Everyone's getting sentimental.

It's amazing how many great friends we make throughout our youth.  There are a few that I've had before my age was in the double-digits that I'll never forget, but unfortnuately, those horrid things called "time" and "age" came into play and ultimately tore us apart. It's par for the course. Everyone grows up and builds their own life that you may or may not fit into the same way, but thanks to such mediums as Facebook, it's still possible to be in the know and for that, I'm grateful.

Then there's that one friend who will always be there no matter the age, no matter the time, no matter the place. The less-annoying Kimmy Gibbler. The perfect combination of all of the friends in Friends. The one person whom you accept unconditionally whether she still likes a whole lot of pink, Hanson, stuffed animals in her bed, or makes wacky decisions regarding tattoos and placement. And you automatically accept everything new in their life, even the unknown, and you're comfortable and at peace with it - including their new "besties."

Allison. Meg. I'm coming for you. XO's!

That one's a killer!

Hi! Good morning! Hello! I have a quick question and this is directed to all of my murderers out there ('sup homies?):

When you guys and gals are so angry or upset at someone to the point where you're going to shoot, stab, choke, drown, poison, etc, another person, what makes you think you're not going to be caught?

I'm just wondering. Real life isn't like the movies. You are not Dexter Morgan, our beloved Dark Defender. Yes, I understand some people do in all actuality "get away with murder," but do you realize the odds are as slim as getting struck by lightning or escaping prison or being in a plane crash? Don't bother googling my statistics, I made them up, but I stand by them just the same.

Oh wait, I have another question:

If you're going to go through the trouble of plotting and executing an... well, execution, why kill yourself afterwards?

You may as well have just killed yourself in the first place.


I don't know, that's just me.


I'd like to thank Ryan Jenkins for inspiring this blog.

BMerice

So there's this guy and for some reason he digs me and he does things with/for me. My awesome banner is compliments of this fine art-teeeest and I only had to sleep with him 1/2 times! (Joking).

Not only does he help create video games (all of my male nerd friends just got erections), but he's also a fantastic writer and comic [almost]genius. This is despite the fact that he may use me as a joke. I'll probably write about that some other time.

Thank you, BM...E! I hearts you.

Beware of kidnapped tigers
(saw this on my way home from work. Poor kitty)

Snap, Crackle, POP!

I was laying in my bed fiddling with a loose molar while watching "Wild Hearts Can't Be Broken" (I was 11) when my jaw first decided it wanted to lock open. Holy freak-out, Batman!

Now, this was over 14 years ago, so you can imagine the lack of knowledge on the whole issue of TMJ. I was told to "take these vials of syrum once per day and take an Aleve every day to stop inflamation."

Good thinkin', doc. Here's my money.

I've hit some rough patches throughout my years in middle school, the most memorable being the time when my jaw stayed locked close all day until I went to my specialist and he injected the joint with a muscle relaxor. Yes, a needle in my jaw. Not as rockstar as you'd think. It was at that time I started to panic. The mouthpiece wasn't helping, it would only cause my jaw to lock even more, the hot compresses were useless and I was immune to Aleve. Columbia University's verdict:

"Um, well... I reccommend surgery, but I doubt it would even help your case."

Good thinkin', doc. Here's my money.

I've decided to live with it. A few cracks, pops and sore days won't get me down. Damn the man!

The date: April, 2009.

The place: Bank Atlantic Center, Panthers vs. Capitals.

The food: Nachos.

The pain/pop: Intense.

Welcome to my face, new pop on the left-hand side when I open my mouth. You're ruining my life.

The date: July, 2009.

The place: Dentist office, wisdom teeth removal.

My new title: Dental Assistant. That's right - I held my jaw in place so it wouldn't dislocate while he was beating my face to smitherines.

"Hey, doc. I was thinking about your friend that would help me with my jaw. It's really starting to get to me and every other 'specialist' wants $265 for a consult and $400 for x-rays."

"Yes, that sounds about right."

Good thinkin', doc. Here's my money.

Shouldn't this all be covered? I have a skeletal issue, for crying out loud. It's not my fault! My jaw should NOT be tired and sore after taking three small bites of my delicious chocolate chocolate chip muffin.

Where's the freakin' justice!?

Depression is expensive...

Is it in the genetic make-up of our (women) DNA to automatically have an insatiable urge to SHOP when we're not having a good day?! Not only that, but it seems to get worse, to boot! What ever happened to the time when it was satisfying to buy a $10 shirt when the school cafeteria ran out of chicken nuggets?


Then, we unknowingly graduated to $25 handbags (on sale, of course) when we had a stressful day at work or in class. And we can't forget the $30 jeans when Douche McDouchalman dumped us for the skank at the gym.
Note from Management: I'm what I'd like to call "a bargain shopper."I refuse to buy $100 jeans or $400 handbags.


Hi age 25! My, how you've snuck up on me. Sure, I have $65 for a new pair of sneakers because Prince Charming decided he didn't want to return my phone call... all week. What's that, alloy.com? You also want $65 (shipping included) because I'm confused about my feelings for Captain Always-Up-Me-Arse? Absolutely. Oh, I could never forget about you, Old Navy and U.S. Tops. Together I shall give you $35 because for some God awful reason I thought it'd be a good idea to start talking to my ex-boyfriend who treats me like dirt. And you, Target - let's get one thing straight: I don't need you for anything other than the fact that Dexter Season 3 has just been released and I'd buy that whether I was in a pathetic melancholy trance or not.


I think rock bottom will be when "Confessions of a Shopaholic" makes complete sense, and admittedly, I can empathize with some parts.


Who can afford to be morose with the state of today's economy? Oh, the irony.


Does anyone have any ice cream?

Who in the hell are you?!

"Allow myself to introduce... myself."

You would think being in one of the most famous party-cities out there that I would be more exhausted from being the social butterfly I once was. Negatron, my friends. It seems I've lost myself in the midst of... myself.

Frankly, things haven't been the same since returning to good ole' Laudy Daudy six years ago. When I think back to my previous life in New York, its hard to remember the last time I slept in my own bed (not what you think, really). Now here I am. I work. I go to class. I study (sometimes). I'll spend a couple of hours on the beach when I'm not schvitzing profusely. Maybe a drink every now and then with a friend. Maybe.

I've realized I lost my spark - my fun-loving, witty, yet charming personality and my desire. My newfound mission: Regain control of me. Find and grab hold of my spark, my fire.

Anyone have a helmet? This may get bumpy.