... About Color Safe Bleach

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize to you in advance, Reader. As you know, I'm a bit of a moviequote-o-phile. You've probably noticed that I have a pre-programmed movie quote response to almost any question you could ask me. I give them out like free iPods. You know, I pretty much just put them into those t-shirt guns and shoot them out at sporting events. And now, after attending an advanced screening last night, I can guarantee that I will be whipping out fantastically witty quotes from a movie you probably haven't seen yet. It'll probably drive you nuts; you'll wonder what in the world I'm talking about. So I'm sorry. But my love for this movie ain't no Etch-a-Sketch. This is one doodle that can't be undid, homeskillet.

So what is this movie that has me so worked up? Well, I'm not going to tell you. I'll just let the two reasons I went to see it in the first place tell you instead:





That's right. Reason one and reason two: Michael Cera's gams. Sexy!

JUNO. In all seriousness, this was the best movie I've seen in a theater for a very very very very very very very long time. I highly encourage you to go see it. Unfortunately for you, Reader, it doesn't hit theaters until next week. Please, stop crying. Don't look at me like that. Or is that just what your face looks like sometimes? Honestly, I will feel sorry for you until you have a chance to see it, but in the meantime I hope my endless stream of JUNO quotes will be a little blessing from Jesus in this garbage dump of a situation. But don't worry! Soon we'll sneak some orange Tic-Tacs and blue mouth-staining slushies into the theater and you can witness the quirky glory of JUNO for yourself.

I know what you're thinking, Reader. I am probably the coolest person you've ever met, and I don't even have to try.

I try really hard, actually.

... About Cough Syrup

It's cold season, and though I'm not usually a sheep (baah!) I decided to hop on the Let's-Cough-Until-Our-Lungs-Actually-Physically-Hurl-Themselves-Out-Of-Our-Bodies Train. This weekend, my cold virus decided to manifest itself as, surprise, a hacking cough, but with a twist. Laryngitis. Without a doubt, laryngitis has got to be the single funniest medical affliction. EVER. Turret's Syndrome may have run a strong campaign, but Laryngitis still came out on top. Seriously, if you didn't get a chance to hear my attempts to speak this weekend, you missed out. I absent-mindedly started singing in the shower and I sounded so ridiculous that it made me burst out laughing. Which made me cough. Which made my throat worse. Which made me sound funnier.

It was a long cycle of microbially infected joy.

Chelsey and her mom invited me and my mom to accompany them to the Music and the Spoken Word on Sunday morning. My mother had spent the better part of Saturday trying to convince me into a self-induced NyQuil coma, and since she'd have to stay within a fifty-foot radius of me for a couple of hours on Sunday morning she ever-so-subtly left some cold medicine on the kitchen table.

What, Mom? How can you not want to know what you sound like with laryngitis? I mean, seriously, listen to me! It's hilarious!

One time in high school I was desperate for a little relief from a bad cold, and obviously delirious from lack of sleep due to being up all night coughing. So I opened a bottle of NyQuil and got smashed. Seriously. I had a massive hangover the next day.

But that's not why I don't like to take it now. It's not that I'm morally opposed to cough syrup (although aspirin is a different story, but that'll be for different entry). I just hate it. It's nasty and disgusting and tastes like cherry-covered foot. And, I don't think it works all that well. Even when I was completely sloshed, the only difference was that I had little pink elephants keeping me company as I coughed. I finally found some cough drops that didn't taste horrible (they were grapefruit, actually), but they made the roof of my mouth raw. What's your problem, pharmaceutical industry? Or, as GOB would say, "Come on!" Why are you sucking billions and billions of dollars out of us and giving us nothing in return but artificial fruit flavored lungs?

Try as you may, I will not give in to your enticing advertisements. No way. I'm no sheep (baah!). I'm tough, I can handle this measly little chest cold without your...

*cough!* *cough!* *COUGH!* *COOOUUUUGGGHHHH!*

Mommy? Where's the NyQuil?

... About My Desire to Be More Zen

Some days I just feel so bitter, so angry, so violent. Some days I have to fight the impulse to spit on people. Some days I find myself shooting dirty looks at nobody in particular.

These days are called Workdays.

I feel like some kind of Transformer Bot. You know me, Reader. You know how I'm generally an upbeat kind of person. I may be sarcastic, but I'm usually in fairly good humor. I crack jokes and smile a lot. Overall, I'd say I'm pretty cheerful (but if I'm not, don't tell me. I like living in my web of lies. It comes with free cable). But at work, it's a different story. At work I automatically transform into Angry Girl, and Angry Girl has issues. She avoids talking to people, because she knows that at any given moment she could snap and start firing off her Insult Gamma Ray. Angry Girl also has Judo Chop Action, and if someone pushes any of her buttons the results could be disastrous. One of Angry Girl's most distinctive features is her higher-than-normal core body temperature, which means an unexpected eruption could be just seconds away! Angry Girl is not recommended for children under three.

There are people that don't understand why I hate my job so much. These are most likely the same sort of people who think life is all about pushing through things we don't want to do in order to salvage a few brief moments in which we can thoroughly enjoy ourselves, also known as "Working For the Weekend"-ers. Time and time again, they have tried to convince me that no matter where I work, I'm always going be in a position where I'd rather be somewhere else. I'll always count the hours until I can leave. "All jobs suck," they say. "It's just a matter of finding one that sucks less than the one you have now."

These people are pessimists. Also, they're wrong.

Yes, I appreciate that to the untrained eye, my job doesn't seem that bad. It's not in the least ways what you would call "challenging" work. I know you think I could definitely use a pay raise, and it sucks that I get absolutely no benefits whatsoever, but is it really that bad? Yes, Reader. Yes, it is. Because my biggest problem with my job is not the pathetic salary or the lack of mental stimulation. It's the fact that it makes me feel so infuriatingly livid for no clear reason at all. I can't explain it, but I have a literal headache every weekday from 8am to 5pm. I honestly think that if it weren't for this minor little detail, I could tolerate my job until I find one that I'll actually enjoy.

I want to be like Peter Gibbons from Office Space. He was so freaking Zen. Maybe I should visit a hypnotherapist on the verge of death. Worked for Peter. It could work for me.

I will find a job I love. That's a promise. Someday - hopefully soon - Angry Girl will make her way to the Land of Misfit Toys, never to be seen again, until some elf-dentist and his meddlesome reindeer with newfangled ideas wander by and then POW! CRASH! BOOM! Who wants some barbecued venison?!




p.s. I wrote this post at 10:30am today. At 4:45pm I quit my job. Go, me!

... About Being a Human Reference Book

I've been racking my brains trying to figure out what to buy my friends and family for Christmas. Sometimes my parents can be infuriatingly difficult to buy presents for. They don't need anything, and the stuff they claim to want would officially make the lamest gifts ever (a can opener, Mother? Seriously? Who asks for a can opener?).

But, you'll be glad to know that I finally thought of the perfect Christmas gift for you, Reader. A Pocket-Sized Edition of Me. That way you can carry me around with you everywhere you go, and whenever you're curious about how to spell something, or where to place the apostrophe, or whether a semi-colon or comma would be more appropriate, you can just whip the Pocket-Sized Edition of Me out and get your answer, lickity split.

But wait, there's more! The Pocket-Sized Edition of Me isn't limited to grammar and spelling. It also comes with Entertainment, Current Event and Pop Culture databases. So the next time you're wondering, "What's the name of that guy in that one show...?" or "So what's the deal with Darfur, anyway?" the Pocket-Sized Edition of Me will be there with a quick, informed, and rarely falsified answer.

I know what you're thinking, Reader. And you're right. Sometimes it's hard to let go of the original and accept something new. I suppose you could continue to rely on the First Edition of Me, and call me at work to ask how to correctly punctuate a sentence, or text me at one in the morning because you simply cannot sleep until you remember the name of that guy who makes the salad dressing (it's Paul Newman, by the way). After all, the First Edition of Me has been answering all your pertinent but random questions for years now. You know you can rely on me to educate, inform, amuse, and occasionally just make stuff up just so you can feel a little more fulfilled. But I offer you my personal guarantee that the Pocket-Sized Edition of Me contains all the same knowledge, insight, and B.S. that you've grown to love in the First Edition of Me, just in a more convenient size.

Plus, the Pocket-Sized Edition of Me comes with a handy travel case in your choice of color.

You have no idea what a relief it was to finally figure out this gift. You're a hard person to shop for, Reader. Not since the year I bought my sister a pencil with a penguin-shaped eraser have I been so happy with my choice for someone's present. I know you're going to love it. But just in case, I'll be sure to include a gift receipt so you can exchange the Pocket-Sized Edition of Me for something you really want. Like a can opener.

... About Being Friends with Boys

The first time I can remember being disciplined by someone other than my mother was in kindergarten. My teacher, Ms. Bezner, put me in timeout for being friends with a boy. Specifically, a boy named Bryce Furgeson, who used his ineffable boyness to coerce me into staying at the art corner instead of joining our classmates on the story rug. We were united by our affection for making clay snakes, and remained friends until the day I moved away.

Most of my elementary school memories involve Bryce, along with Matthew Wood, Greg Pierce, and Gregory Hestla - making gravel alligators, flying backwards from the swings, rainy day Matchbox car washes. I never really went through a "ew, cooties!" stage, and although my friends did they assured me that I was not like a real girl, and therefore unaffected by the disease of my kind.

On evenings and weekends I'd play with the other little girls on my street, but during school it was a different story. I didn't like them, they didn't like me. I was perfectly okay with it, because the boys were more fun to play with, anyway.

I never realized the problem this held until junior high. Suddenly everybody was getting all... giggly... myself, included. I got a massive crush on one of my best friends. He was just so cute in that floppy-haired 12-year-old way, and the best part was that we were friends! I could just walk up and talk to him whenever I wanted, without worry that he would think it weird or awkward. I could hang out with him, I could hug him, I could flirt with him, and at the end of the day I could use the "we're friends" excuse to save myself from embarrassment.

Then it happened. One day, he nervously whispered that he wanted to ask me something. My little heart pounded anxiously. He explained that he liked this girl (who happened to be one of the few females I got along with). He knew I was friends with her, so could I help him? What should he say, what should he do? Did I think she liked him back? He was so glad he could ask me, because I was not like a real girl. I was a friend.

I was crushed. So I did what any logical and mature 12-year-old would do. I wrote him an angry email blaming him for every heartache I had ever known, and assuring him that any feelings I had for him were a mistake on my part because he was obviously unworthy of my affection, and I guaranteed I would promptly forget about him.

Take that, you floppy-haired loser.

Unfortunately, you could change my age and the name of the boy, and the above story could apply to most of the next decade. Time and time again, I found myself in the same situation. It seemed every time I liked a boy, he'd ask me for advice on how to woo another girl. I've been told I'm "not like a girl" by boys I've liked so many times I've literally lost count.

What is it about me that's so un-girly? Sure, I like to watch sports and even know the rules. So I prefer keeping a wallet in my back pocket to hefting a purse around everywhere. Yeah, I'm not big on dresses, and try as she might Angela is never going to get me to make lipstick part of my daily routine. I'm rational, so sue me. But I'm still a girl! I'm a sucker for cute shoes. I confide in a carton of Ben & Jerry's after a bad day. I even painted my nails last night (with clear polish, but it still counts, right?). Back in high school, my male friends insisted that I was a great catch - for somebody else. I just wasn't their type, but all the other boys were sure to come clamoring. None of them seemed to recognize the irony in that.

I guess I can't complain too much. If being a non-girl was the key to some of my greatest friendships, so be it. But still I wonder if being a non-non-girl would have gotten me a date to the prom.

I blame Bryce Furgeson. That fateful day in the art corner, his ineffable boyness must have somehow tainted me (ew, cooties!).

... About the Pressure to be Clever

Most people don't remember their first joke. That's because most people don't have a first joke as awesome as mine. Wanna hear it? Sure you do. Here's the setup:


When I was about 11, my family and I were on a little trip to Vegas. Someone pointed out the infamous Drive-Thru Wedding Chapel and said something like, "Can I please get one wedding to go?"

To which I replied, "Would you like a hot apple pie with that?"


Everyone laughed. Of course they did, it was hilarious. I bet it ranks in the top five best first jokes in the history of first jokes. Prove me wrong.

I know what you're thinking, Reader. And you're right. This probably wasn't my very first joke ever. But it was the first joke I can remember that made other people laugh. Until that moment, I had been the proverbial black sheep in my family when it came to humor. I had always known that I was funny, but no one else seemed to agree. I'd shoot off witticisms with the intensity of a Russian particle beam death ray, the likes of which should have brought people to their knees (or at least obliviated them in a bright flash of dematerilization), but to no avail. No one ever understood. Yet this simple little joke was the first time others recognized my comedic genius. At first I was surprised by their reaction, but then it dawned on me.

I realized I had to dumb myself down for praise.

It took some time to fine-tune my technique - there is a very small margin of error in comedy. Too dumb, and people look at you oddly. Not dumb enough, and people look at you oddly. But eventually, I became quite adept at instantly reworking a witty remark to fit the intelligence level of the intended recipient, thus invoking their laughter. And oh, once I had that first taste of sweet, sweet mirth, I was addicted. I wanted more. Nay, I needed more.

Let's take a quiz.

Laughter is to Kristen
as
_______ is to crackheads

a) crack
b) crack
c) puppies
d) crack

I was hooked. And once I figured out the system, it just kept getting easier to get my hands on it. With this knowledge I suddenly had the power to endlessly amuse those around me, but every time I used this power I felt I lost a tiny piece of my soul. Dumbing myself down for praise felt wrong, but it was a wrong that was so right.

And suddenly, I'm terrified of the consequences. In these past few years of finding ways to make people laugh, I've dug my own grave. Now, because of my own lack of foresight, people expect me to be funny.

Crap.

A few people that have read this blog intend to return for further amusement. I don't need that kind of pressure. It makes it harder to come up with things to say, and even after I find something I second-guess myself. So thanks a lot, Reader. You've ruined me. Is this what you wanted? In my very first entry, I made a Kane-esque Declaration of Principles, vowing that each entry would be thought-provoking. Was it your goal to force me to abandon those principles, so that when I buckled under pressure you could taunt me with your laughter? Your... laughter...

Oh, sweet laughter. Mmmm.... Can I get some hot apple pie with that?

... About a Possible Japanese Robot Invasion

The first recorded incident of a robot killing a human in the United States was on July 21, 1984 in Michigan. The man was squeezed to death by a robot he operated at a manufacturing plant. As soon as we read about this, Bailey and I immediately noted the "in the United States" part. We both took that to mean that there had been lots of Japanese people killed by robots.

The Japanese, who lead the world in robot installations, also lead in robot-related fatalities: There have been reports of at least 5, and possibly as many as 20, such deaths in Japan.

-- "In the Lions Cage." Forbes, October 1985

So we were right. As far back as 1984, Japan had already created a race of super killer robots! And now they're preparing for an all out Japanese Robot Invasion. Don't believe me? Check this out:



Okay, so I realize that it's a little hard to read the caption, but this is as large as I could make the picture without it getting all pixelated. So I'll just give you the basics. See the lady in the photo? The one happily getting her teeth drilled?

Robot.

I kid you not, my friend.

This picture is from last week's robot convention in Tokyo. According to the caption, this is the largest robot convention in Japan. The robot was designed to give dental students "realistic practice situations." They can drill on the robot's teeth, and the robot will cry if they make a mistake.

Several things about this bother me. First of all, this is the "largest" robot convention in Japan? Just how many robot conventions do they have?! Secondly, the last people on the planet that we want buddying up with robots in the event of an all out Robot War is dentists. Trust me.

Reader, I know what you're thinking. And you're wrong.

Just imagine for a moment that some Japanese engineer took one of their 1984-style killer robots and prettied it up by slapping one of these "real people" robot faces on it. This photo is undeniable proof that Japan is planning a mass robot invasion! Or, more likely, that it's already underway. Just think of any vacation you've taken. Did you see any overly excited Japanese tourists? Were they taking photo after photo of seemingly random things? One word, my friend. Recon.

Luckily they won't invade us. They like us. Who doesn't love Americans?

Oh, right.

Crap.

There's good news, though. I think the Japanese have inadvertently given us a clue about how to bring these robots down. Amateur dentistry. The robots have sensitive teeth! They cry out if their teeth are drilled incorrectly. If I know anything, it sure isn't how to correctly drill a tooth! So I'm going to arm myself with a portable dentist drill. If ever I meet someone and suspect they may be a robot, I'll just fire that bad boy up! If they scream with simulated pain, then I'll know they're a Japanese Human Impersonation Robot and that they must be destroyed.

Now where can I get my hands on one of these drills? Is there a dentist convention anywhere around here?

... About My Left Sock

I thought we were friends, Reader. Apparently I was wrong. I mean, I would tell you if you spilled ketchup on shirt, or had mascara smudged under your eye, or if your new haircut made you look like Steve Buscemi. If you were really my friend, you would have told me that I had lopsided Buscemi-esque ankles. Because that's what friends do, Reader. They tell each other when they look like Steve Buscemi.

But no. Instead of hearing it from a friend, I had to discover my freakishly mismatched ankles on my own. After years of wondering, I finally figured out why my left sock never stays up. There's no other logical conclusion. It must be because my left ankle is a startlingly strange and unprecedented shape for an ankle to be.

I guess I can't really blame you, though. A ketchup stain is one thing, but pointing out someone's genetic deformity is not a conversation most people are entirely comfortable engaging.

I can't believe it took me so long to figure this out. I mean, you don't often get a good look at both of your own ankles a the same time unless you're really into yoga, but all the warning signs were there. My bum knee? On the left. I get migraines sometimes, always on the left. And, most obvious of all - I'm right-handed. Right-handed. Because my left hand just isn't up to the task.

I must have yanked my left sock up forty times today. The right sock? Nada. Not once. Not necessary, because my right ankle doesn't object to its cozy little cotton home. But ol' Lefty? A vigilante. Lefty likes to live on the edge. Lefty likes the feel of chafing against my shoe over and over and over again. At least that's what I used to think, before I discovered I had Buscemi ankles.

I'm trying to look at the positive. Maybe having a Buscemi ankle isn't all that bad. Sure, it will never fit in with society's standards of "beauty," but despite its obvious speed bumps on the road to success, it could make a critically acclaimed career for itself in thought-provoking independent films. No one will be able to deny its raw talent, or the tenacity with which it throws itself into its gutsy supporting roles.

For all these years, I've been harboring potential ankle greatness, and you never told me? I thought we were friends.

... About FreeRice

They say the first step is admitting you have a problem. So, here it is:

Hello, my name is Kristen (Hello, Kristen!), and I am a FreeRice addict.

Like most other addictions, this one originated somewhere else, long ago. It all started when I discovered I was a hippopotomonstrosesquipedalianist. That's a very long word that means "I like big words." Occasionally my friends have a hard time understanding why. For example, Katie got very annoyed with me the other day when I referred to myself as an anglophile. I had to stop myself from explaining to her how you can break the word down into two parts ("anglo" referring to England; and "phile", from the Greek "philos" which means "beloved", meaning "to have love for") for fear of her smacking me in the face. I am not a smackedinthefaceophile.

I suppose we could stretch me out on the couch and discuss where my affection for lexicon originated, but that will be another post for another day. Suffice it to say, I like knowing what words mean. I like learning new words. I like proving to myself (and, admittedly, others) that I know these words and how to use them properly.

Anywho, so then along comes FreeRice. Let's play a word association game:

FreeRice is to hippopotomonstrosequipedalianists,

as

_________ is to crackheads.

a) crack

b) crack

c) puppies

d) crack

I could literally spend hours FreeRice-ing if I wasn't afraid of getting fired. Not only do I get to take a never-ending vocabulary quiz, but every time I get a word right the website donates food to starving people. It gives me an incredibly satisfactorily false sense of accomplishment. Not only did I learn what a sommelier is, but I've donated 2,640 grains of rice to starving people!

It's a daily struggle. I know that this addiction is taking over my life, and that I have to stop. I can't keep - WOO-HOO! I just beat Vocab Level 45!

My name is Kristen, and I am a FreeRice addict.

http://www.freerice.com/

... About Snow

Somewhere, buried deep in one of my family photo albums, is a picture of Maren and me when we were about seven and five years old, respectively. Knowing my mom, she probably took the picture not so much out of maternal pride, but because she wanted to look back at it and laugh at us years later. We're all bundled up in our mittens and hats, our little faces flushed red from cold and hard work. We're glowing with pride as we stand next to the fruits of our labors - a beautifully lumpy and mis-shapen little snowman. Let's call him Mack. He's only about eighteen inches high, but we probably used every snowflake we could find in the yard to build little Mack.

What a thing we had accomplished! We had made a little man out of snow! Or at least we made a mostly vertical pile of snow out of snow. All we needed was some magic in an old silk had we'd found, and life would be golden. Little Mack would prance around our ankles and we'd have wonderful miniature adventures until he melted, but we would know that he'd be back next year. Our little hearts would glow warmly with the antcipation of seeing him again.

Snow was such a rare and fleeting thing when I was growing up. It was never more than an inch thick, and rarely lasted more than a day. I remember going outside to have snowball fights that only lasted five or so minutes before we ran out of ammunition. There was a huge snowstorm in Utah one year, and I remember my grandpa sending us a photo of the massive pile of pristine white that covered his driveway. When we moved to Utah in November of 1994, I expected to see snow like that regularly. In my mind, winters here were like something out of a Rankin Bass movie, complete with a claymation Fred Astaire mailman.

Then I stepped off the plane, and guess what? NO SNOW. At least not pretty snow. There might have been some of that old grey stuff shoved in the gutters, I don't really remember. What the heck? Where's the sparkly white snowdrifts? The children ice-skating on ponds? The life-size snowmen with carrot noses and rosy dispositions? Where's bloody Fred Astaire?!?!

In thirteen years, I have rarely seen "snow" worthy of the name. It snowed yesterday, but it wasn't pretty fluffy Rankin Bass snow. It was wet and gloppy and slippery. I had to buy new shoes so I wouldn't fall down walking up the hill on campus. I hate scraping my car windows, I hate that the salt on the sidewalks stains my jeans, and I hate how that huge glop of heavy wet snow on a treebranch always waits until the precise moment you are walking under the tree to fall. Every time!

And yet, for some reason, every time it snows I get a little twitterpaited. A part of me still hopes, still yearns for that perfect soft frozen blanket of joy. Even though snow has disappointed me time and time again, and even though I find it hard to like it sometimes, I still love the idea of snow. I'm still genuinely excited whenever winter finally rolls around.

So yesterday's snowstorm was a bust, but it's supposed to snow again tomorrow. Maybe this time, just maybe, it will be the perfect Rankin Bass kind of snow. I'll wake up to find Fred Astaire in my front yard, adding the finishing magic touches to little Mack. Then the three of us will trot off, hand-in-hand, and find a perfect little pond where we can spend the day ice skating. We'll have a race, and Fred will win, but only because he cheats. Then we'll get hot cocoa, which will make little Mack melt away, but we'll have a chuckle about it because it's okay; we know he'll be back next year.

Oh, please, snow! Don't disappoint me!

... About Starting a Blog

The other day I mentioned something about blogs to Chelsey. "You should write a blog!" she said. I laughed it off, but then in church blogs were mentioned again. Twice. Both times she gave me a meaningful glance. Then, once again, on the way home, Chelsey insisted that I start blogging.

One problem, Chels. I have nothing important to say.

"So what?" was her clever retort. "I could totally see you writing a blog about everyday life."

I took that as a challenge. And as you know (or perhaps you don't), I never back down from a challenge. Unless it's something extremely dangerous that could result in the death of myself or those around me. Or if it involves eating something that is considered a "delicacy" in a third-world country. Or if it's something I really just don't feel like doing.

So, this is it. My first post. I will never again have a very first post in my blog, so I should make this one something special. Here I go. I hope you're bracing yourself, because you're about to be blown away. Strap yourself down, Sonny, we're heading into the greatest blog in the history of mankind! Are you ready? Are you sure? Here we go:

... About Bacon

This morning when I woke up my house reeked of bacon. And I mean reeked. The air was thick with it. My eyes literally started watering, and I could feel the grease permeating my lungs as I breathed. I felt woozy.

It's all part of my dad's current diet. Every now and then he decides it would be a grand idea to consume as much meat in as short a time period as humanly possible. Our fridge is full of more animal by-product than any one fridge has ever intended to hold. Sausages, ham, roast beef, rib-eyes, t-bones... If our fridge could talk, it would say "moo."

There you go. Whew! I almost can't believe I'm getting away with this. I can say absolutely anything I want. Blogs are amazing! They're like the love children of the First Amendment and the Internet.

In gratitude for your readership, I pledge to bring continued excellence to my blog. I want every entry I write to have the same level of emotional, social, and physiological impact as this, my first entry. I promise that every time you visit this blog, Reader (oooh, I like that. May I call you "Reader" from now on? Of course I can, it's my blog! bwahahaha!), you will be treated to a thought-provoking entry. Each will be something special. Something profound. Something bold. Something that will make you sit up and say, "Hey, this girl's got balls."

Just wrap some bacon around those and you've got yourself a delicacy in a third-world country.