a bowl that is about the size of your head and stick it in a fire that you built in your backyard (if you don’t have a backyard, try the kitchen). When you’re done ripping your scalp off, use giant tongs and oven mitts to grab the bowl out of the fire and put it over your head. If you’re not careful, it might end up sticking to your head, which would mean that instead of dandruff you have a permanent metal helmet. So you might want to decorate it first, viking-style. If it doesn’t stick to your head, the heat will cause you to stop bleeding.

Option 3: Superglue. Fill the same bowl that you’d use in option 2 with superglue. As soon as your scalp is removed, dunk your head in the bucket. You’ll glue all the blood in. You might have the same issue with it sticking to your head, so I’d say you should still decorate it like a viking helmet.

So there you have it. Just like aspirin, modern medicine is now able to take something discovered by the Native Americans* and make it available to everyone.

*I’m not actually entirely sure they did this. I just read about it in A Light in the Forest when I was 12. I hated that book. It’s possible that I didn’t even read about it and I just made up new contents that were more interesting than what actually happened in the book. So it’s possible that the Native Americans didn’t scalp anyone in A Light in the Forest OR in real life, and if they did, it might have only been certain tribes. I’m honestly pretty clueless here.

DISCLAIMER: It’s called horrible medical advice for a reason. Dr. Boyfriend advises against doing anything I said in this post except the part where you wear a viking helmet.

I’m either a nerd or a pervert. Probably both.

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Guys.

Guys, this is really bothering me.

Okay. I’ve explained that I’m an English major, right? More accurately, a Creative Writing major, but it falls in the general “English” field. So part of what I do, what I study, et cetera, is knowing how to choose words and arrange them and punctuate them in order to make a logical thing. Sentence. That. So I’m completely serious when I ask this, and if anyone knows the answer, please tell me.

What part of speech is vagazzle?

UPDATE: Okay, I’m pretty sure it’s a verb. I mean, if there’s a vagazzler, then it has to be something you can do. But how do you use it? “Yeah, I heard she vagazzles.” That doesn’t sound right. “Oh, she totally vagazzles herself.” Is that it? Does it have to be reflexive? I feel like “She vagazzles her vagina” is probably redundant. Maybe “vagazzler” refers to the person who does it? “She is such a vagazzler.” But what do they say if, like, someone calls when they’re halfway through? “Can I call you back? I’m gluing rhinestones to my junk.” “Can I call you back? I’m vagazzling [myself/my junk].” I don’t know. This is clearly a problem with Modern English.

This is why we can’t have nice things.

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I mentioned that we moved, but I don’t think I was very specific. We moved from Massachusetts to New Hampshire. People in Massachusetts like to spread rumors about how awful everything in New Hampshire is, but I think that’s just because if everyone knew how cool it was up here there would be no one left in Massachusetts.

The candy shop at the mall sells little bottle-shaped chocolates that are filled with whiskey.

The first thing I saw when we walked into our new local Wal-Mart to get a rod-thing for the toilet-paper-holder-thing because the previous tenants took that with them and seriously who the hell takes that was a rack of what I’m pretty sure were alcoholic Capri Suns. Like, mixed drinks in a bag inviting you to stab a straw into them and drink them.

One of the times I came up here to paint, I saw a school bus pulling out of the state liquor store.

Maybe this “booze is everywhere” thing isn’t quite as novel and exciting to people who aren’t from Massachusetts, but I’m used to having to go to a liquor store to get anything remotely booze-like. A few grocery stores have liquor sections, but that’s about it. This is so…freeing.

So anyway, when we were on that Wal-Mart trip trying to find the thing that makes our toilet paper holder actually hold toilet paper, we discovered a giant wine section. It was confusing. I mean, we must have looked like tourists, except we were at Wal-Mart and I’m pretty sure tourists don’t go to Wal-Mart, but we were just sorta standing there staring like they can do that here? So after a few minutes, we decided to get a cheap bottle of wine (Barefoot Zinfandel, yum) to break in the new wine glasses.

Mike’s (former) roommate got him wine glasses as a graduation present because he had seen, too many times, the results of our guests bringing a bottle of wine with them and us being like oh, we don’t have wine glasses, do you want a small or large glass? They are really nice glasses. They do the whole sing-when-you-rub-your-finger-on-the-edge thing and everything. Mike left the wine glasses in their packaging to decrease the chances of us breaking them during the move, and when I organized our kitchen, I left them in the smaller packaging to decrease the chances that we broke one of them when we were going for a glass for juice.

When we got home, Mike got one of the boxes-of-two-wine-glasses out and washed them. He dried them. We sat down for dinner and ate our meals and each had a glass of wine. The whole time, I’m sitting there like don’t break it Rachael this is a nice thing DON’T FUCKING BREAK IT. We even had a brief conversation in which we agreed that the glasses were a nice gift and possibly even too nice for us because we’re fucking clumsy. Anyway. We made it through the meal. We both finished our wine. I did the dishes. I left the wine glasses off to the side so I wouldn’t break them while washing something else. Finally, it was time to wash the wine glasses.

Oh god, I was terrified. They were so thin and delicate-feeling. I imagine it’s similar to how it must feel to carry a really old person with brittle bones, except I had to shove a brand-new sponge inside them (and brand-new sponges are way firmer than old, worn out sponges) and not break them.

I didn’t break them.

I was so proud of myself every single moment that I was touching one of the glasses and it didn’t break. All, yes, you have NOT fucked this up yet! Keep it up! You have GOT this! So when I got through washing them successfully and put them on the little glass-holder things on the drainer, I was cheering myself. I cheered for myself as I walked back to our room and sat down on my computer and did the stuff I needed to do for my online summer class.

A few hours later, I hear footsteps upstairs. The guy upstairs isn’t loud and doesn’t stomp around like an elephant like the people upstairs from Mike’s old place. It’s pretty nice. I didn’t think much of his walking around or anything, because it didn’t seem like something that would keep me up or disturb my lack of migraine.

I didn’t think anything of it until I heard a tinkling crash from the kitchen.

What the fuck.

The drying rack apparently can’t hold top-heavy glasses if there’s any movement anywhere. I’ll keep that in mind for next time.

Until then, this is why we can’t have nice things.

You’ve seen “How to Train Your Dragon,” right? If not, you should. It’s excellent. But I’m really sad that I can’t find a clip of Hiccup saying, “But you just gestured to all of me!” Because we’d use that all the time. “DAMMIT, THIS IS WHY WE CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.” “But you just gestured to all of me!” And that goes both ways. Mike and I are why we can’t have nice things.

Next time, I’m getting the Capri Sun things.

Horrible Medical Advice of the Week: Self-Diagnose, Then Doctor Shop

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With all the tools we have at our disposal through this awesome “Internet” thing, it seems pretty ridiculous that you’d ever go to a doctor’s appointment without at least having an idea about what your problem could be. If you do enough research, though, you can probably get a spot-on diagnosis! In fact, it’s sort of absurd that we even go to doctors at all these days. Google your symptoms, pick an illness, send it off to the pharmacy and get your drugs!

Unfortunately, we can’t do that. I mean, we can Google our symptoms, and there’s always WebMD, but there’s nothing out there that allows us to write our own prescriptions, so we have to go to the doctor anyway. That is fucking inconvenient.

So, to save time when you go to your doctor, make sure to do a quick search of your symptoms and go in with your diagnosis ready. Doctors love that.* It saves them time, and that will allow them to take a longer lunch break or see an extra patient (which means they get paid for an extra visit) or something. Awesome! And you don’t have to sit and talk to the doctor for 15 minutes when you already know you have ALS. (Note: I have no clue what ALS is.)

Go in. Tell your doctor what you have and how you know. You might encounter a problem here, though: your doctor might have some different ideas, and that ruins the whole time-saving thing. For example, when I went to my doctor a few months ago, I was absolutely sure that I had major sinus issues and probably jaw-arthritis. But he’s all going on about migraines! What the hell, doctor? I know what’s going on!** So if Doc’s got other ideas, you have a few options. You can follow your doctor’s advice and assume he’s right. You can demand to be tested for what you already know you have. You can also demand to be treated for what you already know you have–if necessary, alongside whatever the doctor’s giving you. And if your doctor is obstinate and refuses despite all the printouts you brought in that back you up, you still have an option: doctor-shop. Leave your PCP’s practice and find a new one. Tell them what you have, how your other doctor wouldn’t listen, and show this new doctor your printouts. Do this until you have a doctor who will give you whatever you want, and BAM! Cured.

In other news, Almost-Dr. Boyfriend has graduated and become Dr. Boyfriend, so he can officially back up the “Horrible” part of the title of this post. (I haven’t been around because we moved, and (a) moving is a long and involved process and (b) I am fucking exhausted. Regular updates will resume shortly. And if this isn’t funny at all, it’s because I’m fucking exhausted.)

*Actually, they really hate this. Hey–disclaimer, remember?

**Thankfully, the migraine medication he prescribed me works wonders for jaw-arthritis and sinus issues.

Fashion, what were you thinking? I could do better than this bullshit.

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Dear Fashion,

Before I begin, I want to explain that I am in the process of moving and realizing that I don’t have nearly enough shit packed right now to be moving on Tuesday and I still need to paint the apartment and go to Mike’s graduation. I’m sure you understand that this puts quite a bit of stress on me, so I might be slightly more critical here than is entirely necessary because, you see, stress makes me hate everything. But I think that, even without the stress, I would still think the following items are fucking stupid.

Item 1

Fendi, I know you’re a high-profile designer and an expert in your field, but even experts can fuck up big time. The above dress is an example of that. I like that you’re trying to appeal to a new and exciting demographic. I do. I hate when I look in a store and realize that there is nothing sold there that anyone who is not a 19 year old female trying to sneak into a bar would wear–there should be some versatility in design, appeal to all ages and walks of life. However, the Amish do not shop online. They also do not use things that would allow them to get to your stores or stores that sold your things, so even if this is available in stores somewhere, it is unlike that its target demographic will have access to it. As a matter of face, I am pretty sure they sew their own clothing and do not have $2,570.00 to spend on something one of their 10-year-olds can make.

Item 2

Juicy, you have baffled everyone except teenage girls since the day you first came into existence. Do you realize that when people who aren’t teenage girls see the word “Juicy” on someone’s ass, they are more likely to wonder what kind of juice an ass produces and be very disgusted at the results? (If you’re thinking it’s just me, it’s not. I did a survey once.) This, though, confuses me even more. It’s a watch. In fact, it’s a watch made of plastic. I think I remember getting something very similar to this watch in a box of cereal when I was young. Why, then, do you think it’s okay to charge $195.00 for it? It might be worth a dollar.

Item 3

I have to hand it to you, BCBGirls. At first, I looked at this shoe and thought, why the fuck would anyone make or wear a shoe that looks like it was inspired by someone puking on a fishing net? I was hell of confused there for a few minutes. Eventually, though, it dawned on me: these are the perfect shoes to wear to a party where you just know someone is going to puke on your feet. I imagine that plenty of college girls out there would pay the almost-reasonable $98.00 price tag in order to have something that looked the same after one of “those nights.”

Item 4

What happened to you, Urban Outfitters? You used to be cool! But in recent years, you’ve made yourself into a place that is filled with dirty hipsters looking for clothes that they won’t admit are made for dirty hipsters. While $32.00 would normally not be too extravagant for a t-shirt that I really liked (a little expensive, yes, but doable), I’m definitely not going to spend that much on something that I can’t even donate to the Salvation Army after I realize how stupid it is. In fact, if I gave this shirt to a young homeless woman who needed clothing, I’d probably spend the next month paranoid that she was going to come stab me for being such a bitch.

Item 5

Moschino, I don’t even know where to begin with this. I understand that stripes are “in” right now. I understand that shirts with clever sayings on them are “in” as well. Normally, I would think combining the two would be a bad idea–it’s giving me a headache to look at this thing. If you have to put words on skinny stripes, though, these ones make sense. But what’s up with that elipses there? You’re implying something, right? You’re implying: BITCH! Do you really want your customers implicitly calling everyone who reads their t-shirt a bitch? More importantly, though. I love t-shirts. The best part about them is that they are made with t-shirt material. In fact, I try to avoid clothing that isn’t made of t-shirt material (it’s called “Jersey” I guess but that makes me think of Jersey Shore and then I need to cry) whenever possible–it’s just more comfortable. So why the fuck did you make this shirt out of silk? A dry-clean only t-shirt? Have you lost your fucking mind? Wait–I shouldn’t be asking you that. You’re charging $630.00 for a god damn t-shirt.

Well, designers, I hope we’ve all learned some important lessons here. There’s a reason these things have been marked down to clearance prices and emailed to me in Shop It To Me form and I’ve explained it. Next time you want to make a piece of clothing, maybe run it by your brain first.

Love,
Rachael

UPDATE: P.S., Mike looked up the “polyamide” material that the Amish dress is made of. Turns out? It’s a fancy name for fucking nylon. I’m calling your bluff, Fendi. We’re not buying your dress OR your bullshit.