tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48045188435883733642024-03-13T04:30:01.549-06:00Plans for NigelAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.comBlogger93125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-10230601889815220962015-08-09T17:06:00.003-06:002015-08-09T19:55:21.732-06:00They Grow Up So Fast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-56250897932245345542015-05-23T12:07:00.003-06:002015-05-23T12:07:59.936-06:00Natural Beauty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-56738010115216667002015-05-12T09:37:00.002-06:002015-05-12T09:37:22.351-06:00Makeup, Makedown, Make It All Around<div style="text-align: center;">
I've always had somewhat of a delicate relationship with makeup. I wasn't really that interested in makeup as a child because I considered myself a tomboy. When my sister and I played dress-up, usually the only makeup I was wearing was a mascara mustache. </div>
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As I got older though, it became more and more apparent that I look like a pale dead zombie person without makeup on. I have pretty light colored eyelashes and not a lot of natural color in my face, especially under florescent lights. My mother used to hold me down and put blush on me before we went to church so it didn't look like she kept me in a dark attic room all the time. She did, but she didn't want people to <i>know </i>that.</div>
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Eventually I got into high school and I decided that I needed to start wearing makeup so boys would like me (spoiler alert: they don't care) so I starter painting my face of my own accord. One would think that, as an artist, I would be super pro at putting on warpaint, but alas. Turns out drawing on a paper and drawing on your own face are two very different skills. All the YouTube tutorials on the internet couldn't save me now.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHxh_u2ygbME-gd4raO4UwbKCBj9HZEPYGdKlgbbIRB3ng5fytfbdiDnETbbp5FeYR6DammmWZI09ikJagKs8cVarRncW75q0DJrnhYBCabqYo5UaMsUrQV7gapsOKncmVr-JvH3LPDI/s1600/150511_201819.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHxh_u2ygbME-gd4raO4UwbKCBj9HZEPYGdKlgbbIRB3ng5fytfbdiDnETbbp5FeYR6DammmWZI09ikJagKs8cVarRncW75q0DJrnhYBCabqYo5UaMsUrQV7gapsOKncmVr-JvH3LPDI/s640/150511_201819.png" width="412" /></a></div>
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I have the kind of face that isn't made for makeup. Firstly, I have combination skin, so finding makeup that doesn't either turn my face into the desert sands or turn it into a greasy mess is a challenge. Add to that the fact that, try as I might, I can't resist touching my face all the time, and you have a total disaster. Plus, somehow my facial features make it so there is a veeerrrrrry fine line between undead and The Joker. </div>
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These days, I'm trying this grand social experiment where I wear gradually more and more makeup until I look so horrific, people actually think I look <i>better </i>without makeup. It started from no makeup:</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PW4PUHxGQks/VVFx4_oiEKI/AAAAAAAAIms/9p6hw_6glJI/s1600/IMG_20150511_212026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="411" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PW4PUHxGQks/VVFx4_oiEKI/AAAAAAAAIms/9p6hw_6glJI/s640/IMG_20150511_212026.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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"Oh, Jackie, you look so pretty today!" people would say. "Did you change your hair?"</div>
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It wasn't a noticeable change at first really, maybe a bit of mascara and some powder to put some life back in my face. But the comments were encouraging, so I tried to take it maybe a step further.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cZV-j0vJiDw/VVFx2AyFFXI/AAAAAAAAImU/aUy48_JabN8/s1600/IMG_20150511_211948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cZV-j0vJiDw/VVFx2AyFFXI/AAAAAAAAImU/aUy48_JabN8/s640/IMG_20150511_211948.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I have pretty beefy eyelashes, so I got a volumizing mascara, and people noticed! "Wow, look at your lashes! Do you have fake eyelashes on? How do you deal with that? Are those REAL?!"</div>
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I didn't usually point out that I can barely get past putting my hair in a ponytail in the morning, so why on earth would I bother gluing wads of Barbie hair to my face. People tend to overestimate how much time I spend on myself in the morning. I'm reeeally lazy.</div>
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Versus, without makeup, people would say things like "You look tired." or "Rough night?"</div>
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Nevertheless, the winged eyeliner trend came around and I learned that I could make my eyes look bigger with some black eyeliner and a wee bit of shadow. I've always been self conscious about having beady eyes, even though my dad says I have Bambi eyes. He has to say that though, he's my dad. So, I stepped it up again.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tEdvRPpBvdo/VVFx1yRBxNI/AAAAAAAAImk/QlzQ_mHNdL0/s1600/IMG_20150511_211838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-tEdvRPpBvdo/VVFx1yRBxNI/AAAAAAAAImk/QlzQ_mHNdL0/s640/IMG_20150511_211838.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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"Wow, Jackie, you look cute today! I wish I could get my eyeliner to look like that. You're like a princess!"</div>
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Versus "You look sick" or, one of my personal favorites which a person actually said to me, "Are you okay? Because you look like you got punched in both eyes really hard."</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BD-653YsvIw/VVFx5NQtxfI/AAAAAAAAImo/786gPVCXnss/s1600/IMG_20150511_212042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BD-653YsvIw/VVFx5NQtxfI/AAAAAAAAImo/786gPVCXnss/s640/IMG_20150511_212042.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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"Wow, uh, you look fancy today! What's the occasion? Why are you all dressed up?"</div>
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<br />Yeah, okay, at this point I'm trying too hard. It clearly took longer than usual to get ready and I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. </div>
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Now, this is the part where things take a turn. In all my overcompensating, I start to cross a line. Of course, at this point it's semi-deliberate and also revenge for the black-eye comment. Here is where I jump the border between "lots of makeup" and "Snooki-face."</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kGlEHnHrUdo/VVFxzvzU6JI/AAAAAAAAImI/QpP864J3Hnw/s1600/IMG_20150511_211934.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kGlEHnHrUdo/VVFxzvzU6JI/AAAAAAAAImI/QpP864J3Hnw/s640/IMG_20150511_211934.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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All of a sudden, No-Makeup Jackie doesn't look all that bad! Suddenly, I start hearing things like "You look so much better without makeup. You look so natural! You should try to go natural more often."</div>
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I haven't quite passed the Lady Gaga stage just yet, but I don't know if I'm ready to full-on commit to one of those air-brush contraptions or taking the time to actually bother to address the secret horror that is my eyebrows. Maybe there's a way to gradually work my way back <i>down</i> the makeup scale?<br /><br />Either way, in the meantime maybe I'll try to stick with the old classic. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-74964535341605729412015-05-10T14:08:00.000-06:002015-05-10T14:08:04.420-06:00Valar Meow-ghulis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazS0iCEgY8XME6WcbUyIoBbgNF3A7BjtFWbpk_Y84tfoj2zrFcD4E1CPaoUr1gXnd4GQ9m1Bt5XHVgl-kOFNgqAZ0AFSNIvojT1CBTU2jeADhGu-zXnznM5oyploam-z45_Z72FxyhK0/s1600/150510_135143.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiazS0iCEgY8XME6WcbUyIoBbgNF3A7BjtFWbpk_Y84tfoj2zrFcD4E1CPaoUr1gXnd4GQ9m1Bt5XHVgl-kOFNgqAZ0AFSNIvojT1CBTU2jeADhGu-zXnznM5oyploam-z45_Z72FxyhK0/s640/150510_135143.png" /> </a> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-45128371954446528032015-02-27T10:17:00.001-07:002015-02-27T10:34:34.282-07:00R.I.P.<div style="text-align: center;">
Rest in pieces, The Hug. </div>
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I drew this picture on the very first day I got my wonderful car, on July 3, 2012. We only had two and a half short years together before The Hug's shoddy brakes betrayed the both of us, and we ran a red light and smashed into the side of a Jeep (which came away with nothing but a substantial dent in comparison).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4DNbMmQwXDQsUH4r9ulTEnpWibJ2m4F27gQR0BBADzCNlZ4FmQfDvzD-FrnNS3JvrXdsrgQLlF5m8trG9-Z7XLIdfwkJY8J-liPVdOtytSlz4oey3rhuGB1YItCiNgwRvDoQ5DrbsAIM/s1600/120930_234502.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4DNbMmQwXDQsUH4r9ulTEnpWibJ2m4F27gQR0BBADzCNlZ4FmQfDvzD-FrnNS3JvrXdsrgQLlF5m8trG9-Z7XLIdfwkJY8J-liPVdOtytSlz4oey3rhuGB1YItCiNgwRvDoQ5DrbsAIM/s640/120930_234502.png" /> </a> </div>
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Farewell, sweet The Hug. Journey on into the Autobahn of the netherworld, where you can finally break 85 without making that unsettling groaning noise, where your paint has no scratches and your windshield no cracks. May you always have a full tank of gas, and may you never again be pooped upon by the birds that live in our carport. </div>
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Go softly into the night. Heaven knows you never did anything softly in life.</div>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">THE HUG</span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">2000-2015</span></h3>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://ytimg.googleusercontent.com/vi/VQ0rAWnLip4/0.jpg" frameborder="0" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/VQ0rAWnLip4?feature=player_embedded" width="320"></iframe></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-21377739754690429152015-01-24T21:46:00.003-07:002015-01-24T21:46:59.612-07:00Trading Habitats<div style="text-align: center;">
At my mother's behest, I have also scanned and thus forever preserved one of my crowning achievements in middle-school science assignments. Hopefully you all enjoy it as much as she does.</div>
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"Jackie, are you scanning and posting all your childhood drawings because you're too lazy to draw new things?"</div>
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I... uh, what? No! Shut up. Read this adorable educational book I wrote.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3kgrd3YrLLkOWwk2Bfh2mPpZhj9X60P1Ifr6bIUDXKs8ZYTRIiTlEkEKSylc8_YJqXlH-V5puweCZkMs7ZuLjkT44b32rtWiAOMc3yupeGRPGfKdPXFbGD9Crx8TU5xyTmX7RYyRfRk/s1600/img013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF3kgrd3YrLLkOWwk2Bfh2mPpZhj9X60P1Ifr6bIUDXKs8ZYTRIiTlEkEKSylc8_YJqXlH-V5puweCZkMs7ZuLjkT44b32rtWiAOMc3yupeGRPGfKdPXFbGD9Crx8TU5xyTmX7RYyRfRk/s1600/img013.jpg" height="640" width="481" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_BdRjM5CUkWF7AsRxgYFeT27KQVUAOGAZtX8ofe8RYDXgfjWEqRgBO5Qs6H8jnjGPgbYrGth7qZPv1fL4ARDmzepQAe-kFjh7iJHyC4VFORtwIUgmd8-3GbTliIw1ehOuQ9rBpOG-YA/s1600/img018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii_BdRjM5CUkWF7AsRxgYFeT27KQVUAOGAZtX8ofe8RYDXgfjWEqRgBO5Qs6H8jnjGPgbYrGth7qZPv1fL4ARDmzepQAe-kFjh7iJHyC4VFORtwIUgmd8-3GbTliIw1ehOuQ9rBpOG-YA/s1600/img018.jpg" height="446" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaQha054ZhYaRgURKVbkPVrLPduFhJuwK_aewzs2rYKjGArakCHotPBIDKwgotOSALtNJ_lTuGC6LovK6LeBiJ3XLyKqFwbbbX8SqMvbu3GVW6OOWdFgpMWeVzF4QMFgwfICQoJGJXY0/s1600/img019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaQha054ZhYaRgURKVbkPVrLPduFhJuwK_aewzs2rYKjGArakCHotPBIDKwgotOSALtNJ_lTuGC6LovK6LeBiJ3XLyKqFwbbbX8SqMvbu3GVW6OOWdFgpMWeVzF4QMFgwfICQoJGJXY0/s1600/img019.jpg" height="416" width="640" /></a></div>
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Also, since this lovely note from a teacher was included in the same folder with this book, I thought I'd share it as a little bonus, so you can all see what a <a href="http://hemustbehappy.blogspot.com/2014/05/from-whence-i-came.html" target="_blank">wonderful mother</a> I have.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDtz6J4ZeTG971iCLpxB_3qTTyu3o76VcL31kPEVDbj10RzNWhyTSqRgYVuB1qdTMnHKnRMKyr3Uq74AB8o4sAR4sVU8KtPB6EVfn1waQxj4yO2orAY2l2X8Y18WmJvBeJoNSQQ7zOxA/s1600/img022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHDtz6J4ZeTG971iCLpxB_3qTTyu3o76VcL31kPEVDbj10RzNWhyTSqRgYVuB1qdTMnHKnRMKyr3Uq74AB8o4sAR4sVU8KtPB6EVfn1waQxj4yO2orAY2l2X8Y18WmJvBeJoNSQQ7zOxA/s1600/img022.jpg" height="400" width="262" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-29893417490718726962015-01-24T21:14:00.004-07:002015-01-24T21:14:47.672-07:00Even More Super Weasel<div style="text-align: center;">
In case you thought I was done with Super Weasel comics, don't worry! There's more where that came from!</div>
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Today's collection samples a few of the shorter episodes, from three panels to two pages. That way if you don't have time to try and decipher a whole long episode of Tweenage-Jackie handwriting in one go, you can take it in short bursts.</div>
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The first comic for this post actually started out as a school assignment and probably won me some major brownie points with my history teacher (yes, I was That Kid in school.)</div>
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Now let's travel back together to a time when life was simpler, and apparently everyone wore berets...</div>
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Click the image to enlarge.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqtcYeREf8RbM8Rt2LV1f_dXQNUUhRz9QYAvtU7q30qUqq1W3WO579EuV4QbRjWrRE7MewB2P10W45OpGxMV638lHUwcI89zsi0q_xVzYjzuZsrgeEGM8cwiNnqP4mYDkMz6SLK7dUK8/s1600/img012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqtcYeREf8RbM8Rt2LV1f_dXQNUUhRz9QYAvtU7q30qUqq1W3WO579EuV4QbRjWrRE7MewB2P10W45OpGxMV638lHUwcI89zsi0q_xVzYjzuZsrgeEGM8cwiNnqP4mYDkMz6SLK7dUK8/s1600/img012.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
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That is definitely the version of that story they should teach in schools.</div>
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The next couple of comics are a very incredibly brief explanation of how Super Weasel ended up with the responsibility of protecting an entire city, and a Mother's Day Super Weasel Special. </div>
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<br />These comics feature a great inside look at the inside of Super Weasel's super sweet titanium steel fortress.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxW__ti_ar3qGzNtZaGiB358DQ8MnUoM1g3TK4w5hTTF-2U39ynh-q0NcA4zKrx6NfdagClx-n93A_fqrGYTQMM4GkgVkiskSlbAJAWSps0-eBm1BVCmOqsrkR98HYB_-VwmCoV-YMU0/s1600/img009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIxW__ti_ar3qGzNtZaGiB358DQ8MnUoM1g3TK4w5hTTF-2U39ynh-q0NcA4zKrx6NfdagClx-n93A_fqrGYTQMM4GkgVkiskSlbAJAWSps0-eBm1BVCmOqsrkR98HYB_-VwmCoV-YMU0/s1600/img009.jpg" height="248" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'll bet you've never seen a weasel wear high heels before!</div>
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And last but not least, a comic that I had entirely forgotten about but that made me laugh real hard when I read it for the first time in who knows how long.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgetK0CND8ldDih4klJe0hkqaU_fzB5JAOqk1ua2TzwiyKmVdMOxI9hgYagbZT1GRxjDLpvZbSOC_ZZ-g8wPVYlF3ERYxqQ1TaQ7eUblqI-4TQc3oca1rwhDqvbKDS02Lk0To7ArJ6x6w/s1600/img011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgetK0CND8ldDih4klJe0hkqaU_fzB5JAOqk1ua2TzwiyKmVdMOxI9hgYagbZT1GRxjDLpvZbSOC_ZZ-g8wPVYlF3ERYxqQ1TaQ7eUblqI-4TQc3oca1rwhDqvbKDS02Lk0To7ArJ6x6w/s1600/img011.jpg" height="245" width="320" /></a></div>
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It says "Continued" at the end, but I have no idea if it ever actually was, or where I might have been going with that. But the first half is still hilarious!</div>
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Also, good news, I found some very, very rough drafts of a heretofore UNSEEN episode of Super Weasel, which I shall be transcribing into comic form in the coming week. Prepare yourselves for...</div>
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<b>The Attack of the Wicked Wanda Weasel!</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Coming soon to a blog near you.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-13584853369104124382015-01-08T10:47:00.000-07:002015-01-08T10:47:00.795-07:00Super Weasel: The Squirrels (Parts I-III)<div style="text-align: center;">
This is a story about Super Weasel's frenimies, The Squirrels. This story has an important moral, which makes absolutely no sense. </div>
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I'm wishing I had the original copies of these so I could make better scans, but alas... They are lost to the ages.</div>
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Click the image to enlarge.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-47873866654673246302015-01-06T21:14:00.002-07:002015-01-06T21:14:54.991-07:00The Adventures of Super Weasel<div align="center">
Once upon a time, loooooong ago, before I had a blog...</div>
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Before I had a computer...</div>
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Before I drew pictures on the internet...</div>
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...there was Super Weasel.</div>
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When I was very young, I was assigned in my English class to adapt a fairy tale to my own telling. I think, at least... it was a long time ago, who can remember. How it started isn't important, what matters is what came of it. Even as a young child I was super hilarious, so that simple assignment would turn into a legacy that would last for decades to come.</div>
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Weasels have always been a family in-joke where I come from, so I always used to draw cartoon weasels all over everything. Middle school created an opportunity for me to channel those cartoon weasels into comic form. </div>
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Recently, while going through some files at my parents' house, I came upon the complete works of Young Jackie, and the Super Weasel legacy in (mostly) full. Even more recently, I acquired my very own scanner, so I can upload the legacy to the interwebs.</div>
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The scans are kinda wonky, because they're copies of copies of copies. It's like the King James Bible.</div>
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So without further ado, I present to you the first episode of the amazing Super Weasel!</div>
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Click the image to enlarge.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08422327745395350844noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-36245206342239645232014-12-13T19:41:00.001-07:002014-12-13T19:46:55.843-07:00You Think You Know?<div style="text-align: center;">
This post came to me today as I was eating leftover soup out of a mixing bowl and staring at the internet. I just saw something on Facebook and was so inspired to write this. I think it's just so important that everyone knows.</div>
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Before you judge someone...</h3>
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That girl you teased for wearing a sweater that didn't match her leggings?</div>
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That's the only sweater she has right now, because she hasn't done laundry for like three weeks and it's too hard because you have to sort it and stuff, and there are a lot of cat videos on the internet to catch up on.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHQgHXnPz_flyUrtoYQhLDmmakyX8RUovnT80VTbH-iYObzYVIMrEbylRNknAzfg7vxVEbwqjYFq9ZpexV-lMvJqAsOW19l2e8Jz9prnlH4QbYoiDYElCKOCeT5yL_jE4zcWo11DwC8k/s1600/141213_180717.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHQgHXnPz_flyUrtoYQhLDmmakyX8RUovnT80VTbH-iYObzYVIMrEbylRNknAzfg7vxVEbwqjYFq9ZpexV-lMvJqAsOW19l2e8Jz9prnlH4QbYoiDYElCKOCeT5yL_jE4zcWo11DwC8k/s1600/141213_180717.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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That girl you laughed at for eating cereal out of a mug with a plastic fork?</div>
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She doesn't have a dishwasher, and washing dishes by hand is a pain in the butt and it's gross sometimes, so she doesn't have any cereal bowls or silverware left. Plus the plastic spoons are on a high shelf that she can't reach.</div>
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That girl you scoffed at for climbing over her own back fence?</div>
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The wind blew really hard and all the leaves piled up in front of the gate and then it rained and froze, and the rake is in the front yard so it would be too long of a walk to go get it and bring it back. Plus now they're all soggy and nasty.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-jSOhEvBu4Rm6E3NHjQTAenGkw80cjg_Hg_Ew3H09j_o9l73aKDbhfO8RA3m6fuuZbOL7cndmLLqnzh2RXpTdxxDqlibg4japaOq6zyBry5VajROcJbpudNR_XFB1JxYP9j0d1YM6yxk/s1600/141213_184642.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-jSOhEvBu4Rm6E3NHjQTAenGkw80cjg_Hg_Ew3H09j_o9l73aKDbhfO8RA3m6fuuZbOL7cndmLLqnzh2RXpTdxxDqlibg4japaOq6zyBry5VajROcJbpudNR_XFB1JxYP9j0d1YM6yxk/s1600/141213_184642.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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That girl you made fun of for still having her Halloween candy bowl out even though she put up the Christmas tree like a week ago?</div>
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She's just trying to keep the holiday spirit alive all year round. All of the holiday spirits. And also she hasn't really figured out what to do with the bowl, and besides, the Halloween candy isn't gone yet.</div>
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That girl you called a loser for trying to balance the last piece of garbage on top of the huge pile?</div>
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She doesn't have shoes on to take the garbage out, so she'd have to go find shoes <i>and </i>socks, and it's kind of cold outside so probably a sweater too. Plus there's a giant pile of leaves in front of the back gate.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkbOMNsYqCQHuxJSxu0u4C9a56_xM9kNAgGmzF70P7A2k3hsgzhFH_-U1LvpK0rNKoazqzdkY_igLWsOvYz6Na64SpW1rHDarx0lPJViohrr-Vryy670jLgGURIyfQU087_R4gw4-cfFc/s1600/141213_191733.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkbOMNsYqCQHuxJSxu0u4C9a56_xM9kNAgGmzF70P7A2k3hsgzhFH_-U1LvpK0rNKoazqzdkY_igLWsOvYz6Na64SpW1rHDarx0lPJViohrr-Vryy670jLgGURIyfQU087_R4gw4-cfFc/s1600/141213_191733.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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You think you know them! Guess what? You don't!</div>
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Repost if you are against bullying. I bet 99% of you won't, but share this if you're that 1% with a heart.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-74345854606115828112014-12-11T00:14:00.000-07:002014-12-11T00:14:05.765-07:00Once I Got Mono<div style="text-align: center;">
This week is my birthday and also I am sickly. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntEnSuu-bJWUw1s0Kg7ff7DkmUiV_BD648CgAWRPuMNp1-sFqAfwIglDaATItTJmnxIJZkc41d0l_prF67mLw4CTnMW3gJ-9MbNYQgapTCn0mY6LN4tQ-WbutWH0SA8fWmfovLPS9YgU/s1600/141206_103304.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntEnSuu-bJWUw1s0Kg7ff7DkmUiV_BD648CgAWRPuMNp1-sFqAfwIglDaATItTJmnxIJZkc41d0l_prF67mLw4CTnMW3gJ-9MbNYQgapTCn0mY6LN4tQ-WbutWH0SA8fWmfovLPS9YgU/s1600/141206_103304.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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This time spent wallowing in my illness has caused me to reflect upon the time I was the sickest I have ever been: The time I got mono.</div>
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It was about two years ago, when Daniel and I were first engaged...</div>
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"How did you get mono?" you may ask. From my sister, I may answer. It's a long story... well, no it's not. My sister got mono, I assume from smooching a lot of people, and then she licked me. Or maybe she just spit in my drink or something, I dunno. But I got it from her. </div>
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<br />Time for a science lesson! Mono, also known as <i>infectious mononucleosis, </i>is a terrible malady caused by the Epstein-Barr Virus and transferred primarily through saliva. By the age of 40, over 90% of adults will carry and have developed an immunity to the virus. It doesn't have much of an effect on kids, but by the time you are a teenager/young adult, the symptoms can be AWFUL AND A HALF.</div>
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Other fun facts about mono: </div>
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It is very rare to see actual cases of the illness in developing countries, since people are exposed to it at a younger age and therefore don't really show any symptoms before they develop an immunity. Also, one of the less common but life-threatening symptoms of mono is swelling of the spleen, which can rupture if you participate in certain contact sports or especially strenuous physical activity. And finally, once infected with the virus, it can be up to 6 weeks before you actually manifest any symptoms.</div>
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Most everyone knows the signs of what one of my friends recently referred to as "the STD for 8th graders," so when I came down with it, I knew right away what was wrong. I went straight to the doctor to find out what to do next.</div>
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The nurse told me that to find out what exactly was wrong with me, they were going to do three tests: A mono spot, which would take about 5 minutes, an Epstein-Barr test, which would take about 48 hours, and a broad spectrum bacterial test to see if there was another cause. </div>
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"I'm like 94% sure it's mono, but okay, sounds good," I said. </div>
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She sent me back to get three vials of blood drawn by what appeared to be a 12-year-old phlebotomist. Three entire vials seemed excessive, but I'm no medical professional, so I complied.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXnbf4RxS3_HBAtJU1DeRQYbDMVcm77xYFV0luuoWVDMDJAv4TsjEWulVRX3XRONi7xanXWeV62gbYO7xY5sCAHaAypH0tunyqESqHkdverRzyc4C9-us2vNcMsK7Vm5hlkQ9XOKOmsU/s1600/141210_161907.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAXnbf4RxS3_HBAtJU1DeRQYbDMVcm77xYFV0luuoWVDMDJAv4TsjEWulVRX3XRONi7xanXWeV62gbYO7xY5sCAHaAypH0tunyqESqHkdverRzyc4C9-us2vNcMsK7Vm5hlkQ9XOKOmsU/s1600/141210_161907.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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The kid drawing my blood, bless his little heart, obviously had no idea what he was doing. Eventually he managed to fill three small vials with my precious life-juice and I went on my merry way to await the results of my tests.</div>
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A few days later, I received a call from the clinic saying "Your mono spot and Epstein-Barr came back negative for mono, so you're probably fine. Walk it off."</div>
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"What happened to the third test?" I asked.</div>
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"What third test?" they asked back.</div>
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<br />"Um... there was like... a broad something bacteria something? They took three vials..."<br /><br />"No, I only see record of two tests on here. There was no third test."</div>
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So, I don't know what ever happened to the rest of my blood. For all I know, that pre-pubescent phlebotomist took it home for his <i>collection </i>or something, or perhaps that clinic is just so grossly negligent that they regularly lose people's bodily fluids. We may never know.</div>
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What I did know, however, was that I was definitely <i>not </i>fine. I kept getting sicker and weaker, and it definitely wasn't a cold.</div>
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Finally, Daniel and I decided to go to the clinic at the university. I wasn't exactly a student at the time, but I still had my ID number, so it wasn't hard to sneak me in. </div>
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I had been to the university clinic several times before crying mono, but each time it had turned out to be a false alarm, and they sent me away. I've always been a wee bit of a hypochondriac, so it was to the point that one of the nurses recognized me in public once. </div>
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I was so sickly by the time we went to the clinic that I couldn't even sit up by myself. When the nurse came out to call me in, I was slumped over a chair in the waiting room, hovering on the edge of consciousness.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdXXCSzOsrdHj_o93_r97wYLS8qx_vxUXfig_HmfZyxNlDnzofKurvun1vo5uvSQr4dV9orxcAhkv1ABYCIVrQFdhBCfHxpA94uXucN8CZEnoRDgZno3psYfZYtrXfVbJ0Jy5IaNbTQ0/s1600/141210_201744.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdXXCSzOsrdHj_o93_r97wYLS8qx_vxUXfig_HmfZyxNlDnzofKurvun1vo5uvSQr4dV9orxcAhkv1ABYCIVrQFdhBCfHxpA94uXucN8CZEnoRDgZno3psYfZYtrXfVbJ0Jy5IaNbTQ0/s1600/141210_201744.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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The nurse had me sit on a little examination table while she took my blood pressure and pulse. She ended up having to prop up the back of the table so I could even sit up on my own. My resting heart rate, in my fevered delirium, came out to over 120 beats per minute, so she sent for the doctor. </div>
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This particular doctor had seen me a few times for my previous mono scares, among other things, so we had developed a routine. This visit was clearly different from the rest, though, and he poked my finger to take a single drop of blood for another mono spot test.</div>
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Might I point out... one drop of blood. Not a gallon and a half.</div>
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Anyway.</div>
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Daniel and I waited for a few minutes, and the doctor came back in with the results.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdto13hSNlhZoBtEeg7uWtLPXKeM-VTHQkqWYDKWKRklIflwlOhyphenhyphenLk1djbp-etolO09gFHevHgzUEbBbt5kVyO1TrkPVCfbyOVyR8hbA7IBM-lIP1dufxr322emqd1ai_4GSKpPiqzKs/s1600/141210_203706.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSdto13hSNlhZoBtEeg7uWtLPXKeM-VTHQkqWYDKWKRklIflwlOhyphenhyphenLk1djbp-etolO09gFHevHgzUEbBbt5kVyO1TrkPVCfbyOVyR8hbA7IBM-lIP1dufxr322emqd1ai_4GSKpPiqzKs/s1600/141210_203706.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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"You have mono!" he sang, and did a little dance of joy. Daniel was weirded out, but I got it. At last, I was proven right, hooray! But at the same time, I was less than thrilled to be correct in my internet-prognosis. Having mono seemed fun and fashionable until I actually <i>had </i>mono. </div>
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"What do you prescribe, good doctor?" I asked, but more likely probably mumbled unintelligibly. </div>
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"Well," he said, "there is no real treatment for mono. You just have to get over it. Get lots of rest, drink tons of fluids, and have you gentleman friend here wait on you hand and foot. Doctor's orders."</div>
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That sounded like a decent prescription to me, and he gave me a doctor's note to take the next three weeks off work. THREE WEEKS, people. That's how long it took for me to be able to walk up stairs again. </div>
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Fortunately, once you get mono and suffer through the terribleness, you never really have to worry about it again. You do, however, carry the virus for the rest of your life, and it can occasionally flare up again and become infectious without any real symptoms or illness. </div>
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For all you know, you could be spreading the virus RIGHT. NOW.</div>
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Thanks a lot. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-13602268675206843052014-11-27T12:40:00.001-07:002014-11-27T12:41:40.778-07:00Happy Thanksgiving! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBV35_WmSeGQYng-VtIq_chwRefwuOd8GQuU-m7hA_Ok7B4Znyso1UfJL8M9kysrFRRCRGUO9wjxbHzCxRo9S9_3D4mC1S9WRd8RCEmKTmteAZz8ocbW0V_dIO-d6aBJOd0InOtMNo6NM/s1600/141127_123652.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBV35_WmSeGQYng-VtIq_chwRefwuOd8GQuU-m7hA_Ok7B4Znyso1UfJL8M9kysrFRRCRGUO9wjxbHzCxRo9S9_3D4mC1S9WRd8RCEmKTmteAZz8ocbW0V_dIO-d6aBJOd0InOtMNo6NM/s640/141127_123652.png"> </a> </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-36207229758659104182014-11-18T00:17:00.001-07:002014-11-18T09:51:15.979-07:00Things I Say To My Cats<div style="text-align: center;">
This post was inspired by a Facebook status update I posted earlier today, which was inspired by me realizing how much I talked to my cats when I was home alone with them on my lunch break from work. </div>
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This is just a small taste of the colorful conversations we regularly have.</div>
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This is a story about bad decisions.<br />
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<span style="color: red;">WARNING:</span> This post is rated R for extreme hair choices, hair-related violence, and graphic incompetence. Not recommended for people who have a heart condition or are hairdressers and know better. Reader discretion is advised.</div>
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
Part 1: "I need a haircut."</h4>
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Once upon a time, it had been almost a year since I got it cut or colored, so my hair was pretty sad looking.</div>
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I knew it was long past time for a haircut, but I kept getting too busy or forgetting or just putting it off. </div>
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My hair may not have a voice of its own, but I can always understand when it's trying to tell me something. When it gets too long between haircuts, it starts to reach out. It grabs on to anything around it, like seatbelts and tree branches and other people. A while back, Daniel and I were walking out to my car with one of his friends, and I made the mistake of wearing my hair free. It tried to attack him.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0qn5eQdOYJfHrNfvJIhFQVrnBzHLB_62hdHbNr6SZcyO0XqMBA9i0NMZ12aySMNTgUfJIg1dTyycJhMS9Oeug254NlL31Pz2xDKYTnsRpM8zkPp3mkQG4wojS4oVbIqQVGl8Uov-UqA/s1600/141101_234458.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0qn5eQdOYJfHrNfvJIhFQVrnBzHLB_62hdHbNr6SZcyO0XqMBA9i0NMZ12aySMNTgUfJIg1dTyycJhMS9Oeug254NlL31Pz2xDKYTnsRpM8zkPp3mkQG4wojS4oVbIqQVGl8Uov-UqA/s1600/141101_234458.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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Part 2: "Let's get ombrés!"</h4>
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Finally I decided to listen to my hair and started thinking about going in. At the same time, I was going through a mid-life crisis (at 21, I know, apparently I'm not going to live long) and decided I needed to do something drastic to my hair. I thought about doing something like this:</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SCYTTGXoaNk/VEbx7TmY9TI/AAAAAAAAGwM/OLUDtsiGxyk/s1600/58ef8d0a7b9d8debca5976dea0cf60e5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SCYTTGXoaNk/VEbx7TmY9TI/AAAAAAAAGwM/OLUDtsiGxyk/s1600/58ef8d0a7b9d8debca5976dea0cf60e5.jpg" height="320" width="189" /></a></div>
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A friend of mine messaged me on the day of The Terrible Decision and said "Let's go get ombrés! I made us appointments for tonight!" </div>
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"Oh, um. Alright then!" I said.</div>
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She picked me up from work and we drove to our hair appointments. That's when I realized... our appointments were at Paul Mitchell Hair <i>School. </i>That's right. A school. For people who don't know how to do hair yet.</div>
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"Well, alright," I thought, "I wanted to do something drastic, I guess this is it!"</div>
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I told the hair girl what I wanted, and then decided that I wasn't even going to look until it was over. If I thought about it too hard, I was definitely going to freak out. And for good reason...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-pLjTVVqlDdfQfMO64YH9c_co-GWAaghWv6NAUFFvyvrk-WQVqul70bsULmpbpEd56YJ57H1-5EL81sdu1NsU1mGNLPIKutaZ0e9ieJIlErK981orcY4Q_XEMN7gCgV58dqCAmIdevY/s1600/141029_193949.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-pLjTVVqlDdfQfMO64YH9c_co-GWAaghWv6NAUFFvyvrk-WQVqul70bsULmpbpEd56YJ57H1-5EL81sdu1NsU1mGNLPIKutaZ0e9ieJIlErK981orcY4Q_XEMN7gCgV58dqCAmIdevY/s1600/141029_193949.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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During the course of my hair adventure, the instructor came over a couple times to check out the progress. The girl doing my hair seemed... less sure of herself than I would have liked. </div>
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Since my hair was so far past its expiration date, at one point it actually took two girls to brush through it. Once it was brushed, they both worked on coloring it, since I have a lot of hair. While they were putting the color on, one girl said to the other "Are we doing this the same way?"</div>
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But I didn't care, because I was doing something drastic.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf973SAiR0PzoV5wBSXouf_3EEdvlk94X8en2x-6snYAznWvDZUtjjrOj1z-2cCm1lVLtnWsDpY6lzz2aAZza_A8Q9B5Swok_HYUwBv407s_E4ovthEJoMx7uvy4rWc4foC9D6lbJUZpY/s1600/141029_194252.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf973SAiR0PzoV5wBSXouf_3EEdvlk94X8en2x-6snYAznWvDZUtjjrOj1z-2cCm1lVLtnWsDpY6lzz2aAZza_A8Q9B5Swok_HYUwBv407s_E4ovthEJoMx7uvy4rWc4foC9D6lbJUZpY/s1600/141029_194252.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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Finally, three and a half hours later, my hair was done. They turned me around to show me the finished product, and uh...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvRTP47tYgb_LblBq9MiJRup8l7rMCYmUeMTfeN2mqjTf6vOFCQG4pn_e9O_aKWLZ2H9F14V2Qh1HelxRyMiW66D_bAhBN2NNTnS2O3OUE-DfpHgmm3hkdVrZZPl3qz6Z4xgxQAadQ7Q/s1600/141029_194712.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyvRTP47tYgb_LblBq9MiJRup8l7rMCYmUeMTfeN2mqjTf6vOFCQG4pn_e9O_aKWLZ2H9F14V2Qh1HelxRyMiW66D_bAhBN2NNTnS2O3OUE-DfpHgmm3hkdVrZZPl3qz6Z4xgxQAadQ7Q/s1600/141029_194712.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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It ended up looking more like this:</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kdqY1zgczyw/VEfH9KGlsJI/AAAAAAAAG10/E03esrBVvfw/s1600/2014-10-22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kdqY1zgczyw/VEfH9KGlsJI/AAAAAAAAG10/E03esrBVvfw/s1600/2014-10-22.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
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Yikes.</div>
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<h4 style="text-align: center;">
Part 3: "I can fix this..."</h4>
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I tried really hard to live with my new hair. I really did. But it takes a lot of effort to stay in your happy place that long, so I knew eventually I'd have to do something to fix it. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3N1EhNIYlSAAiMH9BbKY7dDK2i3Ll6rQpF6LfYkaqKa1qr3aZIPDVCNH7R5tEADnzd8GbgbbQDZr4dkurB87v1NFGv64u8WsmfEO4YAmtZSDxDZYEKctN90yj-lo93ig4Lti1ClwMOAU/s1600/141101_171940.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3N1EhNIYlSAAiMH9BbKY7dDK2i3Ll6rQpF6LfYkaqKa1qr3aZIPDVCNH7R5tEADnzd8GbgbbQDZr4dkurB87v1NFGv64u8WsmfEO4YAmtZSDxDZYEKctN90yj-lo93ig4Lti1ClwMOAU/s1600/141101_171940.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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I had already spent an egregious amount of money on the first dye job (they charge by bowl of color, which my hair takes... several), so I was wary about going back to a salon. Plus I have developed some pretty severe trust issues when it comes to hair, having lived twentyish years with a gigantic mass of curls.</div>
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Suddenly, the thought crossed my mind... Why don't I just take matters into my own hands?</div>
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I'd heard horrible things from my hairdresser friends about grocery store hair color, and plus I was a little afraid to use it on myself, so I took to the internet to find a safe and natural way to fix my hair. I found the answer I was looking for: Hydrogen Peroxide.</div>
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The Internet told me to just spray it on, leave it for a bit, and wash out. That seemed easy enough, so I took to the bathroom to solve my hair woes.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fwsIArvGRtHvdy1axwNUMocJffRmnS-qLOvJCUZs6b3NiFKgN5oHE4OWq2w5eNK1h9ft2IIdZ5eOdnskPF-qrZmKLflgx-yNHLBsVvzVfbHY-tO7_n5sopIo0QSpBir0h57gHtp8E6A/s1600/141101_221102.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fwsIArvGRtHvdy1axwNUMocJffRmnS-qLOvJCUZs6b3NiFKgN5oHE4OWq2w5eNK1h9ft2IIdZ5eOdnskPF-qrZmKLflgx-yNHLBsVvzVfbHY-tO7_n5sopIo0QSpBir0h57gHtp8E6A/s1600/141101_221102.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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One thing I forgot to consider was that H<span style="font-size: xx-small;">2</span>O<span style="font-size: xx-small;">2</span> will also bleach your skin.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjaO832CEvq3SO-DH-YYS25dnDdUcZuEDj3fHegVEI3hpY678_WJi64_u9tisClBMFYm5BBgQdywThEr17X7E4v0ue-rml6zdsI7mtPoaKMPFTHJW54yVJAxACZ9lJWEC7V5QYBzwKEc/s1600/IMG_20141029_191045195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGjaO832CEvq3SO-DH-YYS25dnDdUcZuEDj3fHegVEI3hpY678_WJi64_u9tisClBMFYm5BBgQdywThEr17X7E4v0ue-rml6zdsI7mtPoaKMPFTHJW54yVJAxACZ9lJWEC7V5QYBzwKEc/s1600/IMG_20141029_191045195.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo has been enhanced to show detail <br />
(because I'm already white enough so it's hard to see)</td></tr>
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It turned out better than I expected, in the end. My hair didn't all fall off of my head, and the color came out semi-normal. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQjrGzpAgJcTCtENuyPQvdoux8xdw-jlFrFsqupNrTMRIcxh9UyjNBPtm1jrDoEI1ukhzgU3SZQ0ZMngZKDxaoWKE_chEZcl2PkH2hliYu8noTRxF724nQsGN1jEfzJMYXWhDWuM0PTs/s1600/141101_222019.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQjrGzpAgJcTCtENuyPQvdoux8xdw-jlFrFsqupNrTMRIcxh9UyjNBPtm1jrDoEI1ukhzgU3SZQ0ZMngZKDxaoWKE_chEZcl2PkH2hliYu8noTRxF724nQsGN1jEfzJMYXWhDWuM0PTs/s1600/141101_222019.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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My eventual plan is to try the H<span style="font-size: xx-small;">2</span>O<span style="font-size: xx-small;">2</span> a couple more times, maybe bleach the rest of my hair all the way to blonde. Of course, I've resolved to treat it a little better, you know, blow dry it less and use better hair products. And I will definitely make sure to cut it sooner next time.</div>
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But the most important lesson that I've learned out of all this experience is that my ponytail is my ponytail, no matter what color.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkm6y_aUgLdCXudyf29lGjTd0kJekdsTgsInrOAz8ivhrRNfZSyrkUz2MJa_lYl1uejZaALqky60Dnrn4kjPT-fSn8CFlploFjU-Mj0PyKCQ8qVSK472IEJKYATx2rLH2FnfptBEbzxDQ/s1600/141101_222548.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkm6y_aUgLdCXudyf29lGjTd0kJekdsTgsInrOAz8ivhrRNfZSyrkUz2MJa_lYl1uejZaALqky60Dnrn4kjPT-fSn8CFlploFjU-Mj0PyKCQ8qVSK472IEJKYATx2rLH2FnfptBEbzxDQ/s1600/141101_222548.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-91336100233749148302014-10-10T22:29:00.003-06:002014-10-10T22:29:28.760-06:00Onomatopoetry: Cat Version<div style="text-align: center;">
Here's some more of this stuff, yo. Enjoy.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-56560778486585870522014-09-08T23:12:00.000-06:002014-09-09T23:21:01.122-06:00Charizard Uses Bite... It's Super Effective<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-13493868918196146402014-06-29T18:34:00.001-06:002014-06-29T18:34:48.215-06:00Friends of Nigel 5: Mousecop and Charizard<div style="text-align: center;">
Alrighty, so, I went to draw some pictures for my blog and realized my tablet has not been charged, and I don't feel like waiting until it's charged. Therefore, today's blog post features ACTUAL PHOTOGRAPHS!</div>
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And also this picture I drew a while ago:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cZrmEDfN6oN20j_qihAWKL0UBwK2GG3_PtY0U3zC3vuEkjo_gl8mnEc8lLbzx6Pj6LDSnxQJTBectwZyDtYjXyeUKdzxFFTinaItNQtamh5qfYt3s7MQReXiNbYkrQiamS_Ifl21CA4/s1600/140526_094948.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9cZrmEDfN6oN20j_qihAWKL0UBwK2GG3_PtY0U3zC3vuEkjo_gl8mnEc8lLbzx6Pj6LDSnxQJTBectwZyDtYjXyeUKdzxFFTinaItNQtamh5qfYt3s7MQReXiNbYkrQiamS_Ifl21CA4/s1600/140526_094948.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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Let's start with the story of how MC and Cha-zizzle came to join our little family...</div>
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Part 1: The Deal</h2>
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Once upon a time, there was a myself named Jackie. She didn't have any kitties because she lived in a teeny apartment and the evil apartment overlords charged $ARM.99 in non-refundable pet deposits and $LEG.00 (before tax) for monthly pet rent. To make up for her lack of kitties, she would often <a href="http://hemustbehappy.blogspot.com/2013/08/true-love.html" target="_blank">go visit pet store kitties</a>, hoping to fill the void. But that often ended up in embarrassing shedding-of-tears in a public place, which was disgraceful, so she stopped going.</div>
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Eventually, the lease on the Apartment of Death and Sadness came to an end, and Jackie and her spouse were forced to seek residence elsewhere. As luck would have it, several cities away, an old lady was getting to old to care for her home, so she was moving in with her son and his family, and he was ditching her house for cheap. And thus, Jackie and Daniel became homeowners.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqs2QD7RpSAOloVOOyD1EbbZFzUNDtXr6AUPensBKQQHd0IxE53kfSigkNIb-CwmFxibqNq42_Uh3VUyYwK1FgGF-waOp8JrupdEJVV7wNqlsDfMAAaV1m_QljTjjIH-gotx1XTHXCJAo/s1600/IMG_20140419_160656795_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqs2QD7RpSAOloVOOyD1EbbZFzUNDtXr6AUPensBKQQHd0IxE53kfSigkNIb-CwmFxibqNq42_Uh3VUyYwK1FgGF-waOp8JrupdEJVV7wNqlsDfMAAaV1m_QljTjjIH-gotx1XTHXCJAo/s1600/IMG_20140419_160656795_HDR.jpg" height="358" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh yeah, by the way, that happened.</td></tr>
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The fortunate thing about owning a home, is that there are no landlords to make rules about whether or not you can own a cat. Therefore, I managed to talk Daniel into letting me get a kitten eventually.</div>
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Some weeks later, at a family gathering, my aunt announced that her little kitty, who was only a few months old, had somehow gotten teen pregnant and given birth to five little furballs, which were up for grabs. They were still too teeny to bring any home, but I went and visited to get to know the kittens and pick one out.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNWCyOq0ISLeVHwlfDGLfi8_hJ6ZQymtJusj_QYbsvwAOyChSfa4zCgQD0eLOtcgs4hOABn3hOMC5EnAe9e4Z8l30HAFd04OgMPB8eXsz-1eXsak-wc0klCtlMgXnsultnAMM8-3lZHU/s1600/download_20140327_162045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNWCyOq0ISLeVHwlfDGLfi8_hJ6ZQymtJusj_QYbsvwAOyChSfa4zCgQD0eLOtcgs4hOABn3hOMC5EnAe9e4Z8l30HAFd04OgMPB8eXsz-1eXsak-wc0klCtlMgXnsultnAMM8-3lZHU/s1600/download_20140327_162045.jpg" height="640" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Argh! So fluffy! I'm 99% sure the two top kittens are mine.</td></tr>
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I went back to visit a little later and took pictures of individual kittens so I could show them to Daniel (he refused to come visit the kitties himself, since he claims to hate cats and wanted nothing to do with them.) </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYqllA4XhxbHuYesXxPJixqnUa1rJyV-D26WPtuxepFzuFOXvJx69YKpndofpxwnScOD92Cm7bdgoCED5f_-3nlNP2KMUszbodng817bZeq_6FqF_Ntrrf8U0ehiQUWgghG7lFRyM5u8/s1600/IMG_20140410_202454337.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzYqllA4XhxbHuYesXxPJixqnUa1rJyV-D26WPtuxepFzuFOXvJx69YKpndofpxwnScOD92Cm7bdgoCED5f_-3nlNP2KMUszbodng817bZeq_6FqF_Ntrrf8U0ehiQUWgghG7lFRyM5u8/s1600/IMG_20140410_202454337.jpg" height="359" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kittens with their mom, Autumn. You may remember her from the hit drama "3 Months Old and Pregnant."</td></tr>
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I was pretty determined that Mousecop was going to be the kitten I brought home.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgryfeztPWElQ_4OE3cMp_fgZtQ5hNkQid1M15DsqbY-YASmdZu88M7Ffk1NXoe8IwknfRu-qJlrZQSNo-Pranx2d0n3cluffBm381oK1NKpuLO_abJRHj-2_WeNLEZzmFzypgrst24E0E/s1600/1403795867095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgryfeztPWElQ_4OE3cMp_fgZtQ5hNkQid1M15DsqbY-YASmdZu88M7Ffk1NXoe8IwknfRu-qJlrZQSNo-Pranx2d0n3cluffBm381oK1NKpuLO_abJRHj-2_WeNLEZzmFzypgrst24E0E/s1600/1403795867095.jpg" height="640" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baby Mousecop (also known as Mouserookie)</td></tr>
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When I showed the pictures of kittens to Daniel, he saw one little kitty and said "I like that little orange one." So I said "LET'S GET BOTH!"</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha83QUfWrr_PvK5CFuI4jJf-CgnP0wL7g8bclGn_RKl-TB9eagW2fxWSv06bM2NyslgQbAc0LGoZ6y-aSfMPQl8FBroEYrICLPvRQwP5RrE-569ha4Fvsk9f9JP5SLVT7wqggKPb3Bch4/s1600/IMG_20140410_192100564.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha83QUfWrr_PvK5CFuI4jJf-CgnP0wL7g8bclGn_RKl-TB9eagW2fxWSv06bM2NyslgQbAc0LGoZ6y-aSfMPQl8FBroEYrICLPvRQwP5RrE-569ha4Fvsk9f9JP5SLVT7wqggKPb3Bch4/s1600/IMG_20140410_192100564.jpg" height="640" width="358" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charizard was the runt of the litter. Like me.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We made a deal that I got to have two kitties as long as Daniel got to go on a trip with his friends to Indianapolis this summer to see Drum Corps International finals. Seemed like a pretty sweet deal to me.</div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Part 2: The Betrayal</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Now, let's rehash a point here: Daniel very begrudgingly allowed me to get kittens, even though he didn't want them. He said "They will be your kittens. I won't clean up after them, I won't feed them, and most of all, I WILL NOT love them."</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Therefore, these are my kittens, and mine alone. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Right?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Apparently they had other ideas.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EDkPGSeHgC-HlZU1cYlqO3ojxAh7fyePvgo_WzPUXkXU_NJ7eO3FM5BUftpnvvB0UutqDUR24ZVDyGm6_dsIsIbRkFWIfAh94v5QizaDVS3ZQVsO4XSuSS7FFHsLgpM6f6qbUOM1B8E/s1600/IMG_20140625_205609158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EDkPGSeHgC-HlZU1cYlqO3ojxAh7fyePvgo_WzPUXkXU_NJ7eO3FM5BUftpnvvB0UutqDUR24ZVDyGm6_dsIsIbRkFWIfAh94v5QizaDVS3ZQVsO4XSuSS7FFHsLgpM6f6qbUOM1B8E/s1600/IMG_20140625_205609158.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJuUvzEcvpLUiDUOI_Y5Oyx06dIj6UooJ6gd3U66WkGadO8vQnRRiVfognHVxXE2WKjSU9C3PsR8kcHiHmxQIkAdb1wtc-yQ41F1kjWXQ_b1CrGv_P7dL2WVKEy0w1HLjjUrLIw7xh0A/s1600/IMG_20140512_204520171.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwJuUvzEcvpLUiDUOI_Y5Oyx06dIj6UooJ6gd3U66WkGadO8vQnRRiVfognHVxXE2WKjSU9C3PsR8kcHiHmxQIkAdb1wtc-yQ41F1kjWXQ_b1CrGv_P7dL2WVKEy0w1HLjjUrLIw7xh0A/s1600/IMG_20140512_204520171.jpg" height="200" width="111" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXsNX5b6fDu1o2VHuVIYrKuZKfUUtmqXmryTF2eX6mHrYjks3xHZh0oDqFPUIjHeX1SgcuKOdQ8YDtnqf0JTgzzpiEWrIO8c_w8YCgsz1pod0POYPbU2yykNyByeCC-JZY9sJw-fb-5G4/s1600/IMG_20140509_183036222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXsNX5b6fDu1o2VHuVIYrKuZKfUUtmqXmryTF2eX6mHrYjks3xHZh0oDqFPUIjHeX1SgcuKOdQ8YDtnqf0JTgzzpiEWrIO8c_w8YCgsz1pod0POYPbU2yykNyByeCC-JZY9sJw-fb-5G4/s1600/IMG_20140509_183036222.jpg" height="200" width="111" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlYg2znZTIHEj7vpyp3rDOkCK8yj4A7qTFAgATnq2KSzZSO3B3S1h6QKCbL5ibriUJ1sjliAWg79jNLTRL2d3ML2kRFyYkkUUdWehMnecQcWQZxep0cLB2sa3KuWcgqjdmcllhKLVjfLc/s1600/IMG_20140512_210216417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlYg2znZTIHEj7vpyp3rDOkCK8yj4A7qTFAgATnq2KSzZSO3B3S1h6QKCbL5ibriUJ1sjliAWg79jNLTRL2d3ML2kRFyYkkUUdWehMnecQcWQZxep0cLB2sa3KuWcgqjdmcllhKLVjfLc/s1600/IMG_20140512_210216417.jpg" height="111" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsg2pDA-mBvbXz8DSVFCBihqhNfpAEtFLyqupdRFRcJDjebi1y5eOHvt9cXMwpiZJowLiml19d8iVZ3RPTqBkEegloOP_QNHDXzX4OKXPc3RtAdiRnIJE1UP3M-lX8Y2vMMv5SSeKJzNo/s1600/IMG_20140509_184137068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsg2pDA-mBvbXz8DSVFCBihqhNfpAEtFLyqupdRFRcJDjebi1y5eOHvt9cXMwpiZJowLiml19d8iVZ3RPTqBkEegloOP_QNHDXzX4OKXPc3RtAdiRnIJE1UP3M-lX8Y2vMMv5SSeKJzNo/s1600/IMG_20140509_184137068.jpg" height="200" width="111" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Those little jerks loved him more! I would come home from work every day to find both tiny traitors cuddled up on his lap, or on his shoulder, or in his arms. After all I'd done for them, finding them a home, feeding them, cleaning up after them, buying toys for them, they would rather cuddle him than me. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The truth of the matter is, for all his protestations, Daniel secretly loves them too. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Don't tell him I told you that.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVanNrZp4slstikmbo8Enj8OCJ3IGEHarATaVToyiYVyGoGdtU6AuPXIGADQxpVHBWn6-B2L_xujcRz6gyM140GxdLcEEwHXXpxur4gPpANj5zUTl7CDKYdVmOILVqaKz6AcaqLZ5x8Ro/s1600/IMG_20140519_231553161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVanNrZp4slstikmbo8Enj8OCJ3IGEHarATaVToyiYVyGoGdtU6AuPXIGADQxpVHBWn6-B2L_xujcRz6gyM140GxdLcEEwHXXpxur4gPpANj5zUTl7CDKYdVmOILVqaKz6AcaqLZ5x8Ro/s1600/IMG_20140519_231553161.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cats are liquid.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Part 3: The Present</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I kept meaning to write about my kitties, because come on, this blog is really about my love of animals. I just got lazy, though. Now the teeny kittens I brought home are almost all the way to medium-sized adolescent cats. My little baby furballs will be four months old on Saturday.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKXaOt1f2PO3S1DsXBsZSvaceDtCaCCzsd2TgnRi8htQg0wyACrV8_zV71BjkJkWkhzwPtk7ZX4BPkMPw6tNBCrSUhNHq71wuDWX2zT6DhMQffhevLr5vTJ1KqTcbZvGveRupWMfVNWQ/s1600/IMG_20140526_151814646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKXaOt1f2PO3S1DsXBsZSvaceDtCaCCzsd2TgnRi8htQg0wyACrV8_zV71BjkJkWkhzwPtk7ZX4BPkMPw6tNBCrSUhNHq71wuDWX2zT6DhMQffhevLr5vTJ1KqTcbZvGveRupWMfVNWQ/s1600/IMG_20140526_151814646.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The mighty huntress.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mousecop is one of the most outgoing kitties I have ever known. When she lived her mom at my aunt's house, she was known as "Miss Adventure" because she was always getting into stuff and exploring. It has only gotten worse as she gets older. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLz7PXmp0R4x828vS5daEwdAB8ZLamEsNeQ6VbNszMBClzif-sBa_uo77Jjin86XgDZ8ldIPsLtYdNYzZct7YwihGho39ql9wHNJzbnamq7lbRjIv-27-bJbnjAppro0hznFkeEHK37A/s1600/VID_20140624_212655855.mp4" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLz7PXmp0R4x828vS5daEwdAB8ZLamEsNeQ6VbNszMBClzif-sBa_uo77Jjin86XgDZ8ldIPsLtYdNYzZct7YwihGho39ql9wHNJzbnamq7lbRjIv-27-bJbnjAppro0hznFkeEHK37A/s1600/VID_20140624_212655855.mp4" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A rousing game of "Fight Under Door"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mousecop's hobbies include jumping on things, climbing drapes, getting sprayed with the Bad Kitty™ bottle for climbing the drapes, posing for pictures, and violently attacking specks on the wall. Her favorite toys are shadows, her own tail, my ponytail, shreds of paper towels or tissues, and Charizard.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJMRrBVDtyu2EM9VaAGlS2xkqWuBxBeZFogg5ewTxlgUZb7FlHczIULGmt1Yp9nvEW9V1WzevgDLKFAZCzUfRhNak30MJNYLy43avlqq5UxtoD2Q92ZfdMifOYh1LKmWbIU60obgjKsYQ/s1600/IMG_20140629_180552989.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJMRrBVDtyu2EM9VaAGlS2xkqWuBxBeZFogg5ewTxlgUZb7FlHczIULGmt1Yp9nvEW9V1WzevgDLKFAZCzUfRhNak30MJNYLy43avlqq5UxtoD2Q92ZfdMifOYh1LKmWbIU60obgjKsYQ/s1600/IMG_20140629_180552989.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The infamous Bad Kitty™ bottle. Note the water level. We have some BAD kitties.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mousecop cannot stand to be left alone, which means it is a really good thing we ended up getting two kitties. Whenever she can't find me, Daniel, or Charizard, Mousecop will stop, stand in place, and shout "MEOW-WOOOOOW?!" over and over until someone says "We're in here!" She has some huge lungs for such a small animal.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She is obsessed with drinking the water off the floor of the tub after one of us takes a shower. So much so, that the last few times I have taken a shower, Mousecop actually climbed INTO the shower with me and licked the water off the floor of the tub. She stays close to the edge, away from the spray, but she still comes away fairly damp. She doesn't seem to mind, though.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Yesterday, she brought me a generous offering of a dead moth. It was very sweet.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFeOr3U1hVvzPWMH-SR47gDQttRXVik5q13hagDe1ao1fLTSmVhHfTjFwH16zYcgDv7ZA43hW3TtcHLrAX1MKMTm94WfKfLaxCAQcgXyeRJbyzaopP_a8R_HrtCxVuhor11oOWWznuQVE/s1600/IMG_20140512_223408083.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFeOr3U1hVvzPWMH-SR47gDQttRXVik5q13hagDe1ao1fLTSmVhHfTjFwH16zYcgDv7ZA43hW3TtcHLrAX1MKMTm94WfKfLaxCAQcgXyeRJbyzaopP_a8R_HrtCxVuhor11oOWWznuQVE/s1600/IMG_20140512_223408083.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kitteh yoga.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Charizard is very shy and doesn't really warm up to people easily. When we first brought the kitties home, I opened the kitty carrier and Mousecop immediately ran out and started exploring everything. Charizard sat perfectly still inside the cat carrier for like an hour before I finally dumped her out.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Charizard has the weirdest fur of any cat I have ever seen. Mousecop has regular short fur, and the rest of her siblings had long, fluffy fur. Her fur, weirdly, was mostly short with a few looooong, wispy hairs around her like a halo. The rest of her fur has gotten longer as she gets older, but she's still all weird and wispy.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaIlJjMVQAFIJHPjsBUSBztBZs0Q2S1ZuUSgIRyDjwxPyqLasX5bUGJjBWgMv20roacMTDrNAG-RNRLXN9oXWa04QCC23xMDy3EhsvZKl7dwhvCdiyuBVsQqsWgalJWK_v1EExYoLu7jk/s1600/IMG_20140509_185718035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaIlJjMVQAFIJHPjsBUSBztBZs0Q2S1ZuUSgIRyDjwxPyqLasX5bUGJjBWgMv20roacMTDrNAG-RNRLXN9oXWa04QCC23xMDy3EhsvZKl7dwhvCdiyuBVsQqsWgalJWK_v1EExYoLu7jk/s1600/IMG_20140509_185718035.jpg" height="179" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charizard's weird fur.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The reason Daniel wanted Charizard when he first got her is because she had bright blue eyes. As she has gotten older, though, her eyes have turned gold, which is pretty cool, because now they match her fur. She's monochromatic, except for her little pink nose.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Charizard's favorite pastimes include sleeping in weird places, hiding, looking really adorable, unintentionally clawing Daniel, and being led astray by the bad influence that is Mousecop. Her favorite toys are plastic bags, hoodie strings, my ponytail, and Mousecop.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5e90brMfXSS-swAkA7U9qUeDylZ1i6s9SbTJmsQArKF9qRU2h6j-zj5AhescP16r0x4rDgva4Mujd7HA_6AZ-56Ia3KirfPn3y1AQH_Msd0Z-ttlXGWt3E7V3gsHavo12DKTeuohn73k/s1600/IMG_20140608_085350296.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5e90brMfXSS-swAkA7U9qUeDylZ1i6s9SbTJmsQArKF9qRU2h6j-zj5AhescP16r0x4rDgva4Mujd7HA_6AZ-56Ia3KirfPn3y1AQH_Msd0Z-ttlXGWt3E7V3gsHavo12DKTeuohn73k/s1600/IMG_20140608_085350296.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where she should sleep.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06T8wVbsuRPSwFZwm9tKn25aUEyH4VCzKCP4EK4_fCYK2gmYH8xpt6gxKkKwpdSu5xegphBZt_NNAEiGhVzAHWik9EXUNIJrCnLMvzk9563rDhPm-9ecO5yMt5cUZNcUz_Qs55YjaMog/s1600/IMG_20140607_182607820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06T8wVbsuRPSwFZwm9tKn25aUEyH4VCzKCP4EK4_fCYK2gmYH8xpt6gxKkKwpdSu5xegphBZt_NNAEiGhVzAHWik9EXUNIJrCnLMvzk9563rDhPm-9ecO5yMt5cUZNcUz_Qs55YjaMog/s1600/IMG_20140607_182607820.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where she does sleep.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Charizard has giant Puss in Boots eyes, so you can't ever be mad at her, even when she makes you bleed, because she will give you The Face and then you'll feel like a jerk. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
Part 4: The End</h2>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Daniel just called me a cat lady for writing so much about our kitties, so that's about all I have for now. I'll try to be better about drawing pictures next time, instead of just showing you a few of the gazillions of cat pictures I have taken in the last couple months.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrWW5Ag0NWIoLF3izSkz-TDOvZZIO6yy8fyNQHqR9100R_a_Bi484eMC005ysKf-BUIFFRJOLhsq-08WnEuL1w8URrZsHo-CbWBbVFWdtHEyk-HLDz3z6g-JfTLryR-Sesqxs3qbr_j4/s1600/IMG_20140512_221246188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimrWW5Ag0NWIoLF3izSkz-TDOvZZIO6yy8fyNQHqR9100R_a_Bi484eMC005ysKf-BUIFFRJOLhsq-08WnEuL1w8URrZsHo-CbWBbVFWdtHEyk-HLDz3z6g-JfTLryR-Sesqxs3qbr_j4/s1600/IMG_20140512_221246188.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goodnight, Charizard.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-44054313790137519432014-05-26T17:51:00.001-06:002014-05-27T12:36:31.797-06:00Our Anniversary Happened <div style="text-align: center;">
I was going to make some big deal about how it was our first anniversary this weekend, but I couldn't really think of anything interesting to say about it... We spent the night at a cute, slightly haunted B&B, ate some expensive food, and then we came home. Plus, we both came down with a yucky cold, so I don't have a ton if energy for thinking. Therefore, I drew you this pictures depicting how we are spending our Memorial Day!</div>
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There is a post about our kittens coming up, though, so stay tuned for that. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0dSNT1ZjNXUGzWZ2FGNP5Sxns56p9694FRtNzUt4JJYnhZD-aGBfORpr6yEuJvT1cB948xIZP5y12JhfZ3ksdCzhwQ0F0SLSU_0eHV8SjQh_wHppUo3CSC5MFxHUjOJhP6YS7CdbLbOU/s1600/IMG_20140526_174636.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0dSNT1ZjNXUGzWZ2FGNP5Sxns56p9694FRtNzUt4JJYnhZD-aGBfORpr6yEuJvT1cB948xIZP5y12JhfZ3ksdCzhwQ0F0SLSU_0eHV8SjQh_wHppUo3CSC5MFxHUjOJhP6YS7CdbLbOU/s640/IMG_20140526_174636.jpg" /> </a> </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-37081279615483065002014-05-20T21:29:00.003-06:002014-05-20T21:29:55.499-06:00A Comprehensive Guide to Jackie's Hair<div style="text-align: center;">
Since the early years of Cartoon Jackie, many different aspects of my person have changed drastically. </div>
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From the beginning stages of primordial me, I lost the giant geeky glasses, my head got a little bigger, the feet and fingers went away, my facial features took a brief hiatus and came back as tiny eyes and huge mouth, and finally gained another dimension and leveled out as the magnificent creation you see before you today.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWiA6VKDKFatmpORQKz8wHTuRZR_DgLftp8cEYo19SxhfAmtXWW4VU_1Fovfrq8CcgQAd5Txn3X5AEmWZKNS3oAcZZV01Qk0iDu8hK7puZhDUeKEwm4Mhz29wEoL2yvNXYaWw9_MI-B_U/s1600/140520_202653.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWiA6VKDKFatmpORQKz8wHTuRZR_DgLftp8cEYo19SxhfAmtXWW4VU_1Fovfrq8CcgQAd5Txn3X5AEmWZKNS3oAcZZV01Qk0iDu8hK7puZhDUeKEwm4Mhz29wEoL2yvNXYaWw9_MI-B_U/s1600/140520_202653.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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Throughout all these changes, however, one thing has stayed the same:</div>
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My ponytail.</h2>
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Remember this movie?</div>
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<img height="355" src="http://leakynews.s3.amazonaws.com/pub/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/Merida-3.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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Yeah, based on my life. Totally underrated, if you ask me. People just don't appreciate a good Scottish accent these days.</div>
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But I digress...</div>
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Anyone who has met me knows that my hair is my crowning glory. Naturally curly since birth (well, a couple of years after birth. I was bald for a long time), the foofy mass atop my head has gained a personality of its own. When I was in junior high, my friends joked that my ponytail contained mystical properties, additional storage space, or a second brain. By the time I was in high school, people were convinced that it was a symbiotic organism attached to my scalp.</div>
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These days, its favorite pastimes include getting stuck in my eyelashes, sucked up in seatbelts, rolled up in car windows, shut in doors, sat on, and zipped up in my jacket. It also enjoys crawling down Daniel's throat at night and grabbing people as they walk past my desk at work.</div>
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Sadly, for all the sentience my hair has gained over the years, it has never quite grasped the concept of language. Therefore, it has had to learn to communicate in its own way. The following is a Hair-to-English dictionary, for your reference.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1FpTodCqIA88NSgidyGUISgFW2Ek98arKgUZWc5KcMfjLs6minbq2oDMscW60g5fPhY98JykbOsLilD8ij-Eibv6n0gtx3L7z1jaa-gvODKPVkg6d92aaeZiqoKZF9P2-6JXPkDs9dM/s1600/140520_191244.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC1FpTodCqIA88NSgidyGUISgFW2Ek98arKgUZWc5KcMfjLs6minbq2oDMscW60g5fPhY98JykbOsLilD8ij-Eibv6n0gtx3L7z1jaa-gvODKPVkg6d92aaeZiqoKZF9P2-6JXPkDs9dM/s1600/140520_191244.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means:</b> Why yes, I did shower today! I probably even used a blow dryer before I came to work (with a diffuser, of course). It smells like roses and sunshine. It sure doesn't taste like it, though.</div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> Look, but don't touch. I know it's tempting, the curls are so boingy and it's probably soft like a duck. If you come anywhere near it, though, it will grab you, pull you in, and start digesting you like that island in The Life of Pi. Plus you'll make it all fuzzy and then it will look stupid, so thanks a lot. If I have it down over my face, I'm probably hiding from you, so leave me alone.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIbu19kRM6oDqX69FET01fdRh9nQL4HegYD9t9VgrJxoDBDYrsTs7MS71nGHIuOjCFow1jpqHTzGirGm-774vHPBNOkWfA0KjNYIsCsgbu1yGcOQQUIQKb1uGr_lrA9YYEHFKJ3Iw6bAo/s1600/140520_191640.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIbu19kRM6oDqX69FET01fdRh9nQL4HegYD9t9VgrJxoDBDYrsTs7MS71nGHIuOjCFow1jpqHTzGirGm-774vHPBNOkWfA0KjNYIsCsgbu1yGcOQQUIQKb1uGr_lrA9YYEHFKJ3Iw6bAo/s1600/140520_191640.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means:</b> It's been a long day, and I can only have my hair down for so long before it gets ridiculously hot or just tangled around everything in my immediate vicinity. The Ponytail is my natural state, so I will always revert to it after a while.</div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> Fine, you can play with my hair if you want. Heck, it's not my problem anymore, it's on the back of my head! But I still can't be held responsible if anything terrible happens to you. Plus, if my hair is contained in the good ol' PT, I'm probably in a decent mood and won't bite you or run away if you try to talk to me.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3h_idh3yCrykK-M1WRtXUWLPhOrXUr_lHQd4rXeMIbQLJQiuqTudi80DhG_2MZCacc0FTasSEuj82YWWMGIdRs86TrCfPXvbCDR8PK7onaKTPmd-u3n-S7H3SFQNaL_-LwXqdnbSsdcg/s1600/140520_191917.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3h_idh3yCrykK-M1WRtXUWLPhOrXUr_lHQd4rXeMIbQLJQiuqTudi80DhG_2MZCacc0FTasSEuj82YWWMGIdRs86TrCfPXvbCDR8PK7onaKTPmd-u3n-S7H3SFQNaL_-LwXqdnbSsdcg/s1600/140520_191917.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means:</b> Okay, yes. You caught me. I did sleep in this ponytail. I was probably up late and I slept through my alarm, so I may or may not have slept in this shirt too. </div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> Grrrrrr. Grrrrrrrrr. Grr. Don't ask me hard questions or say things that annoy me. Also, don't sniff my hair at this point, because it most definitely does not smell like roses and sunshine anymore.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6R3YKnLMUPlvw3ZDO8K4r-Deyzh5eSBYLRyUzaBAWrQzrDCcH3exQXILir_aSmXZpk46Jpo2JgeMZaiSrntcS6KYbqprbJSM4g_dW6wOXQe3Jq5Ux7PXgZASXPj0rPd-TMiOGXvU46eM/s1600/140520_192146.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6R3YKnLMUPlvw3ZDO8K4r-Deyzh5eSBYLRyUzaBAWrQzrDCcH3exQXILir_aSmXZpk46Jpo2JgeMZaiSrntcS6KYbqprbJSM4g_dW6wOXQe3Jq5Ux7PXgZASXPj0rPd-TMiOGXvU46eM/s1600/140520_192146.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means:</b> Why yes, I did shower today! I probably even used a blow dryer, too. But it probably went horribly awry and my hair couldn't be seen in public, so I had to braid it for the safety of everyone around me. It could also mean that I'm going to bed, for similar safety reasons. </div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> I probably had a stressful morning, so speak softly and don't make any sudden movements unless you want me to explode into hysteria.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4QWuLPumm7Rqfq6YL_wGnhP2h7Ztk4B8Q5f2x5_25rr1NPKQUuQMZ9S5Hq00CZhqhdKmgurgezMwusWRYO3E8ABRq8cViTZXh-4JVTVBNV6dv0RPqp_Msk1TQpSQEjXnwEBOy_WcsGU/s1600/140520_192340.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH4QWuLPumm7Rqfq6YL_wGnhP2h7Ztk4B8Q5f2x5_25rr1NPKQUuQMZ9S5Hq00CZhqhdKmgurgezMwusWRYO3E8ABRq8cViTZXh-4JVTVBNV6dv0RPqp_Msk1TQpSQEjXnwEBOy_WcsGU/s1600/140520_192340.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means:</b> It has probably been way too many days since I've showered, and my hair is secretly dreadlocks under there. A bun is the only way to pretend that I kind of meant to do that.</div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> Please don't touch my hair. Don't touch me. Don't come near me. Don't ask me if I got punched in the face or are those just huge bags under my eyes. Don't ask me complicated questions or questions that you could have easily answered yourself. Don't talk to me, actually. Just let me sit here until it's tomorrow.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtqJBgNF9KDwovoAEaBkwgTUM7A36NDmk7X5KxmNlVF5y_DpI8KFXkt-lh8vTEHjzTgIDCyJk2b1cc1xaFGV9UUtY7l8ifOVJR6Cqw139I6NrSxbLqJBJZDoRBIxHLmiQuFdxF9HZvzQ/s1600/140520_192614.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBtqJBgNF9KDwovoAEaBkwgTUM7A36NDmk7X5KxmNlVF5y_DpI8KFXkt-lh8vTEHjzTgIDCyJk2b1cc1xaFGV9UUtY7l8ifOVJR6Cqw139I6NrSxbLqJBJZDoRBIxHLmiQuFdxF9HZvzQ/s1600/140520_192614.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means:</b> Yeah, I had a few hours to kill and felt like holding hot things near my face for a couple of those hours. And yes, it's still me under there. I know you didn't recognize me at first.</div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> Feel free to stroke it lovingly, but only after I brush through it four or five times, because that's not something I can normally do. Also, don't ask me to raise my arms above my head or lift anything, because I just held a hot thing to my face for two hours. Please do not drink anything near me or mention the weather or think about moisture too loudly, because it was really hard to get it to stay straight.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVsFAq3l1xS0veUz26B5Igk60RkFEiFE_34aQTe4R2mByxWp4U0gjIRg19cnwvHLfi4BQ02XqqdLxU6Op_Y2pe65RPqdmHYK7lscQZzPbcGp55fD7OltpfiBX7JFSTBNfysj8u7HhmKo/s1600/140520_192842.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVsFAq3l1xS0veUz26B5Igk60RkFEiFE_34aQTe4R2mByxWp4U0gjIRg19cnwvHLfi4BQ02XqqdLxU6Op_Y2pe65RPqdmHYK7lscQZzPbcGp55fD7OltpfiBX7JFSTBNfysj8u7HhmKo/s1600/140520_192842.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means: </b>Yeah, I had maybe an hour or an hour and a half to kill, or maybe my arms got tired halfway through, or maybe I saw a picture of a raindrop. Whatever, man. I stopped caring.</div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> Don't tell me my hair is so straight, I know it's not. If you mention it my obsessive compulsive brain won't be able to stop thinking about the two wrinkled bits all day, and then I'll be ashamed of myself, so let's just all pretend nothing is different. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglMckzPS2roH8YPOypWZvBlUfmLQ6qXg1Jx7lQpN8WmnjVx5naNqnz2La7FLwAOofoHf1Hspse9J-gQM5ayqZwWyHqioiQmdsroAOcUtzdtEU-QGDkKeS8Dv7y2Cv7WbYB6oUxQQY_xg/s1600/140520_193026.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgglMckzPS2roH8YPOypWZvBlUfmLQ6qXg1Jx7lQpN8WmnjVx5naNqnz2La7FLwAOofoHf1Hspse9J-gQM5ayqZwWyHqioiQmdsroAOcUtzdtEU-QGDkKeS8Dv7y2Cv7WbYB6oUxQQY_xg/s1600/140520_193026.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<b>What it Means:</b> Someone else did my hair.</div>
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<b>What it Means To You:</b> Don't bother asking me how I did it, I don't know. I wish I did though, because a French braid would be the new Old Faithful, if it weren't for the fact that it's so hard to draw.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-38768491475337218332014-05-11T16:57:00.002-06:002014-05-11T16:57:45.178-06:00From Whence I Came<div style="text-align: center;">
Okay, first off, let me make an apology to all those who have been anxiously awaiting a new blog post for weeks. A lot of big things have been happening lately and I haven't had a ton of time to write. Plus we just barely got internet like a week ago.</div>
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That said, happy Mother's Day, everyone!</div>
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Let's talk about my own mother. </div>
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Twenty one years, five months, and two days ago, I came into this world and made her more than she was (you're welcome, Mom). She looked down into my tiny baby face, after 24 long hours of labor, and said with tears in her eyes, "It looks like a lizard."</div>
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Before I started this blog post, I thought a lot about the things that make my mom who she is. I pulled out my tablet and stylus and drew whatever came to mind, and now I'm here typing the words part and I can't quite figure out how to pull it all together. So, without further ado, here are some funny things about my mother!</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">The Nail Polish Box</span></b></div>
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<br />My mother and sisters and I enjoy spending time together painting our fingernails. We go to the store, pick out fun colors of nail polish, and sit down and test it out. My poor father hates it, says it stinks up his whole house. He usually opens a can of sardines to fight stinky with stinky. But for us girl types, that's some quality bonding time. </div>
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These days, all of the gazillions of colors of nail polish collected over the years are gathered together in two or three shoe boxes. Inside these boxes is everything we need for nail painting. In recent years, however, the nail polish box has gained a new addition.</div>
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It contains...</div>
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...all the colors of nail polish, for painting.</div>
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...nail polish remover, for changing colors.</div>
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...cotton balls, for apply nail polish remover.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFNpkYyol1KZ13GJgNvDPTksc8je0uH6Ca-ehkF-Rg_edOKI__rjhEtqqmMnSTAxp3CVEq33aUEuKtIgcoiJiHDDP5rDnj_N4NfzopraOANzxGghcqXC_rygcAeJJi3h5hEWoZillcX8/s1600/140511_104654.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQFNpkYyol1KZ13GJgNvDPTksc8je0uH6Ca-ehkF-Rg_edOKI__rjhEtqqmMnSTAxp3CVEq33aUEuKtIgcoiJiHDDP5rDnj_N4NfzopraOANzxGghcqXC_rygcAeJJi3h5hEWoZillcX8/s1600/140511_104654.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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...and reading glasses, because my mother is old now and can't look at things close up.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Instant Messaging</span></b></div>
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I have a crippling fear of talking on phones, and sometimes I get really busy and don't have a ton of time to go visit. However, due to the marvel that is Google, we mainly keep in touch via instant messaging. </div>
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Well... maybe "instant" messaging is a bit of a stretch.</div>
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I recently took a typing test for a job interview, and my score showed that I type about 75 words per minute. My dear mother, on the other hand...</div>
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The woman types like she's disarming a bomb. You'd think the keyboard was going to jump up and bite her. </div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Lessons Learned</span></b></div>
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Oh! I sort of figured out a direction to go. Yay me. The next few pictures are about things my mother taught me that have made me a more useful member of society. </div>
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My mother recently told me that her main goal in raising her children was for them to grow up into independent, smart, productive women. None of us was ever raised to be a "kept woman" or to have anyone take care of us. </div>
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As soon as I was old enough, I was taught how to be an effective person. I was given responsibilities and educated on every aspect of adulthood. </div>
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She taught me how to manage money and how to make my meager funds stretch further. She taught me how to save money, how to spend money, and how to never pay full price for anything.</div>
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I remember one particular incident when I was young and getting ready to start school. I was going to big kid school, so I needed a new big kid backpack. I had found one that I loved, but there was one problem...</div>
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One of the most important lessons my mother taught me, though, is something I can apply to every aspect of my life. It's something I've shared with friends and with the young women I taught. </div>
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That lesson is this:</div>
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Don't try to be a size 2 if you're really a size 6.</div>
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Think about it like this: Have you ever worn pants that were two sizes too small? You could be a perfectly healthy person that is perfectly average sized, but be wearings pants made for a person who is significantly less than average. You might squoosh those pants on in the morning and think to yourself "Hooray me, I'm a size 2!" But really, everyone else looks at you and says "Wow. Look at that poor pudgy girl. Bless her heart."</div>
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Now think about this. Have you ever had that pair of pants that just fits <i>perfectly?</i> You wake up in the morning, pull your pants on comfortably, look in the mirror, and think "Guuuuurrrrl." Maybe those pants aren't a size 2, but they look so good on you. Truthfully, your pants may be bigger, but they make you look a lot skinnier than a tiny pair of pants with love handles hanging over the side ever could.</div>
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That lesson doesn't necessarily apply to just pants, either. It could mean taking on a project that you actually have the time and resources to accomplish, rather than one that seems more impressive. It could mean choosing a major that actually suits your talents an abilities, rather than one that makes more money. It could mean choosing a piece of music to perform that is simple, beautiful, and within your range, rather than one that is complex and impressive. </div>
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You'll always look better doing well at something that fits you, rather than failing at something that doesn't. </div>
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For those of you in this world who have mothers (read: everyone), you too should take a moment to think about your mother and everything she has taught you. Chances are, it's a lot.</div>
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Happy Mother's Day, Mom.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-30787451412177340642014-04-13T20:03:00.001-06:002014-04-14T11:13:08.065-06:00Babies Are Gross<div style="text-align: center;">
Confession time again.</div>
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This may not come as a huge surprise to some (most) people, but I don't like babies. Like at all.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nr6cbooiKxCc-pn3c4oDs2fkhj3evwU-Al0I4ly3uKDzaU7n4QqzasW2QHBeibIDuJEqqC3uQX-7W9w4RLJqDn_TqjpOOossW5hF8BsvQm8e-yNcSwNTcNzTcSsXbUdhrYpKNHMOD_k/s1600/140226_190754.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4nr6cbooiKxCc-pn3c4oDs2fkhj3evwU-Al0I4ly3uKDzaU7n4QqzasW2QHBeibIDuJEqqC3uQX-7W9w4RLJqDn_TqjpOOossW5hF8BsvQm8e-yNcSwNTcNzTcSsXbUdhrYpKNHMOD_k/s1600/140226_190754.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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At first it was kind of a background little quirky thing that I liked to play up, but the older I've gotten and the closer to actual childbearing time, the more I've realized that I really actually can't stand babies, and I definitely can't stand <i>children</i>.</div>
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Even as a child myself, I harbored a certain disdain for kids. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOuAoZpuTPGZi6pwEtD4JG-FuuVkTOEYSJNOAqXlwUSiR4wg4Ext7zY8BXuMPT_OodT1kr1RrKB5fw-AUo6ctzeoQnGyi4EckukTfC2QNZBmnStBgz2f71FZx31iVINFl2BTNskdZ1J0/s1600/140226_193428.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZOuAoZpuTPGZi6pwEtD4JG-FuuVkTOEYSJNOAqXlwUSiR4wg4Ext7zY8BXuMPT_OodT1kr1RrKB5fw-AUo6ctzeoQnGyi4EckukTfC2QNZBmnStBgz2f71FZx31iVINFl2BTNskdZ1J0/s1600/140226_193428.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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I don't know what it is... maybe there's some broken piece of my psyche that makes it so I don't react correctly to the sound of a crying baby, or the smell of baby head. Perhaps I actually have cancer and there's a tumor right in the drive-to-reproduce center of my brain. Maybe I am just one of those people that doesn't like children. </div>
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I mean, don't get me wrong, it's not like I <i>hate </i>babies and I want to abolish all reproduction on the earth. It's not like I want <i>other </i>people to not have kids. Heck, other people can have all the kids they want, as long as they don't expect me to touch them or interact with them in any way ever. </div>
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Here's the solid truth, though:</div>
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<li>I don't think babies are that cute. They're all pink and naked and poopy and they don't even have tails or whiskers.</li>
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<li>I have no desire to ever have a baby, let alone raise it to adulthood. It's just not my jam.</li>
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<li>No, I don't want to hold your baby. That's great that you made one, now don't let it puke on me.</li>
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<li>I don't feel like I need to reproduce to be fulfilled in life or to be a "real woman." In fact, I feel like having kids would <i>prevent</i> me from being fulfilled.</li>
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Now, before you all freak out and start secretly being ashamed to know me, just know that I've heard it all before. My life is a never-ending barrage of "Oh, just you wait, once that biological clock starts ticking..."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpnDU4ieCBqzlOgsw1mePq7RgnVXf3qvjBc7-Rubu_zHMZng325T_UKlGyiAk7LeHiDdpOx-RcwP_pPPDSj7KaXWL_rjjkjErfO0ZiuJ6sDvu7f-hHjDe-4owRiH0x7PUBxOeTIM9C4A/s1600/140413_133759.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpnDU4ieCBqzlOgsw1mePq7RgnVXf3qvjBc7-Rubu_zHMZng325T_UKlGyiAk7LeHiDdpOx-RcwP_pPPDSj7KaXWL_rjjkjErfO0ZiuJ6sDvu7f-hHjDe-4owRiH0x7PUBxOeTIM9C4A/s1600/140413_133759.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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I'll admit it, I do tend to talk about babies a lot. But it's mostly because I think the things I say are funny sometimes, and also I sort of feel the need to convince everyone in the world that I'm really serious about not wanting babies. The problem is, sometimes my protestations cause people to think that I'm secretly covering up my deep-down longing to have a billion offspring.</div>
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I'm not. </div>
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And so, here is my response to some of the more common arguments I run into:</div>
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<b>"What if your child is, like, the next Mother Theresa?"</b></div>
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Firstly, were I to reproduce, I'm fairly certain none of my offspring would end up Catholic, let alone nuns. And secondly, my children could just as easily end up Hitler. Not that I would raise them to be evil or anything, but I'm not exactly a great example of good-person-itude, and also there's only so much nurturing you can do before you run into the whole nature bit. My children won't necessarily be magically nice or smart or good. Plus, I have a genetic history of mental illness.</div>
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<b>"Yeah, but you always said you weren't going to get married either."</b></div>
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Getting married and having a child are two <i>very </i>different things. Yes, I'll admit that I was pretty sure I wasn't the marrying type, and honestly I'm still not sure I would describe myself as wifely. Some of Daniel's students called me "Mrs. Winsor" the other day, and it took me like ten minutes to realize they were referring to me, and then it made me feel all weird inside. If anyone ever called me "Mommy" I'd probably puke on them. Plus getting married to Daniel hasn't made me throw up every day or destroyed my body beyond repair or taken up every millisecond of my time. Okay sure, I've gotten a bit pudgy, but I could fix that. Plus, if something terrible were to happen and (heaven forbid) Daniel and I didn't want to be married anymore, we have that option. Not that we would ever get divorced, but you can't divorce a child. </div>
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<b>"It's a commandment! God said we must multiply and replenish the earth!"</b></div>
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Pretty sure he meant "we" as a species, not me personally. And also I think the breeders of the world have that about covered and a half. Frankly, I think we could replenish the earth more easily if we multiplied <i>less. </i>Overpopulation is a real thing, people.</div>
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<b>"It's different when they're your own children."</b></div>
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Maybe it is, but that's not a risk I'm willing to take. What if I have a baby and find out that I hate it? What then? There isn't exactly a return policy on those.</div>
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<b>"But you were so cute when you were a baby! Your babies would be adorable."</b></div>
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There is no way to know that! Attractive people have ugly babies all the time. Daniel and I could easily make a baby that is a combination of both of our most unfortunate traits, even if we both were beautiful babies. I always worry that if we were to have an ugly baby, either I wouldn't realize that my baby was ugly and everyone would talk about it behind my back, or I <i>would </i>realize how ugly it was, and I'd have to live with the fact that I thought my baby was ugly. Also, even if we had a freaking Gerber model for a baby, I still don't think babies are cute, so that's irrelevant.</div>
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<b>"You're so awesome, though. People like you should reproduce so there are more of you."</b></div>
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Once again, I will refer to the nature/nurture argument. Sure, kids do tend to take after their parents in some ways, but there's no telling how they'll end up. I could spend 18 years teaching my kids to be awesome, and they could still suck. Besides, if you think I'm so great, why don't you train your own offspring to be more like me? I'll write a guidebook or something if that helps.</div>
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<b>"But your parents will want grandchildren!"</b></div>
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I have two sisters, two sisters-in-law, and two brothers-in-law. That is a total of six perfectly healthy siblings that are totally capable of reproduction. Neither my parents nor my in-laws are lacking in options. Besides, I opted to change my name when I got married, so it's not like I would be carrying on the family name at all. And Daniel has two brothers, so they can take care of that side of things.</div>
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<b>"How will you ever be fulfilled knowing that you don't have children to carry on your legacy?"</b></div>
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As I mentioned earlier, I almost sort of feel like reproducing will prevent me from being fulfilled. I don't like children and I don't want to have children, so if I had children just because I let friends/family/society pressure me into doing so, I will most likely end up resenting them for the rest of forever. Plus, I would much rather be remembered for my OWN contributions to society, rather than for being the vessel for the creation of someone else who contributed to society. Alexander Fleming's mom didn't discover penicillin, and Marie Curie's mother didn't win a Nobel prize.</div>
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<b>"You'll change your mind eventually. Watch, I bet you have a baby in like two years."</b></div>
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You know what? Maybe I will change my mind. Maybe I won't. Right now, I really really do not want kids, and it is none of your business to tell me otherwise. If you said you didn't want to go skydiving, I wouldn't sit there and say "You don't really mean that. How can you even know if you've never tried it? Maybe you have a crippling fear of heights, but everyone has to go skydiving eventually, or you mean nothing as a person." </div>
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Once again, I'd like to reiterate that I don't have a problem with other people who have had children or would like to do so. I feel for those women who do want children but aren't able to have babies of their own. If I could trade reproductive organs with you, I would do it in a heartbeat. Children aren't for everyone, and it's sad that some women want them but aren't able to have them, but that doesn't mean I'm a bad person for not wanting them. Some people are allergic to shellfish, but that doesn't mean that I am heartless for not liking it even if I could eat it if I wanted to. </div>
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A lot of my friends are married these days, and a few of them are thinking about babies themselves. I will gladly support them in their desire to procreate, but that doesn't mean I want my own babies, or even that I really want to touch theirs. I am just the kind of person who looks at little baby clothes and thinks "That would look so cute on my cat!"</div>
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Lastly, I don't want to have children because they are SO EXPENSIVE. </div>
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Soon, Daniel will get his degree in Music Education. I think that's amazing and great, and I gladly support him in his desire to do something he loves and share the wonders of music with youth. However, anyone who knows anything knows that teaching music isn't exactly one of the top paying careers in the world. </div>
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I only have an associates degree in general studies right now, which is basically the equivalent of graduating high school twice but paying $24,000 for the second time. Maybe someday I will go back to school and earn another degree, but it is reeeeeally difficult to go to school if you have a baby. Plus, even if I did get a big-kid degree, holding down a career and raising children is tough for women. I could never do the stay at home mom thing, because I would go crazy, but daycare is hugely expensive too.</div>
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A recent report from the U.S. Department of Agriculture shows that the average cost of raising a child in a middle-income family to the age of 18 in the U.S. is </div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>$241,080/child</b></span></div>
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If you break that down, it's would be almost</div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>$13,400/year</b></span></div>
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and as much as</div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>$1,120/month</b></span></div>
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That is enough to buy...</div>
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A new 128GB iPad Air every <span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>3 weeks</b></span>.</div>
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A Disney Caribbean cruise every <b><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4</span></b> <span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>months</b></span>.</div>
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A brand new Chevy Camaro every <b><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2 years</span></b>.</div>
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A bachelor's degree (for two people) from the University of Utah every <b><span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4 years</span></b>.</div>
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A decently sized houseboat every <span style="color: red; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>6 years</b></span>.</div>
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As for myself, I'd rather have the time and money.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-86780073646140129102014-03-31T22:06:00.007-06:002014-03-31T22:07:39.305-06:00Pillow Talk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWCqSKrUAh1mqbOsQ0jDPpB5O04pjYmvRShhF61SXIAkE3jOAAtCIBymJfXksFYPfdjLvRhJJpNU06ngfLT_O5f5k5Jk0erJjNZg2lnNK9pz0Vqx3e0_sHz1BzaWmlhdHpMnQj__L6f9A/s1600/140330_132750.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWCqSKrUAh1mqbOsQ0jDPpB5O04pjYmvRShhF61SXIAkE3jOAAtCIBymJfXksFYPfdjLvRhJJpNU06ngfLT_O5f5k5Jk0erJjNZg2lnNK9pz0Vqx3e0_sHz1BzaWmlhdHpMnQj__L6f9A/s1600/140330_132750.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-8150289175855407802014-03-02T17:51:00.000-07:002014-03-02T22:54:11.180-07:00The Comically Tragic Plight of the Chinchilla<div style="text-align: center;">
So... some of you will remember an <a href="http://hemustbehappy.blogspot.com/2013/10/confessions.html" target="_blank">earlier post</a> that I wrote confessing that I don't believe in chinchillas. Turns out a surprisingly large number of people in this world are very adamant that chinchillas are, in fact, real, and have spent the last forever trying to prove their existence to me. I guess people will believe anything these days.</div>
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I figured I would humor some of those poor delusional souls and let them make their case, just for argument's sake. This is what I learned from a coworker who is also a zoology major, and also Wikipedia...</div>
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Let's start with what a chinchilla is, according to some.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmS8FbblsQ_RB_l7LNjS-JMgYlpJAxsG2EJJbOeBCgT1Y-1jMMgaH4Q-djL49NB_ao1QRo9Z8kESbamZQIUiEhN1pXA4v74MZXmASN8CNriBbW_SrOrANCpMS0zbXAZUv42KqxhXrR0E/s1600/140128_223105.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijmS8FbblsQ_RB_l7LNjS-JMgYlpJAxsG2EJJbOeBCgT1Y-1jMMgaH4Q-djL49NB_ao1QRo9Z8kESbamZQIUiEhN1pXA4v74MZXmASN8CNriBbW_SrOrANCpMS0zbXAZUv42KqxhXrR0E/s1600/140128_223105.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 1: This is a chinchilla.</td></tr>
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Apparently, chinchillas do exist, and they are <i>endangered</i>. These furry fabrications allegedly come from the mountains of South America, and are named for the Chincha people of the Andes. The idea of chinchillas most likely originated from tales spun by Native Americans hopped up on coca leaves that saw a deformed rabbit in the mountains, and thus the legend of the chinchilla was born. (That part wasn't on the Wiki page, but it will be soon, so help me. People need to know the truth!)</div>
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Chinchillas are mainly endangered from being hunted by humans for their magical properties and supersoft fur. The small populations that are left live in the Andes mountains or Petco. In the wild, these fluffy falsehoods live in shallow burrows under the ground. Much like hamsters, chinchillas are crepuscular, meaning the are active during the morning and evening and sleep during the middle of the day and the middle of the night.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcQ339OeNAKK_yNkNcxmJ_oOXDwesTYBt3caQ0V9CcAZpn-ODsVAd1dUlaiKox8fKbqnhcgtCpkG5yGn-f5Zo5EEIonA9GDkbzrGTR8LrBSdn6fQk4wWnHsoTruKB_ZluMxs7Z9nKiyc/s1600/140302_133140.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcQ339OeNAKK_yNkNcxmJ_oOXDwesTYBt3caQ0V9CcAZpn-ODsVAd1dUlaiKox8fKbqnhcgtCpkG5yGn-f5Zo5EEIonA9GDkbzrGTR8LrBSdn6fQk4wWnHsoTruKB_ZluMxs7Z9nKiyc/s1600/140302_133140.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 2: Chinchillas are crepuscular. You are diurnal. Chupacabras are nocturnal.</td></tr>
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The greatest threat to these charming chimeras in the wild is... wait for it... cattle.</div>
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"But... wh... cow's aren't predators!"</div>
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You are correct. Cows are entirely herbivorous and totally docile. They roam the mountains eating nothing but grass and minding their own business. </div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Fig. 3: This cow is minding its business.</span></div>
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In South America, the cow farmers (cowmen? cowpherds? cattlers?) let their cows just kind of wander every which way, eating all the chinchilla food and wandering onto their chinchilla land. Now, let's flash back a bit to the chinchilla's sleeping habits... </div>
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Imagine you're a perfectly unsuspecting cow wandering through a perfectly normal-looking field, but it's a TRAP!</div>
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Under the surface of the earth, dozens of sleeping chinchillae in their shallow chinchilla-burrows have made the ground unstable and totally unsafe for cows.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaZl5pxa91m7YSBTFeQNHIRER0AWkuHOdXQ06CthD1nlZWFg-8zzfG3EEHMe6LQ-3CSA4KxPZJVI0-1x8XIjg-2YafA8mKYBIpWeKj10Kdk6_OH8wtwEbh3V_8Iz9Vwx4DJKXGcE_3eM/s1600/140302_134057.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisaZl5pxa91m7YSBTFeQNHIRER0AWkuHOdXQ06CthD1nlZWFg-8zzfG3EEHMe6LQ-3CSA4KxPZJVI0-1x8XIjg-2YafA8mKYBIpWeKj10Kdk6_OH8wtwEbh3V_8Iz9Vwx4DJKXGcE_3eM/s1600/140302_134057.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 4: Another cow victimized by chinchilla burrows. It could have been seriously injured.</td></tr>
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Also, when the cows step in the chinchilla burrows that have sleeping chinchillas in them, they tend to crush and kill the occupant, which is why chinchillas populations are on a constant decline.</div>
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Plus it's really gross for the cow.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpldHa650OcBQzAAIavSKByeoznryIoAId-aPdSRb4ztwZbwU_hOT8K-q-MomqkbvFrNNx7FfgHfVhCW_zftX9uSTI-d_NUGwESj4ncLidXdS5y9tQfSUVCWWhBK4wKzS2rGDNvWRSxQA/s1600/140302_134932.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpldHa650OcBQzAAIavSKByeoznryIoAId-aPdSRb4ztwZbwU_hOT8K-q-MomqkbvFrNNx7FfgHfVhCW_zftX9uSTI-d_NUGwESj4ncLidXdS5y9tQfSUVCWWhBK4wKzS2rGDNvWRSxQA/s1600/140302_134932.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 5: It's really hard to get crushed chinchilla out of your hooves. </td></tr>
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My coworker is currently raising funds (using artwork drawn by yours truly) to build fences for chinchillas in South America to keep them from getting accidentally stomped upon by innocent cattle. </div>
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When she originally proposed the idea for fences for chinchillas, it seemed really ridiculous. I mean, it just doesn't make logical sense.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4TkI8DrOVgq_Nwj3DBpqMYuz_dX8xZWBAI4oj8pplWLHYlSqzjN9mOUN35Gm1Kl2XbXBS-lIqXBCH849teab-lhtt0Jt-RX9r0SyJo3LdkqRsSJ7vHJYsUzw7lTQiKGx-arD8aF3WjgQ/s1600/140302_135331.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4TkI8DrOVgq_Nwj3DBpqMYuz_dX8xZWBAI4oj8pplWLHYlSqzjN9mOUN35Gm1Kl2XbXBS-lIqXBCH849teab-lhtt0Jt-RX9r0SyJo3LdkqRsSJ7vHJYsUzw7lTQiKGx-arD8aF3WjgQ/s1600/140302_135331.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 6: A fence for chinchillas, approximately 6" tall.</td></tr>
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If you build a fence that size, maybe it will keep the chinchillas from wandering into the cow pastures, but it wouldn't stop the cows at all.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1O87QKf6ve5iACYjr3JGfbaBLFoPcNfNiTVkcTc1Yijy82wQYjm8FDN-OVBp2G60695pp_Y_j4LrnBJEZIYDN5q7F61eBHZfxWJqK-8wXreroE8nwxJdnuS3YaQrGS8M5Sty9RtpEA0/s1600/140302_135747.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis1O87QKf6ve5iACYjr3JGfbaBLFoPcNfNiTVkcTc1Yijy82wQYjm8FDN-OVBp2G60695pp_Y_j4LrnBJEZIYDN5q7F61eBHZfxWJqK-8wXreroE8nwxJdnuS3YaQrGS8M5Sty9RtpEA0/s1600/140302_135747.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 7: Chinchilla fences are impractical and unsafe, as they present a further tripping hazard for cows.</td></tr>
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She explained later that the money was actually going toward building cow-sized fences, which makes much more sense.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsT0H055kouVRpW1cTU_bcouLERBTuEEKCva8wTAOmP2Bg3ry6IaI8qQmBjSGfVHkKz0BLJX0QqEfxZPiok6MQm4IHuWaakTR1lF2IxOPAEuuzGDaJmHQNqT4w9tqYb0fCTUdjTpB9V9U/s1600/140302_140235.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsT0H055kouVRpW1cTU_bcouLERBTuEEKCva8wTAOmP2Bg3ry6IaI8qQmBjSGfVHkKz0BLJX0QqEfxZPiok6MQm4IHuWaakTR1lF2IxOPAEuuzGDaJmHQNqT4w9tqYb0fCTUdjTpB9V9U/s1600/140302_140235.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fig. 8: Cow-fences limit the feeding area of cows, but at least chinchillas won't get smushed.</td></tr>
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So anyways, if you're into conservation-y things or fantasy creatures or buying sweet hats with PFN-style artwork on them, you should definitely go buy some "Chinchillin'" merchandise in the Union Building at Weber State University on Wednesday, March 19.</div>
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It's for a good cause.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-22645724279568019712014-02-16T15:03:00.001-07:002014-02-16T16:40:29.546-07:00I'm So Sorry<div style="text-align: center;">
Here is a story...</div>
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Once upon a time, there was blogtoonist named Jackie. She didn't blog or toon very much because she had a mysterious brain condition that made all of her creativity fail her for months at a time. So please don't judge her. </div>
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The end. </div>
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I got all excited because Daniel got me a sweet new laptop that comes apart and magically transforms into a tablet, and I had all these grand plans for how I was going to draw cooler pictures than ever before! ...but then I couldn't think of what to draw, so I've mostly spent my time using the laptop to watch Netflix and YouTube videos of elephants who are better at drawing than me. </div>
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I tried again today to draw a picture, and this is what came out of my brain:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWjvit7cCtmc-vUB4yaAvkhJThBUjEY3dHAXHqQrgmW1s0fyCx6W5mqnV0BDYj8lHR2sVmsr8ff3iO5aPv0pvf2VP_fzYmjgs3nri6KqJwmLdDXbILcIh_tHYv-cwa7-01tvwXGq3xtU/s1600/140216_133323.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWjvit7cCtmc-vUB4yaAvkhJThBUjEY3dHAXHqQrgmW1s0fyCx6W5mqnV0BDYj8lHR2sVmsr8ff3iO5aPv0pvf2VP_fzYmjgs3nri6KqJwmLdDXbILcIh_tHYv-cwa7-01tvwXGq3xtU/s640/140216_133323.png" /> </a> </div>
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You're welcome.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804518843588373364.post-59320785187957267232014-01-05T22:40:00.001-07:002014-01-05T22:40:41.313-07:00That Britney Song (You Know The One)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span id="goog_1904524683"></span><span id="goog_1904524684"></span>So, here's a sad story.</div>
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Once upon a time, I was very young, and then I turned 14 or so and put on like 40 pounds overnight. Which, I'll admit, wasn't that big of a deal since I was a tiny human being to begin with. That's not the sad part. After that, I stayed at the same size... forever.</div>
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But then, TRAGEDY STRUCK! I got married!</div>
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Okay, that wasn't tragic. What's tragic is the thing that happens to everyone (apparently) after they get married: I started putting on weight again. </div>
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<br />My mind was totally blown, because for the past six plus years of my life I had eaten whatever and not changed size at all, except maybe a couple pounds of variation. Seriously, I'm not kidding, there was a point in my life where I ate almost exclusively Doritos, ice cream, and boxed pasta for four months and barely gained an ounce. </div>
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So now it's a new year, and aside from my resolution to be less of a jerk, I also resolved to lose the pooch I've put on since my wedding. But here's the problem...</div>
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I'm SO LAZY, you guys.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6aPiqA-uQ345996XOQGzLfPlNV0ceAfpyCqw8ymIrXEOB4udO7e3KF0bx0SD0e7xa8d-6nfniKy6kTNTZZfBzNiCl6EkM1aG7-q8QAC3igrQzTZlkXv7p4deL40DGuBk9mrbEp6lU89k/s1600/140104_155250.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6aPiqA-uQ345996XOQGzLfPlNV0ceAfpyCqw8ymIrXEOB4udO7e3KF0bx0SD0e7xa8d-6nfniKy6kTNTZZfBzNiCl6EkM1aG7-q8QAC3igrQzTZlkXv7p4deL40DGuBk9mrbEp6lU89k/s1600/140104_155250.png" height="640" width="412" /></a></div>
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No matter what I did before, I didn't gain or lose any weight, so I didn't really bother to exercise or eat people food. And I <i>hate </i>exercising! And I <i>really hate </i>being hungry!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva9aMoliHrJNAcgiAP1y7VRaGVkujGAlMwjKLhIoQJPYSgQoy8Xecy949sC9z0n_VUOARxjD4wzSZtmf003no35FSVENhF4ZTRZrtQStT9nemHUuCGwx8aZe4AI32U7JgjzNX3AsKcLw/s1600/140105_212539.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgva9aMoliHrJNAcgiAP1y7VRaGVkujGAlMwjKLhIoQJPYSgQoy8Xecy949sC9z0n_VUOARxjD4wzSZtmf003no35FSVENhF4ZTRZrtQStT9nemHUuCGwx8aZe4AI32U7JgjzNX3AsKcLw/s1600/140105_212539.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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I hope to lose at least all of the weight that I've gained since I've gotten married, since I apparently qualify as "overweight" now.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgRY2HlyZLWHxqk76H_0gxYfYJ-dayVabxQw-cGpPoHgx3SBJ8begQBc2k-Xv3c8V4FnHagJTGlRsFmIoKw325QWCP2ccTkqVTcIjLtK0x3cW9UwYPmnG1CmDxbHUV8KeAtFEs5j28ro/s1600/140105_212958.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcgRY2HlyZLWHxqk76H_0gxYfYJ-dayVabxQw-cGpPoHgx3SBJ8begQBc2k-Xv3c8V4FnHagJTGlRsFmIoKw325QWCP2ccTkqVTcIjLtK0x3cW9UwYPmnG1CmDxbHUV8KeAtFEs5j28ro/s1600/140105_212958.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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I did think of a pretty quick plan to lose some weight, but I don't really want to resort to extreme measures just yet.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDCSO_HlXNzHSGkTIFzBV2d_5EVQmEqdVsNuMf3gaHEPLpd1mnShXFWa2irIFB3P1GCAhj7wCgYtLv6S-l-4d73nvHT-w30tVkKnPDu9CzfpGQEgMLvYGumbrSp3NIcOXZo-1vOs8Hfk/s1600/140105_213544.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDCSO_HlXNzHSGkTIFzBV2d_5EVQmEqdVsNuMf3gaHEPLpd1mnShXFWa2irIFB3P1GCAhj7wCgYtLv6S-l-4d73nvHT-w30tVkKnPDu9CzfpGQEgMLvYGumbrSp3NIcOXZo-1vOs8Hfk/s1600/140105_213544.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevp-2hx4LwrB9rNLXPF6jG9Bxzv9rKZ7KbAuDpQS_MThJ0jfiHZg3NEIIJY-pjvYe3XvAXt4W9j9-dteYBn5pr8xGD1aNrDtd4MOU_A70BwHedadcZtmfmorONy3KwR7SyYCXCvJeZfo/s1600/140105_213855.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevp-2hx4LwrB9rNLXPF6jG9Bxzv9rKZ7KbAuDpQS_MThJ0jfiHZg3NEIIJY-pjvYe3XvAXt4W9j9-dteYBn5pr8xGD1aNrDtd4MOU_A70BwHedadcZtmfmorONy3KwR7SyYCXCvJeZfo/s1600/140105_213855.png" height="640" width="414" /></a></div>
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So before we do anything drastic, I know some of you readers out there are fit/healthy people. What advice do you have for a twentysomething office drone who can barely climb the stairs to sit her lazy butt in her cubicle every day?</div>
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Here are some requirements for your specially tailored diet/exercise plan:</div>
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1. Jogging makes me want to die, so we definitely can't have any of that.</div>
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2. I probably will never go to the gym more than... twice. In my life. Seriously, I once paid for a gym membership for a year and didn't even go to that part of <i>town.</i></div>
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3. I'm like frigging Paula Deen in the kitchen. Meaning I really like to cook and not much of my cooking is even sort of healthy. </div>
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4. I do <i>not </i>like being hungry. Admittedly, sometimes if I get too busy I can go for days without eating, but if I ever <i>notice </i>that I'm hungry, heaven help us all.</div>
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5. I have a bored-eating problem. Sometimes I'll look down and my desk will be covered in wrappers from candy I didn't even know I had. My mouth just needs something to do!</div>
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6. I'm pretty terrible at self discipline. I'll whine like you wouldn't believe, and I'm no good at following through on things on my own motivation. </div>
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So anywho, good luck with that! If you can find a way for me to lose 15-20 pounds without dieting, exercising, or making any sort of extra effort, you... uh... get to marry a princess. Or perhaps you get the key to the city. Or some sort of trophy. Yeah! I'll buy/make/acquire a trophy, and if you solve the riddle, I'll give it to you.</div>
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Let the games begin!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15587235406399597211noreply@blogger.com9