And the Academy Award for Best Oscar Prediction Goes to...

My older brother, Gordo, his girlfriend, Brittany, and I usually make bets on who will win the Oscars.  We keep a running tally of who guessed correctly for each of the categories, and then the overall winner gets bragging rights until next year. 

It’s usually a friendly competition, but this year the stakes were raised on the Best Director category.

Gordo and Brittany said Fincher (The Social Network).  I said Hooper (The King’s Speech).

Their reasoning for Fincher:  he deserves it.

My reasoning for Hooper: complex equations involving statistical analysis and even one very intense psychic dream about a crazy gypsy woman named LaQuisha who looked at bird droppings before proclaiming that Hooper would be victorious.

Turns out that statistics and LaQuisha’s bird droppings were right.

And I find this extremely funny because Gordo and Brittany prepared for this night by watching all of the major contenders in all of the major categories.  Which means that they spent lots of money going to theaters to better prepare themselves.  They could practically tell you anything you wanted to know about each of the movies.

I, on the other hand, didn’t watch ANY of the movies.  Not a single one.

Now did that make them more qualified to choose than me.  It should have; however, I like statistics.

See “the Academy”—whoever that includes—hardly ever picks best director based on merits.  They pick the movie that they think should win Best Picture and then Best Director automatically follows.

Therefore, since all three of us agreed that The King’s Speech would win the Oscar for Best Picture, it logically followed that we should vote for Hooper.  But noooo.  They didn’t want to listen to me.  They said I was crazy.  Crazy!  Me!

So just before they announced the winner for Best Director, my brother decides to raise the stakes.  Instead of simple bragging rights, he wagered an expensive bottle of alcohol of the winner’s choice—that Fincher would beat out Hooper.

Guess who’s expecting a nice, expensive bottle of German wine?  In fact, the perfect wine to enjoy with celebratory cheesecake.

P.S.—In case you’re interested in the totals.  I won the bragging rights as well.

Tiffany – 17

Gordo – 14

Brittany - 13

Imitation May Be the Highest Form of Flattery, But I Think Stalking Is a Close Second

Tonight, I was shopping in K-mart when two of the ladies behind the checkout counters said something interesting.  They were talking back and forth about the fact that one of them had a stalker.

I, of course, had to get involved in their conversation.  Apparently, the lady who was checking me out has a stalker.  He continually stops by and asks the other employees about her.  Whether she is working.  What time she gets off.  Stuff like that. 

The other employee was letting my cashier know that the creeper was outside of the store and that she should get an escort to her car later when her shift ended.

How did she get the stalker?  How does that happen?  I worked at a grocery store for three years and no one ever stalked me. 

Sure there was one old lady who kept mistakenly calling me a man even though she was eye level with my blatantly obvious boobage.

But never have I been stalked.  I really want to know how that happens.

Well, as I was leaving, I couldn’t help but look around to see if I could spot the creeper.  And sure enough.  There he was.  I was tempted to go over and ask him why he felt the need to stalk the nice cashier from the store, but something stopped me.

Oh yeah.  I remember what stopped me—the fact that he’s a freaking psycho. 

He even looked the part—Creepy.  Skinny. Hasn’t seen sunlight for years.  Squinty eyes.  The Pervert Smile.  Etc…  You know what I’m talking about—he was that guy!

So after quickly power walking (practically sprinting) to my car, locking the doors, and speeding away, I’m left to wonder about the cashier.  I just hope she made it out okay because that guy rates at a 9.2 on your standard Rapist/Molester scale.

Death Threats are Flattering & Effective

When making a decision about whether or not to continue your blog, you read the comments from your last post and decided to...

A.)  Allow your apartment to get egged (it is an apartment complex, so you really wouldn't be responsible for the mess... and besides, we all know that chickens are the spawn of the devil so you'd be doing the Lord's work).

B.)  Allow a crazed fan to kill you.

C.)  Change your name from Tiffany to Princess Sparkles, move to a new city, and then pray no one finds you.

D.)  Just keep writing the blog.

I think I'll go with D.  


Even though I would find an egg massacre extremely amusing because like I said chickens are evil.  I just don't think the apartment complex would clean it quick enough.  Which means I'd be stuck smelling the rotting corpses of my enemy for about a week.


I also heavily considered C!  However, just by mentioning my alter ego, Princess Sparkles, I kinda ruined the whole plan.


What can I say... "Dance, puppet.  Dance!"

Time For Some Victory Cheesecake

The Challenge is officially over.  This will be the last post of the agreed upon month.  With this post my Right Brain will prevail.  Thus, in order to better mock the logical, reasoning side of my rationale, I would actually like to end the challenge with two posts:

Post 1:

and...

Post 2:

Game over, Left Brain.  You lose.

Them's Fightin' Words

As you know by now, I’m a graduate student at USC.  I’m currently living in an apartment with three other roommates, my dog, and my roommate’s dog.

And now we come to the problem—my roommate’s dog.  The beast has currently dragged me into a psychological warzone.

It all started a couple weeks ago when my roommate decided that because my pet is so well behaved her dog, Jet, could come live with us as well.  With no complains (as I’ve grown up with all sorts of dogs) Jet came to live with us.

It is only now that I’ve determined that Jet is smarter than he looks.  Sure he drools incessantly and barks at dust bunnies, but behind those vacant eyes lies the mind of a master strategist.

Recently, I’ve discovered that Jet responds to the statement, “Do you wanna go for a ride?”  Every time I said this, he would run over to me and begin jumping up and down, while howling in pleasure. 

I thought it was cute, but now I think Jet really expected to go on a ride.  So when I didn’t actually take him anywhere, he began his personal vendetta against me and my clothes.

All of my life, I’ve been told that I shouldn’t leave my clothes on the floor, and now I know why—Jet.  He has begun to sneak into my room when no one is looking, just so that he can pee on my clothes.

He isn’t doing this in anyone else’s room—just mine.  Which is how I know he is trying to make me suffer.

The first casualty in the war was my jeans.  At the time, I didn’t realize that I was being targeted so I continued in blissful ignorance while the evil genius plotted my demise.

The second and third casualties were my backpack and a t-shirt.  They died a joint death, but served the purpose of alerting me to my foe. 

The fourth victim of this war died today and confirmed my fears that Jet is out to get me.

Oh, I am so on to you mister.

After asking Jet “do you wanna go for a ride?” he immediately went into my room and made his move. 

But unbeknownst to Jet, we were actually going to go somewhere.  So when the time came to leave, I went into my room to change clothes.  Seeing an only-worn-once bra on the floor, I decided to put that on. 

Big mistake. 

As soon as I had it half on, the damp urinated truth hit me.  Jet had peed on my bra.

Sure, when I confronted him he looked at me with his stupid drooling face, but I know the truth. 

I know what you are even if your master believes that you’re a big sweetie pie.  You’re evil.  And now that I know the truth—I’m going to get you.

You may have won some battles, but I’m going to win this war.  Even if it means having to pee on your favorite stuffed animal. 

I.  Will.  Win.

Like Florence and the Machine, I Wish the Dog Days Were Over

As I type these words, I am currently watching a dog show up in Greenville, SC.  My mom is a dog breeder, and she really wanted to come, so I agreed to go with her. 

I have spent the majority of my life surrounded by hundreds of dogs of all different varieties, but I’ve never attended (as far as I can recall) an event like this.

Here is what I’ve learned—dog people, at least of the top show dog quality, are freaks.  I’m not even watching the dogs anymore.  Their owners are far funnier. 

Let me explain.  The first thing my mother wanted to do was to walk around to all of the booths to look at the current trends and accessories in dog fashion, jewelry, food, hairstyles, chew toys, etc…

My favorite among these was the Thundershirt.  Which may sound extremely awesome, but the image that came along with this piece of dog fashion was greatly amusing.  The Thundershirt is supposed to fit snuggly around a dog causing them to behave in a complacent matter.  No more excess barking, leash pulling, or anxiety.

Of course the dog is going to behave complacently…they can’t move.  And as for barking, how can you bark when you can’t breathe?

They should just advertise the Thundershirt for what it really is—a straight jacket for dogs.

Besides on the back of the box, it said that similar pressure wraps had been used on people with autism.

I didn't know whether to be shocked and appalled or to give the dog people credit.  Afterall, humanity has so many issues with product testing done on animals that its rather ridiculous to think that some dog products are tested on humans.

Secondly, a dog show is the only place that I’ve ever heard where people can walk around and say things like, “What an ugly bitch.” “Who let that bitch in here?” or “I bet every male in this place wants to jump that bitch.”

Every time someone said it I started snickering.  I couldn’t help it.  Why can’t they just say female.  I have a theory, and I'll share it.

Dog people secretly enjoy calling their opponents bitches.

Think about it.  If you could call pretty much everyone you hated a bitch without repercussions, wouldn’t that feel wonderful?

Another thing I noticed was that the breeders began to empathize too readily with the dogs.  So much so that some of them took on doggy qualities without seeming to notice.

There was one breeder who placed a treat in front of her dog, and then as soon as the dog got a good bite out of the treat, she took it away from the dog and ate it herself.

She.  Ate.  The.  Dog.  Treat.

All I could think of was the scene in Lady and the Tramp where the two dogs share a plate of spaghetti.  But there really isn’t a comparison.  Lady and the Tramp had far superior tastes.

At least in the relationship between the breeder and the dog, its easy to spot the “female”—it's the dumb bitch.

And the final thing that sent me into hysterics were the ladies who couldn’t distinguish between their dogs and their children.   I saw a lady walking her daughter around the ring on a leash.  Really? REALLY? 

Let the judge examine her teeth and walk her around the ring one more time.  Then, who knows, your daughter may just win best in show. 

And I really hope that you haven’t spayed and neutered your daughter any more than your psychotic parenting already has.

I really do feel bad for the daughter.  She’s probably going to grow up believing that she’s a Chihuahua or Saint Bernard or Weimaraner or whatever obscure breed of dog her mother shows.

I’m just glad my mother never treated me like a dog in any capacity.  Now excuse me—I have to go.  My mom wants me to “fetch” her another brochure.

How My Sister Tried to Seduce My Hand

This weekend, I went home to visit my family.  Everything seemed normal until Saturday night.

My sister and I still have to share a queen size bed whenever we are home.  But we’ve been sharing a bed for years, so that isn’t too bad.  I’m used to it.

I was extremely tired on Saturday, so I decided to go to bed early.  My sister on the other hand had to work until 11:00.

So after blissfully entering the realm of the unconscious, I didn’t notice when my sister entered the room and fell asleep beside me.

It didn’t start getting weird until around two o’clock in the morning.  I was awakened by something touching my hand.  I looked over at my sister, and immediately found the reason.  She was holding and caressing my hand. 

Along with these caresses, she was also kissing my hand.  It was like watching a gentleman caller brushing his lips against the hand of his ladylove.

As if this wasn't enough, between the kisses, she kept whispering, “I love you.”

     *Kiss* 

          I love you. 

               *Kiss* 

                    I love you. 

                         *Kiss* 

                              I love you.

She managed to land three kisses on my hand before my brain finally jumped from snooze into hyper drive.  I jerked away from my sister. 

For a second, I thought she was joking around—I was about to punch her in the arm for being a weirdo at two in the morning, but I quickly discovered that she was sound asleep.

Feeling very awkward, I turned away from my sister and tried to reestablish REM.

In the morning, when she was finally awake, I asked her about it, but she doesn’t remember anything.  No hand kissing.  No whispered “I love you’s.”  No dreams.  Nothing.

I may not know what she was dreaming about, but I’ve made my own conclusions as to why she was so turned on by my hand—to the unconscious person, I am undeniably sexy.  

Even something as small as my hand is simply irresistible. 

To: Stubbs - From: Karma

A little background on my younger brother, Stubbie—He isn’t the nicest person to be around.  He curses a lot and tends to make fun of less fortunate people.  He also has a thing for racy, outrageous t-shirts.  He wears them just to upset people—especially our mother.

So for Christmas last year, his girlfriend began searching the world wide web for the perfect shirt. 

After hours of tireless searching, his girlfriend came across a shirt that she found particularly funny.  Not wanting to waste money on a t-shirt that he might not like, she then called him into the room to see if the shirt would pass inspection.

Here is an image of the shirt:

Here is what my brother saw:

The following conversation ensued:

Girlfriend:            You really don’t see it?

Stubbs:            See what?

Girlfriend:            What the shirt says.

Stubbs:            It’s just a blob of circles.

*insane laughter from girlfriend*

Stubbs:            WHAT?!

That's karma's way of giving you the middle finger.  Merry Christmas, Stubbs… Oh and by the way, you’re colorblind.

P.S. –  For all of the colorblind out there who can't read the words written on the shirt, it says “fuck the colorblind.”  I love my brother, but all that I can say on that matter is - irony.

Horse Necrophilia

For the last couple of months, before I was accepted in the graduate program at USC, I temporarily got a job at an insurance investigation company.  Just saying that I worked for investigators made me feel like I had just stepped into a James Bond movie.

Avant.  Tiffany Avant.

So, on my first day of worked, I was super pumped.  I dressed quickly and even did a dramatic slide over the hood of my car before jumping inside and speeding off to work.

For the entire drive to work, I had the song “Secret Agent Man” stuck in my head.  But I couldn’t help it.  In my mind… I was a spy.

It wasn’t until I got to my new job that I had my illusion completely destroyed.

Now just for reference.  My dad’s side of the family is very, very rednecky.  So much so that Jeff Foxworthy is their idea of high society.  At any of our family reunions, there is usually one guy (not necessarily the same guy every time) who isn’t related to anyone, but somehow got invited. 

This guy, the one without teeth, who is drinking beer from a tea pitcher, will then decide that you are the hottest thing since Cindy Crawford.  From there on out, its very hands on.  He starts touching you inappropriately while laughing at his own perverted jokes.

Feeling uncomfortable yet?

Well, this investigation company was very much like that guy-- working there made me feel as if I was about to get physically and mentally raped.

After training at the corporate office, I thought I was prepared for anything.

For this job, I was responsible for managing the investigators.  It was going to be my job to make sure that they turned in their notes on time—since they didn’t seem to be capable of doing that, even though they’d been lectured about punctuality on numerous occasions.

So, after a couple of days of notelessness from one of the investigators, I sent him an email that went something like this:

I know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times, and I don’t really want to beat a dead horse about this; however, I really need for you to turn your notes in on time.  I can’t finish my work without those notes.  So please email them to me as soon as you can.  Thanks.

Now I didn’t think anything about this email after I sent it, but apparently I underestimated the ignorance level/redneckyness of my new job and co-workers.

The very next day, my boss pulls me aside and informs me that it is inappropriate for me to say that one of the investigators is having sex with dead horses.

WHAT?!?!

It was then that I knew I had to quit.

The investigator, somehow, got it into his head that I was accusing him of fucking dead horses. 

I just wanted his notes and instead got the strangest office protocol lecture in the history of office protocol lectures.

So much for being a super sexy agent in a 007 film.

I Was "Apparently" That Girl...

All throughout my Middle School and some of my High School years, when most people were starting to join cliques, I didn’t quite fit in with anyone.  I was that girl.  You know the one?  The loner, weirdo girl with no friends?  Well, I was that girl.

I had no real friends.  I was awkward, silent, and creepy.  The only person that wasn’t afraid to speak to me was a punk rockish girl named Jesse who seemed to go out of her way to say hi to me—not in a good way, but in an “I feel sorry for you” way.  Sometimes her constant habit of trying to be nice would annoy me because she seemed friendly, but she never wanted to really hang out or get to know me.

It wasn’t until years later (after we had truly become friends) that I found out the reason for her supposed friendliness.

Years later, while we were hanging out, I finally asked her about it. 

Me:            “Do you remember when we were in Middle School?  What was with the pity hellos?  Why did you do that?”

            Jesse:            “Do you really wanna know?”

            Me:            “Yes.”

            Jesse:            “You were the one.”

            *awkward silence*

            Me:            “What do you mean by that?”

Jesse:            “Well, if anyone in the school was going to snap and eventually blow half the school away, it was going to be you.  I just wanted you to think I was nice.  You know… just in case.”

Touché, Jesse.  Touché.  You were wise beyond your years and for that... I let you live.

It's the Frog Hat, Isn't It?

I’m slowly losing confidence.  Not one person, other than my friends Rachael and Danielle, has decided that my blog is worth following.  Very discouraging. 

And absolutely no one has commented on any of my posts.  Just one little comment would be appreciated.  Even a “you suck” comment would be worthwhile because at least then I wouldn’t feel bad about quitting.   

However, this eerie silence from the blog community has caused insecurity. 

“What’s wrong?  Is there something on my face?  Did I say something wrong?  What?  It’s my frog hat, isn’t it?”

If there’s something wrong with me, let’s just get this over and break up already.  Go ahead.  Tell me.  I can handle it.

It’s not you.  It’s me.

Educational Alcohol at 8 O'clock in the Morning

For the last two days, I’ve been drinking non-stop from 8 a.m. – 6 p.m.  And before you think I’m a drunken alcoholic, reconsider.  This wasn’t just drinking.  This was tasting.  I’m currently enrolled in a wine class at USC, which means that I have to drink for academic purposes.  That’s right – academia.

Now, not only was I “forced” to drink 40 different varieties of wine on Saturday and Sunday, but I also had to learn everything that has ever been learned about wine.

Now, maybe it’s just me, but doesn’t that seem contradictory?

They want me to drink a ton of wine—to the point that I have a nice buzz—then they want me to learn stuff.  I may not be a teacher, but I’m pretty sure that isn’t a good idea.

“Drink this.  And this.  Oh this too.  Now, what type of soil is famous in the Médoc Region of the Loire Valley in France?”

Drinking makes people act like stupid idiots; however, the teachers from the Master Sommelier Guild demanded perfect memory recall.  Then again, they’re Master Sommeliers—they must have built an extreme alcohol immunity.  Unfortunately, I hadn’t built that high a tolerance.  Which made this one of the hardest classes I have ever taken. 

Trying to remember everything about wine from France, Italy, Spain, New Zealand, Australia, South America, South Africa, Portugal, Madeira, and the U.S. along with information on beer, spirits, and wine serving techniques is hard enough sober.  But I had to do it buzzed.

But if you’re wondering, I passed the final exam—but barely.  I’m excited to announce that I’m officially an introductory level sommelier.

And what do you think I did after passing this exam?  A smarter person probably would have gone home and slept or watched the Super Bowl with some friends, but I never claimed to be a smarter person—especially after consuming glass after glass of wine.  I just had to celebrate this momentous occasion.

Now how to celebrate?  I know!  Champagne!  So a fellow classmate and I went to the nearest bar and celebrated by drinking yet another couple glasses of wine (including champagne) and eating victory cheesecake.

Weekend well spent.

Dog Vodka

While surfing around on the internet as a I tend to do when I get bored, I came across a recipe for Skittles vodka.  And then I thought, “Hey, I like Skittles.  I like Vodka.  Let’s make this happen.  I wanna taste the rainbow.” 

So yesterday after class, I stopped to pick up some Skittles, vodka, and a case of water bottles. 

Last night, I began.   The first aspect of my work that might have looked bizarre was the assortment of glasses, cups, mugs, and bowls I had strewn all over the table.  Let me explain.  In order for me to do this recipe, I needed empty water bottles.  So I had to empty the water out of the bottles that I had just bought.

Now, I’m of the “waste not, want not” persuasion, so there was no way that I was pouring all of that water down the sink, and I couldn’t find a single container that was large enough to hold it all.  So, instead, I just began to pour the water into whatever cup, mug, glass, vase, or bowl that I could find.  I’m sure that I looked like some insane water hoarder.

Then I began to sort the Skittle and to place them, one at a time, into their corresponding empty water bottles.

All during this process, as I’m meticulously sorting the Skittles into empty water bottles at a table full of assorted water containers, my roommates began to return to the apartment.  Each one walked in, stood by the table watching me, and then walked away.  No one said anything.

I’ve decided this is either for one of two reasons:

Reason 1:

That’s just the way I am.  I’m weird.  Returning to the apartment and seeing me hunched over the dining room table as I sort Skittles into water bottles like a gorilla mom picking lice off of a baby chimp, is nothing exciting.  Just an average day in my life.

Even, if they walked in and I was chopping up body parts dressed as a psycho clown, I don’t think that they would care.

"Oh, there goes that crazy Tiffany again.  What she doing today?  Chopping someone up while in a clown costume.  Okay, whatever.  Who wants pizza?"

Reason 2:

The Vodka.  

There I was being my normal crazy self beside a very large bottle of vodka.  Which may have caused them to think I’d had a little bit too much to drink before deciding that I needed to start some crazed Skittle experiment.

Once the I was finished, the Skittles were left to dissolve in vodka; however, the problem arose of what to do with all of the remaining water.  I couldn't leave all of those glasses of water on the table.

There was only one solution… Dog Vodka.

I cleaned the empty vodka bottle and put all of the water inside.  I now use that Smirnoff bottle full of water to fill my dog’s water bowl--my dog only deserves the best. 

I can hardly wait for my parents to visit so that they can see how responsible and mature I am when I pour my dog a long stiff bowl of the good stuff.

"The Professor"

I am currently a graduate student at USC, and in order to pay for college, I had to accept and assistantship. The guidelines of said assistantship state that I have to work for one of my professors for 10 hours every week.

Well, as I’m a new student, I didn’t really know any of the professors. So with high hopes and an optimistic outlook, I went to meet the man I’d be working under for the remainder of my time as a graduate student.

After knocking on his office door, I entered his office. Immediately the world seemed to darken. Starting at the base of my spine and then slowly spreading throughout my body, crushing any optimistic feelings I had previously built up, was a feeling of dread and trepidation.

Why you ask was fear slowly creeping into my system? Well, I’ll tell you.

Sitting behind the desk in the office was the creepiest guy I’ve ever met. He exuded a presence of what I would like to call “Hello boys and girls.  I’m a cannibalistic, child molesting rapist.”

If you still don’t quite understand… When the Boogeyman goes to sleep at night, he makes his mommy check the closet for this guy. Yes, he’s that scary.

On this first encounter with “The Professor,” he was busy with paperwork and couldn’t meet with me, so I narrowly avoided certain death; however, I had to reschedule my meeting with him for the next week.

Days went by that were filled with puppy dogs, smiley faces, and rainbows, but always at the back of my mind was the nagging fear of “The Professor.” For the day loomed ever closer when I would belong to the monster.

On the Tuesday we had scheduled to meet, I could barely concentrate. But the time had come to face my fears.

Sharpening his claws and licking his chomps, “The Professor” was waiting in his lair. As I entered—a stroke of luck—he was on the phone. I wouldn’t have to talk to him immediately. He swiped his claws at me and growled to go downstairs to see my advisor.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. Any excuse to avoid my demise seemed like a good idea to me. I ran down the stairs to meet with my advisor—my lifeline as it turned out. For scheduling purposes, my advisor informed me that I would be reassigned to work with a different professor.

I didn’t really listen to anything she said after that as my world had returned to puppy dogs, smiley faces, and rainbows.

Now that classes are in full swing, I’m so glad that I didn’t fall prey to “The Professor;” however, his memory lingers on—even now—a month later. Whenever I am forced to pass his office for classes, I still scurry by and avert my eyes with a constant reminder of the fear and oppression that could have been mine.

Oh, and by the Way...

Left Brain can suck it.

How I Hospitalized Someone Using Only My Sheer Awesomeness

During those harsh winter months of the year, when cold and frost rears its ugly head, I suit myself in my green coat and matching green hat; however, when I’m thus armored to battle the cold, I tend to attract attention.

What you need to understand is that my green hat happens to be a frog hat. So, while I’m staying toasty warm, I have a tendency to look like a life-sized Kermit the Frog—Yes, I know that’s awesome.

I told you that, to tell you this. I just recently graduated from Clemson University in South Carolina with my undergraduate degree in English. Now, while walking around campus, I always imagined myself to be in a real life game of Frogger. I would cross streets and imagine that I was hopping towards my fly-ridden destiny.

Now, do you know those shows on T.V. where idiots doing amazingly stupid things? You know, the ones with the warning labels, “Do not attempt these stunts at home?” Well, my life is rather like those shows. In that I’m a professional at awesomeness, and should not be imitated. Here’s why…

First, I must say that I like myself too much to actually run out into oncoming traffic; however, someone else in Clemson seems to have seen me and then gotten the idea that real life Frogger is a good idea. He was wrong. Oh boy, was he wrong. While walking near the campus, the man was talking to some of his buddies about—you guessed it—the game Frogger. He then yelled, “GO!” and ran out into oncoming traffic. Just so you know, I couldn’t make stuff like this up.

If you haven’t guessed the outcome of this scenario by now, let me just say that it involved our friend the frog and the front of an oncoming SUV. After some intense hospitalization and hopefully some mental therapy, he was finally released back into the wild.

Moral of the Story: There are certain levels of awesomeness—from getting the last piece of cake—to—OH MY GOSH! That polar bear just saved a bunch of depraved, starving orphans while riding a motorcycle through a ring of fire and singing the national anthem backwards.

I my friends, am that bear. I know that I make it look easy, but I’m a professional. Don’t try this at home.

Challenge Accepted

Ever been in a staring contest with yourself? And if you have, I bet you probably lost.

Well, a staring contest with myself is the best explanation as to why I’m writing this blog. However, I want you to understand that my opponent in the Battle of Blinkery (namely my Left Brain) is armed with a rather large stick, and according to the rules, he can legal commit an eye gouging in order to secure his victory. Which is completely unfair, but eye splinters or not, I don’t plan on blinking anytime soon.

To clear things up, I’ve made a wager with myself. Today, the left side of my brain (the logical side) was talking with the right side of my brain (the creative side) and their argument pretty much went as follows:

Right – I should write a blog. I have all of these ideas that I feel should be written down.

Left – Ha ha ha. *bent over in insane laughter* You couldn’t right a blog if you tried. You have the attention span of a diseased monkey with A.D.D. hyped up on sugar and crack cocaine. Why can't you just throw poo around like a good little monkey?

Right – I can too write a blog. In fact, I am going to write a blog.

Left – It won’t last. I bet you couldn’t even keep it going for a week.

Then after further bickering and some rather foul name calling on behalf of my right brain, the bet was agreed upon. I have to write a blog for at least a month with stipulations including at least two posts per week.

So even as I type...

Ouch!!!

Left Brain has begun to poke me with his stick. But all I have to say is...

Challenge accepted, Left Brain. It is on.

P.S. - Does anyone else think my brain looks like chewed up bubble gum? Which, come to think of it, is pretty accurate.