A Long-Delayed Update.

So, what's taken so fucking long, you ask? Life.

The current score: Life 11; P 3. (I quantified this in feels, if you want to know.)

But, stuff has been going on.
My hands are still fucked up. Not as bad, but it's quite annoying. I can now tell when the weather changes; a shift in barometric pressure causes my hands and wrists to ache for no apparent reason. That's just super, she sarcasmed.*

I -did- go to see the doctor, though. I managed to get in at a clinic that offers healthcare to people with low/no income or insurance, and the whole visit only cost me $20, which is amazing. I wanted to hug the receptionist when she told me that. Medicine for my various crap did cost me a bit more, though. For the cough (which still lingers) and for my hands. So, there IS relief, but I haven't taken any of those pills yet because they purportedly cause drowsiness, which I have quite enough of, thank you.

Let's see... Oh, I had a hideous date with a creepy dude (more on this later), and stopped seeing that other guy (more on this too). Thus, the dating front is pretty grim, but I don't really have time for boys and their bullshit right now.**

I've been trying harder to find a job, and last week actually got a call from a temp agency, who has since taken me on as talent! So, I'm a step closer to gainful employment, and after a frantic couple of hours, I now have a very nice outfit to wear to other interviews, should there BE other interviews ever.

In spite of numerous setbacks (read: pints of Ben and Jerry's), I've done well on the diet front and managed to break the 170 lb mark, which had been a depressing plateau. Now, I'm only about 9 lbs away from having what is considered within the range of a healthy body weight. WOO!

So, there have been some good things... But in and around these good points has been a vast sea of soul-crushing depression. Part of why I didn't update for awhile has to do with the depression. I wasn't sure if I wanted to share my bad experiences here, but... As a friend told me, this blog is called P vs. Life, so any part of my life is fair game. Ergo, I will endeavor to fill you in on that stuff soon.

For now, it's time for walkies, and then bed... But only because I promised the dog that we would go to bed earlier tonight than last night and I feel guilty. >__>



Notes:
* I am aware that sarcasm cannot be used as a verb. There is a story behind this, though, about some people who aren't aware....

**I don't only date boys, but haven't heard much lately from the ladies, and regardless, don't have much time for them either. And if truth be told, I already have my eye on someone for when I -do- have the time.

Cooking Experiments #1: Iced Coffee

As my weight and consequently my Weight Watcher's points for the day decrease, I've begun trying to find ways to make and enjoy tasty foods and beverages without wrecking my diet with a bunch of unnecessary fats and carbs. This... has been a process... and not always a successful one.

My latest experiment is pretty simple: iced coffee. Now, I like regular hot coffee just fine, but it's getting warmer outside and I still need caffeine. In fact, I need it more than ever since I'm trying to kick my Excedrin habit. I usually take one every day, instead of just when I have a migraine, because they're full of caffeine; I would just drink regular coffee instead, buuuut it makes me super sweaty. And you all know how much I hate to be sweaty. Well, if you didn't before, you do now. 

I didn't think it would be that tough to find a good recipe for homemade iced coffee, but there are a billion different recipes all over the Internetz. I've looked at some before that said you need to make ice cubes out of coffee. (Tried this once; super fail.) Or recipes calling for condensed milk, which sounds delicious, but zomg sugar.  

I like my coffee with milk and sugar, and a hint of flavor if I can get it. If you prefer your coffee plain, it's a simple matter for you. 

Plain Iced Coffee Recipe*

Make a double-strength pot of coffee (or however much desired). 

Chill or refrigerate, overnight if possible. 

Pour over ice when ready to drink. 

*If you want to add sugar, artificial sweetener, or powdered creamer, you need to add these things while the coffee is HOT. If you don't, the sugar/sweetener/powder will NOT dissolve. If you are using liquid sweetener, flavoring syrup, milk or liquid creamer, these can be added AFTER the coffee is cool. 

Anyway. This is how I made my personal blend.

P Dragon's Iced Coffee Recipe**

3 Tbsp of coffee, or 4 cups, i.e. the amount a lil Mr. Coffee will brew. (Yes, that's double-strength; I'm a lightweight.) 

8 tsp of fat-free/sugar-free powdered creamer, plain flavor. (total: 2 WW pts) 

2 tsp of Coffee Mate fat-free Chocolate creamer (total: 1 WW pts)

Brew coffee, add powdered creamer, refrigerate overnight. 

In the morning, add: 

ice and

4-5 tsp of sugar-free Torani syrup. This morning, Hazelnut.

Total WW points for this beast: 3 pts.

**I'm not entirely sure on these numbers, because maths was involved, but I'll be testing it again tomorrow. 

Annnnd there you have it. 

Seems simple, and yet.... I have completely fucked this up before, so here you are, to benefit from my previous failure. 

If you're interested in reading more about my previous cooking experiments, leave a comment and I'll do a post on those. Previous cooking experiments include: 

-Spaghetti squash

-Kale chips or How to Make Kale Not Taste Like Ass

-Lower fat muffins/cupcakes/cookies using applesauce instead of oil.

-Shirataki Noodles

-and probably others I've forgotten. 

Is Dick Organic? Because EAT ONE.

Organic food and items made by small companies with locally-sourced ingredients are trending hard in the Windy City right now, and probably elsewhere. People want to know where their food came from, they want to be assured there are no chemicals in it, they want to feel like smart conscientious consumers... Well, kids, you can't have your organic tomato and eat it, too. 

This whole organic locally-grown trend PISSES ME OFF. Why? Because most of the people who've gotten on board with this now think that going organic means they are less repugnant than the rest of the wretched fuckwits who make up the human race. And this post? Fueled by rage because of one such douchebag. 

Earlier today, I wrote an email to a nearby bar, a classy place with amazing food and a great beer selection--if you like beer. I do NOT like beer; I like gin. When I have been to this establishment, I've been informed that they have two kinds of gin, Death's Door and North Shore. The first time, I had my gin and tonics with Death's Door, and was quite appalled. The second time, I opted for North Shore, and it was even worse. Now, I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I know what good gin tastes like.  I was taught the ways of the gin by one of my best friends, and I know him to be a man of impeccable taste. So. Today, instead of knitting, because my hands are still fucked up, I wrote some complaining emails to various places, one of them being to this bar. I said that their gin was bad, and they should look into getting Hendrick's, Caorunn, Bombay Sapphire, or Tanqueray. (I'm indifferent toward Tanqueray, but a good bar should have it, dammit.) 

I just got a rather supercilious reply from the bar owner which stated that I am the only person who ever said anything negative about their gin selection. In fact, Death's Door was a favorite of the gin-drinking visitors to said bar, and the other had been rated the same as Bombay Sapphire in some sort of tasting test. Mr. Man then proceeds to say that they've been phasing out liquors owned by big-name companies in favor of supporting smaller independent suppliers, and that he knew personally the people who made North Shore, which was made from organic ingredients and blah blah. Basically, a snobby email whose overall tone indicated that -I- must be some sort of uncultured plebeian for even suggesting that they stock such filthy gin. 

And that completely pissed me off, as you can tell. Really, I've had it up to my fucking eyebrows with people snobbishly saying that they prefer to use organic local blah blah shit, as though that makes them superior in some way. Guess what, IT DOES NOT. 

See, Mr. Bar Man, you run a BAR. That means you should be concerned about making sure that you have GOOD liquor at your bar. Just because a bunch of hipster douche bags who are accustomed to drinking Beefeater or Seagram's tell you that your bullshit gin tastes good, that doesn't mean shit. 

The whole deal reminds me a lot of the fairy-tale called The Emperor's New Clothes, because the thing is, NOTHING can possibly be organic ANYwhere. Think about it. All the pollution humankind has released into the air, earth, and water since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution--that shit went EVERYwhere. So, you can't say that this-or-that farm only grows "organic" produce just because they don't add chemicals of their own; the earth, the air, the rain are all adding chemicals to those foodstuffs. And you can buy all the over-priced low-quality veggies you want, but unless you're living in a tent in the forest, growing your own shit, not using electricity or anything that can't be made out of basic shit like the Native Americans did, you are no better than the rest of us. 

But, I feel like I'm dancing around the point. The point I wanted to make is this: organic locally-grown stuff is a nice idea; knowing all the facts about your food would be great.  However, this is the 21st century, and most of us (everyone reading this at least) live in the REAL world. You can grow your own tomatoes in your backyard--in fact, I recommend doing that--but they'll never really be organic because you just don't KNOW what the plant's roots sucked up out of the soil. You probably also don't know where the plant itself or the seeds even came from. The water you pour on your plants, where did that come from? What's been in there? YOU DON'T FUCKING KNOW AND YOU CAN'T. And paying twice the price for "organic" food (you don't know where THAT came from either) is so far removed from the naturalistic values you're espousing that you might as well be buying the chemically-treated stuff instead. 

Now, to bring it back to the gin. Mr. Bar Man seems to think that his gins made from "organic" ingredients by tiny companies thus make them better than the bigger-name gins.  However, it does NOT make them better. On the contrary, Death's Door and North Shore are still terrible examples of gin. Being distilled on the moral high ground doesn't change that.

And I'm not going to drink your shitty fucking gin and NOT tell you that you're naked. Because, Emperor, you're fucking naked, so pour out this swill and bring me some fucking Hendrick's already. 

Brief Intermission Due to Crippledness

Just typing up a note to let you know that there WILL be more posts, but right now I am unable to type for more than a few minutes at a time. 

For some reason (probably too much knitting on too tiny needles), I started experiencing a weird numbness in my right pinky finger. After feeling that for about three days... the left pinky followed. So I looked up "pinky finger numbness" and discovered that I probably have something called ulna neuropathy. It has something to do with the ulna nerve (the thing commonly known as a funny bone, which is not a bone). The nerve gets trapped somehow, causing numbness and discomfort to the fingers, hands, and forearms. This type of repetitive motion injury is generally brought on by holding your arms bent at the elbows for too long.  You know, kind of like you do while knitting, typing, etc. 

What this means is that I spent this whole day feeling a mixture of grumpy and depressed because I can't do the important shit I need to, like writing cover letters for job applications, or even the fun shit I'd rather be doing, like knitting or blogging. Even picking things up has caused me some difficulty. The best I can do is a bit of texting, because my thumbs have the most functionality of anything past my elbow. 

So, I'm pretty fucking bored, and you have to be too. I suppose I can try to teach myself to type and knit and write with my feet, because nothing bad could come from that idea. Well, until I succeed at feet-typing, or until my damn ulna nerves quit shitting the bed, I'm on hiatus here. Wish me luck, bitches. 

How to Find an Apartment*

*satisfaction is not guaranteed.

It's that time of year, chilluns: Moving Season! At least, it is here in the Windy City. It's the time of year when migrant scholars (i.e. people who came here for school) who have accomplished what they came here for ultimately decide to move away to warmer, colder, more rural, or more urban settings, as the case may be. My understanding is that most of them move back home to mooch off of their parents, but I digress.

Moving Season! The story of moving season can be adequately described by the first line of A Tale of Two Cities:  "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times..." to find an apartment, that is. There are lots of apartments up for rent (good), but the nice ones get snatched up quickly (bad). You can get a place in a nicer part of town (good), if you don't mind living in a matchbox (bad.)

Like with dating, finding an apartment requires certain compromises, then more compromises, and finally the loss of all standards as you scrabble to find the last goddamn viable option. However, like dating, there are certain requirements that cannot be compromised: item one, must have pulse; item two, must have preferred set of genitals; item three, must not be in a vegetative state, etc. It's a bit different for apartments, but you get the idea. You start out with your list of What I Want, and end up just trying to find What I Need. Here are my lists.

What I Want: 
-something above 750 sq feet (i.e. large enough to house my collection of books)
-a dishwasher
-central heat
-air-conditioning
-close proximity to public transit
-dog-friendly
-laundry on-site, although in-unit would be preferred.
-parking
-located in a specific neighborhood
-NOT next to a firehouse or the Metra track
-if above second floor, an elevator so that I don't have to carry the fat elderly Hogbeaste up the stairs.

What I Need: 
-dog-friendly
-located in *safe part* of a specific neighborhood
-close proximity to public transit
-not above second floor (Hogbeaste)

You see how the lists differ. To get everything I want, I'd have to make a shitload of money, and also maybe provide all the people in Hell with ice water, but I knew that. Some "wants" always get sacrified, especially after you've begun to peruse the apartment listings, which results in a gradual depletion of morale and desire to continue living. This is primarily because these ads are written in a roughly universal language of euphemisms:

• Cozy or Cute: so small it can only hold one person at a time, if that person assumes the fetal position. 
• Unique: something is seriously fucked up here, but you won't find out until it's too late.
• Vintage: really old, as in there may still be asbestos in the walls.
• Large or Spacious: you can put furniture in this place, but don't go crazy now.
• Rehabbed: freshly painted and has some new appliances, but grossly overpriced for the size and location to make up for the upgrades.
• Studio: You live in the same room as the refrigerator.
• One Bedroom: has an extra closet that will hopefully hold that bed you bought at Ikea
• Two Bedroom: has *two* extra closets that will hopefully each hold a bed.
• Den: Weird extra space that's big enough for a bookshelf but otherwise has no rational explanation for existing.
• Eat-In Kitchen: there's room for a chair. 
• Hardwood Floor: scratch it and you're fucked. Also, no carpet for you, peasant.
• Walkup: you're going up at least three flights of rickety winding stairs, maybe more.
• Street Parking: not on the same street as the apartment. 
• In-unit laundry: Add $200 to your rent. 
• Heat Included: apartment temperature averages 80 degrees even in January, just because. 
• Free Water: there's nothing else to offer, at least if you're in Chicago... Because EVERYONE gets free water, so this is NOT a viable selling point. 
• Pet friendly: smells like wet dog everywhere.

And if you come across a listing for an apartment with NO pictures, that is because it's most likely a shitwreck that's not worth seeing. 

So, having read this post, you should be ready to find an apartment. Not a good apartment, mind you; not an apartment you'll want to live in forever; but an apartment that will serve you for a year, at which point you'll start this whole brain-burning process over again. Oh, and have fun packing all your shit. There's more than you think, and you're going to need at least five more boxes than you have. Best of luck!

Fugly Is The New Black

I have a date tonight. (I'll pause here while you rejoice, dear peasants..... Okay.) But alas, I have nothing to wear. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing that is seasonally appropriate while also being somewhat flattering that actually fits me. Well, except for that sweet Ghostbusters t-shirt, but I'm saving that for a special occasion. So, having nothing to wear, and minimal time to acquire something suitable, I went to Target. (I also needed a gallon of milk.) 

The Target closest to my apartment is frequented by a range of consumers, although it seems to think that most of those are hipster types. While I would say that there is a larger percentage of said douchebags at this store than the other Target I like to shop at, I wouldn't say that above 20% are of the trendy persuasion. That said... I walked into the women's clothing section (my first mistake), and began to look around (second mistake).... And discovered to my unutterable horror that the 1980's have returned. And when I say "returned," I mean have literally been chewed up by the fashion machine and regurgitated into the vomitous shitwreck I was unfortunate enough to behold at Target. 

Now, I must ask you, designers, fashionistas, and whoever the fuck decides what is trendy: Really? ....Really? REALLY?! 

This season's fashions are clearly designed to decrease female self-esteem more than ever before. Not only are the colors hideous (coral pink paired with neon yellow and aqua green, smeared together as if by an infant finger-painting), but the cut of the clothes are fucking appalling. Now, I'm not skinny, as you know. I'm working on it, but right now, I'm about a size 12/14, roughly average for the American woman, maybe a little extra. But the clothes I saw today would make even a titless size 0 anorexic look fat and frumpy. I found almost nothing remotely wearable, aside from a couple of basic tees, tanks, and cardigans: all standard classics. Everything else.... Well, here's a little catalogue: 

Ruffled mini-skirts that will barely cover the average-sized vagina; faded denim jeans, jackets, and etc in all colors; acid-wash denim, for fuck's sake; tank-strap shirt/dress things in old lady prints (navy blue with tiny coral flowers, etc) that gather at the waist leaving a fabric bulge around the middle; neon yellow everywhere, of the shade that has a slight tint of boogery green in it; lots of smeary-colored prints, flower prints, and faux-vintage crap; shirts cut straight from shoulder to below the ass (because no one has tits or anything...); shirts cut square to end just above the waist... 

Guh. It was a fucking trainwreck. And maybe I'm just getting old, or I have bad taste, but so be it. I just hope this retro 80's trend passes soon, before I end up strangling someone with a day-glo jean jacket. 

Wanted: Job Posting for Even-tempered or Pessimistic Office Assistant.

Right now, I'm at a very unpleasant junction in life. I am not only searching for a new apartment (more on that to come), but I'm trying to find a job. In this economy, that's basically the equivalent of trying to find buried treasure on the same beach as 20,000 other people who are also looking for treasure: not only are you going to be lucky if you find anything remotely resembling treasure (i.e. a living wage), but your odds are dramatically decreased by the vast number of fellow applicants. This means you need to dig as many holes as you can as quickly as you can, or rather, apply to as many jobs as possible, no matter how fucking ridiculous the ads are.

You've seen these ads, right? The job description is always the same: some soul-crushingly boring job with shitty hours (either too few, or full-time but your shift starts at 5:00 am/pm) for barely enough money to pay your rent, your loan payment, and leave you enough to buy a sufficient quantity of ramen to last you until next pay. Even better, to get one of these jobs, you need to be proficient in Microsoft All-The-Things, Mac or PC, speak and read fluent Mandarin, type 300 wpm, and have twelve years' worth of experience, but STILL be willing to take a soul-crushing job with shitty hours for meager wages. Oh, and you have to be "positive," too. 

Positive. Upbeat. Pleasant. Cheerful. Optimistic. 

I've seen all of these at one time or another while job-searching and each one that I see pisses me off yet more than the last one. Why, you ask? Because it's bigotry, that's why. Plain and simple bigotry. Yeah, I went there. 

Only optimists are allowed to have jobs now? No pessimists or laid-back people allowed. This bathroom is for optimists only! Pessimists, you have to use the bathroom down the hall with the glitchy fluorescent light bulbs and single-ply toilet paper. Optimists, welcome to the pissoir of your dreams! Enjoying those heated seats and complimentary ass-wipings?! 

Okay, it's not that bad. Yet. But really, think about it. Is it not possible for a pessimistic person to do just as good if not a better job than an optimist? I think so. Being a pessimist myself, I can verify that I am much more capable than almost all of the optimistic people I have ever worked with. Contrary to what people might think, we CAN keep our gloomy thoughts from interfering with our work. Can an optimist keep his or her happy thoughts from interfering? We don't know, because these people are encouraged to fling their good cheer in the faces of all and sundry, and no one says anything about it. How many pessimists are unemployed because of this disgusting intolerance? How many even-tempered types are getting food-stamps because the optimists have taken all the available jobs? 

The only person I've ever seen who truly understands that there is a place for pessimists in the working world is the legendary Ron Swanson. If I could be his office assistant, I would be the happiest Dragon in the world. Hang up on callers? Sure. Prevent people from making appointments? No problem. Repulse all comers? Done and done. Not only could I utilize my limited clerical skills, but I could also practice my unnerving stare. Too bad the Parks Department of Pawnee isn't hiring. Oh well. Back to Craigslist. 

Won't you (NOT) be my Neighbor?

I do not understand why some people find quiet to be so disconcerting. I love a quiet place. It's one of the things I love about my current living situation, at least when there aren't a million sirens going on outside AND a Metra train passing by. (I swear, some part of Chicago is always burning.) I know, that doesn't sound very quiet, does it? I suppose I should clarify: I enjoy the quiet of an atmosphere without any other living people. The sounds of traffic, the Hogbeaste lying on the floor at my feet snoring like a lumberjack, even the occasional Metra train--these are just background sounds, white noise, and do not bother me.

What bothers me is being able to hear my neighbors. 

Now, things here aren't nearly as bad as they were at my old place, where the dogs outnumbered the humans, the humans were all idiots, and the floor in my apartment was the ceiling of my downstairs neighbor's. Ugh. Compared to that place, this apartment is as quiet as a tomb. But I do still hear my neighbors sometimes, and over the last 10 or so months, I've come to be disturbed not by the noise, but by the nature of the sounds themselves. 

No, they don't make sex noises. Everyone asks that first, which, what does that say about us as a society? o_O But no. Honestly, sex noises would be less disturbing. Grosser, but less disturbing. 

The sounds I hear remind me more of an episode of American Horror Story. If you are unfamiliar with this reference, that means the noises are spooky and weird. 

Sometimes I hear the laughter of teenage girls. 

Sometimes, the pacing of someone in high-heels as s/he walks back and forth across the hardwood floor. 

Every night, the sound of something heavy being dropped on the floor in the same place. 

And sometimes... A sound like moaning. Always twice: Uuaghh. Uuaghh. Softly, so that I have to strain to hear it. I've yet to identify what could be making this noise. I've decided it's either an old dog, an old decrepit human, or a mentally-disabled human.

The scenario in my mind plays out thusly: we have a working-class single mom, tired, impatient, and a little neglectful... Two teenage daughters who are too cool for skool, and definitely too cool to live in a tiny one-bedroom apartment with their mother and.... the mysterious groaner. Generally I consider the groaner to be a handicapped, wheelchair-ridden brother who can't really communicate... Or an ancient feeble grandmother whose quiet pleas go ignored. Really, I prefer not to think about it.

Until Tuesday.
I hear someone pounding on the neighbor's door. At least, I think it's the neighbor's door--I get up to check anyway, barking Hogbeaste waddling along behind me. After a few more minutes of knocking, there is a pause, and the knocker starts on MY door.  I immediately think Oh, shit.... But I open the door. Outside is a decently good looking, fairly well-dressed man.

This man informs me that he is an investigator, and begins to question me about the neighbors. Do I know them? (No.) How many people have I seen going in/out of there? (Three or four.) Do I hear anything? (....Sometimes..) And so on.

Because, darling readers, apparently... My neighbors are squatting in the condo next door.  Apparently So-and-so's son's girlfriend still had a key, so they just use it to hang out and whatnot, without paying.  He was knocking on their door, trying to get them to open up, but they were too clever for that, and they wouldn't. Bastards. He gave me his number, told me to let him know if I hear them over there.

Well, he came again yesterday evening after I sent him a text, and didn't find them, although we are both pretty sure that at least the two girls (girlfriend and her friend) were in there at the time. He taped a bunch of noticed onto their door in just such a way that they would have to destroy some of them and thus indicate their presence. After returning from my date late last night, I noticed that they had in fact ripped down most of the tape and fliers, and sneered a bit. Fuckwads.

So, things are still unresolved. I still hear the wonky noises.... But not for much longer. Eat that, squatter fucks. 

OkCupid Adventures: How to Completely Repulse Anyone

Normally when I have a particularly unpleasant experience on OkCupid.com, I end up making a rule. (For more about this, see my previous post regarding trannies.)

However, there are no rules that can cover the most recent weirdness.

OkCupid, like other dating sites, tries to match you up with people that you will get along with, the keyword there being *tries*.  Because it does try... But it's only an algorithm, and thus cannot process some of the most basic signs which indicate to you that your so-called potential match could be a transvestite serial killer.

Sometimes, your match's username is a good indication of mental instability. Case in point: while trolling the latest selection of people OkCupid had chosen for me, I came across the user I will call black_cold_hate. As bad of a name as that clearly is, it's not actually the REAL name of this user. To avoid naming him directly, I've replaced each word with one *opposite* the original. Example: Red spoon would become blue fork. Now. Do that with black_cold_hate.

Did you do it?

Yes. That is his actual username, I shit you not.
So, needless to say, after I saw that, I asked myself what the hell he must've been thinking when he chose that. Suddenly, all those guys with "taco" in their username didn't look so bad.

Well, I then click away to another page... Only to see that black_cold_hate has actually sent me a message. Huh. Warily, I read the message. It does not sound psychotic, so I go check out his profile. The profile also does not read as psychotic.  I think about replying, especially since he has asked me to please answer one way or another, whether interested or not.  I haven't decided which answer to give, so I don't answer right then.

Typically, I make it a rule not to answer these emails right away. I like to sit on them for a day or so, and think about it, consider what I'm going to say, and why I'm replying: am I interested? Am I desperate? Or am I just bored? And only then do I reply.

But, black_cold_hate did not even allow me two minutes of time to contemplate his message... Because just as I clicked to another page, he messaged me AGAIN.... To say he'd seen me check out his profile, and wondered what I would say. Because... That doesn't come off as totally creepy and/or desperate at all--oh, no wait, yes it does. I narrowed my eyes at the screen... and resumed my internets business.

Skip to the next day. I return to OkCupid, still pondering how to answer this dude. I hang around on the site long enough to read a message from someone else, see who has recently visited my profile, and leave again. Upon leaving, I pop to my Gmail inbox... And guess what? User black_cold_hate has sent me ANOTHER message. To apologize for the weird IM he sent me, during the 2.4 minutes I was online... An IM which I didn't know about, because I must've just signed off as he sent it.

So. Four messages, in two days. In somewhat stalkery fashion... With a username like black_cold_hate... And we only match 72%. For me to ignore the rest of that, we'd have to match 97%.

I have not messaged him back yet to tell him to fuck off, but... I am going to, simply because he asked me to let him know either way, and I'm not a total bitch. (86%)

Anyway, the lesson to be learned her, chilluns, is that like your thong, it's tacky to let your desperation hang out where everyone can see.

Although, let's be honest, with that username, he's already set himself up for creepy.

Misconceptions About Being Thin, Part 1.

I'll preface this with some background just in case, by some bizarre twist of the Google lords, you don't already know me in person. I've been following Weight Watchers since January 2012. I started out at around... 237 lbs (that's about 17 stone, if you're British); now I'm hovering around 170 lbs (12.2 stone). So, I've lost about 67 lbs altogether at this point. And as this is the thinnest I can ever remember being since the age of 12, it's pretty fucking awesome. 

Since losing weight, I've experienced all kinds of lovely things that someone who has always been in relatively good shape probably wouldn't notice.... Like when I discovered that collarbones are not just a mythical body part, but that I actually have some. (I still marvel at them in the mirror sometimes, like I think they might've disappeared since the last time I looked or something.) 

Most recently, I had to buy a belt, not just for the sake of fashion, but actually to hold my pants up! Thin people reading this are probably like 'Uh.... duh?' But, having always had more than enough stomach chub to hold up the pants of TWO people, I was inordinately proud of myself... Like a small child who has just gone poo-poo in the big potty for the first time. "MOMMY, I BOUGHT A BELT! :B "

But there are some down sides. Exercise still sucks. I suppose I thought at some point, after losing weight, it would become something easy and enjoyable, the way thin people make it look on TV.... And that is very much not the case. Those thin TV people are fucking liars, because it still sucks. If anyone tells you otherwise, they are either lying to fuck with you, or you're talking to a replicant. 

What's worse though is this: you can't spot train. Meaning that I can lift weights until I'm blue in the face, but that under-arm flab is still going to be there. Yeah, it'll be sloshing around over a bundle of hard-ass muscle, but... The sloshing really kind of kills the effect, y'know? 

So, I find myself here: flollumping along on the elliptical machine, grimacing as I wheeze for breath, the sweat drizzling down the back of my head (of all the fucking places) and from my armpits... And there sits the fat, clinging to my stomach like a koala*, refusing to budge no matter how much I flollump or how many goddamn apples I eat instead of cookies. 

Sigh. I miss you, cookies. 

*Note that I am not in any way glamorizing my fat by comparing it to a koala; koalas, albeit adorable, are actually vicious little bastards who would cut you as soon as look at you. 

Happy Zombie Jesus Day!

I rolled out of bed today at the crack of 11, and after peeing, grimacing at my hair, and haphazardly throwing on a coat, I trundled outside with the Hogbeaste in tow... Much as I do every day.  Sweatpants, scraggly hair, tired squinty eyes: all the same.

But today, I noticed families out, wearing nice clothes, getting into cars. Across the street, a woman screaming in Spanish at two young people who were presumably her children. And as I watched the Hogbeaste snurfle through the grass in search of eatables, I thought "Where the hell is everyone going today?"

Then I remembered: church. For some reason, people go to church on Easter. Cue another grimace. Because I can't be the only person who finds it ironic and a little fucked up that people celebrate the grisly death of a Middle Eastern man and what was either a) a desecration/grave robbery or b) the rising up of a zombie.... And that the decorations and favors used in the celebration are eggs and rabbits, which were common in the Germanic pagan festivals once dedicated to the goddess Eostre, a spring-time fertility goddess.

Think about it. Eggs, from whence life comes; rabbits, who breed like... well, you get where I'm going. As part of the festival of Eostre, that shit makes sense.

But if you're talking about the death of Jesus, not so much. I propose instead that we celebrate that with sausages: ground up organs stuffed into intestines, because what says death more clearly than that? And with crows: black scavengers who are also said to be able to cross between the spirit world and this one. If you want to celebrate the part where he "rises from the dead", then... how about you eat some yogurt? Yogurt starts as milk... then gets all sour and gross.... and then becomes yogurt. So, it kind of lives, dies, and lives again. Right?

Anyway. I suppose my point is that I don't understand why everyone just goes along with all this like it makes sense. Then again, my blood sugar is probably low, as I did not indulge in my traditional Easter breakfast this year: the whites of 3 hard boiled eggs (I hate the yolks), and approximately two fistfuls of chocolate candy. Dieting sucks. Enjoy your Cadbury eggs while you can, childrenz. Before Zombie Jesus comes to eat your brains. BWAHAHAHA.

OkCupid Rule #1230858: No More Trannies.

(Let me preface this post by saying that this is a personal rule for me, and not intended to apply to anyone else. I do not intend the following to be advice of any kind, nor do I intend to foster transphobia in anyway. Transsexual people face some terrible stigmas in society and we should all do what we can to change that, for them, and for everyone who faces discrimination of any kind. Except Cubs fans. You guys just suck. )


I don't dress slutty and hang out in bars. I rarely ever go to bars. I don't go clubbing... Mostly I hibernate. So for me, Internet dating is pretty much my only hope of ever finding a partner.

My site of choice is OkCupid.com. It's free, user-friendly, and has a pretty diverse user population, including a large number of polyamorous couples, BDSM fetishists, transvestites, and transsexuals.  (Oh, if I only had a dollar for every time a man from OKC has mentioned to me that he has a "feminine" side, well... I'd have at least 6 dollars.)

Anyway, I'm a very open and accepting person in general, so that stuff doesn't bother me, but I do have a few rules (enforced by necessity) for using the site.  I've put these rules in place for my own sanity, safety, and the prevention of future annoyance. Here are a few:

1. No couples or polyamorous singles: I'm selfish, and I want my partner to only love and want to be with me. 
2. No Indian dudes who grew up in India: I've spoken to several such men, and the culture gap becomes an issue very quickly. 
3. No one with a match percentage under 80: The percentage system is not perfect, but time and experience have shown me that if we only match 30%, I'm probably going to loathe you. 
4. No guy, no matter how awesome or perfect he seems otherwise, if he has stated in his profile that he "[doesn't] really read books," or if he has listed The Da Vinci Code as a favorite book, or David Sedaris as a favorite author. (I don't have to qualify this one for you, do I?) 
5. No self-proclaimed "Nice Guys." The statement "I'm a nice guy, but..." indicates that Mr. Nice Guy is not only a dick, but bitter about his constant rejection, likely believes that women "owe him" sex, and is probably in general, a fucking pig. 
6. No adding anyone on Facebook until girlfriend status has been achieved: Obvious reasons here. 
7. No distributing of phone number or other contact info until potential mate has established via email that s/he is not a psycho, a rapist, or a republican, etc.

The list goes on.... But you can see, I don't make this shit up without good reason.  Hence the new rule: No more trannies. 

I went on a date a few weeks ago with a woman who waited until partway through dinner to slip into the conversation that she was transgendered... Thus nearly making me choke on my soup. Not at the news that she was trans, mind you, but at the abruptness with which she informed me. I did not end up pursuing a relationship with her (I wasn't attracted to her, and she seemed a bit vanilla for my tastes anyway), but I had initially intended going for friendship... But that sudden confession just bothered me. That she would wait until mid-date to mention something so important--it just seemed kind of dishonest. 

Now, I get that it's an enormous understatement to say that she has gotten mixed results when informing other people that she is a transwoman. And I get that she might thus want to withhold such information until better knowing someone. However... I think it's kind of an enormous thing to not tell a person whom you intend to date, as opposed to say, a co-worker or classmate. To me, it's almost akin to showing up for a date, only to discover that said date didn't mention he was a paraplegic. So... we ended up parting ways. 

And then there's my latest experience. I've been chatting on and off with this transgirl for awhile now. She stated on her profile that she was trans, so I knew that going in, but it didn't bother me. She seemed very sweet and kind, albeit sometimes annoyingly chipper... But over time I began to feel that something was wrong there. 

Certain things she said put me on my guard. I ended up cancelling a lunch date with her about two weeks ago (introvert crisis), and said I hoped she wouldn't be upset, but maybe we could go out again another time? She responded by saying that she was "disappointed" because people often flake out on her, and she just "doesn't have much to look forward to" in her life. ....Uh huh. And she seemed to become increasingly clingy (in an emotional sense) as time passed. 

I was supposed to meet her for lunch today, and was still going to go through with it, until texting with her yesterday... when she said "It's a good thing we're meeting for lunch, because I wouldn't be able to stop hugging you otherwise." And squirrelishly, I panicked. I saw myself being hugged half to death, imagined her physically clinging to me and touching me all day, and I cringed. The voice in my head shrieked "ABORT! ABORT!" Yep. 

I didn't want to hurt her. I really didn't. I felt awful all day yesterday evening, trying to come up with a kind way (well, the kindest way possible) to inform her that I wasn't coming, and that we should discontinue talking. At last, this morning, a few hours before we were supposed to meet, I managed to come up with it. I just told her that I was sorry, I couldn't do it. That I knew I could not meet her physical or emotional needs (i.e. because introvert), but that she was a very pretty and sweet girl (which she is), and that I was sure she would find someone who would appreciate her. 

Yes, it was dick. But my reasoning was this: I've spent almost 30 years avoiding conflict. And why? So other people don't have to feel as badly as I do. Did I actually owe this girl anything? No. Why should I have to feel like complete shit, just so she doesn't? Eventually, it would all come to the same thing. At least this way, I don't have to feel like shit, and no one gets their heart broken, because it's over before it really starts. 

I did not reckon on her response. Am I adorably naive, or what? 

She fired back a volley of scornful texts: 

Her: If you don't want either then why are you on a dating site? (presumably physical/emotional stuff?) 

Her: You let me get my hopes up and plan something fun to do with you then you tell me you don't want to see me? 

Her: I've waited weeks to see you and I like talking to you and this is what I get? 

Her: Oh hey you're really cute. Yea cute and stupid for thinking you'd even consider seeing me. Thanks a lot.

Her: Thanks for waiting 3 hours before I was going to see you to tell me. And dragging it out for over a month before you tell me you're not interested in me at all. 

I.... Did not engage. Because as shitty as those texts made me feel, they only served as proof that I'd done the right thing for myself. 

And so, after the dishonesty, the emotional volatility, and just the over all weirdness of the two of them as people, I decided that for the sake of my own mental and emotional well-being, I would do my best to avoid dating another transgendered person... Because therapy is expensive, and I'm trying not to give myself MORE reasons to need it. 

Hi, I'm an Introvert.

In theory, there are two types of people: extroverts and introverts. 

Extroverts are outgoing people who love to socialize and are often surrounded by lots of people. They feel a sense of energy and renewal when they're with other people, and are probably happiest in a crowd. 

Introverts are the opposite. They find socializing, even with close friends, to be exhausting, and not only want but require time alone to recharge. A party with lots of people, known or unknown, is an introvert's nightmare. 

I am an introvert. But I have a number of extrovert friends. The problem with these mixed friendships, however, is that I find extroverts are usually unable to understand why introverts behave as they do. Introverts, however, naturally spend a lot of time observing other people and thus can empathize with troubled extrovert friends, even though those same friends can't always return the favor. 

As an introvert, I'm a lot like a feral animal. Squirrels are a good example here. When I see a squirrel, I immediately want to pet it. I call out to it. "Squirr~rreeelllll!" The squirrel regards me warily as I approach, narrow chest heaving because its heart is pounding. Once I reach a certain point, the squirrel inevitably flees, leaving me to pout while the primitive part of my brain thinks "Why Squirrel no want be friend?!" 

Logically, I know why squirrel no want be friend, though. It's the same reason why I, when approached in some way by another person who seems to want to pat me and squish me with love (a la Mice and Men), get the fuck out of there. I don't want to be smothered. I don't want to feel trapped with another person. I need to know that, if I want to go off by myself somewhere, I can do that without fear of being hounded. If, however, I get the feeling that the person in question is clingy (physically or emotionally or both), I flee. I often feel bad, because I know that person won't understand why, but I flee. 

So, now you're probably thinking, Okay, what's the point of all this shit you just told me? ...The point is that if you yourself are not an introvert, then some of the shit I say in this blog won't make any sense to you.... Plus, I think it's an important thing to know about me. But at this time, it's primarily to set up for you.... the following post. 

Train Car Etiquette for iHoles.

On Fridays, between the hours of 11 am and 2 pm, I am always in the same locations. I leave my apartment, take the train downtown to my therapy appointment, where I spill my guts for an hour, I stop to take a whiz in Macy's, then  I get back on the train and hunker down for the long (30-40 min) ride north back to my neighborhood. There are some variations therein: sometimes I stop at the bank to get quarters so I can do laundry; I might stop at Starbucks for a tall non-fat chai latte and a quick flirt with that barista I like; or maybe I had some other business downtown to take care of. Whatever.  Usually, it's the same old-same old, and always results in me getting back on the Red Line.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Red Line, I'll give you some basics. It's one of only two train lines in the city that runs 24 hours, meaning it's generally dirtier than  the other lines, and is more frequently inhabited by crazy and/or homeless people and the fragrances of B.O. or urine. That said, these things are rarely more than minor annoyances. As it turns out, the most obnoxious aspect of taking the train (or any type of public transit) is other people and their electronic devices. These days,  everyone is an iHole. And this is where shit gets real. 

So, it's roughly 1:15 pm: I am tired and cranky (as per usual), and I'm on the train, attempting to read a book. Across from me sit four black boys, ages unknown. I figured there was probably no school for Easter Break or Good Friday or some shit like that, but who knows. The oldest of these boys was maybe 17-18, the others progressively younger. And it was clear that the oldest boy was the leader, because it was he who started the shenanigans. 

We're a few stops out from where I got on, but still a long way from my final destination, when Shithead (as I will hence refer to the oldest kid in lieu of knowing his name) takes out his phone and turns on some music. He does not put his headphones in, but instead turns the music up loud enough that I, sitting across the way, can make out distinctly instances of "fuck" and "bitch" over the baseline. After a few minutes, Shithead begins to sing along with the music, and is joined by his friends. 

From my seat, I steal glances at him, subtle social cues that indicate "Hey, that thing you're doing is annoying me," the kind of cues that most people would take as a hint that they should stop doing whatever it is they're doing.  But no, not this kid. So I look around at the other passengers, who are also glancing up with looks of helpless distress, and I sit there for a few minutes, growing increasingly pissed off, irritated, annoyed, anxious, and PISSED off. The whole time I keep thinking "Will it look racist if I say something to this kid?" And then ask myself if that question itself was racist, and continue to dither...

Until I realized: No, it's not racist, because regardless of color, dude is being a shithead... And no one else is going to say anything, meaning I could be stuck with this bullshit for another 20 minutes. And if I myself said nothing, I'd continue to replay the incident in my head for the rest of the day, thinking of what I should have said and done.

In days past, I might've let it go. I might've just said Self, there's nothing you can do here, just mind your own business. But this time I said Hey, Self. Someone should tell that asshole that he's being an asshole. Let's do this. So, finally, I looked up and said "Hey, I'm sorry, but could you possibly turn your music down?" ....and thus began the following.

Shithead: No.
Me: ...No, you won't turn your music down?
Shithead: No.
Me: Even though you're being incredibly rude and disrespectful to everyone else in the car?
Shithead: People shouldn't ride the fuckin' train if they don't want to hear it.
Me: Uh, no, that's not true.
Shithead: I don't see anyone else sayin' anything.
Me: And no one else is going to. But I'm saying something, because you're being rude.

(Throughout, Shithead is becoming increasingly pissed off, and his friends, increasingly embarrassed, begin trying to tell him to turn the music down. At this point in the conversation, though, nerdy white hipster guy sitting near us all attempts to back me up with a comment about how it would be different if Shithead were wearing headphones...)

Shithead: You just don't like black music. I bet you wouldn't be sayin' nothing if I was white listening to white music.
Me: That's not true.
Shithead: Yeah it is, you wouldn't say nothing to a white kid.
Me: I wouldn't care if you were a white kid playing polka music, I would say something. It's rude, and it's rude to everyone in here.

At this point, Shithead makes a few more ironically racist comments about how I'm being racist, but grudgingly and grumblingly turns down the music a bit. He continues muttering, though, at least until I got off at my stop.

I've ridden the train with a number of Shitheads like that one, none *quite* so flagrantly irritating (who did not also appear batshit crazy), and never said anything. But every time, I wished I had, or that someone else would. This time, I decided, for myself and everyone else in the train car, that it had to be done.

Because, goddammit, I was trying to read. 

So, this is a thing, now.

Yep, I decided to try blogging again. Why? Well, I could pester all of my friends individually, or post long potentially angsty status updates on Facebook, both of these options thus rendering me repulsive (and with good reason) to the few people who still talk to me.  Or, I could write down my brain burbles here, where I can choose to believe that people have read them without spamming up anyone's cell phone or Newsfeed. 

So, here it goes, kids.