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Justin doesn’t think I’m funny.  He claims he meant he just doesn’t think I’m funny on Twitter, but I know he meant he doesn’t think I’m funny at all.  Whatever.  My grandmother thinks I’m hilarious.  All she does is laugh when we talk.  That’s why I call her when I need someone to laugh with me. (I have plenty of other people who I can call to laugh at me…ahem, Justin)

Skip to 5 minutes later:

I was going to show you the Twitter lists I’m on.  A month ago, there were a few called “hilarity” and “people who make me shit I laughed so hard” but I seem to have lost my place on those lists.  Maybe Justin’s right.  I don’t really think I’m very funny on Twitter, but I was going to prove myself with the lists.  Damn.  I am, however, on some lists that will keep me awake tonight. Ahem:

And the one list…validating my original point.  Even though my original point has been, pretty much, torn to shreds.

The one person who still has me listed as funny.

This weekend, I was driving around thinking about awkward laughter.  And how thankful I am that I no longer have someone pointing out every time I awkwardly laugh about something, or anything awkward I do for that matter.

For several years, I dated a guy who would say “awkward laughter” every time I would laugh uncomfortably about something.  Since awkward laughter is usually the reaction to being uncomfortable, having this pointed out further just made me feel worse.  He would also says things like, “awkward silence,” or “you’re just messing with your bracelets/shoes/earrings/cat because you feel uncomfortable.”  I was always like, I do feel uncomfortable!  And you pointing it out doesn’t make it any better.  I hated that.  I felt like I had to think before any natural reaction to anything.  I lost some of my “me-ness.”  I stopped laughing at awkward situations, because I didn’t want to be called out, which would have been fine if he only did it when it was just the two of us, but he did it in front of other people.  He was always nit-picking everything I did.

I like to sleep with something over my eyes, a pillow, a blanket, whatever.  I even had a sleep mask for several years.  He would call this “pillow head” and dismiss me for the evening.  It made me feel there was something wrong with me.  Not to mention that I “wore too much makeup” and had earrings that made me look “like a Mexican prostitute,” whatever that means.  I think there are more factors than earring that cause someone to look like a prostitute and since I have not one drop of Latino blood in my body, I’m not sure where the Mexican part comes in.

I’m not really sure where I am going with this.  The awkward laughter was the only thing I had written down to get my mind going for this post.  I guess, I am just so thankful that I can now awkward laugh and wear prostitute earrings to my little heart’s content without being judged.  I no longer have to worry if I have “too much make up on” or if I “look slutty.”  It’s nice.

I got a Wii Fit for Christmas.  Admittedly, I haven’t played it a whole lot.  And, I got the work out game from EA Sport for Wii and it’s way better.

So, I decided to work out with the Wii Fit thing that comes with the system the other day.  As soon

These are the evil Miis who call you out to your roomie.

as I got it geared up, it’s all like, “Where have you been?  I haven’t seen you in 20 days.  You’re off your program.”  Dude.  The stupid game is calling me out for not working out.  I already feel lazy and fat enough, not to mention, it’s been counting the days.  What the hell.  It’s, like, telling me I’m a fat cow.

A couple of days later, Roomie decided to play the thing.  It asked her if she’d seen me because I haven’t been around in a while and am getting off my program.  You guys.  The damn machine is not only giving me shit about not exercising, it’s calling me out to Roomie.  Piece of shit. It doesn’t call Roomie out to me!  It just hates me.  My own Wii Fit hates me.  Geez.

I was going to write this post about the fact that our society seems to treat women who don’t want children like freaks of nature.  Even though I don’t feel this way, I still get a little jolt of “there must be something wrong with her” whenever someone tells me she doesn’t want to be a mommy.  I’ve been brainwashed into assuming every person on the planet with a vagina wants to procreate.  The ones who chose not to have children are the smart ones.  How many women out there are having kids when they know in their hearts it’s not what they really want?  And the kids are the ones having to suffer.  I was going to write about how these women choosing not to have children are the unsung heros.  They know they don’t want to have kids and they aren’t allowing society to peer pressure them into it.

Instead of all of that, I decided to take a bunch of pictures of myself and post them up here. Enjoy.

Interesting thing.  Lately, I have found myself in good moods most of the time.  Justin may disagree, but for the most part, I feel pretty positive about things.  And this has been reflected in my moods.  Which is interesting.  I have never (ever, ever) been a positive person and good moods were usually few and far between.  I really felt like that dude from Office Space who asked the doctor to hypnotize him so he didn’t know he was a work.  But, I felt like this about everything.  Work, after work, life in general.  Who knew I have the capacity to feel positive and, dare I say it, happy most of the time.  Who knew I had it in me to look for the positive in things and not always assume the negative in every situation?  I’m just as shocked as anyone who may be outside looking in.  It’s awesome.

P.S. Earl Grey tea is the best thing ever.

I finally went to the knitting group at my favorite yarn store, Knitch!  It was awesome, I’m so glad I went.  I met a lot of really great knitters and people brought wine and food…it was just great!  I’ll definitely be back.  We had a lone needlepointer who was impressing all of us with her awesome needlepoint and her doctorly knowledge (she’s a doctor).  I left at 9pm, and I was ridiculed for being lame.  These knitters were giving me a hard time for leaving after being there for 2.5 hours and said it was too early.  Fantastic!  I love the knitterly spirit!

I managed to take one picture.  I meant to take more, but it didn’t happen.  Maybe next time.

And then, shortly after this picture was taken, she moved to another table and it was sad. Frowny face.

Oh!  You know how, the other day, I said I wanted to get a bunch of non-green wearing co-workers to wear the badges I made?  Well, I got a least half of them to tape the badges to their shirts with pride.  It was amazing!

But.  There was one.  Who refused to wear it.  He says “declined.”  Whatever.  Then we had an intense conversation about arguing for something you claimed to be right about.  And how you should argue for it, even if  you realize you’re wrong.  Because you have to take a stand and let people know that you’re passionate, and more importantly, a control freak who always needs to be right.  My kind of person.  And then I brought up how I felt like the whole badge wearing refusal was his way of arguing for something he knew he was wrong about, but he was just making a stand and even though all of the cool kids were wearing them, he just had to be different.  He kindly (more or less) disagreed.  But then, he made me a badge.  And I wore it proudly (to, you know, prove I was right).  It’s pretty awesome here.

Out of boredom yesterday, I started reading the Notorious Killers sections of Crime Library.  I was looking for the Bizarre and Strange section, but I guess the powers that be have done away with it in the past 6 years (last time I came to this website).  Interestingly, they do showcase a Terrorists and Spies section.  This is new.

I am reading about a Black Widow named Marie Hilley from the Appalachian Mountains in Alabama.  Reading this is teaching me a lot about how to not raise a serial killer.  First and foremost, don’t move to Appalachia, duh.  Second, discipline your kinds.  Hilley’s parents didn’t discipline her at all, even though they were poor and she was lazy, and look what happened.  Take that capital punishment!  Third, don’t tell your kids they are special.  Working in the textile factory was too good for Snooty Pants Hilley.  Her parents wanted her to get an education.  The nerve.  (You know, my parents told me I was special and I grew up thinking that I was going to be part of the Rapture and help Jesus bring all of the saved Christian souls to heaven while the rest of you heathens had to deal with Satan taking over the earth for seven years.  But, that is another long, weird story.  It’s actually pretty amazing I didn’t end up killing anyone–‘pat on the back’)

Fourth, if your daughter is really pretty, you’re probably screwed.  Fifth, don’t let your really pretty, spoiled daughter marry the first dude she meets.  You might have to lock her in your barn for a few years, but she will come out okay.

And, now that she’s married, she’s out of your hair.  If I were you, I would move away and change my name so that when you does go on the killing spree, you won’t fall victim.

Oh, and Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all of you who are into that stuff.

P.S.  None of my coworkers wore green today.  So, I printed out this sticker for them.  We shall see how many of them will wear it.

Update: So far, I have at least 10 people with these taped to their shirts, maybe more.

As I have previously stated, quitting smoking is pretty much the hardest, shittiest thing ever.  Ever.  I’ve spent too much time recently wishing I could go back in time to tell my 15 year-old-self that there is absolutely nothing cool or glamorous about smoking.  Nothing.  Unfortunately, life doesn’t work like that.  I’m at a point right now where I can’t imagine my life continuing to smoke and I can’t imagine life without smoking.  Cigarettes are truly making my life unmanageable and I can’t do this to myself anymore.  I’ve tried to will power through quitting, but there will be a weak moment when I will smoke one.  I feel like I just can’t win at this point.  Everyone who has ever quit smoking is my personal hero.

After a friend recommended it, I bought this book.  The Easy Way to Quit Smoking by Allen Carr.  I have heard that this is the book that has helped many of my friend’s friends quit.  So, today, I started reading.  And it sounds good.  Carr encourages me to continue smoking while I am reading the book and guarantees if I follow the directions, I too will find smoking freedom.

I’m depending on you, Carr.  Please don’t let me down.  (At this point, I’m really excited for what the book says it has to offer)

I don’t know if I can possibly explain how happy I am that daylight savings time is here!  I am beyond ecstatic.  I feel like getting to work in the dark and leaving work in the dark has taken a real toll on me.  Since the last time change, I have become such a lazy blob.  I never want to do anything at night anymore.  It’s too cold and dark to leave the house once I am home.  Well, no more!  I am going to be out and about and it’s going to be great!

Do the short winter days make you depressed?

I like to ghost hunt.  Which pretty much means I like to go to “haunted places” or walk around weird graveyards in the middle of the woods late at night and get scared by the rustling of squirrels running through the leaves.  Sometimes we bring Ouija boards (which, you can no longer buy in stores for some reason!!  What?! We have to make our own).  Almost every time I have done this, I am the instigator and I have strict rules about scaring people in our posse, namely because I don’t want people jumping out from behind trees or graves at me.  I’m super scared of the dark.  Like, not kidding at all, it freaks me out.  This doesn’t match with wanting to go ghost hunting at all.  I am aware of this conundrum.

I have rules though.  You can’t take anyone with you who takes ghost hunting extremely seriously.  If you so much as think of EVP’s, you’re out.  Or mentioning that you’re bringing your camera to do that weird flashy thing that shows orbs (dust specs) on your screen.  And you can’t be too unserious about it either.  My major personal rule is that I won’t do anything inside.  No haunted houses or anything.  Only haunted fields and stuff.

First, it’s really dark in there and there are more places to hide.  Most of all, the dark.  Creepy.  Secondly, one time I did it and some crazy man tried to bash my head in.

That’s right.  A crazy man.  When I was 17, I was on a first date and he was all like, “We’ve finished dinner, instead of taking you to the movies to make-out like a normal guy, I want to take you to this abandoned mental institution that’s haunted!”  And, I really liked this guy, so I said, “Great!”

When we got there, we didn’t have to break in because the door was open and the guy was all like, “This is weird, it’s always locked.”  And I was thinking, you’re freaking crazy and I can’t believe you’ve been here before.  It was pitch black dark in there.  Dumbass that I was with didn’t have a flashlight, either.  You can imagine my excitement knowing that we would be walking the halls of a supposedly haunted mental hospital in complete darkness.  Elation.

Once inside, we heard someone scream.  Dude screams back and I was about to piss myself.  You don’t scream back at unknown screamers.  In the dark.  Duh.  Am I the only person who knows this?  We hear running and we can’t see where it’s coming from because we have no flashlight so we just run (quietly) and hide in one of the hundreds of hospital rooms lining the halls.

Then, the unknown runner starts banging what sounded like a metal pole against the wall.  I could hear him getting closer and closer and I thought my heart was going to beat out of my chest.  I just knew that I was about to get my head bashed in and no one would find my body.

After what felt like forever, we ran to safety and I have never gone into another dark, dilapidated place at night again.  And later, the police would stand outside of that hospital to keep out high school students because they used to find dead prostitutes in there all the time.  True story.

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