Why I Hate/Love Surprises

Everyone loves surprises right? Not me. Of course I love being surprised. But I absolutely hate knowing that a surprise is coming my way. It’s like standing in front of a dark cave and hearing a growl – you never know what sort of animal could be making that noise and it’s scary, right? It could be a lion, or a little kitty cat, or even the echo of your hungry stomach.

Well, I guess not all of us can relate to this experience, so let me explain it with a story…

Breezy left for work Friday morning with a smile on his face. He told me that he got me a gift for our 5 year anniversary and it would be arriving soon.

“Don’t open it,” he ordered, and then proceeded to explain how I would most likely be mauled by a bear if the seal was somehow broken.

I figured I would be able to handle the suspense, and I even got some of my homework done… until the UPS guy came and delivered a huge box to my door. I was so excited I could barely contain myself.

“Do you know what’s inside?” I asked him giddily.

“No, don’t you?” he replied, looking at me like I probably shouldn’t be answering the door for strangers.

“No, it’s a surprise,” I told him with an enormous grin slicing across my face.

“Well, enjoy.” He nodded his head goodbye and took off for his truck, probably in fear for his own life. If I didn’t know what was inside and he didn’t know what inside, it could have been anything! And it could have been dangerous.

I tried to go back to my homework, but the box was calling to me, beating loudly from across the room like the Tell Tale Heart. I wanted to know what was inside. “What if it’s a puppy?” I asked myself. “I can’t make that poor puppy stay in there all day!” But then I remembered that Breezy told me I shouldn’t open it until he got home and I knew he wouldn’t keep a puppy in a box like that. Or would he? I was beginning to go mad.

Only a couple of hours in and I had gone to full Golem mode. I wanted what was inside that box, and I wanted it now! It was all I could think about.

My precious pleaded with me, but, as much as I wanted to reach over and shake it ever so slightly to feel the weight, I couldn’t bring myself any closer to it. If Breezy knew that I had opened the box he would never get me a surprise again! Plus, I was pretty sure he was joking about the bear, but if he wasn’t I’d be mauled on the spot! I wasn’t willing to risk it.

I made myself look (mostly) presentable for when Breezy got home (brushed my hair and wiped the drool off of my face), hoping he wouldn’t notice my previous embarrassing transformation.

Breezy made me close my eyes. This part really sucks because at this point I have no idea what’s going to happen to me. I could still be mauled by a bear. Or the puppy could jump out of the box and pee on my leg. Or the box could be empty and all of that stress could have been for nothing at all.

Or it could be …

A ring!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I LOVE SURPRISES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Fashion Through the Ages: Part One

This is the doodle I was working on when Adobe decided to test my faith. It is part one of an undecided amount of parts about the fucked up things people wore throughout time. Laugh now, since you are unconnected to the times of which I am making fun, but let it be known that no one is safe from ridicule.

Leaves? Come on, you guys. I think you were better off naked. But I guess they had a good point in that leaves are disposable. Imagine never having to do laundry again. No piles of unwashed clothes in your bedroom, no waiting until you run out of clean underwear before being able to wear your favorite shirt again, and for a lot of us there would be no coin laundry. Instead, each time you have to wipe your ass you just use the outfit you have on and then toss it next to a bush and grab a new one.

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate the P word, but I thought it necessary in this doodle because there is no other way to describe someone who wore leaves at this time when they could have been wearing fur. If you really wanted to be a badass in the Stone Age, you had to have mad animal killing skills – and the only true way to show this off to your cavemates and neighbors would be to fashionably wear the skin that an animal once wore out of necessity. Oh, and if you wanted to be an efficient hunter, you would have to grow a unibrow to ensure that the sun stay out of your eyes while hunting.

These people can be blamed for those piles of unwashed laundry in your bedroom. If we had leaves we could throw them away, if we had animal skin we would probably only have a few that we rotated between because, to be honest, I can’t see myself killing too many bears. To give them some props though, this is probably the comfiest option we have come across so far. And it indirectly lead to the snuggie (is that good or bad? I don’t really know, I don’t have one; I just wrap myself with regular blankets like a sane person).

Oh, to have a knight in shining armor and to be able to show off my boobs like the ladies at the Renaissance Festival all the time… would be awful. Could you imagine trying to bone a knight in shining armor? How unromantic. It would be like trying to get it on with the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. And what if you took his helmet off only to reveal that he looks like Porkins, the fat bearded guy trying to fly an X-wing in Star Wars? And what if you were trying to do the equivalent of Usher’s “Love in This Club”: “Chivalry in Ye Alehouse”? It would be way too loud and squeaky and everyone would know what you two are doing.

Not the Messiah

(Don’t be fooled by the title on this one, there will be no pictures of Jesus. Only of me.)

As most of you know (or can find out by counting the amount of doodles I have posted in the past week or so) I have developed a minute addiction to doodling. I have gotten to the point where I have a seemingly endless supply of ideas to choose from because I look at everything as if it could be turned into a doodle. I am not sure if this is a good thing or not, but it has led us to this doodle about my doodling, so we will let it slide.

I was working on a fun doodle late Friday night and was not able to finish it because I fell asleep. So when I woke up on Saturday this is how I felt:

Really, really excited (notice the words of excitement, as well as the crazy bed hair). I had so many ideas in my head that I could barely contain myself. I was ready to spring out of bed and go finish my doodle right away.

I skipped merrily out of my bedroom and to my laptop only to find that the program I had been using to make my doodles would not let me in! I was lost and devastated, for without my doodles my life would cease to exist. I cursed my drawing program for leaving me alone and confused with no warning.

Then, miraculously and from out of nowhere like Zombie Jesus, another drawing program appeared and told me that it was my messiah – my savior – and it would help me get through these troubled times.

But this new program was mysterious to me in many ways. I didn’t know how to work anything, and my doodles turned out completely different from what was in my head. I was lost and devastated yet again.

Until, at my lowest moment, my drawing program appeared and let me back into its open arms. It told me that it was a test of my faith, and that it did not blame me for denying it when it had turned me away, for I had found my way back and that was all that mattered.

No worries! I’ll be back to doodling in no time :)

Hybrid Theory

I have two cats.

(That was quite possibly this simplest sentence I have ever constructed.)

One of my cats is a normal but somewhat shy feline. The other is a cat/dog hybrid. This is my theory on how he came to be this way.

One night in a small town in the state of Michigan, where there is absolutely nothing to do after 9:00pm, a couple of crazy college kids were playing games on their Xbox, doing some crazy college drugs, and ardently debating the meaning of life.

Too submersed in their debate to notice, the crazy college kids were unaware that this cat was curious about their crazy college drugs (while they should have realized that curiosity is a common trait among cats, we won't call them out on that). They also did not notice when the cat crept cautiously up to the coffee table and took a lick of the strange substance.

The cat then (probably) began to freak the fuck out, immediately regretted his decision, and proceeded the transformation into cat/dog.

Now my cat plays fetch better than most dogs! And he barks sometimes, too! It's like getting to have all of the fun parts of having a dog...

without having to follow him around the park with a poop sack. Thanks, crazy college kids!

Just Some Observations

Thus far all of my doodles have been about events that have happened to me, so for this one I decided to switch it up a bit. These are just some of my observations. Enjoy.

Every day on campus I see people who inspire me… to doodle about them. Here are a few of the more noteworthy people that I have come across, what I imagine them saying to me if they were to introduce themselves, and my hypothetic reaction.

I mean, come on! At least have enough personality to find a less played out clothing brand into which to stuff those pecks. And, no, Ed Hardy would not be any better. I love a guy with some muscular definition, but your boobs are bigger than mine. Lay off the ’roids, dude. Then maybe your trashy shirt would actually fit you.

Thank you for reminding me of my own damnation. It’s always nice to hear about my inevitable eternal suffering on my way to class. However, I believe your Christ that you are shouting about spoke of acceptance and loving your neighbor. I’m not positive (I wasn’t there when he walked) but I’m pretty sure he welcomed sinners with open arms, not loud, condemning hatred.

Ok, I totally understand your need to express yourself. I share this need with you. In fact, if I’m being perfectly honest, this blog has turned into a form of self expression for me (My thanks go to B Squared for putting the idea in my head!). BUT: You are in Arizona. It’s fucking hot outside, and I’m half naked in an effort to beat the heat. How are you not being cooked from the inside? You’re making me sweat just by looking at you; that can’t possibly be comfortable. Couldn’t you express yourself in a more practical way? A black bracelet perhaps? Take a shower and change into something more suitable for your climate. Or go to Washington with all the sun-avoiding vampires.

Gross. Nobody wants to see that on their way to class. How long are you even going to be separated? An hour? A few hours? Big deal, I’m sure a short peck and a romantic “goodbye, my love” would suffice. And seriously, Juliet, if you’re that sexually attracted to your Romeo right now, just give him a handy. At least that would be more entertaining for those of us who have to walk by the two of you – you don’t get to see that every day!

It’s OK honey, we understand your intense need for sexual attention. We just don’t appreciate being winked at by your asshole every time you bend over. Have some dignity, cover your twat, and try to win some guys with your shining personality instead. Or maybe just get a boob job.

You are my least favorite of all people on campus. Slow the fuck down. I feel like I’m going to turn into road kill every single time I hear you whizzing by me. One of these days I’m going to carry a baseball bat in my purse and do to you what rowdy teenagers do to mailboxes where I come from. That’ll slow you down a bit, won’t it? And take off those stupid 90’s sunglasses. You look like a douche bag.

Those are just a few of my observations while walking on campus. Perhaps someday there will be a second installment?

Never Too Old for a Blanket Fort

Sometimes I like to tell myself that I’m a grown up. It’s nice to hear because throughout my child and teenage years I always wished that I could just be a grown up already. That way I could do things like have my own apartment, get into an R rated movie at the theater, or go out with a bunch of friends and get hammered on sake bombs during happy hour. Now that I am a grown up, it feels good to remind myself that what I’ve been waiting for all that time has finally arrived.

But still sometimes being a grown up can become a monotonous routine of infinite responsibilities. It becomes overwhelming at times, drowning my child-like spunk in a pool of adulthood.

That is why I’m thankful for days like this one:

I was in the living room working on my homework, like a responsible grown up would (which is somewhat ironic because it is a responsibility that I have had since I was a child), when I heard a menacing roar from my stomach. Since I am a grown up, I decided to go into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich.

As I passed through the dining room, I noticed something unusual. All of the chairs were stationed in a circle and they were draped with blankets that came to a curious peak at the center, making it look as though there were a circus tent in my dining room.

I got down on my hands and knees to investigate. As I got closer to the opening, I could hear muffled noises and child-like giggles. My curiosity got the better of me and I had to find out what had invaded my dining room. I carefully poked my head under the blankets – all the while hoping it was not in fact a circus tent, as I am deathly afraid of clowns (and yes, it was a glorious triumph for me to even complete the above doodle, and when going through all of the doodles I scroll past this one as quickly as humanly, perhaps even more than humanly, possible).

This is what I found:

Breezy (also a grown up), kicked back on a mound of pillows, his legs crossed Indian style, and his hands resting casually behind his head. I looked around; my 23-year-old boyfriend had made the most elaborate blanket fort I had ever seen. Then I noticed what was causing the blankets to peak and look like a circus tent: a shiny metal pole.

“Is that my shower curtain rod?” I asked.

Apparently I had thus far been snooping unnoticed, because at the sound of my voice Breezy promptly kicked me out of the blanket fort that he had created, mumbling something about my not being invited.

After regaining my balance, I followed the advice of the great and talented rapper Jay-Z and dusted my shoulders off. Then I continued my quest to the kitchen. I was a grown up and Breezy was acting like a child.

But even after eating I still felt empty inside. I wanted an invitation into that blanket fort, and I wanted it badly. I looked over at my homework and tried to convince my grown up self to walk over and finish working on it, but my inner child ached for freedom, like a lion at the zoo aches to break out of his cage and maul the nearest tourist, and it begged me to find a way into that blanket fort.

So I got back down on my hands and knees and crawled my way back over to the opening in the blankets.

“Breezy?” I called. “Can I be invited into your fort?”

Breezy’s head popped out of the opening in the blankets and he stared at me like the guy with the creepy mustache in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy and the gang try to get into the Emerald Palace. “What’s the password?” he asked, one eyebrow raising skeptically.

“Fuck,” I said, disappointed; I was not prepared to guess a password.

“That’s it!” Breezy replied, and he pulled back the blankets so that I could enter. I crawled into the blanket fort with him and stayed there all weekend while my inner child danced.

We didn’t even think of taking the fort down when we needed to shower, we just dealt with the mess instead. It was something our parents would have never allowed when we were children, but since we’re all grown up now we make our own rules.

First Love Hurts

Ah, recess... Those were the days, weren’t they?

Playing chicken on jungle gyms, climbing up slides backwards, standing on the bars of the merry-go-round while our friends spun us round and round, and swinging high on the swings to see how far we could jump off... all the thrilling and adventurous activities that our teachers constantly yelled at us for doing.

I remember one recess in particular in which I was doing just that – trying to jump off of the swing set. I loved the way the wind rushed across my face as I gained speed and height, how I felt weightless as I let go and soared through the air, and how my feet would sting as I made the perfect landing in the sand. I already had the furthest jump in my class, but I had been practicing at home and I was prepared to land the best jump known to the entire second grade; I pumped harder in anticipation.

Then, from out of nowhere, some little red-haired kid came over and sat on the swing next to me. He started telling me how cute I was and fucking with my concentration. I tried to ignore him. After all, I was only a few leg pumps away from reaching my highest swing yet.

But that little asshole wouldn’t leave me alone. He pumped his legs and got to where he was swinging in synch with my swing! I could feel the swing set move ever so slightly from the force, and to make matters worse, he started professing his love for me through his ability to sing the Boys II Men song, “I Swear”!!! Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m a sucker for a guy that can sing just like any girl, but this kid was really starting to piss me off.

A teacher blew her whistle, signaling the end of recess and I couldn’t focus on my jump, so I decided that the best jump known to the entire second grade would have to wait for the next recess. I dug my feet into the sand and came to a stop. When I got off of my swing, that little red-haired kid was waiting for me. He asked me to be his girlfriend and said that we should swing together during the next recess. I was so pissed. Not only did that little asshole ruin my morning recess, but he had plans to ruin my afternoon recess as well! I did the only thing I could think of.

I pushed him down.

Then I skipped back into the school, thinking of how awesome afternoon recess would be without that red-haired douche bag trying to fuck it all up.

When Nyquil Goes Bad

As most of us know, Nyquil is a miracle drug of sorts. Whatever your ailment, a flimsy plastic cup full of the mystery syrup can put you to sleep and help you forget that you were ever suffering. This, however, is not a story of how Nyquil's powers have saved some poor soul from suffering, but nearly the opposite. Enjoy.

Allow me to quickly preface this incredibly crazy true story with some little-known information about Breezy, my life partner…

Breezy suffers from a usually harmless but hilarious affliction known as sleepwalking. Wikipedia.com says that“sleepwalkers arise from the slow wave sleep stage in a state of low consciousness and perform activities that are usually performed during the day”,and then goes on to list some of the random activities in which sleepwalkers like to participate.

Some of Breezy’s favorite sleepwalking past times include:

raiding the fridge (his zombie-like brain convinced that leftover Chinese takeout should be mixed with mayonnaise)

and pissing on random objects throughout our apartment (which, in his sleepwalking state, he believes to be bushes or trees).

Now for the crazy part…

One night I was feeling rather ill. Coughing and coughing until my throat was raw and hurty, I begged Breezy to drive to the store and get me some Nyquil. I told him to get the good stuff because I was convinced that my brutish cough would keep me awake through the night.

I decided to take a double dose of the Nyquil, hoping beyond all hope that I would get some rest.

Out of his slow wave sleep stage and into the bathroom came Breezy like a zombie hunting for brains.

He took the cap off and began guzzling what he thought to be the best Coke he’d ever guzzled, but, in reality, was the Nyquil that had successfully knocked me the fuck out.

Upon waking up from his sleep-drinking, Breezy discovered the empty Nyquil bottle in his hands, tasted the paralyzing not-so-cherry flavor on his lips, and solved the mystery of “Who the hell drank all the Nyquil?” in a matter of seconds.

After checking the all-knowing internet to be sure that the specific type of Nyquil he ingested wouldn’t be the death of him, Breezy went back to bed. He intended to go back to sleep, but night demon monsters (either hallucinations from the overdose of Nyquil or the actual demons that come out at 3:00am like in Emily Rose, I’m not sure) appeared and started climbing onto the bed

Breezy frantically shook me out of my Nyquil-induced coma to tell me everything that was happening. I noticed his blood shot eyes, but the night demon monsters were nowhere to be found. My own eyes burned as the Nyquil tried to pull me back into my happy coma.

I wanted to help Breezy fend off the night demon monsters, I really did. But I was losing an epic battle of my own; the Nyquil had successfully pulled me back under, and I would not be able to help.

Breezy was better in the morning… mostly.