The Twelve Hours of Thanksgiving (A Holiday Song)

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The holidays are a time for celebrating the ones you love and prioritizing those closest to you over silly materialistic goods. This Thanksgiving I did exactly that, by spending as little time as physically possible at home because, ya know... college football. But someone once told me quality over quantity, or something along those lines, as long as it still works as an excuse in my situation. So here's a holiday song I wrote all by myself to kick off the cheer of the holiday season, starting with Thanksgiving.

On the 1st hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family will gave to me...

a cowardly dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 2nd hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

two fucked up pies and a cowardly dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 3rd hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies and a cowardly dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 4th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a cowardly dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 5th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a cowardly dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 6th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

six glasses of wine, five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a cowardly dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 7th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

seven shitty jazz albums, six glasses of wine, five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a cowardly dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 8th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

eight episodes of Kroll Show, seven shitty jazz albums, six glasses of wine, five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 9th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

nine "I'm concerned about your eating habits," eight episodes of Kroll Show, seven shitty jazz albums, six glasses of wine, five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 10th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

ten hours of traveling, nine "I'm concerned about your eating habits," eight episodes of Kroll Show, seven shitty jazz albums, six glasses of wine, five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 11th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

eleven minutes of napping in a dog bed, ten hours of traveling, nine "I'm concerned about your eating habits," eight episodes of Kroll Show, seven shitty jazz albums, six glasses of wine, five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

On the 12th hour of Thanksgiving my psychotic family gave to me...

twelve questions about my life plan, eleven minutes of napping in a dog bed, ten hours of traveling, nine "I'm concerned about your eating habits," eight episodes of Kroll Show, seven shitty jazz albums, six glasses of wine, five "you're in my way"s, four servings of mashed potatoes, three tablespoons of whipped cream for 7 people, two fucked up pies, and a dog who won't leave the pantry for social interaction.

Happy Holidays, everyone, and remember: don't help out with the holiday cooking if you stay out till 4 am the night before and wakeup drunk. You'll probably fuck up 3 dishes and get kicked out of the kitchen, or so it has been explained to me.

The Strangest Complement I've Ever Recieved

Pretty much everyone has, at one point in their life, received a text message that is so befuddling and so nonsensical, all they could do was stare. And reread. And stare again. In my case, the staring was an ill-fated attempt to determine whether or not I had been complimented or insulted, which my sources tell me are two very different things. Some even used the word "opposite." This is my story. For any of the following to make sense we need to start off with a little backstory, both of the text and the guy who sent it.

The text: I received it around 10:45 on a Thursday night a little less than a month ago, right in the middle of U-M finals weeks. Timing-wise, we were closer to the end of finals than the beginning, so about half the campus was out celebrating the end of school and their last few days in Ann Arbor, and the other wallowing in their lack of ~super fun~ bar-ridden snap stories. I was the latter half.

The guy: I met Jim at a bar--Cantina, or Tina for short--sometime back in January or February, at which point we developed a deep romantic relationship. By deep romantic relationship, I mean we exchanged the occasional 1 a.m. "whats up" text, as well as a couple "u going to tina tn?" Too my heartbreaking dismay, we never actually saw each other once after that one fateful night he decided to sit down in our booth and introduce himself. My mom would have loved to meet him...

Though our usual 1 a.m. "whats up"s usually never went anywhere, they would every so often develop into incredibly strange "conversations" that I deleted the next morning to avoid the possibility of cringing through them. This was by far the most cringeworthy. Incidentally it was also the last.

Disclaimer: His name is not actually Jim and he is not a hot plumber; I decided to leave his name out for discretionary purposes. Hot Jim Plumber is an incredibly beyond attractive plumber that came to my decrepit apartment a couple times to fix various appliances, and gave me his number in case anything else broke. In my perfect fantasy world, Hot Jim Plumber would be the one texting me, and the night would end with us eloping to Atlantic City and getting married by a B+ Elvis impersonator. That has yet to happen.

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A (Poor) Attempt at Decoding

A tale of wasting time via pointless endeavors by yours truly.

"Im at tina and thought id text u haha"

I'm going to take this to mean that he went to Cantina that night and thought to text me. The historical evidence supports this inference.

I'll give him a pass for his unnecessary use of "haha" given my just as painfully unnecessary use of "lol". And don't worry, I'm way ahead of you: I'd like to formally apologize for the middle-school-ality of texts on both our behalves. I'm just as embarrassed for the both of us as you are.

"Classic how is that..."

I'm assuming the "classic" is referring to the general trend of me being on the couch in a groutfit whenever he voiced his wonderment of what I was up to at 1 in the morning. Or that he left the "al" off of "classical" and is imagining me lounging Mozart style, grand piano and powdered wig and all. Either is equally likely.

At first glance, I'd normally take the "how is that" to mean he would like to know, out of genuine curiosity or general politeness, how my couch was treating me--was it being polite? Was it being a good host? Did it ask me how my day was?--but not so fast! Upon further examination we can see that I didn't actually respond to his question! Plot twist! Maybe he didn't actually need me to because he already had his next message in the holster ready to go. Maybe the "..." was his way of subtly letting me know that, and my inability to pick up hints or nuances was my subtle way of not subtly understanding his subtleties.

"You are the most funny couch potato ive ever met. Needless to say couch potatoes are never funny"

This is where the confusion begins; I believe literary scholars refer to this as the "rising action." The first sentence on its own is quite a lovely compliment, at least compared the cast of compliments I usually get. Its almost as if I've added charm to the single least charming way to describe a person.

When we add the second part I feel myself losing some of my dazzling charm. Jim clearly has some deeply rooted problems with couch potatoes, maybe his dad was a couch potato and the one time he got up he never came back? Deeply rooted problems aside, I have some pretty important questions about his matter-of-fact statement about couch potatoes: Are couch potatoes really never funny? Even if they're mostly never funny, am I included in the category of "unfunny couch potato" or has my most funniness exempt me from that? Disregarding my up in the air status of funniness, was it really needless to say that couch potatoes are never funny? I mean you did say it, so that itself tells me that maybe there was a need to say it. I'm getting lost in your flawed circular logic, Jim. This is why we can't have nice things.

"Im only being mean cause im bitter cause i cant drink"

This is where the the confusion reaches its highest point; I believe literary scholars refer to this as the "turning point," and porn stars refer to it as the "climax." Up until this point I had just assumed his cryptic message to be a result of subpar texting skills, something I am all to familiar with, but now I'm starting to think there was some negative aura being pointed my way, and I don't appreciate any aura whatsoever, you damn hippy! Normally I'd fall back on drunk texting to be the source of misplaced anger, but he nixed that option in the bud. Without any real substantial evidence as to where exactly he's "being mean" or why his sobriety is my problem, I'll continue to take this as the Guinness World Record for Strangest Compliment. Thank you to "Hot Jim Plumber," without who'm I most certainly wouldn't be in this situation.

Conclusion: I clearly wasn't meant for social interaction. Maybe I should just find a cat.

Unless you have any ideas Internet, in which case feel free to chime in. (please)

A Social Media Friendly Vacation Story: As Told By A Photographically Challenged Girl

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Like every other technologically addicted yet incompetent white girl, I have an iPhone 6. According to the Apple website, my iPhone has an "A8 chip" with  "large 1.5-micron pixels, ƒ/2.2 aperture, the option to capture 1080p HD at 60 fps, 240-fps slo-mo, time-lapse video, shoot HD video, and then watch the stunning results on the large Retina HD display." I have absolutely no idea what that translates to other than the camera on my phone is of pretty good quality, yet I rarely, if ever, take pictures. Why? The thought of being that bitch that stops all foot traffic to take an Instagram of a soon-to-be painted over piece of graffiti art makes me quiver in discomfort. Making an active effort to stop and skinny arm in the middle of a public place while a crowd around stares in silent judgment makes me cringe in disgust. I also generally tend to look like disheveled shit.

This usually isn't a problem for me. My friends are pretty on top of all the capturing memories business, so they take on the duty of arranging the "cute" or "fun" pictures whenever we go somewhere notable. This means I've managed to collect a somewhat respectable**** collection of tagged photos of me on Facebook, ya know, in case I ever decide to dive into that online dating thing. As I type this my friend is sitting next to me on the plane putting filters on all her pictures and editing together what I would guess is roughly an hour of GoPro footage from our spring break trip. I rest my case.

My most recently tagged Facebook pictures

*It's not actually respectable.

Remember how I said this usually isn't a problem? Yeah. Traveling is not one of those times. Thanks to The 'Book, it's pretty much unsocially acceptable nowadays to go on a vacation longer than 48 hours and not post 17 photos for every hour spent awake. Not to mention all the endless requests from friends to go through your phone's photo album in the hopes of living vicariously through you. What happens when you don't post a picture of something? That memory is completely wiped from actual existence. What does this mean for your vacation? The only things you did were the things you have proof of in your photo album aka pics or it didn't happen.

So what did I do on my most recent vacation? I spent the last week and a half on spring break in Punta Cana, Dominican Republic with my two friends Ali and Amber. For exactly what I did, though, we'll have to turn to my camera roll. Here's a play-by-play of everything I did--and the only things I did--during my 10 day foreign country vacation:

IMG_0533Day 1

Every vacation begins with a little travel, but not for me! We should have taken a cab from Ann Arbor to the Detroit Airport and then flown from Detroit to our layover in Philly, but PLOT TWIST we just teleported instead!

Day 2

After a lovely overnight layover snooze on the benches of the only isolated and run down terminal of the Philadelphia airport, it was finally time to get out of the country! Before the plane could even take off, Amber took a nap and I chucked some deuces.

If traveling is our game, then teleportation is our name! Upon magically arriving at the resort, Amber met a cool new flamingo friend. Then the day probably just ended.

Day 3

Day 3 disappeared into complete oblivion. Everyone's all up in arms trying to find the technology tIMG_0537hat will make time travel a reality, but maybe they're searching the wrong country? Hint: search the Dominican.

Day 4

The day 3 time travel made its way through the majority of day 4, but fortunately for us it decided enough was enough by nightfall. La noche de dia cuatro brought us footage of our half naked guy friends dancing to I'm Too Sexy on a stage in front of the entire resort. I didn't film anything leading up to that, though, so we're all sitting here in awe wondering how our vacation got to that point.

Day 5

A theme seems to be emerging for this trip. That theme is sleeping, except that I'm never the one doing it. How did I make it this far into the trip with no shut eye?!

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Day 6IMG_0550

The sleeping continues! I finally understand why my mom was so hesitant about me spending all this money on a trip to a foreign country. What's the point of even going if I can't even get my friends to wakeup long enough to see the sunlight? All I have of that is a video of us trying to rip him out of bed, such a shame that took all day.

Day 7

The Dominican food started settling in in a nice spot under my chin. I may or may not have been sleeping right before this picture.

Day 8

On day 8 we took to hotel reviewing! I don't know how seriously they'll take our comments since all we seemed to do was sleep and meet flamingos, but our sleep must have been pretty damn great to earn an "excellente wow!" All that hotel reviewing had us exhausted, so Amber had to take a quick cat nap later that night. Or was it quick? Did we do anything else?

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Day 9

Unfortunately day 9 was time for us to leave. It's a good thing we planned our flights as we did, because, coincidentally, our resort got attacked by half a billboard and a gigantic T-Rex right as we made our getaway. Phew!

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Day 10

Ah, back at the Philly Airport. Its surprising that people don't fly places more often, I mean seriously, we were back in The States in a snap! If I were a medical doctor, I would start prescribing traveling to my insomnia patients, seeing as it seems to make you pass out on a moments notice, no matter where you are.

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A girl once told me she wanted to be a photojournalist. I could not relate any less.

The Tragic Love Story Between Comcast and Myself

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If you’ve been anywhere on the Internet recently you probably saw an article about the guy that called Comcast and had to endure a grueling 20 minute phone “conversation” just to cancel his service. I know most people listened to the recording thinking “oh my god that poor man” but honestly, I feel no sympathy.

Why? He was lucky enough to be able to cancel his Comcast service and move onto to someone else. At the very least he was lucky enough to have an Internet connection to look up Comcast’s number so that he could cancel his service. I have neither of those things. While he and I are (or were) both in complicated and unhealthy relationships with Comcast, he was and is much better off than I am. In his relationship, he was the poor, annoyed boyfriend who’d done no wrong, yet was tied down to Comcast, a psycho-obsessive girlfriend that was one forgotten monthaversary away from leaking his social security number to Snowden. Think Ted Mosby and pretty much any crazy girl either he or Barney dated. My relationship with Comcast is more like an arranged marriage. Comcast and I had spent our early days blissfully unconcerned about each other until I woke up one morning to instructions by my parents (landlord) that Comcast and I were getting hitched. Three months later here I am, the fed up wife that’s too passive-aggressive to actually do something, and Comcast, the still unconcerned husband, taking my dowry (cable and Internet bill) and sleeping around with every whore on the block that U-verse hadn’t gotten to first. Sure, he may have had to deal with a 20-minute break up, but I’ll have to deal with monthly 20-minute "troubleshooting" for what seems like eternity.

What brought on this profession of hatred for my betrothed? Since I signed up for Comcast my Internet has never really worked properly. It’s been faulty enough that in the three months I’ve been attached to the old ball and chain, I’ve made numerous phone calls, had two technicians come—to tell me that they can’t figure out what’s wrong—and have been asked more than I ever hope to be asked in my life if I’d like to sign up for a Comcast landline. Comcast, no one wants your fucking landline. No one wants a landline from anyone. I’d expect you to know this by doing maybe the smallest amount of research, but then again I wouldn’t actually expect you to do the smallest amount of research. Anyways, yesterday turned out to be another one of those phone call days, and in true marital form, I decided to document the experience. Maybe I’ll show our kids one day.

Friday August 15th, 2014

10 a.m. Part One Begins

I wasn’t shocked when I woke up this morning to no Internet connection. After two hours of plugging, unplugging, and resetting everything on the modem, I’ve finally decided to hit up bae. I’ve been meaning to call Comcast for a while. Scratch that. I’ve needed to call Comcast for a while. I’ve had no intention of calling them because another hour-long conversation that produces zero results wasn’t on my summer bucket list.

12 p.m. The Honeymoon Phase Is Over

Calling Comcast is proving to be a much more difficult task than I expected. I can’t use my computer to look up the customer service number so I have to use my phone. I’m even less shocked to discover that the Comcast mobile site is a shit show and doesn’t seem to have the customer service number--or any number--anywhere. After 15 minutes I give up and decide to google “Comcast customer service number” which turns up fruitful. I don’t know why I didn’t just start with that.

12:22 p.m. The Call

The automated voice system welcome's me to Comcast. It's warm and friendly, like S&M with a teddy bear made of glass shards.

"Thank you for calling Comcast, home of Xfinity. Para continuar en Espanol, marque nueve. For quality or training purposes, your call may be monitored or recorded. Thank you. Please hold while we process your call."

I've given no information at this point so I'm not really sure what's there to process. I'm left on hold listening to the sweet sounds of some special Xfinity fighting show I won't be watching. I'm assuming my call won't actually be monitored or recorded since they probably don't have any sort of training system or quality standard.

"Thank you for calling Comcast, home of Xfinity. Para continuar en Espanol, marque nueve. For quality or training purposes, your call may be monitored or recorded."

I wasn't quite sure about the meaning of the message the first time around so I'm glad I got to hear it twice.

"For assistance with high speed Internet, press "2".

There's no instruction on what to press for debilitatingly unresponsive Internet. I try 2.

"For help connecting to the Internet, press '1'."

Cutting right to the chase... they must get this a lot. After pressing "1" I am put on hold again, only this time to the soundtrack of some smooth instrumental rock. It's a refreshing change from Xfinity Fight Club.

"Thank you for calling Comcast. My name is Greg*. How can I assist you?"

I don't actually know if his name was Greg. I didn't feel like putting in the effort to remember his name because I just figured he'd be the first in a long line of representatives I'd be speaking to, and there's only so many names my brain can temporarily hold. (I was also too busy preserving memories of our marriage that'll last a lifetime) I give Greg my information and he does something with it in his computer. I have no idea what Greg is actually doing.

Eventually we make our way through the small talk and get into the deep stuff. The conversation goes like this:

Greg: "So how long has your Internet not been working properly?"

Me: "Well it hasn't worked at all all morning, but honestly it hasn't really functioned properly at all since I signed up in May."

Greg: "Okay, so stopped it working this morning."

I don't know how to respond to that. I thought maybe you were different, Greg. I guess I was wrong.

Greg is now done putting my information into the system, or at least I assume so.

"We're going to have to wait just a moment for the system to load."

Don't worry Greg, I'm used to waiting for things to load. Eventually it does load and he continues viciously grilling me for my information in an "attempt to troubleshoot."

"Is your modem online? Is the online light solid or flashing? Have you moved the modem to a different jack recently? Have you tried unplugging the modem or pressing the reset button?"

Actually I've been resetting it roughly seven times a day, thanks for asking. Finally, a man who really wants to know what I'm thinking!

"Okay, there's no known outages in your area, it looks like it's possible that the wireless gateway has failed."

Let's cut the bullshit and ditch the "possible." It failed. There's really no question about that. If it hadn't failed we wouldn't be having phone sex right now.

Greg informs me that a technician will have to come out to look at everything.

Second time's the charm. Third time's the tequila. Bottoms up.

Greg's work here is done and he will now transfer me to a "scheduling team member"

"I've done all the troubleshooting, so you won't have to do anything but set up an appointment with the next team member."

Yeah, I really doubt that, Greg.

"I'm going to put you on hold while I transfer you. Don't worry if the call drops I will call you right back."

It's reassuring that call-dropping is a big enough problem to earn it's own warning in the calls script.

The smooth rock has been replaced with Hawaiian luau music. I think this is my favorite so far. I've lost track of how many times I've been on hold, but I'd like to say four.

 "Thank you for calling Comcast, how may I assist you?"

I was under the impression you would have all my information. Thank you, Comcast, for once again living up to the very low expectations I have for you. At least he didn't mention his name, though. That's one less I'll have to not remember.

New Team Member and I embark on my next Blockbuster hit: Troubleshooting 2: What Foreign Country Is Your Accent From?

(Spoiler: It involves high-speed, fast-action network tests and a sultry love scene where my information is verified for the third time)

"I'm going to put you on hold now to access our schedule. I'll provide all your information to the technician that comes."

You have a terrible track record and I will assume that that statement is erroneous.

The hold machine soundtrack has reverted back to smooth rock. I miss the Hawaiian luau.

"Our earliest available opening is tomorrow. You have an option of either 8 a.m. to 12 p.m. or 12 p.m. to 5 p.m."

A choice between carving out four hours of my day to wait around for Comcast and carving out five ours of my day to wait around for Comcast? Whatever shall I do?

I begrudgingly choose to wake up at 8 a.m.--on a Saturday-- although I don't know why since the technicians probably aren't up before 10.

New Team Member assures me everything will be fixed and working. He's so sexy when he jokes.

"Your reference number is 388672959. Do you have that? Thank you for choosing Comcast enjoy your service bye."

Did you read that in under six seconds? New Team Member said it in under five. Anything you can do, my man does better.

(I actually did somehow manage to jot down the reference number, not that I actually needed it.)

12:38 p.m. I'm Finally Free

T-minus 15 hours until it all begins again.

4:45 p.m. Comcast Calls to Remind Me of My Appointment

It only took four hours to completely wipe my memory of the day's frustration so yes, I needed it. Thanks, Comcast! Where would I be without you?

If there's a bright side to any of this, it's that nobody tried to sell me a landline.

For My Second Trick, I Will Make My Car Reappear (Maybe)

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As I mentioned in my previous post, my car was stolen two days ago. What I failed to mention was that while I'm currently living in Ann Arbor, I hail from my hometown of Boca Raton, Florida. Florida I know.... Anyways I know you're probably wondering, "Are these two things related or is this just digression number 3?" Well the answer is why yes! You sly dog, you, and here's how.

Until recently I had no need to bring my car up to school with me, or a place to put it. As you might have deduced so cunningly from the 'until recently', I now have both of those things. Because neither of my selfish parents wanted to spend 24 hours driving it up here only to fly back home the next day, the only natural solution was to ship it on a car carrier. If you don't know what a car carrier is and can't bother to look it up on the Google, it's that giant truck your grandparents load their car on when they head down to Florida every winter, you lazy piece of shit. Now because this is Florida that we're talking about, where literally thousands of cars are shipped too and from the state every year, you'd think that by now they still wouldn't have developed an even remotely functional system to do so and would most definitely fuck it up. You'd be right.

This is where the part where I'm from Florida is really important, because it's almost guaranteed impossible that my car be stolen in the way that it was in any other state. Because technically my car wasn't what was stolen. The truck was.

Yup. I guess at no point between loading 10 cars on a very giant, very conspicuous car-carrying truck, and actually driving said truck, did anyone stop and think, "Hey, maybe we should take the keys out of the truck." or "Maybe we should store this truck somewhere secure." or even the simplest "I probably shouldn't lose this truck." The transport company made a point to instruct us on how to look for any scratches or damages that may have been incurred on the trip, but they were very little help in instructing us how to examine a car that never actually showed up.

Luckily my car and the truck were found in Miami roughly 24 hours later, missing only their license plates and the dignity of whoever was in charge the previous day. Unluckily, my parents seem to follow the mantra, "If at first they lose your car, try, try again," because they will once again be trusting the same transport company to get my car safely from Florida to Michigan, the exact opposite of what it did last time. While I've been promised a Friday arrival, I have a feeling something will happen in two days, let's say I don't know, it get's stolen again, and I will again wake up feeling like a Jewish kid on Christmas morning.

In coping with my car-related anxiety, I've spent the last day thinking of things that are more likely to happen than me seeing my car again. (I also just tried to pour tortilla chips onto a napkin and did not stick the landing.) Some of these things include:

  • The release of The Sixth Sense Two: Bruce Willis Wasn't Really Dead
  • The Sixth Sense Two: Bruce Willis Wasn't Really Dead is snubbed for Best Picture by a film featuring Mark Wahlberg speaking in an accent other than a Boston one
  • I finally learn the difference between Kevin Love and Kevin Hart
  • Shirtless Vladimir Putin can be seen from Sarah Palin's house on the next episode of Animal Planet's Wild West Alaska
  • Shia LeBeouf answers the fan mail I wrote him in 7th grade
  • American's can properly identify the UK, Great Britain, and England
  • I learn what a 401K is, and create one (Start one? Build one? Open one? Is it like a savings account?)
  • North Korea reveals it was never a communist country, but in fact the original and most elaborately planned flash mob, and Psy is just King Jong-un's stage name
  • Liam Neeson's niece crawls into my car; Taken 4 ensues

Improbable? Yes. More probable than me seeing my car again? Yes. All I can hope is that Christmas comes in July this year, not because I'm not mentally prepared to have it stolen again, because I am. More because I'm not physically prepared-all that remains of my tortilla chips are mere photos, and to get to Meijer to buy more would require a car.