Dangerware

I've been having regular dreams where I am a certified bad-ass. Whether dealing with sociopathic serial killers, apocalyptic worlds, or totalitarian societies, I've become quite the revolutionary there. I've decided that my bad-assery should not be confined to the world of the ethereal, and therefore, shall be committing deeds of great bad-assery  to great renown, and be the all around bad-ass of the upper Midwest. Yeah, it got away from me.

There's only so many times one can say bad-ass before the bad-assery becomes less bad-ass.

In preparation, I will shave my head, get a few more piercings, and acquire weaponry--circa the medieval century rather than modern technology--and throw them off with my anachronistic supply of dangerware. Well, maybe not. 

But dangerware, I think I've really got something there--hopefully it doesn't infringe on the copyright of tupperware (although for some reason I feel like that might be more of a registered trademark at this point); it could be a very lucrative business with all of those silly parties and such. Come to my dangerware party, Mary Kay and Pampered Chef are so last year. On top of that, anyone who purchases dangerware must sign an agreement to clean their dangerware after they use it, no more of this atrocious using a blade and then sticking it back in the scabbard all full of entrails and such. To use dangerware one must be conscientious. As conscientious as any person purchasing dangerware could possibly be. 

Also, I could open an accompanying strip mall full of lingerie based on the dangerware business. Real racy stuff. 

Hopefully not infringing,

M

Posing

Egregious Salute to the Gentry

It's been centuries, and by that I mean years, and by that I definitely mean about a month since I've shoved the poor thoughts of my mind on the general populace--well I say no more! Prepare yourselves!

I've spent the last month rummaging through the ups and downs of life shifts, blah, blah, blech, and I am now dealing with the closing of yet another semester at university, ergo I have about zero time on my hands (that isn't already dictated by someone or something else) and with the arrival of a new job (barista-ing) I haven't had enough bloody time on my hands to deposit ruminations of any sort. 

In any case, I suppose I should catch you up on the malarky and facetiousness that is my life:

It was wholesome and delicious. If by bear you mean chicken. Or if by bear you mean human beings bothering me.

I ate an egregious amount of peanut butter. It was astoundingly delicious.

I used what little time I had left on my hands to watch any Moffat that I possibly could and as a consequence spent countless hours screaming at a box.

Got my freak on to Fun.

Just saying. And they don't have posh prisons in Northern MN. At least not that I'm privy to.

So mostly this is just here because I'm hoping that this gif-heavy post will be enough incentive for me to return on the morrow and invest time here as well. More diabolical thoughts to follow, complaints, raves, and otherwise duplicitous material.

I shall return to you--good sirs and assorted gentry and the like,

M

New Man

The new man in my life is Espresso. He keeps me up all night, keeps me going through the day, and keeps my heart in a heightened state of near hypnotic paralysis all the while administering shocking reminders of his presence. He's cheeky. Sometimes I walk in on him and he's completely fried. Other times he's covered from head to toe in chocolate.  Espresso irrevocably drives me insane with ecstasy when he puts his nose to the grindstone and leaves me utterly senseless for the rest of the day. 

He may not have a beard but he's damn good,

M

The Bird

Every once in a while something inside me just snaps when it comes to academia. I can handle moronic behavior, really, let's face it--we're talking about me here. But what I can't stand is a professor saying the same inane things every time the class adjourns, running about in a frazzled manner equivalent to that of a dodo bird on crack, all the while arbitrarily oozing the education level of a pre-pubescent child. 

Suddenly, all those little moments add up to a hallucination of epic proportion until my poor little brain says "to hell with academia and your silly teachers".

It escalates like this:

Wait, you're saying you don't want me to analyze the text we are reading in my reflection paper? You say I theorize overmuch? Are my words too big for you? Shall I insist on discarding my vocabulary for your convenience? Well, then, let me reduce it to the lowest common denominator so that your tiny brain cells can compute and your neurons can start firing. You know what? I'll write you a paper. 

Not just any paper. What I like to call The Bird Paper. 

The Bird Paper has evolved a lot over the years. At first, it was a sort of passive way of acknowledging my disgruntled feelings towards professors. Back then, I was still more worried about the grade than anything, couldn't risk the wrath of the almighty teacher. See, but as the years go by, and cynicism festers in the way it generally does, and sarcasm develops even more quickly, I just can't help myself. The Bird Paper is basically my way of flicking said professor off with words. A weapon from a more civilized age. 

I turn in my Bird Paper, scathing criticisms and all fully expecting some challenge, and of course, I get the paper back within five minutes and a glittering A+ strewn across its cover along with an admonition of my "excellent" writing skills. Which leads me to think that I need to just start actually titling my Bird Papers as "You're Complete Rubbish And I Have Absolutely No Idea How You've Managed To Make It This Far In Life Or Get A Degree For That Matter Or Even Get Published You Probably Wrote A Terrible Self Help Book That Has Ended More Lives Than Saved Them."

Something like that.

Of course, it will naturally conclude with this quote:

Mollified,

M

Urges and Satisfaction

An urge will come to you. A very strong one. The universe points to its fulfillment. Humor begs for it. The stars aligned for this urge. This urge to do something completely bonkers. Something completely justifiable. But then, you will listen to your ethical compass, and say no to said urge. Granted, if you gave into the urge, several people would be wildly offended, but even more would be frankly satisfied and all the better for it. Still--resist said urge. Yes, those crackpots who have been chiming in all your life will have to live another day without your input. Someday you will utter the most scathing, wondrous, witty remark and their damned tongues will be tied. Until then, resist said urge. Embrace it and revel in its mysteries. With time, this urge will become all the more beautific and will develop the necessary antiquity needed for its full blown sock 'em and drop 'em KO round. Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Resisting...urges,

M

Battle Arena Motivation

Finding myself completely dumfounded, amused, and slightly wary of the weather these days. It really is ludicrous how brilliantly the sun is shining and how high the temperatures are skyrocketing in Northern MN. Unnatural really. But loving it all the same. See, that's the thing about spring, it always manages to sneak up on me when I least expect it and then I'm suddenly flummoxed by the idea and altogether enthralled with the changing temperatures and weather. I never realize how much I want it to be spring until spring actually begins. Oh, the sun wants to show itself? Oh, it isn't going to set until after seven? Oh, the universe is a beautiful thing that I've forgotten about for the last five months? Come to me spring, I welcome you with open arms.

In a show of good faith towards the weather, I've started running two miles every day. Why, you might ask? Certainly because it's gorgeous outside. But mostly because I just finished reading The Hunger Games trilogy and have come to the conclusion that I need to be in much better shape to survive in a post-apocalyptic world. The brilliant bit is that preparation goes all ways concerning the apocalypse: I'll be better able to evade zombies, survive the battle arena, and look damn sexy doing it. Sometimes the best motivation is the most unrealistic one. But who knows? Bear Grylls will vouch for me someday. Or just keep drinking his urine.

Definitely surviving the post-apocalyptic world (barring virus),

M