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Monthly Archives: January 2013

My friend Adam and I are in a secret club. It’s kind of like being a PhotoShop hipster, only less hatable. We believe in the powers of the, what I like to call, “classical” or “vintage” PhotoShopping. He even is giving away free printable Flyster currency. One Fly Dollar is good for five strands of my fake red hair. What a deal! Go check out his post for some serious laughs and probably an ego boost.

Chowderhead

I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m still floundering away at The University of Microsoft Paint.  

If you’re not familiar with it, MS Paint is a watered-down photo editing program that comes standard with every PC.  The only thing it’s useful for is drawing a perfect circle, square, or trapezoid, then filling it with a primary color.  Basically, it’s one step above an Etch-o-Sketch.  

Since I’m in a giving mood today, I thought I’d give all you graphic artist snobs an opportunity to point and laugh at some of my crudely-edited pictures from the past.  Up until now, none of them have seen the light of day.  The tour you’re about to take should give you an idea of what I’m working with here.

In short, my graphic design skills are about four feet shy of a slam dunk.

Behold…

Exhibit A.

When Suze Speaks You Will Listen

I’m a wizard at blacking out teeth.  Lucky for…

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Lyrical Interpretations and Junk

Some musicians just have it, you know. That spark that let’s them enter a part of our brains in which they can do no wrong. It doesn’t happen often, but when it happens to me it is sort of otherworldly. The rhythm of the songs don’t get old, even the most asinine lyrics make sense, and I begin to think every album was written specifically for me.

For example, I give you Alanis Morissette. First of all, her name is fucking Alanis. That is the kind of name that makes the Sarahs, Lindseys, and Beccas  of the world feel like lemmings. Then there is her voice. Hurry, think of someone else who sounds like her (okay, besides that Meridith Brooks girl). You can’t.

alanis morissette meme

Keanu, you think of everything.

So you get it, I like Alanis.

I like her regardless of her blatant misuse of the word ironic. I like her regardless off the fact that she either has something very secret and important in one of her pockets at all times, or she’s trying to be discrete about getting off in public. I even like her regardless of the fact that she sings about cross-eyed bears. Those are  the lyrics, right? Right?!

That being said, this post isn’t actually about Alanis but rather inspired by her. It may sound jabby but remember, I already said that I liked her, so it is okay.

You all know her little song about “irony” (also known as things that are unfortunate). With all due respect, I can think of a few things that are worse than a free ride when you’ve already paid. If the ride is free you probably don’t want it anyway. Bam!

Here are five things worse than the original “Ironic” lyrics, because I am clever like that:

1. Ten thousand knives when all you need is a spoon. Think about it. It is way more painful to eat soup with a knife than to cut your PB&J with a spoon.

2. Your wedding day… in general. Zing!

3. A traffic jam when you’re already late to your last-chance court date. You’re going to jail, and it looks like someone else is going to have their hand in your pocket. No, probably just completely in your pants without your discretion.

4. Just a “no smoking” sign.  Obviously I haven’t quit yet.

5. Meeting the man of my dreams and then meeting all five  of his wives.  Say what you want, I just wasn’t brought up that way.

BONUS VLOG: About junk. The kind in your drawers. Not drawers as in underwear. Pervert.

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Letters to Those Involved

My phone miraculously disappeared at some point on the night of Saturday 01/26/2013. It’s whereabouts were finally recovered at approximately 6:30 pm Monday night. After I wrote this post…

missingphone

Dear stranger and/or really bad friend who took my phone,

I hope you didn’t hack my Iphone security code, although it would have only taken you something like 15 million different guesses. I figure that you could have easily try 30 different combinations every minute, which means it would have only taken you a little less than a year to figure it out if the last number you guessed was the correct one. Obviously that doesn’t make any sense, even if it was correct math. But if you got lucky and gained access on your first try, there are things that you need to know:

I am not responsible for the last search in my internet browser. Any voice memos of singing are also a mystery and definitely not me. And, if you even try to tinker with my blog I will find you, and I will kill you. Got it?

Dear AT&T sales guy,

I do not usually look like a frantic homeless person. My hair was still pretty though, right? I was impressed.

I think it is ridiculous that you can not help me locate my Iphone using all of that technology stuff, but Facebook on the other hand, always knows precisely where I am and isn’t afraid to tell everyone without my discretion.

And just so you know, you probably made the easiest sale of your life Sunday morning. You can thank Jim Beam and the gay men of the Krewe of Apollo.

Dear Canes Chicken Fingers,

I have nothing bad to say about you. You were delicious, and for a brief moment while I was stuffing my face of you, I forgot about everything that I lost that day.

After writing such a dramatic post and finally finishing re-downloading all of my apps onto my new Iphone, I got the call that my phone was recovered. Shit happens.  

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Can Clowns Hire Clowns for Their Birthday Parties?

Or would that just get weird. Like a stripper hiring a stripper?

Le Clown, Eric, friend. Here is a haiku on your birthday, because Jack made me.

If Jack’s name was said

With a G instead of J

His name would be Gack

gack

So gangster

gak

Or more like this.

If you don’t know what actual Gak is, you should definitely scour E-bay for some. It is the ultimate birthday toy  to provide you with hours of good clean fun. Or dirty fun. Who am I to tell anyone what they should do with their Gak? I always enjoyed making fart noises with mine.

Le Clown, Eric, friend. On this very special birthday of yours, you seek to unlock a special post. You have done uncountable favors for me, La Becca, and never was it even close to being my birthday. So, for that I am forever indebted and will proudly help guide you to the next step in your journey.

Here are some hints about the blog that you seek next. I do not have cable, thus this gal’s blog keeps me up to date on important news like what is happening on The Bachelor. I don’t know how I would go on without the service she provides me, provides us. It took me an unacceptably long time to figure out that this particular blogger was actually a female. Once I did, I liked her blog all the more.

She is one of your top blogroll members, and she comes with a weird handsome sidekick torso thing.

Now go find the droids you were looking for. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVE!

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Let’s Make a Deal

Three orders of business today puppets:

1. A major thank you is due to Le Clown yet again for being my hero. He is the mastermind behind taking what started as a photography experiment and turning it into the outstanding piece of banner you see at the top of my page. What you see today is the final product of much work. And he did it through a drug haze. Let’s all show him extra love today.

2. Speaking of Le Clown, there is an important post today on his second blog Black Box Warnings. It’s important, because I wrote it. It is also important, because it was not easy. I struggled with how to write this post. I beat myself up for not being able to pull out the serious. I avoided it like it was an army of bullfrogs. If you don’t know I hate frogs, you do now. But I prevailed. So please, check it out. If you love me you will (said the abusive guilt tripping blogger).

3. More guilt tripping. If you missed my post and vlog yesterday, you need to stop slacking and go read/watch it, because I was kind of sort of maybe really definitely proud of it.

Enjoy!

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Why Business? (Bonus Vlog Inside)

A few ideas in question form were provided to me in the comments of last Friday’s post in attempt to give me blog fuel. A few of them got my engine revving.

Aneroidocean asked a particularly meaty question: Why did you decide to be a business student? What’s your ultimate goal? If you want to go normal “career” type thing and not start your own business eventually tell us that. If the career type job is just in order to get your loans paid off and then start your own business, tell us about that.

Well, I decided to enter the world of exciting business in mid 2007. I took the leap from Performing Arts to Marketing. I basically played pin the tail on the major. The only hole I had in my blindfold was the knowledge that my father had a business degree, and he seemed to have done just swell in his life.

Throughout college, I always had an idea fermenting in the back of my mind about opening my own business. As a teenager, and up until the day I quit dancing, I was sure and determined that I was going to open my own dance studio to teach, choreograph, and mold young dancers. I also wanted a big space in which to do cartwheels, but that’s beside the point. And cartwheels are gymnastics anyway, not dance. So, with my supreme logic, I concluded that I could converge the two schools of thought (performing arts and business) to open that studio.

Then reality decided to tap me on the left shoulder while standing on my right side so I wouldn’t see where it was coming from.

I went through the motions and graduated. I gave up on dance, because there wasn’t time for it all. I became complacent. My aspirations for opening my own studio had turned into aspirations for an easy job with sufficient pay. I somehow became content with the idea of being a suit. Or should I say a woman’s pantsuit. I also imagined I would find ample use for one of these in the near future (thanks for the idea Rich):

boob apron

Now you can buy TWO items instead of just buying a higher cut shirt in the first place!

So there I was, all ready to do the normal job thing. I applied for Marketing jobs here and there and nothing was snagging. So, I went with the first job that gave me an interview even though it had nothing to do with Marketing. It didn’t matter. Firstly, I was still experiencing the no-more-school-for-me-ever-in-life-yay euphoria. Secondly, like I said, the vision of my own business let alone a dance studio was long gone from my head. Give me some pencil skirts and some data entry, and I was all good.

Until I wasn’t. Somewhere after that, I snapped out of it and into a drastically different mindset. I want to see my own ideas brought to fruition. I want to build something that is all mine. Sort of like this blog, but on a much bigger scale. Feel me?

So, to fully answer the latter part of Aneroidocean’s question, yes, I do hope to eventually have my own business. It may not be filled with ballet bars and stage moms, but it will be something of pride. Luckily for me, my college was paid for via scholarships and TOPS, so I don’t have to lug around the weight of student loan debt. I have nothing stopping me from choosing exactly what I want to do, and I am no longer scared of the waters. I’m next in line for the diver’s block.

Investors interested in funding my success can send money to 555 Thisisnotascam Ln. NY, NY 55555.

And now… a V-V-V-VLOG. Maddie Cochere asked what I keep in my closet last week. Let’s just say I found a few interesting things.

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Lazy Mexican Chili

This one is for all of you foodies out there, ahem, Vyv (but read it anyway even if you are not a foodie, because I used jokes). I may not make cupcake Frankensteins, but I do treat my kitchen like a science lab on occasion. When I began blogging, I was on a serious cooking kick. I could bust out a stuffed chicken parme-something or a stuffed bell pepper without even looking at the recipe.

Lately? Not so much. I can barely find a clean cup to drink out of let alone put some Julia Child shit on the table. And, as I have mention before (in a post long ago), cooking for one can be … discouraging. So, how did I make it better? I experimented. Ultimately, Lazy Mexican Chili was born.

What you need:

1 lb ground beef
1 can sweet corn
1 package taco seasoning
H2O
Salsa
Sour cream
Mexican shredded cheese (not shredded by actual Mexicans)
Tortilla chips (optional)
A feline companion or Tequila

What to do with your junk (not your naughty junk):

Brown your ground meet. Drain it and try not to burn yourself with beef grease. Say beef grease out loud because it sounds hilarious. Say it louder so your neighbors and/or significant other can hear you and laugh too. If you have neither, tweet it to your internet friends.

Get back on track and warm up the corn in a separate pot. Put your pan with drained ground beef back on the stove and add in 2/3 cup water and the taco seasoning. Imagine your worst boss’s face in the bottom of the pan and have at it with a ladle or something. This will help break up the meat to allow for better chewing during the consuming process.

Give the beef about four minutes to get its taco on while you crumble some tortilla chips in a bowl. Once your beef is all seasoned up, put some in the bowl with the tortilla chips and start mixing in copious amounts of salsa, sour cream, corn, and cheese. Felicidades! You have made Lazy Mexican Chili. Put on a sombrero and eat it.

lazy mexican chili

If you did it right, you will look something like this and a cigar will manifest itself.

NOTE: It dawned on me after writing this that the title of my dish may sound as if I am implying that Mexicans are lazy. I am not. I am implying that this recipe is lazy. I’m lazy. I am not Mexican. Glad we settled that.

There is something different about 25toFly since yesterday. I wonder what it is?

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Life Glitch

Inexplicable things happen every day. Glitches in the matrix. Coincidences. Alien invasions. Call it what you will.

I recently experienced this very phenomenon. I have no certain explanation for the events that I am about to describe to you. Welcome to the twilight zone. The good one that doesn’t involve shimmery vegan vampires.

keanu with banana

Keanu with a banana phone. You can’t explain that.

It was Sunday, and rather than leaving myself winded from completing  tasks on my lengthy to-do list, I fucked off instead. Football was on. I don’t usually watch it unless the Saints are playing, but it was the perfect distraction on which to blame my lack of productivity. Plus, a friend of mine actually wanted to hang out. I thought I would give that a shot. Apparently, it is a popular thing to do among the internetless.

After a burger and a bloody mary, we were already in tears over attempting to sext a random number, which is actually quite a challenge. You can’t just start blurting out sexyness all over the place. You have to be mindful that four-year-olds have cell phones these days, and that some people simply do not appreciate a good sext. On top of that, you have to know how to properly woo your unsuspecting sextual partner. Don’t worry, chance sexting is not to be confused with full on text rape. But that’s enough of that.

Once I had been repeatedly shot down by what was probably a seventy year old woman, I slinked off home to face my to-do list, which now had an addendum that read: change telephone number.  Unfortunately for my to-do list, I caught wind of more friends (insanity!) at a different venue while driving to my apartment and veered off course yet again. This kind of shit just doesn’t happen every day. I had to take advantage.

Many waffle fries and not an ounce of shame later, I finally forced myself home. I walked into my room to spot my bare mattress and proceeded to throw a slight tantrum at the sight of it. I remember grabbing the sheet and pillow cases out of the dryer. I remember stuffing each pillow into its correct sham. I remember beating them smooth. I remember that the comforter was draped securely over the foot of my bed. I even remember laughing at Jack’s lack of disturbance by all of the dismantled bedding.

Then, nothing. No consciousness. No memory.

At some point, in what I assume was the early morning, I awoke. My clothes were on and I was laying backwards in my bed. My head was perfectly placed in the center of my pillow pile at the foot of the bed. I was half way underneath the sheet which never made it to its correctly tucked position. Jack was there,  oblivious as he slept. Groggy, I stood up feeling no sense of time. Where is my phone? Why are all of the lights on?

Then nothing again.

The next time I awoke, I was right side up in my bed with my cell phone neatly plugged into its charger on the dresser next to me but with no alarm set.

Luckily, I woke up naturally in time to dress for work, but the question still remains. What happened to me? I was not intoxicated, nor was I overly exhausted. I am also quite certain that I am not narcoleptic. Did I sleep walk? Did aliens abduct me for a while? Was I roofied by my friends? Where was Keanu? You tell me.

Thanks to everyone who contributed comments on the post in which I greedily begged for post ideas. Y’all are some deep thinking fools. Morpheus would be proud.  

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