Tag Archives: Humor

Free T-shirts! No, Seriously.

1 Feb

Happy Lollipop Tuesday!  If you still aren’t sure what that is, I have to admit that I’m just slightly disappointed in you.  But I have hope that you’ll click that handy dandy link at the top right corner and relieve yourself from this wretched confusion.

Today’s Attempt: Designing a T-Shirt.

I’ve always wanted to go online and create something.  I sometimes fiddle around, but I don’t ever actually commit to anything.  I’ve designed bookbags, candles and protein bars with just a clickity click click.  But this time, I had a purpose.  I was committed.

I made a few t-shirt ideas for the blog.  Hey, I’m not a t-shirt artist.  But that’s what Tuesdays are all about.  And here’s the deal: take the time to tell me what you think.  Let me know which one/s (you can choose more than one) you like.  If you hate them all and think I suck, there’s a spot to tell me that too.  And if you have a better idea, go for it.   After I’ve gotten all the votes in (in one week), I will announce the winning t-shirt and give a few away to readers.

That’s right: Free T-Shirts for Readers. Try not to wet yourself.  It’s going to be okay.

So check out the gallery below.  Simply click on an image to enlarge it and then vote below when you’ve made up your mind.   If you don’t like any of them and have an idea, feel free to comment below. 

 I’ll explain how readers will be chosen when I announce the winning t-shirt, so you don’t have anything to worry about right now except voting.    Sound good?  Sounds good. ♣

 
 
 
 
 

 

Photograph images on T-shirts are property of lmphotography, based in Pittsburgh. Fine Art. Portraits, Headshots. Events. For more information, email laurenkatemorrison@gmail.com

Hey! Wanna snag other free stuff?  Check out Unillu.com, which is giving out cool art freebies all week!  You can win a custom notebook, print, or even a free consultation.  Crazy beans, right?  Go to the  Unillu page on Facebook and check out the details. 

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If I Were a Dude, Dude.

31 Jan

Being a woman sucks.

Sometimes I think about how awesome it would be to be a dude.  I could leave hair where hair grows, I could use a body wash that is also a shampoo, I could have U.U.S.S. and not have a care in the world.  I could eat as much as I want and keep everything I need in a wallet instead of an enormous hobo bag that gives me back problems.  I could put my car in the garage without calling a mechanic in the family just to make sure I’m not getting ripped off.   And (my favorite) I would never, ever worry about what to wear.

Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to deal with the once-a-month junk.  I wouldn’t even have to  think about it.  In no way would it affect my daily life and I could use the money I save on ibuprofen, pads, and tampons to start my own small business.

Then again if I were a dude, I don’t think I could deal with women.  I’m really not a fan of them and I can’t imagine having to put up with one for life.  If you’d like to know more, you can check it out here, in a blog post written long, long ago in a part of my brain far, far away (disclaimer: back then I was…”more free” with my word choice).

Sometimes I make Dave dinner or give him a foot massage just because I can’t fathom how he puts up with me.   Because as much as I may harbor dude-like tendencies, I am undeniably woman in my aggressive and unpredictable mood swings, my ability to take stress from one category of my life and allow it to bring down the wrath of Hades in another completely unrelated category, and in my inability to stop myself from cooing and giggling at puppies.

In my defense, there is a startling amount of adorable puppies in my neighborhood.

I must also admit that I am deeply disturbed by the idea of owning a penis.  Truly, deeply disturbed.  And I don’t mean because I was born as a woman and would find the sex change unnerving (which I would), but rather that I have no idea what men do with them, where they put them in their day-to-day tasks, and how they manage to not squish them.  I can only imagine the complete sense of imbalance I would have for the entire day once I’ve made my choice to dress to the left or the right.  That seems like a long-term decision to me and the pressure of commitment each morning would be too much for me to bear.

Also, Dave once said penises are “like a tail but in the front.”  and I will forever carry that deeply disturbing thought with the image of my conversion to dude-ism.

So yesterday’s time was wisely invested in the art of couch-sitting.   I call it my “Jabba the Hut” look. Because it was one of those beautiful times in a woman’s life where no amount of preventative maintenance for either my body or my mind could stop me from being a gigantic, painstricken, cranky, leaky mess.  Luckily, the laptop offered a sort of radiating warmth and helped ease the pain of womanhood pulsating through my lower abdomen.  And when I tired of the Interwebz, I replaced its warmth with that of a cat.  Because it’s one of their many uses and a great way to pay me back for all their freeloafing.

So much for my awesome times in my awesome fort while Dave is away.   Blasted ovaries. ♣

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My Adult Blanket Fort (G)

30 Jan

I’ve been abandoned.

Dave, in search of a simpler and more noble life in the trees, has finally gotten in the car and now pushes westward in search of the animal within.

Actually, he just went to Ohio to hang out with an old friend.   And until he decides to return, the entire apartment is under my sole command.

Before he left, I requested a last-minute stop at the grocery store for cat food and milk.  By the time I made it to the exit, I had acquired Moose Tracks ice cream, a frozen pizza, and  box of Kraft Deluxe Mac and Cheese.    When Dave questioned my actions, I simply replied that I was going to be home alone.  

It was in this moment that he realized for the very first time the role he plays in my life. 

I admit entirely that if left to my own devices, I would someday be discovered beneath a pile of dirty clothes and pizza boxes, sleeping in a cave I have made for myself and my cats adorned with strange prayer beads and craft paint.   Sadly, it would only be my family who comes looking.  And sadly, they would not be surprised.

Hopefully, Dave won’t be gone long enough for this to evolve. 

My first agenda item is definitely a fort.   But not one of those little pathetic forts under a table you make when you’re a kid.  I want an adult fort.  I want a fort that says I pay my own bills and have my own apartment and I can string up sheets and hang lights and take over the entire living space for my own ridiculous agenda any time I want.

This could be the end of me.  I’ll go from not socializing to not even going into the apartment hallway to get my mail.  I have absolutely no good reason to leave my adult fort.  Especially when I have enough pizza, ice cream, and macaroni and cheese to keep me alive for at least a week.

Sometimes I wonder if my lifestyle is acceptable.   And also, I thank the Lord Almighty that I don’t have kids because I’m sure they wouldn’t let me build this fort the way I want to.

If I don’t post tomorrow, please send someone in after me. ♣

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Devil Candy: My Descent into Worthlessness

29 Jan

Movies always make me want to do ridiculous things.

I saw True Grit last night and immediately left the theater thinking I should really know the proper method for extracting venom from a snake bite.  I’d hate for someone to die because I don’t suck it out the right way.

Sometimes I play the ending of Live Free or Die Hard over and over in my mind wondering if I would be able to work up the courage to shoot through my own body and into a terrorist’s in order to gain the element of surprise and have an epic win. 

The worst offender by all counts is The Notebook, which was singlehandedly responsible for me breaking up with my high school boyfriend.  Well, that and he was a weak speller. 

I just can’t be with a weak speller.

But I recognize this hold that movies have over me and have taken the necessary measures in my life to avoid disaster.  My Netflix queue is a very carefully chosen art.  Watching too many movies within a certain theme can lead to some seriously bad life decisions.   Unfortunately, Dave is just as easily inspired by them.  I accidentally followed up Into the Wild with The Last of the Mohicans last week and I’ve been spending the last two days trying to convince him not to leave society for a simpler, more noble life in the trees. 

My queue is not the only thing that pressures me.  In fact, I have a very strained relationship with Netflix overall.  At first I invested in it because I only get basic cable and can rarely justify spending 20 hard-earned American dollars to go see a movie.  It seemed like a good, sound investment.  And at first, I admit that it was.  I am a Netflix watching machine.  It comes in the mail, Dave and I watch it regardless of whether or not we’re in the mood, and we send it right back.   I can chew up and spit out about 10 discs in a month.

The real problem is Instant Netflix (let’s call it Devil Candy).   Devil Candy is like a fun bonus feature that you get for having a membership.  For no extra fee, you can go online and watch all sorts of movies, cartoons, and TV shows.  Sometimes there are a bunch of old stupid ones that nobody cares about, and sometimes you’re nicely suprised by how fast something relatively new is available.

When I first started Devil Candy, I had to put a disc in my PS3 in order to access its mystical wonders.   Sometimes, this was enough to prevent me from partaking in its pleasures.  Because regardless of how much I like a good movie, it’s probably still not enough to make me get up from the couch when I’m really comfortable.

Unfortunately, Netflix later announced that the disc was no longer needed and that Devil Candy was available simply by turning on my PS3…which has a remote I can use to start it.  My life has been a downward spiral ever since. Last week I stayed up one night and watched 18 back-to-back episodes of Arrested Development. 

Notice this is not a “we” scenario.   See, Netflix started as a way to have a cheap date indoors with the love of my life.  Ever since Devil Candy came out, it’s just me curled up on the couch pumping out as many episodes as I can before Dave returns.  It’s a sinful, self-indulgent parade of worthlessness and it must be stopped.

Then again maybe not.  After all, I’m going to have to have something to do while he’s out in the wild, living in an old VW bus and fighting to stay alive as the Last Mohican. ♣

Image above is property of THE MICO, an awesome digital cartoonist.  His works can be found at DeviantArt.com by clicking the image above, or you can stroll on over to his blog.  Give him  some lovin.

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Pajama Jeans Don’t Fool Me

28 Jan

 

I don’t trust Pajama Jeans.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all about comfort.   But there’s something about charging me $39.95 for a pair of jeans that you’re simultaneously associating with both “designer” and “pajamas” that I’m just not okay with.   

Infomercials may suck me in just as much as the next guy, but my suspension of disbelief does have limits. 

Even more annoying is knowing that the company pays a pathetic amount per pair (denim/cotton blend = cotton) and only jacks the price up to $39.95 because they know that we think they must be worth the money if they cost just as much as a decent pair of jeans on sale.   Right now in a neighborhood near you, someone is on their way to a sale at GAP or AE and thinking maybe I should just try those Pajama Jeans.  They cost the same amount but they feel like pajamas!  And that really irks me.

Furthermore, if you have your brain screwed in properly when you check out their website (3rd column under “Value”), you’ll notice that they offer to throw in a free crew neck t-shirt and claim that the package deal is worth $100.00.  Okay so that’s 100 smackos minus the $39.95 for the magical pajama pants of luxury and freedom.  Are they seriously claiming that the free crew neck cotton t-shirt costs $60.05 under other non-infomercial deal circumstances?  It must look like a designer t-shirt but be as comfortable as…a…t-shirt.  Double Yoo Tee Eff.

Now don’t get me wrong; I’ve never tried Pajama Jeans.  I’ve never even seen them on a real live person. My disgust for Pajama Jeans is akin to my disgust for the Snuggie.   It has something to do with the stupid name and the offer to solve a problem that isn’t really a problem.  If you’re cold, put on a sweater.  If you want to wear pajamas, wear pajamas.  Money saved.

Well, that and the fact that I tend to judge things harshly and from a distance.  I hated Garden State for 5 years until I sat down one day and realized I’d never actually seen it.    I admit this is a flaw.

Let it be known that I am not against all Made for T.V. products.   If you’ve read my blog or known me for any significant amount of time, you know that one day I will invent something that will pay for me to retire at a ridiculous age so that I can blog, do theater and be a crazy cat lady without being harrassed by bill collectors.  In a way, infomercial products resonate deeply with me.  Just not stupid ones.

Bare Minerals, for example, is a smart product with a reasonable claim and its promises were not sold to America with black and white melodramatic recordings and steroid-jacked TV announcers, but by a sensible woman presenting what she thought was an improvement to an outdated makeup staple. 

There’s a dissertation of some sort to be written here.  Maybe instead of spending my life hunting the million dollar idea, I should just write a guide on how to sell your million dollar idea.

Is this my million dollar idea?

Mmm…probably not… that’s what I thought about Oscar the Elephant and he still isn’t getting any airtime. ♣

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The Underwear Made Me Do It.

27 Jan

It wasn’t until 5:06 pm yesterday that I realized I wasn’t wearing one, but two pairs of underwear.

I noticed it as I was getting changed from my work clothes into my walking-home-clothes and stood in the handicapped stall (the executive suite of the bathroom world), staring in utter disbelief.  How could I have gone all day with 2 pairs of underwear and not noticed? 

I visited the restroom numerous times yesterday thanks to my recently enacted boycott of Starbucks and my tendency to fill the void with Diet Coke.  After all that pulling down and yoinking up, you’d think I’d have experienced some slight discomfort or noticed that I was actually grasping two layers of fabric instead of one.  I blame the mind-numbing nature of the corporate machine.

Even more mind boggling is that I took a shower yesterday morning and not the night before, which means that I didn’t change from pajamas into my work clothes.  I was buck naked, put on a pair of underwear, did my makeup, and put on another pair of underwear. 

I like to walk home from work most of the time because 1) I’m fat and it’s good for me and 2) It clears my mind and helps me flick the switch from Work Jackie (a terrible beast that froths at the mouth and is almost unrecognizable to Dave) to Regular Jackie (marked by strange quirks, most notably an affinity for self-expression through cartoon voices).    My favorite part of the walk is the large bridge that sits high above a series of winding creeks and bike trails, partly because it’s beautiful to look down and see the paths made through the stark white snow, and partly because the thrill of contemplating the jump makes my veins jump in excitement.  Not because I want to kill myself, but because there’s something so intriguing about imagining the fall downward.  I would never do it, but I have to admit that I stand there staring for an unhealthy period of time.  I’ve considered several times going skydiving to help satisfy this nagging feeling, but the idea scares the bajeezus out of me.

I am an onion with beautiful, nonsensical layers upon layers.

And so on this particular day, I found myself staring at a long way down and readily equipped with a newly discovered extra pair of underwear.   Which, of course, made me want to put them on over my pants and stand on the railing of the bridge with my hands on my hips, wind blowing my hair toward the traffic that was bound to crash at the sight.

But I only released my grip on the rail and trudged onward with my regret.

This morning, I tucked an extra pair of underwear into my bag.  And if you’re on a certain bridge at a certain time of day, you just might see a superhero. ♣

Image above belongs to nataliedee.com, where you can buy cool t-shirts featuring her quirky pictures.  Click on the image and browse away.  Or check out her blog. She’s kind of a big deal. 
 
 

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Ice, Ice, Baby

25 Jan

Dun dun dun digg-a dun dun.
Happy Lollipop Tuesday!  If you’re still unclear about how awesome Tuesdays on thejackieblog are, check out my handy dandy new page on the top, titled “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?”  Welcome to the party.  Sit down.  Have a beer.
 
I have had the nagging desire to go ice skating since I first moved to the city to go to college.   Being the antisocial, anti-change, anti-courageous dumpling that I am, I’ve never been able to muster the mojo to go.  It’s been 5 years.
 
But hey – there’s nothing like the pressure of Freshly Pressed and some serious new traffic to turn on the heat.  So last night at 8pm, I waddled myself out onto a large, intimidating slab of ice.
 
I’m slightly alarmed at how easily the general public is allowed to strap on a pair of thin steel blades and go gallavanting on a manmade ice pond.  I feel as if some sort of training is in order.  Or a permit. 
 
At least a tutorial on how to put the skates on.  I consider myself to be a generally intuitive person.  Rental Ice Skates, however, are not intuitive.  To be frank, they’re more like medieval torture devices than ice skates.   Dave, concerned about my ability to ice skate when I can barely demonstrate balance with sneakers in the cereal aisle, decided it was best for my safety to make sure I was strapped in good and tight.  Something about ankle safety.  I couldn’t really tell you; I was focusing on my newly acquired vice grips and the lack of blood going to my toes.
 
Donning my bright blue slippers of death, I slowly inched toward the gladiator’s arena.
 
And I mean inched.  Like a one-legged penguin.
 
When I finally arrived to the ramp, I was glad to see that there were very few people partaking in the hidden joys of ice skating that particular evening.  What I wasn’t glad to see was that they all appeared to be Olympians.
 
People were skating in circles, backward, forward, in couples, legs in the air, speed skating… it was a jungle out there.  A big, scary, icy jungle of doom.  And I was right in the thick of it, waddling.
 
I started out slow.  Mostly because the majority of my brain power was replaying videos of Nancy Kerrigan in my head in beautiful tiny skater lady dresses and sparkly tights (and larger than average nostrils).   How could she…how could anyone be graceful in this getup? 
 
Dave was a champ.  He was the third wheel to my tricycle and he lovingly pretended that he didn’t know what he was doing because he knows how hard it is for me to suck so terribly at new things.  But when I pulled him every which way so that I weebled and wobbled but wouldn’t fall down, I got the nagging feeling that he was no beginner.
 
My suspicions proved true when, after I’d thrown in the towel, he took a few laps on his own, quickly, balanced, and even doing a tight little spinny thing to get to the carpeted ramp.
 
Damn actors.
 
I really did stick at it, and for that I can say I’m proud.  I started at a firm, slow waddle and holding onto Dave for dear life.  I finished unattached, at a decent speed, and slightly balanced.   I’d say I was a level 1 when I started and when I finished I was a solid level 3.
 
I’m so sorry about those darn Dungeons and Dragons references.   They just creep up on me.
 
For some reason I got it in my head that I couldn’t truly say that I had experienced ice skating unless I experienced falling.   But, scared to death to fall because I’m as fragile as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas (sans sewing skills), I couldn’t just make it happen.  It had to happen naturally.
 
And it did.
 
I’ll be sporting a minor limp today at work, due to the massive and super awesome wipeout I had in the center of the rink. 
 
So it’s official: I can cross this one off my bucket list.  Five years of fear was conquered by one fairly daunting subscriber base.   Wow…Who knows what the pressure might drive me to do by week 52.  ♣
 
 

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I Blame Old People

24 Jan

I’m convinced that the world would be a much safer place to live in if old people didn’t have cell phones.

Or maybe just less annoying.

Listen, I’m really sorry to have to be the one to say this because making fun of old people supposedly shortens your life expectancy, but I’m willing to take one for the team.

I constantly hear people complain about “these kids and their cell phones” on the road, in conversation,and at the dinner table.  And I certainly agree that unfortunately technology develops and improves faster than the rate of our etiquette.  Remember how long Facebook was out before we all collectively decided it just wasn’t okay to run around poking people or plastering personal information of an embarrassing or degrading nature on each other’s walls?  And we’re just finally getting to the point where we are pressuring people to stop posting personal, individual-related, emo status updates. 

So I understand.  I really do.  I don’t like a gum-chomping, oblivious teenage cell phone driver any more than the next guy.  But I have to admit that when I look around on the roads, I see a lot more old people doing it.

When I’m stuck behind a car that isn’t hitting the gas within 3 seconds of a green light, it’s not always a youngin in the front seat.  And when I’m out in social situations, it isn’t just the kiddos who are pulling out their cell phones in the middle of conversations. 

 I was attempting to cross the road to my house the other evening and spotted an older woman in a minivan full of children (presumably her own) approaching an intersection with her texting phone propped up on the steering wheel, eyes fully locked on the keyboard.

I’ve also heard far too many times that “these kids” constantly google things on their phones when in the middle of a conversation.  And that is definitely true.  I’m not really sure how it’s considered a flaw to want to end a debate quickly with the introduction of fact, but that’s another issue entirely.  The point is that we aren’t the only ones.

Dave and I had the pleasure of a few friends visiting us this weekend, one of whom was a baby boomer and came with his iEverything in tow.   Within the course of three hours, I witnessed him walk around my house scanning the barcodes off of random products in order to demonstrate an app’s ability to find the lowest price available in the local market for that item.  He also used his iPhone to google something and end a slightly charged debate about the date of Leslie Nielsen’s death.

And when we were at dinner, he couldn’t resist scanning the barcode on his beer bottle.  You know, just to see.

So stop blaming us.  Because as much as cell phones may be a product of our generation, we are not solely responsible for bearing the social and safety foibles that result from it.  We all are.  And for every kid who thinks they can eat fast food, drive stick shift, and text their buddy at the same time, there is an old fart attempting to read a text from her best friend while running through an intersection with a van full of kids.

And don’t get me started on the inappropriate things that old people post on their children’s walls.

So hey – I’m not solely blaming old people.  I’m just blaming them enough to balance out the blame that has been thrown onto young people’s shoulders all these years.    All of us are very excited about the cool things we can do with mind-bogglingly tiny gadgets.  And we are all very excited to explore their possibilities at all hours of the day regardless of whether it is a social faux pas or a safety hazard to those around us.

So let’s just stop pointing fingers and start spending our time updating our rules of etiquette.  Because I think we could all benefit from agreeing on a few things.  Let’s start with agreeing on how we’re all to blame. ♣

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Orinoco Flow

23 Jan

Last night I got stressed and listened to Enya.

You know – pale faced, same-hair-for-20-years, Sail Away Enya.

It’s okay – I’m not ashamed.  There’s something very soothing about her carefully orchestrated harmonies with her own voice.   I mean, I have to admit that I have no idea what she’s saying half the time and I have absolutely no desire to change that.  She could be chanting some crazy Celtic witch curse into my ears and it would still calm my nerves at the end of a high blood pressure day.

I remember when I first heard an Enya song.  It was for a CD called “Pure Moods” that had its own infomercial trying to get people to dish out $17.99 plus shipping and handling (or $15.99 for cassette.  Cassette!) for what it called “the perfect soundtrack for your way of life.”   I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.  There’s a lot of chanting, humming, and tubular bells on this particular compilation.  What could America possibly have been doing in 1997 that made the Pure Moods Marketing Team think that this was the perfect soundtrack for its way of life? 

Apparently a lot of horseback riding and meditating in rooms full of candles.    Enya herself is featured in what appears to be a chalk pastel with a random hummingbird over her shoulder. 

Go ahead, take a look.  I’m sure you’ll remember it → Pure Moods

 No really, go ahead. I’ll wait.  I want you to experience the enchantment.

…

…

…

You really can’t beat the tactics there.  Did you hear what he was saying?! My favorite line is “Set adrift with the timeless pleasures of Tubular Bells”  I didn’t realize that Tubular Bells was a timeless pleasure.  And quite frankly I’m not so sure that I’m okay with people labeling things as timeless pleasures all willy-nilly like that.

A commercial like this really brings me back to the good ol’ times with my first cassette, which I stole from my older brother – Ace of Base.  Which I’m also not ashamed of.   Because the combination of their thick beats, sassy lyrics, and European chicks was too much to resist for almost anyone in the 90’s.   I specifically remember the junky little cassette player and headphones I had.  I would sit around flipping and playing it over and over again while penning in grammatical corrections to the lyrics on the insert.

Yes, I’m really that anal.

And yes, my brother was very, very unhappy with the discovery.

I’m curious – and after 2o something posts, I have yet to do one where I ask you about yourselves.  So tell me: what was your first record/8-track/cassette/CD/wondrous invisible music download?

Regale me.   I want to be regaled. ♣

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Snap, Crackle and Pop

22 Jan



I am being terrorized by my own apartment.

Every single move I make generates some sort of electric activity. 

At first I thought it was a recipe for a good time.  I ran around the house in my little sweater booties trying to generate as much bad mojo as possible and then go after Dave like a heat seeking missile.  I was powerful.  I was magical.   I was a real life Palpatine, shooting arcs of lightning from my fingers and devastating others with the blow.

Okay, so if I back off the hyperbole, I was really just annoying Dave and putting my cats in a very, very bad mood.

But after all the impish fun wore off and everyone ignored me, it was just me and my newfound powers.  Alone.  All the time.   And you know what?  I’m really, really tired of it.   I want to be able to turn lights on and off again.  I want to be able to touch metallic surfaces.  I want to stop recoiling in fear every time Dave approaches me.

Last night I attempted to turn off my bedroom light only to be greeted with a massive lightning arc from Zeus himself which shot from the switch to my finger and up my entire right arm.  The snapping sound was so loud that Dave heard it in the kitchen. 

…There are two rooms between the kitchen and my bedroom.

The worst is when I take all that bad carpet rubbing mojo to the sink.  Sometimes I turn on the water to the unnerving sensation of a wave of electricity rippling ever so slightly through my forearm.

It’s the radiators.  I know it’s them.  I can hear them spitting and hissing their terrible dryness into the air.  My apartment sounds like it belongs to the Mad Hatter, with full pots of tea at a high whistle at all hours of the day and night. 

I tried the humidifier thing for a while, convinced it was the answer to all my troubles.   I filled it up every single night and put it beside my bed in hopes that one day I would wake and my tongue wouldn’t be an arid, cracked desert of misery.  But all it did was add a bubbling noise to my bedroom teapot choir and confuse my cats.   I spent most of my time before falling asleep trying to explain to them that steam isn’t actually tangible.

I don’t know what else to do.  I thought that perhaps my humidifier was subpar so I faced my fear of stupid people one weekend and trekked to a department store only to be greeted by a variety of strange devices that don’t look well-equipped for the job.   Since when do people want vaporizers and humidifiers that look like zoo animals? I can’t trust an elephant that shoots steam out of its trunk to understand my problems.  I just can’t.

I need to find a solution.  I’m going through skin cream like I own stock in it and waking up ten minutes earlier each morning just to allow enough time to reintroduce saliva to my system.  Separating my sheet from my comforter when making my bed is the absolute worst part of my day. I’ve abandoned my sweater boots for bare feet in an attempt to minimize my confrontations with Zeus and I’m experimenting with flicking light switches with different body parts until I find the one that has the least pain associated with the zap.  I can probably publish my findings in an attempt to aid other dry-dwellers across the land.

Whatever the solution, I need to find it quickly.  Because I’m almost considering going outside to ease the anxiety. 

And that means it’s serious.  ♣

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