Im back. . .

Dear gentle readers,

I apologize for my extended absence; “Birthday Week” turned into “Birthday Month,” which then turned into “Birthday Season,” and the alcohol is just starting to make its way out of my system. I can't tell you just how much it sucks to awake from a 3 month-long booze daze only to realize that you're 30, jobless, and somewhere in the backwoods of the deep, deep South. My plan was to keep drinking forever. . . If I never sobered up, the reality of no longer being a twenty-something might never set it. But in hindsight, that was a terrible plan. To be honest, I barely made it through three days of drinking. Why? Because I'm old as shit now.

So here I am. A little bit older, a little bit wiser, and a little bit closer to having a complete fucking breakdown. 30. THIRTY. In honor of this wretched occasion, I've compiled a list of why I hated turning the big twenty-ten.

1. I've accomplished pretty much nothing in my 30 years. Like, literally, nothing. I think I may have turned a few ex-boyfriends gay, but that's all I've got. 
   
   
2. I am officially the creepy cougar at my old college bar. This was a hard one to swallow (Haha. That's what she said!). It wouldn't be so bad if I were the type of cougar that all the 21-year-old college boys were intrigued by, but this is not the case. The only looks I'm getting are the “What the eff is this old broad doing in this bar?” kind. And those are just no fun at all.
   
   
3. For the last year, I've been under the impression that I could still pass for 23. Not because I'm full of myself, but because people tell me this all the time when I get carded. Unfortunately, I wasn't paying much attention to exactly who was feeding me this bs. Of course I look 23 to a seventy-year-old. But to an actual 23-year-old, I might as well be their mother. To counter the depression I feel when someone actually guesses me as 30, I've started lying UP about my age. Example: Person: “How old are you?” Me: “thirty-seven.” Person: “Wow! You look amazing for being almost 40!” Me: “I know, right?” 
   
   
4. My younger sister is about to graduate from Berkeley and get married. My diploma count: Zero. Number of people lining up to marry me: One. But he's about 50 and was recently released from some sort of mental institution, so we're going to go ahead and not count him. The only thing I've got on her is the number of creepy stalkers that I've had, and in her defense, I kind of egged them all on. Attention whore, remember? Yeah, it's probably going to get me killed one day, I know. 
   
   
   So, there ya go.  
   And just so you know, I've missed a million blog-worthy moments in my absence.  But they're coming, folks, they're coming. 

"Let's Get Physical, Physical."

For those of you who have recently asked about some of my FB posts in regards to the running I've been doing, allow me to clarify:  I'm probably using the term running a little too losely.  So, what I meant to say is, I've been "running" lately.  Driveway laps, to be specific.  Why driveway laps, you ask?  There are a couple of really good reasons.

1)  I'm terrfied of dogs, and some a-hole in the neighborhood walks his doberman without a leash.  And I don't want any part of that situation.

2)  Since I smoke, and have been grossly out of shape for the past 3 years, it's not out of the question that I could have a heart attack.  If that happens, I'd like to be really close to my cell phone.  Can you text 911 these days?  If not, I'm going to need a back-up plan.  Maybe one of those neck things with the emergency button that old people wear. 

3) People in Kent can't drive for crap.  A lady in an SUV literally came about six inches from running me over a few weeks ago (and I was in a cross walk with the "walk" signal!), and I narrowly avoid accidents at least once a week.  Usually because some college kid on on a cell phone or going 60 in a 35.  Or both.  So I'm not going to take any chances running in the street.

4) I won't use a trail.  See reasons 1 and 2.

The neighbors probably think I'm mildly retarded, but I'm okay with that.  "There's that neighbor girl running laps around her house and driveway again.  Do you think she's slow, Fred?"  The good news is that they smile real big and wave when they see me now.  If I play along, maybe I can get a popcicle or something out of the deal.  If there's anything I've learned about social interations, it's that people love to give sugary treats to mentally handicapped adults.  I don't really understand it, but I don't make the rules.  I just observe.

So there you have it, people.  Driveway laps.  But don't judge. . . I've lost almost 15 pounds in the last 2.5 months, so runninng is running is running is running.  My version is just a little more embarrassing. 

"Waiting for the End of the World"

Not at all surprisingly, the rapture has apparently been postponed.  5:59 pm on the twenty-first of May, two-thousand and eleven came and went as it does every other day.  My only regret is that I failed to capitalize on all this doomsday nonsense.  I read an article today about a post-rapture pet spa, where a team of friendly atheists promised to care for your pets after you made your ascent to Heaven.  Genius!  Although, does this mean that pets don't go to Heaven?  If so, A) Disney is a big, fat liar.  And B) I don't know that I can buy into a religion that thinks humans are the only life form that are allowed entrance into the pearly gates.  It just seems unfair, and a little bit elitist (religious extremists being unfair and elitist?! No way. . .).  However, if this means that mountain lions will be stuck burning in a lake of fire, I think the Christians should really consider using that as a selling point.  If you put that on a billboard, then I'm buying whatever you're selling.

But back to the rapture.  Or lack thereof.  If you're Harold Camping, how do you explain being wrong about this?  And not only once, but twice!  My guess is that after his 1994 prediction failed to materialize, he picked a date far enough in the future by which he assumed he'd be dead already, thus not having to deal with an explanation. Epic fail, Mr. Camping.  I've got to hand it to you, though.   I didn't know if anyone could top the Scientologists in the idiocy department, but you totally win.

The good news:  The rapture didn't fail to happen, it's just been postponed until October 21st. So if you missed your chance to throw a judgment day party or profit on the 6 people left who still believe this garbage, then you get a second shot. 

End of the World, part 2.

The more I think about it, the more likely it seems that the world just might be ending tomorrow.  Let's look at the facts: 

1) The Indians have the best record in Major League Baseball.  Not only do they have the best record, but the also have the best run differential. 

2) The Cavs have the 1st and 4th draft pick this year. (P.S. Take Williams instead of Irving!!!  You know, if the world is still here and all. . .)

3) The Browns truly have the potential to be a playoff team next season. 

3) The sun is actually shining over Cleveland today.  This only happens about three times a century.

So of course the world would choose to end in a season that sees a Cleveland team with the potential to win something.  If this is the case, me and the big guy up there are going to have some words.  Assuming, of course, that not only does heaven exist, but that my kind is allowed entrance.  Which is unlikely, at best. 

The good news about this impending rapture is that I can probably guilt people in to celebrating my birthday tonight, just in case we're not here next week.  And since I think we all know that the world will most definitely still be here tomorrow, I'll get to celebrate twice.  (Thank you  Harold Camping, you crazy old bastard.)

So go out and enjoy this beautiful Friday evening, kids.  Blow all your money and party like it's 1999.  And if we're not here tomorrow, I'll catch ya on the other side. 

Nikki out.

Happy Birthday to. . . not me.

You know how a lot of companies will send you e-coupons during the month of your birthday?  Well, I just got something from flowers.com telling me not to miss the "birthday sale."  So I'm thinking, "Yeah.  Like I'm going to order flowers for myself for my birthday.  What a stupid coupon."  Not that I haven't ordered flowers for myself before; I have.  I was so nerdy in school that I used to send myself the little valentines suckers and flowers that you could order in the cafeteria to be delivered to home room the next day. . . Because I knew I wouldn't be getting them from anyone else.  Although oddly enough,  a few people came out of the woodwork way after high school to tell me that they used to have a crush on me, but couldn't tell me because they didn't want to get made fun of.  (Way to blow your second shot, by the way.)   See, if all of these people just would have spoken up in school, I may have actually had a shot at being cool. 

Anyway, back to the coupon.  Turns out the birthday sale was to celebrate the birth of flowers.com, not me.  This is how self-centered I am.  I just assume there is a sale for my  birthday.  And even though I wasn't going to order them in the first place, now I feel like a have a valid reason not to.  How dare they try to overshadow my birthday, AND make me look like a self-centered moron in the process (See "Shiny, Happy People Part 2" to get a better perspective of the irony here).   Should I ever need to order flowers in the future, it will most definitely not be from flowers.com. 

. . .And that's how the internet ruined my birthday.


Side note:  My birthday is not actually until May 29th, and thankfully, I've managed to work past this flower incident enough that I feel like I may still have a shot at enjoying it.  And please -- I know you all want to send flowers, but I ask that you kindly refrain from doing so as this has been a difficult process for me.


Side note part 2:  I lied.  I really want flowers.  I don't particularly like them, but since my birthday is going to be me hanging out with my sister's friends, I want people to notice me and wish they had as many flower-sending admirers as I do.

I just called to hear your voice. . . mail.

I might be the worst voice mail message leaver ever.  Seriously, it's really bad.  So bad, in fact, that I rarely ever leave messages.  On the rare occasion that I do, it's usually just a two minute long disaster.  I try to keep it to a simple, "Hey, it's Nik.  Call me back!"  But right after I say that, I think, well they know I called.  If I'm leaving a voice mail it should be more important then notifying them that I called.  I mean, they can clearly see that in their call log.  So then I freeze and feel like I need to say something a little more important.  "Hey, it's Nik.  Call me back! . . .  Oh my god, the craziest thing happened to me today!"

As the words are coming out of my mouth, I realize that I have no follow up.  Did something crazy happen to me today?  Probably.  I tend to be a magnet for absolute insanity.  But still, I clearly did not think this message through.  So I pause again.  Then, instead of just hanging up like a sane person, now I feel like I actually have to tell a story on the voice mail.   So I'll start to recount the tale of whatever absurdity I encountered most recently.  About 30 second into it, I realize just how very much I suck at telling stories.  I tend to trail off or lose my train of thought, which, I can tell you, is even worse to listen to on voice mail then it is in person.  

The message almost always ends with me apologizing and and muttering, "Oh my god. . . worst message EVER.  Well hey, it's Nik.  Call me back!"  Full circle.  One hundred and twenty seconds of your life that I just carelessly threw away, as though they were a used condom, or an Eagles record. 

So. . . If you ever get a voice mail message from me, just go ahead and delete it.  If it's important, I'll just text you.

You've been warned.

In an effort to increase my number of followers, I'm going to close it off to the public so that only people who "follow" it publicly can view it.

Ok, it's a hollow threat, and we all know I'm not going to do it.  But still.  If you like my blog, will you consider following?  It takes about 30 seconds to do, and you don't receive any spam or emails.  In fact, it doesn't even notify you through email when its been updated, so nothing will clog your inbox. You don't even have to have a blogger account, just an email address.  Remember, this is not the "subscribe" button, but the "follow" button.  I think subscribing actually does send you emails.  Actually, it just occurred to me that I've been yelling at people who said they subscribed, and I thought they were lying.  They DID subscribe!  What I meant to ask them was to "follow."  Oops. 

And feel free to share my blog's link on FB or Twitter!  

Thanks!

~Nik

The end is near!

Things I'm thinking about right now:

 I do not want to turn thirty twenty-six in two weeks.  And the good news is, I may not have to.  According to the very large billboard on 76 West, the world will be ending on May 21st of this year.  So, yay for that.  But here's what I don't understand about these doomsdayers:  What do they say when the world does not end?  How do you retract that statement on the 22nd without looking like a complete dumbass?  I mean, you took out a billboard, for god's sake!  We all know you said it. 

Although if I had to pick one of the doomsday groups to align myself with, I'd go with this one.  Mostly because I'm not a fan of bandwagons, and if everyone else is saying 2012, then I'm going with 2011.  Also, the aforementioned never having to turn 30 would be a bonus.  Weird side note:  My mom took a picture of me on my birthday last year which she titled, Forever 29.  Maybe subconsciously, she was in the know about this May 21, 2011 thing, and she picked that title because she knew the world wouldn't be here when I was 30.   I don't actually believe that the world is ending next week, but this is seriously how my brain works.  These are the kinds of weirdo thoughts that I have on an hourly basis.  Which can only mean one of two things:

1) Time for a new brain.  or 2) I clearly do not have enough important things on which to focus my thoughts.

I'm going with the former on this one. . .



 

You know "ye" are a douchebag when. . .

I always pride myself on the fact that I don't discriminate against any particular group of people.  There are a million and six good reasons to actually dislike people, but blindly judging them is just never okay.  Unless. . .

. . . I was reminded today of the ONE group of people against which I discriminate. Loudly, openly, and often.  Renaissance Faire performers.  I have so many issues with these people that I don't even know where to begin.  For starters, this is not the 15th century; "Fair" doesn't have a fucking "e" on the end of it.  Secondly, there are many, many great works of literature that I absolutely will not read simply because I can't stand all the "ye"s and "methink"s.  If I can't even tolerate it long enough to read Shakespeare, then I sure as hell am not okay with a 35 year-old man in a centaur costume doing it. 

These things aside, the best reason I can think of to discriminate against these people is that they are just flat out annoying.  Even in real life.  Back in college I used to waitress 3rd shift, and these Renaissance Faire freaks would come in ALL THE DAMN TIME.  They were nice enough, but they wouldn't drop the 15th century speak. . . It was almost like they were rebelling against thie modern world.  As though an era where daily bathing is a good idea and being an annoying douchebag is frowned upon was just sucking the life out of them.

So if your favorite past times include wood whittling, sword fighting, and and dressing as the king of something, then ye just might at the top of my "good lord, how to you make it through a day without someone kidney-punching you" list.  That is all. . .

What the?

Okay, for some reason, this site isn't working properly.  My last two posts disappeared (luckily, I found them in Google Reader and copied and pasted), and it won't let me use a lot of the features. 

Is anyone else having this issue with Blogger?