Back in October, I was rear-ended by a child with no car insurance, just as I was beginning the process of switching jobs and losing my own spectacular health insurance. I happened to be on the phone with therapist-fiancé at the time, when I heard squealing tires and thought to myself, “Who is that obnoxious jerk doing doughnuts in the adjacent parking lot??” As a result, I was craning my neck to cast a judgmental stare in the rear-view mirror when I was suddenly jolted forward. While my good old bucket o’ bolts survived with nary a scratch, the offending vehicle crumpled like the dirty banana peel the driver claimed it slipped on. I thought I was fine, because at first, there was no pain. A few weeks later though, there came excruciating pain, and months later a dull ache persists, and at times, seems to be worsening. In the beginning, I followed the best advice I could find, staying mobile in private while publicly claiming I was paralyzed to get favors, but over time, due to the stress of moving and beginning a new job, I forgot about the daily exercises and exercise in general.

Just a few weeks ago, I quit that new job, and now, I am unemployed. And I’m struggling.

Not just physically. I am in a place in my life where I am really feeling yesterday’s mistakes, maybe even developing “regrets,” a word I have previously never believed in, because without yesterday, I wouldn’t be where I am today. But now I have to look around and wonder–exactly where the hell am I?

The first week of unemployment brought much frustration. Already, while still employed, I had been sending out resumes and had gone on a single interview (which bombed), with zero results. I started going over and over my resume, trying to explain in cover letters that though I didn’t have experience under THAT particular job title, I had cumulative experience that no doubt would prepare me for whatever they wanted (answering complex phone lines, butt-kissing, coffee runs, blood sacrifices, etc.). Focusing so much on my resume had me recollecting all of my past achievements but also all of my missteps. Should have stayed at that job longer. Should have never started in that field. Should have continued school. Should have taken up knitting and started an Etsy page. I also recalled all of the reasons I ended up forsaking my original field of study, all of the depression and confusion surrounding my exit from college. My resume is just a butterfly bandage, bridging the gory gap between my decorated school days and my current stability. Things haven’t quite healed in between.

This past weekend, the fact that wounds are still fresh became dreadfully apparent when I had an emotional breakdown focused on how I felt stuck, unable to move forward with my goals and beginning to see that I could NEVER achieve the goals I once thought possible. I was a loser, a quitter, a cruddy decision maker, unqualified for adult life, and dirt poor. I am hardworking, but hard work doesn’t pay the bills anymore. I could never be an author, an artist, an engineer, a mom. I could never teach at a university, I could never study computers or ancient literature or trees. I just couldn’t, and so I fell in a heap on the bed under a blanket, tears streaming silently, until therapist-fiancé came in and saw a comfy looking heap of blankets and decided to climb in bed next to it and hold it for a while.

And then today, it hit me, pun thoroughly intended. I have whiplash of the soul. I was forced to quickly deal with a group of very serious and simultaneous crises in my life, “crashes,” if you will. With the first major crash, having surgery to remove a malignant tumor, I quite literally feared it was the end, and I was sent headlong into visions of an apparently short future. This was followed by intense reflection on the past, coupled with nostalgia and a desire for familiar comforts. I then returned to a painful present, and healing took years of effort, and my progress in the work force came to a hault. There have been a number of subsequent ripple effects, each a minor crash of sorts, but this latest crash of being unemployed is the most severe since the surgery. Having no income while in a large amount of debt creates an initial panic that can set off all sorts of other underlying storms. With the end of that job, I was sent headlong into another bleak future, followed by examining the past by way of my resume and then finally settling into an uncomfortable present.

So if today marks the first day after the screeching of the tires stops, I need a plan to getting better. I suppose the first step is recognizing that there are worse things in life—I’ve been through some of them, after all. From there, I need to see that the past is in the past, unchanging, and how you view it depends on the lens. My resume is a good lens through which employers can view my past, but it is not the sum of who I am as a person, not by a long shot. And the future? The future is useful in planning for dreams or disaster, but the only certain thing about it is that it isn’t a certainty. If I’m going to allow for doom and gloom, I must also allow for unmitigated success and blessings, knowing the result will likely fall somewhere in between. In the meantime, I’m going to start stretching my neck again. I want to go back to the things I know I am good at, and build on that. I want to write more. I want to study computer programs online. Maybe I’ll get a certification in something useful. Maybe I’ll sell a large number of handcrafted, clay, narwhal figurines to my excellent friends and family (they make great jewelry holders!) and start my own narwhal figurine company. Or maybe I’ll just successfully network and work my way up in a normal company. Worst case scenario, I end up on as a bag lady, but on the upside, I’ll have more time to blog and I won’t have to drive anywhere.


Growing up, there was a time when I was taking six pills twice a day, and three inhalers to boot.  I could also eat double cheeseburgers until the cows came home (and discovered their friend Bessy was missing…) and drink pop and dairy non-stop with seemingly little effect.  My metabolism was a raging fire that easily devoured everything in its path.

These days, perhaps because I’m eating so cleanly, but maybe more due to my mitral valve prolapse and good-old, old age, I am extremely sensitive to everything that I put in my body.

The last time I took a single over-the-counter pill of ibuprofen, I felt like my heart was beating so slowly it would just stop.  The last time I took a single Benadryl, I was driving home–I began wildly swerving before boyfriend-therapist insisted I pull over.  After he took the wheel, I kept waking up gasping in twenty minute intervals, convinced I was still driving and that I had just ran over a bus carrying a clown basketball team.  That’s a basketball team made up of clowns, for clarification.  I tried to find a picture, but it seems that is only the stuff of narcotic nightmares.  The drive home was two hours.

Long gone are the days of over-medication for me, and obviously, I no longer take ibuprofen and try to avoid Benadryl.  But there is one drug I just can’t quit: caffeine.  Caffeine is praised as a wonder drug that the zombies of our nation absolutely depend on, and for good reason.  Every time I drink it, I feel focused, energetic, like I could lift a car off a baby.  My vocabulary gets better.  I have ninja reflexes.  I can play the piano so fast, the keyboard ignites.  But then, just before the crash comes, my trip departs from Happy Sunshine Land and passes through Paranoid Gloom Dungeon, the place in your brain that is normally locked up and contains government conspiracies, the realization that your body is essentially done growing and is now slowly dying a cell at a time, and the image of that guy on the bus who is menacingly staring at you and ONLY YOU.

I kind of imagine the brain as a little nation, filled with Dreamers and Schemers, and kept in check by a little police force called Rational Thinking.  Caffeine comes in and offers the Rational Thinking its finest sprinkle donuts, and while they’re distracted, the Dreamers take off, climbing mountains and finally reorganizing all those photos on your laptop into perfect, easy-to-find categories.  As the Dreamers are achieving all their awesome goals in Sunshine Land, however, the traitors in the CIA are hacking into the electronic locks on the Paranoid Gloom Dungeon, and then BAM–thunder and clouds come, and your darkest fears emerge as the Schemers from below, chasing the Dreamers with their terrifying hook-hands.

In reality, it just manifests itself as a pit in my stomach, dizziness, irritability, depressing thoughts, and indigestion.  And depending on the strength and time-span of the dose of caffeine, I may also end up with a lot of projects started but uncompleted.

The only way to complete those projects?  More caffeine, or three days of detox–the first day to vegetate, the second to cry about how depressed and unmotivated I am, the third to actually wash my hair and accomplish some things.  More caffeine is a dangerous option, because it is expensive and causes heart palpitations.  It’s also usually in the form of coffee for me, which blocks iron absorption (I lean toward anemia), causes crashes later, is acidic in the body, aggravates my migraines, and gives me diarrhea.  I would risk another Ebola scare to finally finish that shamrock painting I started three years ago though.  Great art requires sacrifices sometimes.  And less caffeine?  Less caffeine isn’t always an option, because if I have to be somewhere that requires a good mood and energy, a lack of caffeine could result in the murder of anyone who crosses me–as in literally walks in front of me.

So you see, it is quite easy to become a slave to this drug, especially when it is the most socially accepted addiction I can think of.  I have an actual account, linked to my phone, with the good people of Starbucks.  I have had gold member status with them for the last five years.  I HAVE A PROBLEM.

Ican’tbreathe, Ican’tbreathe, Ican’tbreathe…Ahhhhh, much better.

So what then is the solution?  I have tried limiting myself, switching to chai, buying nasty herbal tea “coffee” mixes, giving it up for Lent, and bribing myself with other treats.  I even take note of how much better I feel when I’ve managed to be off the stuff for any significant amount of time and the fact that if I took all the money I would normal spend on coffee, I could actually pay off my student loans before I die.  But then I have one terrible day at work, or I think I should treat myself, or all the cool kids are drinking it, and I cave.   And then the cycle continues.

Yesterday though, I met up with a friend who has been coffee-free for the last two months.  I immediately felt a sadness for him, the kind that everyone else must feel for me when they realize I don’t eat cheese anymore, but then I felt inspired.  If he can do it, I can do it.  The craziest part is that I already have done it–I made it all the way through college and then some before I even started drinking the stuff.  I just need to find a different, steadier way to energize, and a temporary replacement treat to break the habit.  I recently began a yoga series on YouTube, and I’ve been eating a bit of chocolate here and there.  Unfortunately, I don’t think the chocolate is going to work out, because I can only eat dark chocolate, and that does have enough caffeine to affect me.  That and for some reason, every time I eat it at home, I drop some, fall asleep, and wake up with chocolate all over my body. I know it sounds sexy, but it’s not, because melted chocolate tends to look a lot like poo.

All that from a piece of chocolate smaller than my thumbnail.



Suggestions for a better replacement addiction, edible or not, are more than welcome in the comments…

On German Names and Scavenger Games

(Note:  Truly, I am trying from this point forward to post more often than every six months.  In my defense, I’ve been a tid bit busy.  See below…)

This is way overdue, but I have a tale to tell…

Two months ago, my blogger friend almostfarmgirl (Cherity), her cousin (Katie), my three roommates, our mutual friend, several other of my friends, and one brother of mine were all involved in an elaborate scavenger hunt sponsored by Katie’s church.  My therapist-boyfriend was supposed to come, but he cancelled last minute (I let him off easy since he had just gone with me to Arizona and California, where he treated me to the most DELICIOUS. VEGAN. RESTAURANT. EVER. [more on that forever]).  I was invited to this scavenger hunt by Katie, on the basis of it being something to do before Cherity’s bonfire party later that evening.

It’s not a bonfire at Cherity’s if the flames aren’t three times the height of the llamas.

Katie encouraged me to invite a friend…and somehow we ended up driving two cars full of people down to Cherity’s farm (on which Katie’s house is also located).  It seemed that my roommates were way more into scavenger hunts than I supposed–willing in fact to drive with me for two and a half hours there.

Once we arrived at Katie’s, she informed us that she had possession of the first clue and knowledge of the locations of all the subsequent clues due to the church having poor attendance at the event and wanting to cancel because of the light rain that was promised.  Since Katie had so many people attending, they let her run it herself.  Since I was the only one of my group who had any knowledge of the area besides Katie, I took the first clue, and was surprised to recognize it immediately.  We hopped back in the car to drive to the location–a well-known mansion that was a replica of a castle in France (apparently the daughter of the family who built it came home from a trip to Europe, said, “Daddy, I want a castle,” and no expense was spared.  I tried that once.  I got some Polly Pockets).

Eh, that works.

At the castle, we found another clue, which I was again pleased to figure out quickly.  I called the therapist-boyfriend to brag about finally seeing the inside of that castle he liked, and he seemed unphased, much to my disappointment in wanting to guilt-trip him.

At clue four, I mentioned to my two roommates in the car how these clues were oddly specific to important dates on which the therapist-boyfriend and I had gone over the last year.  They assured me they were just popular locations in the area.  Then I stepped in goose poop.

At clue five, in a favorite coffee shop, there was a random girl recording my entrance and a necklace hanging with the clue.  Upon slowly opening this last clue, I only saw the last three lines that said, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” before nearly falling over.  I managed to read it out loud for everyone, breaking into tears at the end, as I finally came to grips with what was happening.

The last clue led back to the farm, and as I jumped out of the car, there was therapist-boyfriend, waiting with roses and an umbrella.  The rain stopped, and he threw aside the umbrella and got down on one knee, and I, of course (knowing the value of free therapy for life), said yes.  So therapist-boyfriend has now become therapist-fiance. 🙂

As romantic as this sounds, I would like to point out several truths:

1) Thinking I was going on a quick scavenger hunt outdoors before brunch, I did not shower, put on deodorant, brush my teeth, or put on makeup, as I was planning on doing all of that later.

2) During the actual proposal, my pants were falling off.  In one picture, you can see my crack.  There is also audio of me whispering, “I love you…wait…my pants are falling off…”

3) There is hardly anyone in my life I can trust now.  Everyone knew, some for months, and no one let it slip.  My parents, my boss, my friends.  Even the llamas.

4) I do not want to change my last name, because I have grown fond of it–it is a strong German name, akin to Burgermeister Meisterburger, very unique, and the basis of many of my nicknames.  But I do want to hyphenate, and given that therapist-fiance also has a strong German surname, my full last name will soon have fifteen letters with a few instances of alliteration, and will legally require a pronunciation guide.

Thankfully, the next day we were invited back to the castle to take pictures, and having ample time to prepare, I did not resemble Gollum in the slightest.

^ My true form.

So there you have it.  Therapist-fiance did good, even though I may never trust him or any of my friends or loved ones ever again.

Heck. No.

I’ll Shave My Legs When I Feel Like It

Women in America are doing alright. I mean, the majority of the people living here agree that women are people with rights, they are allowed to vote, they can wear pants, etc. It’s just accepted that while they *can* do everything, they might not be as good at it—women aren’t as strong, so they aren’t as important in the military or any sort of heavy manual labor, and their brains are too clouded with emotions to handle science or math. They have their strengths talents though—they are much better at cleaning, and their constant, shrill nagging is how dumb man-beasts function once they become husbands, and especially after becoming fathers (dads are the DUMBEST).

This is what I’m picking up from modern, American advertising, anyway. After watching one hour of daytime television, I’ve compiled a pretty thorough list of items that men and women use, and who uses what.

Women use:

  • Paper towels
  • Laundry soap
  • Dish soap
  • Just…soap
  • Glade plug-ins
  • Bleach products
  • Frozen dinners (tiny ones for dieting, big ones for the family)

Men use:

  • Beer

“Wait!” you say, “Advertising today portrays strong moms who do it all, and it’s ten times better than those tire ads in the ‘60s!”

Your wife’s greatest fear is navigating heavy airport traffic at night in her high heels, but hell if you’re spending your hard-earned, masculine dollars on a cab!

True, women aren’t portrayed as little better than dogs in their yogurt commercials these days, but there is still an underlying disdain for “weak,” i.e. “female” traits, even in ads geared toward women. Rather than correct this problem and portray strong (but not shrew-like), compassionate females in healthy, loving, families, they just even the score by making their male counterparts lazy, incompetent, oversized children.

Women of America, is this the sort of man you find attractive?

But of course, from a very young age, we’re told that’s just how it is. Men are dogs, women have to clean up after them, or no one else will. Boys play with guns, and our only weapons are bitchiness or sex. You can only shop in the girl sections (literally painted pink at Target, to avoid gender confusion at such an impressionable age) where you can pick from pastel pink Legos, kitchen sets, hair and makeup training kits, and princess accessories. If you’re a boy, you can only have violent and gross toys, because only boys fart. Girls just hold it in, causing them to become hysterical and bleed once a month.

I was watching Survivor today (don’t ask), and there were three men on this one tribe, all ridiculously sexist, but all claiming to know how to “handle” the women on the tribe. One was your typical Boston bro, who was an overt sexist, claiming that one of the girls needed to be grabbed by the hair and spanked. One was an old loudmouth who said that there were “two ways of listening in this world: listening like a girl, and listening like a man.” He went on to explain that men listen but then try to fix the problem, because fixing stuff is exclusive to males. Women listen by empathizing only, and nodding their heads. This was immediately followed by the last guy, who told the loudmouth to apologize to one of the girls but keep it short because, “Girls don’t want an explanation—they just want to hear that they’re right.”


Still, I have faith that we can change this way of thinking, this brainwashing of our kids. I know a little boy who is terrified that his friends will find out that his favorite color is pink. When did pink become girly? It’s a color. It doesn’t make that N.E.R.F. gun or those Legos any more appropriate for girls than painting a jock strap Razzle Dazzle Rose–guns and bricks are appropriate for girls because they have hands. Let’s encourage kids to pick their own toys. Let’s teach our boys that clean laundry is essential for every human, and our girls that engineering things can be fun. Target needs to stop labeling their aisles, advertisers need to realize that single men use paper towels too, and everyone needs to realize that girls like my friend almostfarmgirl can kick their asses a dozen different ways, no lipstick required. I’m not saying that men and women don’t have differences; I’m just saying those differences aren’t universal or related to cleaning products, and we have a way to go yet when it comes to feminism and equal rights.

And don’t assume I’m stupid because I’m obsessed with sparkles. Sparkles are friggin awesome.

You know you want to snort it.

The Post Before I Start Posting About Christmas and Food (Alternate Title: Beets Are Frightening)

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!!!

I tried to post several times after my first entry, but since then, I was either purported to be sick or, like now, actually sick.  I’m pretty sure that all that purporting (read: extensive [and ultimately pointless] testing in the petri dishes known as hospitals and doctors’ offices) is what led to my current illness, the common cold.

Ah, the common cold–like Uncle Eddie, it shows up uninvited at the worst times and takes at least five days to shake.


What a coincidence. Standing in the snow in a revealing robe while smoking a cigar and draining my “sh*%%er” was exactly how I caught this virus.

I am bringing espresso brownies for everyone at Thanksgiving, but I’ve been nervous about cooking or baking with this cold.

OH, side blog!  I know I said this was the post before the post about Christmas and food, the two greatest loves of my life (sorry, therapist-boyfriend, you are but means to more food or presents of food), but I simply have to share this brownie recipe with you–I’ve made a few batches recently and people have raved about them.

~*~ Espresso Brownies ~*~


These brownies are fantastic for an all-night study session, a breakup, or a holiday celebrating coma-inducing carbs!  They can also be made dairy-free!

A word of caution: I know what you’re thinking. It may seem like a great idea to feed these to people in the morning, but prepare for an equal and devastating crash by the afternoon.  I recommend either delivering them as an afternoon pick-me-up, or doling them out one at a time in hour increments.  Not only are they baked AND dusted with espresso, but they’re probably 80% sugar.  Dairy-free? Sure.  Healthy? Definitely not.  Delicious enough to risk diabetes? Sweet sassy molassey, yes.

I don’t exaggerate their powers of pep either–one time, a roommate of mine got into these not knowing the magic ingredient, and when I came home, she was bouncing on the couch remarking on how much energy she had and how potent her usual chai latte seemed that morning.  Most recently, I used them to stay awake during a long drive home at night, instead of my usual method of slapping myself in the face.  By the second hour, instead of swerving from fatigue, I was swerving while trying to perform Flashdance in the car.


This is 100% doable at 80mph in the left lane.

Anywho, here’s what you need:

2 tablespoons instant espresso powder (plus extra for dusting)
2 tablespoons hot water
5 ounces bittersweet or semisweet (not unsweetened) chocolate
10 tablespoons unsalted butter (I used a coconut oil-based vegan butter)
1/2 cup all purpose flour
3/4 cup walnuts (or chocolate or carob chips if you hate nuts/nuts hate you)
2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa powder
1 ¼ cups sugar
4 large eggs (I have not yet attempted egg substitutes to veganize this)
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Powdered sugar for dusting

And here’s how to make it:

1) Preheat oven to 350°F.  Lightly butter a 13 x 9 x 2 inch glass baking dish, including the sides.
2) Dissolve 2 tablespoons espresso powder in 2 tablespoons hot water in medium saucepan.  Add chocolate and butter.  Stir over low heat until melted.
3) Combine flour, nuts, and cocoa powder in small bowl.
4) Whisk sugar, eggs, and vanilla in large bowl to blend.  Whisk in chocolate mixture, then flour mixture.
5) Pour batter into prepared pan.  Bake until tester inserted into center comes out with a few moist crumbs attached, about 30 minutes.
6) Transfer to rack and cool.  Dust with more espresso and powdered sugar.

Congratulations!  You now have a delicious pan of chocolate addiction.  I have made four batches this week.

So as I was saying, I’ve been a little concerned about this cold.  My therapist-boyfriend is bringing his parents to my parents’ house today, and I really don’t want to poison them all.  I’ve been cleaning and disinfecting everything I touch and baking with a mask on, and I’ve been trying to beat this cold with natural remedies: tablespoons of honey and cinnamon, gargling with salt water, kombucha, probiotic veggie juices, turmeric, echinacea, loads and loads of water, lots of rest, and beets.

I had never had beets until yesterday, when I had a carrot-apple-beet-turmeric juice cup from the new Mariano’s by my house.  It sounded and probably was very healthy.  I just wish I knew before I called the doctor’s office this morning in a panic that beets can cause red stool, sort of similar but ***critically different in ways*** to blood.  This alarming color, in combination from the stomach cramps from eating seven espresso brownies the night before, led to a fifteen minute game of twenty questions with an urgent care nurse, screening me for Ebola, varicose vein issues in my esophagus, ulcers, etc., etc., etc.

I hung up the phone, convinced I had some new strain of feverless Ebola or invisible cancer they missed on my last two scans this month (those fools!!!), and woke up my therapist-boyfriend.

“Hi honey.”

“Hey!  Good morning my love, Happy Thanksgiving!”

“I’m bleeding from the anus.”

Cut to fifteen minutes later, when I suddenly realized the contents of my toilet bowl looked suspiciously like the color of the juice I had last night.  I then ran downstairs and pounded on the bathroom door where he was showering.

“YES?!?” (clear alarm in his voice here)

“Can beets make your poo red???  I think I’m not dying!!!!!!!!!!”

I then ate several more espresso brownies in celebration.

Nut Cheese

Long ago in the mid ’00s, before Twitter trained people to portion their attention span into 150-character segments, I had a blog.  From a very young age, I have been inclined to write, whether it be short stories, essays, fake magazines, or dramatic diary entries about that one day at school when my crush clocked me in the head with a volleyball and then said my name while apologizing (squeeeee!).  The blogging era was an exciting time, because it gave me a chance to get feedback in the form of a significant audience and nerd boys flocked to my Lord-of-the-Rings-themed profile.  Recently, life began unexpectedly dumping buckets of horse crap on my head, and it’s too depressing to journal, so my therapist (whom some call my boyfriend…but we know the truth) suggested I pick up blogging again, partly for the catharsis and partly as a way to share the wisdom one acquires from repeated exposure to shampoo (“Ithankyou.”).  Nugget of Advice #1: Don’t let the fear of dung-rain hold you back, but always carry a quality umbrella.

So here I begin this new adventure, but there are two things I need to address first: the title of this blog, and the title of this entry.

Sometimes, you have to invent a friendly unicorn because life is boring and you need more sparkles.  And sometimes, you have to invent a unicorn that’s kind of an ***hole so you have someone to blame for all the glitter in your eyes.  I work for an endodontist, a dentist who specializes in root canals, and both she and I created the unicorn endodontist who sits behind me and whispers lies and slaps dental instruments out of my hands, resulting in a minefield of stabby things on the floor.  The unicorn endodontist loves glitter and tooth decay, eats mostly cupcakes, and as previously stated, is a compulsive liar.  We rarely talk about him (because that would only encourage him), except when we have nine-year-old girls in the chair, and even then, we’re usually the more amused by it.

It doesn’t take much to amuse me though.  “Nut cheese” is pretty hilarious.  Before you accuse me of being a pervert, nut cheese is totally a real thing, enjoyed by us “vegans.”  I put “vegans” in “quotes,” because “some people” think you shouldn’t call yourself a “vegan” if you occasionally “eat animals,” and count tuna “salad” as a “vegetable.”

I guess I’m not “vegan,” because I sometimes eat honey. Also “steak.”

Anyway, nut cheese is real–it’s a dairy-free cheese that’s easy to make.  All you have to do is soak your nuts before you crush them and…you know what, it’s just sounding worse and worse.  I’ll leave you to google that yourself.

Usually, I just say I’m “veganish,” or dairy-free, because it’s way easier than explaining all my dietary restrictions and their exceptions.  I do not eat any dairy, and on most days I eat no meat.  I occasionally eat eggs and fish, rarely white or red meat. I am allergic to peas and chickpeas, and I get nauseated or suffer from migraines if I eat too much soy or a significant amount of peanut butter.  Also, blueberries are disgusting.  Some of these restrictions are genetically predetermined, and some are self-imposed.

Torturing myself and giving up my beloved Colby was purely motivated by health concerns.  I had a small bout with cancer, and I read that a vegan diet helps maintain an environment inhospitable to cancer cells.  And by small, I mean they pulled a tumor the size of a two-liter of Dr. Pepper out of the place where my shriveled ovary used to be.  I named this alien child Blorgzsplerf, and I kind of miss him squishing my spleen. It’s all cool now, although I am continuously undergoing follow-up tests and things.  I often feel like a cancer survivor poser, because I didn’t even know I had cancer until it was taken out, and I didn’t need chemo or any other surgeries, just a lot of scans (I am really disappointed that I don’t glow or have any super powers given the amount of radioactive material I’ve been injected with thus far).  For a while at the beginning though, there was a period of uncertainty, and that was rather terrifying.  Terrifying enough to give up chocolate milk.

untitled (2)

It’s not.  But close.

So you see, sometimes life is insane, and you need to special-order nut cheese and invent a unicorn on which to blame your problems.  This can bring up a lot of feelings, hence my need for a blog.  I mean, I suppose I could have turned to cocaine or suduko, but I feel that through this form of expression, I might actually be able to give back.  My goal is to both inform and entertain the people closest to me, and anyone else who stumbles across this page and has a kindred spirit.  Nugget of Advice #2: Great friendships can start on the Internet–just confirm they aren’t a pedophile before adding them on Facebook.

More nuggets to come!