Discovery of the Day

Just in case you were wondering, frozen hair feels like uncooked spaghetti.

Commando Week

Some of you may have read the title to this post and thought, "Commando Week? Ew. That sounds disgusting." And before this week, I would have as well. But, this week has been a learning experience. And I am here to tell you just what it is I learned:

Going without underwear is probably one of the most enjoyable things I've ever experienced.

Really.

I walked to school with a huge smile on my face every day. I randomly chuckled to myself throughout the day. My overall demeanor was a happy one. Because really, who doesn't love to have a secret? Who doesn't love to think, as childish as it is, "I know something that you don't, na na na na na na!"

Because guess what? No one but you knows whether you're wearing underwear or not.

I wish that someone had let me in on this secret quite some time ago, so here I am to tell you: buying underwear is a waste.

New Job

I think we're all in agreement that elevators are pretty much breeding grounds for awkward moments, right? Especially if you're with only one other person, a person who happens to be a complete stranger.

Most of society would agree that stepping onto an elevator with your new employee whom you've known for less than an hour and turning to them and saying "You don't wear very much make-up--that's what I like about you. Are you a hippie?" would be rather awkward and socially unacceptable, correct? Unfortunately, my new boss doesn't subscribe to this particular social custom and I was forced to reply to this statement. Fortunately, my favorite "Oh. Uh... Yeah" never fails me in these situations, and the awkwardness quickly passed.

Who's Behind Door Number One!

My friends. If you are ever in a public shower (with the curtain closed, mind you) and don't have any clothes on and you hear that phrase, you have two options of what to do.

1- Cover all your private parts very quickly

or

2- Prepare yourself for great embarrassment

For if you hear that phrase, an "unveiling" is eminent. However, if you are comfortable with this type of unveiling, disregard everything I just said and please remember that while you may be comfortable with your nakedness, many others may not be.

Vegamilk

I don't know if you've noticed, but these days, being all eco friendly is definitely the cool thing to do. Everything seems to be made of recycled materials, decomposable materials, and vegetables. But I'll bet you never thought that milk could be made more environmentally friendly, but as Jeffro and I discovered, it could.

(Conversation from this morning)

Jeffro: "Uh-oh . . . Today's the ninth, right?"

Me: "No, the tenth."

Jeffro: "Shiz. My milk says 'best by October eighth'. Think it's still ok?"

Me: "I dunno, taste it and see."

Jeffro: *Pours milk over cereal and takes a bite, contemplating whether or not it's ok*

Me: "So, how is it?"

Jeffro: *Takes another bite and chews slowly* "I... Can't tell. It doesn't taste sick, just sort of . . . Weird. Try it and tell me!"

Me: "Uh . . . No thanks."

Jeffro: *Takes another bite, still trying to decide if the milk is bad*

Me: "Dude, just taste it plain."

Jeffro: *Gets up and lifts the milk jug to her face.* "Oho it smells ishy!"

Me: "Well just taste it! Sometimes milk smells weird but tastes fine."

Jeffro: *Smelling* "Dude, I don't know. Please just smell this for me."

Me: *Sighing* "Fine dude." *Smelling* "Dude. This smells like vegetables."

Jeffro: *Takes a swig* "Oh my gosh the vegetables flavored my milk!"

Me: "Dude, is your milk made of vegetables?"

Jeffro: "Oh my gosh I just drank vegamilk! Who knew?"

Fortunately, after this conversation Jeffro dumped her milk down the drain, ending the life of the vegamilk.

Rock Bottom

My roommate and I are sitting in our pitch black apartment without any lights on. Why, you ask? To save on utilities of course! This is most definitely a sign of desperation.

Questions

You guys. Guess who I saw today.

Mr. Mack-with-my-cheek?

Yes.

Was it the most awkward five second eye contact encounter ever?

Yes.

Later, as I told Jeffro about my awkward five seconds, she asked me if I turned to him and screamed "YOU DISGUST ME!" Unfortunately, I didn't. If I see him again, will I?

Yes.

K-I-S-S-I-N-G

When the slightly handicapped kid in my second-grade class who chased me around the playground during kissing tag ended up catching me and licking my cheek, I should have taken it as a sign that much of my kissing career would be awkward and unenjoyable.

If any of you know what it takes to become a True Aggie, you understand what it truly is--strangers kissing strangers, friends kissing friends, and saliva being shared all around. Everyone is in a complete frenzy to find someone to kiss before the night is over. This, my friends, is the Utah State tradition of True Aggie Night. In order to become a True Aggie, one must receive a kiss on the "A" under a full moon at midnight by someone who is already a True Aggie.

Naturally, Jeffro, Heidi and I wanted to go become True Aggies at the first opportunity we got. Fortunately, our friend Lancelot was already a True Aggie and was more than willing to help us achieve that lofty status. As soon as we heard when True Aggie Night was, we began making plans: Stan would kiss Jeffro who would kiss Mitch who would kiss me, and then Stan would kiss Heidi.

When the fateful night arrived, we lined up before the A and completed the task at hand, receiving a card informing us of our True Aggie Status. We tucked those away in a safe place, then turned to enjoy the show. As Heidi, Jeffro and I watched, we were approached by a group of hopefuls, inquiring if we were True Aggies. I turned to my friends, both of whom seemed to be struck dumb, and answered for all of us.

"Yeah, we are."

"Wanna make this kid here one?"

(Once again turning to my friends for some help with that question--and receiving no acknowledgement) I replied "Uh, sure, why not?"

We walked over and got in line and he interacted with his friends while I . . . Stood there awkwardly. After waiting in line for quite awhile (or maybe it just felt that way because I was standing there so awkwardly) it was our turn. We climbed up onto the A and he leaned in for the peck that would make him a True Aggie. Or at least, what I thought was to be a peck. Unfortunately, he didn't have the same thought, and ended up making out with my cheek after I turned away . . . Much to the enjoyment of the crowd. I fled off the A and ran to my friends, all of whom were laughing. I joined their laughter, wondering how the poor kid whose name I just don't remember was feeling. Sorry bud, I know you wanted to show off for your friends, but next time you might want to think twice about looking manly, for it just might have the opposite effect.

Welcome to the real world

Root Ca·nal [root kuh-nal]: noun tooth rape.

Outdoor sleepover

There's something about a clear night that makes you want to sleep outside. The stars shining down on you, the crickets singing a lullaby, the gentle breeze through the trees--all of these things combine together to make a perfect night of sleep for even the most restless of sleepers.

Especially if your dad forgets to turn the sprinklers off.

I sure hope the way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach...

Today my roommate and I ruined our second batch of no-bake cookies this week.

Add that to the blackies we made, and the only plausible conclusion is that Jeffro and I can't cook.

Hill of death.

The choice: Lady with a baby in a stroller encounters a hill, and has the option of taking the ramp, the much steeper grassy hill, (which has a sign posted warning people of the dangers of said hill) or the stairs.

The decision: Lady with baby decides to take the steep grassy hill.

The outcome: Lady with baby ends up losing control many times, almost hitting a tree or running out into the street or toppling down the hill or dumping the baby out, unable to gain control until the last minute.

The critics: Laughing their heads off at the stupidity of some people.

Blackies

Every college student's dream is to come home to a warm plate of brownies, right? (Actually, my roommate hates brownies, so I should probably specify that brownies are every NORMAL college student's dream.) Well, we all know that brownies aren't magically going to appear, so one must go about making them for themselves. Fortunately, my roommate Jeffro and I and our friend Heidi had the brilliant idea of making them for ourselves.

We pulled out the ultimate fudge brownie mix, poured in the 1/4 cup of oil, 1/2 cup of water, two eggs, and began stirring. Then we (Jeffro) stirred until all the powder was mixed up, plopped it into a pan, and placed it in the preheated oven, setting the timer for 45 minutes. After the goodies were securely in the oven, we began to clean up the kitchen. As we were cleaning, it began to smell funny in the kitchen, almost like something was burning. But that was impossible, for the brownies had only been in for five minutes. Suddenly, Jeffro noticed that smoke was pouring out of our oven. We threw open the door and were bombarded by smoke. After it cleared, we peered in to see the blackest brownies ever.

Jeffro went into panic mode, realizing that all our hard work was being wasted, and reached in to the oven to grab the pan. Fortunately, before she grabbed the pan, she realized that she didn't have any protection. I calmly handed her some as she jumped from one foot to the other, and she took the blackened brownies out. She took them outside (clearly the most logical place to take dysfunctional brownies) and we began to inspect our creation. While at first look it had seemed that we had a super oven that cooked brownies within two minutes, as we peered closer we realized that only the top of the brownies were black, and the rest of it was, well, goo.

After making this startling realization, I ran back inside to see why the oven had produced such strange results. I opened the oven door and saw that one of the heating coils was hanging down into the oven. I turned to Jeffro to ask her if she'd seen that when she was putting the brownies in. "Uh . . . Yeah? I didn't think it was a big deal." was her response. What? Not a big deal? Uh, fire hazards aren't big deals anymore? Ruining brownies isn't a big deal? Cool bud.

And yes, we still ate the goo that some people call brownie batter.

Aussie

Remember when you were a kid how those big jumping toys were the coolest things that ever happened to you?

Well, remember how whenever you think about them now that you're an adult, they're still the coolest things ever? Fortunately, Jeffro and I remembered this over the summer, and decided to take action and do the coolest thing ever, and go to Kangaroo Zoo, which might as well be called heaven on freaking earth.

We walk in and are instantly surrounded by huge blow up toys with animals attached--A dream come true. Unfortunately, we are most definitely twice as tall as anyone else. We boldly walk up to the desk, where the lady takes our money and asks us how old we are. (Guess what? They don't have an age limit!) After a bit of small talk, she discovers where Jeffro and I are going to school, and she informs us that she's going there as well. Finally she lets us in and we begin to have the time of our lives.

If you've never been surrounded by a bunch of blow up toys and four year olds, and this sounds appealing to you (in a non pedophile way) then by all means, go to Kangaroo Zoo. I won't go into all the details about the jumping, sliding, flipping, bouncing, and playing, for it would only make you jealous. No, the real story happens later.

After we got exhausted by all the jumping, sliding, flipping, bouncing, and playing, we went to play mini golf in the darkened mini golf room. We walk in and see a group of people, one of whom steps up to us and asks us if we're the ones going to college soon, then informs us that he's going up there too. (Is everyone in the entire world at the same college?) We say how cool we think that is (what else can you say?) and go our separate ways.

The end. Great story, eh?

Oh but wait, I left out the part about how today in freshmen orientation we were supposed to say something we liked, and when it came to Jeffro who said she liked Kangaroo Zoo, the kid sitting next to me freaked out because apparently he worked there and then he got this look in his eyes like he knew something and he asked us "WAIT. Were you the girls in the mini golf?"

Uh . . . Yes?

What are the odds that out of close to 1,500 people who are enrolled in this freshmen orientation class, we would be in the SAME EXACT ONE as this kid?

Freak if that isn't a coincidence, I don't know what is.

Collegiate

Does your college professor scratch your back in class?

Because mine does.

You have the softest ankles I've ever felt.

Today, as the doors to the elevator opened, I saw a rather old couple blocking the doorway, waiting to get on. I let the lady with her walker hobble on, as well as her husband, then quickly exited. As I rounded the corner, I overheard the old lady say to her husband, "Is this where we get off?" to which her husband replied in a loving but exasperated tone, "No! We just got on."

I love old people.

Confession #2

I'm a HUGE procrastinator.

Those of you who know me may find this confession rather strange, but trust me. I don't know how NOT to procrastinate. A teacher gives me an assignment weeks in advance, and I'll still be up all night the night before it's due trying to finish. I can't count how many times I've fallen asleep during one of these all nighters only to wake up in the morning in a panic to ask my mom if she'll excuse me from that class because my project wasn't finished. Usually, she took compassion on me and did, but now that I'm heading off to college, I don't know what I'm going to do.

The reason I mention this is because school starts in a week. And I have an entire book to read, and a five page paper to write on it. Not a big deal, right? I can fit that in somewhere between goodbye parties, packing, working, cleaning, trying to find a job, and moving, right? Especially if I promise myself not to get on Facebook, right? (Which yes, I did, and yes, which I haven't done so far.) The only problem is . . . Now I spend all my time doing other pointless things. Like . . . Blog. Speaking of which, you may have noticed, this is my third post for today.

Just ask me if I've read three pages of my book today. You won't like the answer. And neither will I when I'm up all night right before school to finish what should have been finished weeks ago.

Sherbert

Just so everyone knows, that frozen fruit treat that is somewhat like ice cream, is not called sherbert. Sherbert isn't even a word. It's sherbet. With no r.

So, if someone tries to correct you when you call it by the incorrect name, don't look at them strangely. Don't tell them that that's only how people who can't say their r's say it. Don't tell them they're stupid for pronouncing your "favorite treat" incorrectly.

Because they aren't.

And you're the stupid one.

The Roof.

It seemed innocent enough. The stars were out, the moon was yellow, and the night was calm. Perfectly romantic setting for climbing on the roof, right? Unfortunately, the only one around was my best friend, Jeffro. (Who yes, is a girl, and whose name also isn't really Jeffro. What kind of parents would do that to their child?) Since neither one of us is a lesbian, we simply had to settle for an unromantic night in a romantic setting.

So we snuck into my sleeping sister's room, quietly opened the window, and climbed out onto the roof. Fortunately, I get on my roof quite a bit, and am quite used to the steep parts. But, Jeffro didn't have that same advantage. Despite the steep slope, Jeffro was able to overcome and make it to the highest point . . . Just in time to have our friend show up and call us down.

So, we slid back down the roof, and wandered towards the window we'd left open. Much to our surprise, it was closed.

You know that moment of terror where all rationality flees from your mind? This moment was one of those times. Neither of us had our phones, and my parents didn't know I was out there. (They don't exactly approve) Options of how to get out of the predicament began to run through my mind.

Break the window? With what? My hand? That one was out.

Jump down? And break my legs? That one was out as well.

Sit on the roof all night? And risk rolling off when I fell asleep? Nope, not gonna work.

Knock on the window? (Ahh . . . A little bit of rationality) Ya know, that just might work.

Unfortunately, my sister didn't answer to my incessant knocking. Well, maybe breaking the window would be my best option after all . . . Wait! I know! The window doesn't lock! (Shh . . . Don't tell any potential thieves) Why oh why didn't I think of this before? I simply pushed up on the window and let myself in, giving my sister a heart attack in the process. Poor girl thought she was going to be abducted.

This would usually be the part where I tell a moral to the story, or add some witty closing remark, but, I can't think of one. Mostly, this was just a pointless story.

Jeffro, this one is for you. AKA, rules for shopping.

1- If you don't know how to drive, don't go shopping.

2- If you live in America and you think you drive on the left side of the road, don't go shopping.

3- If you don't think it's acceptable to mow people down with your car, don't mow 'em down with your electronic cart. If you do . . . Well, you shouldn't be allowed in public, let alone in a grocery store.

4- You don't stop in the middle of the road and block all traffic going both directions, do you? Why do it with your cart?

5- If you're going to go slowly, stay to the right. Just like on the roads. (Still working on getting people to execute this properly on the roads, however.)

6- Give people warning before stopping, rather than simply stopping suddenly.

7- Don't allow your children to play in the aisles unless you have a death wish for them.

8- Don't smack your gum.

9- Put items back where they belong.

10- Don't leave your cart one side of the aisle and walk over to the other, creating a roadblock.

Rusty Spoons

If, for some strange reason, you have the desire to be deeply disturbed and scarred, feel free to watch Salad Fingers on YouTube.

Disturbing? Yes.

Addicting? Yes.

Pointless? Yes.

Just perfect for those boring days when you're surfing the web with nothing to do.

I can never spell "gargantuan" correctly.

Remember Yoda? The lady from my previous story? Well, I forgot to mention something about her, other than her strange name.

See, I knock on her door and hear a bunch of dogs barking. The door cracks open and the lady invites me to step in, obviously trying to keep the dogs from escaping.

I step in and see four small dogs; pomeranians, as I'd later find out. As she took the receipt and began her search for a pen, the dogs surrounded me, barking and waggling their little tails.

Remember how she ordered four gargantuan's? Four of our largest sandwiches? Which cost almost eight dollars apiece? And four chocolate chip cookies?

Well, I remembered. And this is why her next sentence stopped me cold.

"Boy, they sure get excited when the doorbell rings. See, my husband and I just feed them whatever we eat, so whenever the doorbell rings, they think 'Sandwiches!' 'Pizza!' 'Food!'."

Excuse me? You ordered two of our largest and most expensive sandwiches for your dogs? And cookies too? My parents don't even do that for me.

Some people are just plain sick.

Even if they do tip well.

Yep. Another Car Post.

"London, did you forget that you're dropping me off at Jennifer's on your way to work?"

I glance at the clock. Shoot. I'm gonna be late.

"Uhh . . . No Mom! I'll be down in a second."

As I get in the car and begin to rush to work, I glance down at the gas gauge and see that the needle is well below the "E" . . . Fortunately, I know all the in's and out's of my car, so I realize that the gas gauge doesn't really work. I (being the starving college student that I am) like to live on the edge. I know that my car can go 100 miles on 10 dollars of gas, so I just put 10 dollars in, go 100 miles, and refill.

Efficient? You know it.

I turn to my mom and point the gauge out to her and say "Oh no, we're not going to make it!" just to give her a scare. She says something about living on the edge like a parent is supposed to, and we continue on our way.

Now, flash forward a little bit. I made it to work without my car dying, and am happily making sandwiches. Suddenly, the phone rings. The suspense kills me as I listen to my coworker's side of the conversation. After he hangs up, he brings it over.

A delivery ticket.

For Yoda. (No lie)

Four gargantuan's, four chocolate chip cookies, and two Dr. Pepper's.

We get to work, and after everything is assembled, I grab the order, jump in my car, and take off. I plug my iPod in and am listening to some tunes as I drive, just enjoying having the rain on my window and the cold air it provides. I stop at a stoplight and am jamming out while the light is red. When it turns green, I do my usual, and stomp on the gas. And my car barely moves.

At this point I'm a little startled because usually, my car is pretty fast off the line. Which is surprising enough, what with how much of a beating it's been subjected to. But then it's smooth sailing for about half a block, so I just assume that it was the slant of the road or something, which was probably the stupidest thing I could have assumed.

After that half block of smooth sailing, however, my car begins jerking uncontrollably, and I start freaking out. I pull over to the side, and just know that my car has failed me. It decided that 85 miles was enough for 10 dollars, and demanded another payment. Immediately. Unfortunately, my circumstances didn't agree.

Well, at this point, I was kind of freaking out. See, I hadn't completed the delivery yet, and we have a policy about being super quick. Running out of gas doesn't exactly fall into the category of "super quick". So, I decided to drive whatever speed my car would allow for as long as it would permit in hopes of getting closer to a gas station.

After going a block or two at a ridiculously slow speed, I see a gas station! And . . . I pass it. Super quick reflexes, eh? So I decide to turn into the parking lot of the buildings right next to the gas station. Which happens to be a Pizza Hut; a parking lot filled with my fellow delivery drivers!

Unfortunately, as soon as I get my car into the parking lot, it decides to quit. Which is unfortunate because I'm stuck right behind a few parked cars, blocking them in.

After a few minutes of debating if I should just leave my car in the way while I go get some gas, or if I should call someone to help, or if I should just sit there and hope someone comes along to help, lo and behold, someone comes along to help. We put my car in neutral, and he and his wife push it into a parking stall. Fewf. I avoided the towing. For now.

So now that I got my car successfully parked, I head over to Smith's MarketPlace for some gas, all the while freaking out and hurrying, worried about how this delay will affect my tip. I get into the store, locate the gas cans, get a small one to carry, and go to check out.

If you learn anything from this post, I hope it is that you should never, ever trust an "express lane". Before this experience, I didn't apply that advice to my life. So, I get into the innocent looking "express lane", with my "fifteen items or less" behind someone who doesn't look to have too many items, because, after all, she has a small cart.

Just because someone has a small cart doesn't always mean they don't have many items. Somehow, this lady managed to cram 274 dollars worth of stuff into her cart meant for two or three. Maybe she thought she could fool the checker if she had a smaller cart? With how irritated the checker was, I don't think she was fooled.

After standing behind this lady for a few minutes, listening to her argue with the cashier about coupons, I decided to move over to the next lane. Ahh, this was better. This lady only had two items! I was gonna be outta there in no time. The cashier rings her up, tells her her total, and has her swipe her card. She swipes it once, twice, three times, and then a fourth, just for luck, but no. It doesn't work. She hands it to the cashier, who looks at her card, presses two buttons on his keyboard, and tells her to swipe it again. So she does.

Four more times.

By this point, I am super anxious. I start looking for another line that will be faster, but every line has three or more people in it. The only line that's kinda short is the line with the angry coupon lady. So I sigh in resignation, think to myself that anyone with a name like Yoda has gotta be a patient person, and wait.

I wait while the lady swipes her card a few more times.

I wait while she types her pin in incorrectly three times.

I wait while she has to type in her phone number.

I wait while the cashier talks to her about his possessed keyboard.

I wait while the lady punches in her own amount of cash back: $50.00.

I wait while the confused cashier looks at his computer wondering why it's telling him to give her $50.00.

I wait while the cashier finally understands what's going on and decides to give her her money.

And finally, it's my turn.

The cashier rings me up without much grief, and I am on my way again. I head over to the station and fill up my little can with gas, then start walking over to my car.

As I'm filling my car up with my small gas can, thinking about how lucky I am to have been that close to a gas station, I see something out of the corner of my eye. I glance over my left shoulder and see a man pointing his phone at me, obviously taking pictures.

"You don't mind if I take a picture of a Jimmy Johns driver sitting in a Pizza Hut parking lot filling up her car with gas, right?"

He might as well have said, "You don't mind if I take a picture of a GIANT IDIOT right now, right?"

I just chuckle, which he sees as encouragement apparently, because he moves closer, hoping for a better angle, and begins interrogating me.

"So, why'd you run out of gas?" he asked.

"Well, you see, the gauge doesn't really work . . ." (Mostly true . . .)

"Ha! More like the idiot girl don't work! If it were a guy driving this here car, he never woulda been in this predicament!"

Oh really? Well thank you sir, for offering me that kind bit of knowledge. It really helped me out.

He continues on making fun of me, saying that he's gonna plaster my pictures all over the internet proclaiming "what an idiot I am" as I will the gas to pour into the tank quicker.

Finally, it's all in. I close the can, bid farewell to the man, and almost have the door shut when he spots the food sitting next to me.

"Oho! And she has food to deliver too! This just keeps getting better and better!"

I slammed the door to his laughter.

So, if you see my picture all over the internet, feel free to let it be known what an idiot I am. No worries, someone already made sure of that, so you'd merely be reinforcing that point.

Oh and Yoda? She gave me a five dollar tip, despite being 45 minutes late.

Jambalina

Sometimes, my car has problems. Ok, most times.

Ok, every time.

In my poor cars defense, it DOES have 286,000 miles on it; an incredible feat, if you ask me. And it mostly works. Except the windows. Or the A/C. And sometimes the transmission has problems. Especially when switching from drive into reverse.

You know those old shows where the cars always emitted a loud "BANG" and shot backwards? Guess what? This really happens in real life. In fact, it happens almost every day of my life. Multiple times. Usually, I find it quite comical, but sometimes the people in the vicinity find it more startling than humorous.

Imagine, if you can, walking down the street, and having a car drive by, only to have the driver decide they needed to turn around. Imagine that the street was sort of narrow, and had cars lining both sides. Perhaps you're actually walking on the street next to the car because there is no sidewalk. Imagine watching that poor car executing a 7 point turn in order to get the car heading the right direction.

Now imagine the car shooting backwards with a loud "BANG!" at each of those seven points.

If your reaction is to jump each time the car shot backwards and peer in at the driver with a wondering/scolding look on your face, you would be in good company with the man whose walk was somewhat interrupted by me the other day.

Mr. John

"Oh, and by the way, that pink stuff? Yeah, it gives you a weird rash, so make sure you never get it on your skin."

My first thoughts as I heard this as my coworker opened up turkeys for slicing came in the form of two questions.

First, why is my food soaking in a substance that causes weird, itchy, red bumps to appear when it comes in contact with human skin?

And secondly, what is this pink stuff, and why does it give me a rash?

Victimized

I've picked up a habit that some people would call a bad one, but one that I enjoy quite a lot. It's just running, so it can't be that bad, right? The only problem is, I run alone. Still not that bad, right?

But, it's in the middle of the night.

Some people look at me like I'm crazy when I mention that, but nighttime running is the best. Especially in the hot summer. I actually enjoy having my sweat cool me down, not just make me feel sticky. And I live in a relatively safe community, running with a key in my hand like a knife, so I'm totally safe, right? My chances of becoming a victim where I live are .36 percent. (Yes, I did just look that up.) Not a big deal.

If you're thinking I'm going to continue on to explain how I happened to be a part of that .36 percent, you're wrong.

No, I'm going to tell you how I caused someone else to be part of that .36 percent.

Before embarking on a run on this particular night, I realized that I really needed to pee. But I've always heard that needing to pee simply makes you run faster, so I decided that I could hold it. (Don't ever believe anyone who tells you that. Ever.)

As I started running, each step caused my intestines to rub against my bladder, causing my need to relieve myself to intensify. But I just kept going. (Bad idea #2, just in case you couldn't figure that out for yourself.)

I got about halfway done, and the need was unbearable. All I could think about was going to the bathroom. Soon I began repeating my mantra of "Don'tpeedon'tpeedon'tpeedon'tpeedon'tpee" over and over again. When I had two blocks left before I would be to my car, I knew I wasn't going to make it. The pain was so intense that I was running stranger than normal, and tears were threatening to fall, attempting to get some liquid out somehow.

So with those two blocks to go, I bailed. I ran straight past a light post, into a field just off the sidewalk, dropped my shorts, and let it free. Unfortunately, it was right around this moment when I heard footsteps.

Coming from the sidewalk.

Which was probably ten feet away from me.

While the only thing offering me any sort of covering was a tree whose trunk was about as big around as my arm.

And I just kept peeing.

So, unfortunate man who chose that inopportune moment to go running, I apologize profusely. I truly didn't go running with the intent to make you a victim. Please accept my apology knowing that it will never happen again.

(Especially if you do what's good for you and stop running in the middle of the night.)

Babies.

First off, I think I should add a disclaimer for this post. I love children. Really I do. Not so much when they're crying, but I can save that for another post. My problem lies with babies freshly born. Babies who are just out of the womb are not gorgeous. They are not beautiful. They aren't handsome.

They're wrinkly. And gross. And smashed. And hideous. Their color is all wrong, their eyes are squinty, and they only know how to cry.

If I ever have children, I hope that right after the grueling experience, not a single person tells me "Oh she's so gorgeous!" or, "He has your nose!" Because really, how can you tell?! If my nose is that squashed, man, I shoulda just not had a kid and gotten a nose job instead. But now that I've had this child, I'm stuck with a squashed nose AND a kid whose nose is going to end up with the same fate as mine.

So please. After that 7 lb creature is squeezed out of a tiny tube, don't tell me they're beautiful. Because they're not. And I'd rather you be spared the damnation for lying.

Confession #1

I hate introductions.

Strangely enough, I love meeting people. I hate asking someone to explain themselves in a sentence or two, because it's quite obvious that we're much more meaningful than a sentence. And, usually, people are a bit . . . skewed in their perception of themselves, so their two sentences are crap anyway. Mostly, I just like getting to know a person bit by bit, so I can form my own perceptions of them.

So I guess this means that for now, you're just going to have to know what little I've told you about myself, without knowing what I'm good at or what I'd name my autobiography. Consider this the toe of my existence. Maybe only the pinky one. The rest you can become experts on later.

Oh, but I guess I should say this much: I'm London. And this is my blog.