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How to Humiliate Yourself in Front of Attractive People in Public Spaces

Some days, you may ask yourself the following: can I somehow make this day worse on purpose?

The answer is yes, and I’m about to show you how you can create regrettable moments by using my own true story from my late adolescence as an example.


If you follow this blog, it’s no secret that I’ve had my share of bowel problems. I don’t know why I used to be ashamed of them. Everyone has bowels. Everyone eats. Everyone poops. I might imagine one could be embarrassed about pooping if you were the only person in the entire world who did it. That would make for awkward dinner conversation.

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Luckily, the tale I’m about to share happened quite a while ago, so I am a different person now and can safely recount this unfortunate adventure with confidence knowing that I no longer give a foof if these events happened to me today.

Many years ago, during a less-than-great time, I was experiencing some issues with my bowels. I needed some medicated intervention down south ASAP, so I decided to go to a nearby drugstore to retrieve the necessary items.

(NOTE: My car does not actually fly. It can only reach a maximum speed of 23 mph and the horn sound is similar to the vocalizations of a farm animal.)

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I chose to shop at this one specific drugstore because every time I had been there previously, there was always older women working behind the counter, and I could buy whatever products I needed and not feel weird about it.

As I wandered (painfully) through the florescent-lit space, I grabbed the things I needed:

-Fiber One Cookies

-Preparation H

-Miralax

And finally, as if matters weren’t unfortunate enough, I also had a raging period. So I bought two more items:

-Giant, overnight maxi pads with wings (These are basically fancy diapers, let’s be real here.)

-A bag of Reese’s (Don’t worry, the irony isn’t lost on me. But I figured the laxative powder would cancel out any of the constipation from the chocolate. See? I had everything sorted out.)

I headed to the counter to pay for my plethora of remedies, with a sense of calm reassurance flowing through my pores. My unfortunate situation was nearly just a memory.

I haphazardly placed all my crap on the counter. (Heads up: this is where the story turns regrettable.)

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Standing behind the counter were not any of the women I had seen there countless times before. Oh no. It was perhaps the most attractive-looking young man I had ever seen – or may ever see – in this life. Imagine for a moment the top (literally, the number one) male model in the world decided to quit modelling one day and work at your local drugstore for no reason. Imagine you went to that same drugstore the very next day and bought the most obvious constipation, hemorrhoid, menstruation products at the same time and slathered them shamelessly on the counter in front of him.

During those first few seconds, the situation looked like this:

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Within 4 seconds, the air between him and I changed.

Picture, if you will, his gorgeous face transforming into a state of primal fear because he’s new to this life and emotionally not able to handle the fact that women have bodies, and his awkwardness flows from him with more strength than you can bear. Imagine you suddenly become painfully aware of this cringe-fest, but have no choice but to tolerate it because you NEED those things on the counter. That, my friends, is what transpired. Him and I became trapped in the sacred space I call, the Zone of Discomfort.

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He scanned each item slowly, avoiding all eye contact with me. The realization that I was buying all these things at the same time appeared to traumatize him and subsequently, me. I figured the panic must have inhibited his motor skills to a certain degree because he was moving as if he were in some kind of nightmare.

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After a few brief moments of unbearable awkwardness, he managed to utter a total. His vocalizations barely reached my eardrums through the Zone of Discomfort. It’s thick fog created a terrible barrier.

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The fact is, this experience was so awkward because of the combination of events that happened to occur together. Like the perfect storm, this situation had all the right components for devastation: nineteen year-old me, nineteen year-old most attractive human on earth, and our unavoidable interaction involving products that suggested embarrassment and pain at the mere sight of the packaging. I did not utter a single word, yet, my basket of items screamed, “EVERYTHING NEAR MY BUM IS HURTING AND BLEEDING AND I’M DYING.”

After what felt like a century of nauseating levels of tension, I swiped my debit card and noped out of there with such velocity that Usain Bolt would’ve been left choking on my dust.

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Back safely in my car, I ripped open the bag of Reese’s to heal myself from the cringe-fest I just experienced. Luckily, I never saw the model employee again, and he probably was thankful he never saw me again either. We had bonded in the most unfortunate way. His heart and my heart were forever united for those few brief moments of unparalleled embarrassment. I feel a sort of kinship with him, but also, I pray our paths may never cross again.

What’s the moral lesson to be taken from this story? There is no moral lesson. If you want to humiliate yourself in front of attractive people in public spaces, I’m sure the story I described above will inspire you to cringe your way through life. I am proud of you – go forth and live your best life in the Zone of Discomfort.

Just some advice for everyone else: always use the self-check out.

xo kel

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The Day I Learned I Couldn’t Dance

 In other words, can my neurological condition take the blame for my lack of groove?

 

In a pathetic moment of hormonal-induced rage, my depressed, potato brain had created two options for itself:

1. run around and destroy local property and regret it later while in jail

2. find a sweet-ass dance video on youtube and dance my awful feelings into oblivion

Luckily for everyone, I selected option 2.

 

After throwing on some terrible pink shorts and a ugly maroon tank top, I was ready.

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Youtube provided a wide array of follow-along workout videos. I decided to watch the one with the most attractive, happy, and successful looking people. If I danced with them, I could become them. That’s how it’s supposed to work, right? They were led by her:

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Her name is Bipasha Basu; she’s a popular Indian actress with hair that flows and skin that glows.

At first, it was encouraging. All these attractive people dancing and exercising together to make themselves even more attractive. I too, was dancing with them. Bipahsa was talking to me; her incredible abs motivated me; her bronzed cleavage cheered me on.

 

It would be nice if my dance story ended here:

I danced into the sunset with Bipasha and the crew, as my mental health struggles melted away. Everyone was right – exercise does help!

 

Unfortunately, the story goes more like this:

Within approximately 7 minutes, I realized that I was not only struggling to dance along with Bipasha, but I was completely unable to dance at all.

As Bipasha and the rest of her gorgeous friends boogied effortlessly, I was unable to follow even the most basic dance instructions.

Literally, no exaggeration here:

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To add to the incredibly low level of self worth I was experiencing, the dance moves became increasingly more difficult and soul-crushing – this one was referred to as the “sexy sway.” I’m not joking, look at the screen shot I took:

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I can assure you there was no swaying and there was definitely no sexiness on my end. If I had dance moves, they would probably be:

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SULTRY STUBBED TOE

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My dog Sam sat silently nearby, judging me. (Also, what a hypocrite! As if Sam can dance better than me! What’s his best dance move you ask? Probably the “Fantastic Fart.”)

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To add to the insanity, I danced in the privacy of my own bedroom, which is barely large enough to accommodate regular life activities, let alone dancing and dog lounging. Sam didn’t want to lay on my bed or in any surrounding area. No, he chose to sit right in the middle of my personal dance arena.

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What can only be described as some freaky, alien-esque aerobics, the experience left both me and the dog in a state of hyper confusion.

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Sam, not being the type to filter his facial expressions, or shower me with unconditional love as other dogs do, was clear about his opinion of me at the time.

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My only saving grace was in the few moments during the workout where Bipasha and the gang would march in place. I’ll have you all know that marching in place happens to be one of my special talents.

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so good at marching

 

As I marched in place (into the sunset), I became comfortable with the fact that I cannot dance along to any sort of choreography at this time. (It also occurred to me that I should probably see a neurologist because WTF something is WRONG.) 

Maybe one day, when my brain decides to get with the program, I will join in the ranks of Bipasha’s aerobic dance team/squad/army. Until then, I will march on….in place, obviously.

xo kelly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My dog doesn’t love me

The following post strays from the theme of my usual posts, but I know you’ll read it anyway…especially if you love animals. If you don’t, well, what the heck is wrong with you?

 

This is my dog Sam:

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He’s a bona fide oddity.

Sam is an 11 year-old shih-tzu/cavalier mix, and due to several unfortunate circumstances, he has lost several body parts over the years. Most notably, his left eye. (Yes, he is the perfect pirate doggy.)

Sam is also missing a toe, and a salivary gland. He’s covered in an alarming amount of moles and warts, but luckily he’s very furry. His one leg is crooked, and has been for a long time. According to the vet, nothing is wrong with it.

However, my dog’s bizarre list of physical flaws can not compare to his glowing personality.

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I am not ashamed to say that my dog is a self-serving, stubborn, morally corrupt, annoying creature. From the start, Sam has never loved me. He simply uses me for his own personal gains.

Taking him for walks consists of being pulled around mercilessly. If I want to change direction, I have to take a battle stance and face off until he gives into my will. But usually, he drags me to wherever he desires, with no consideration for my life.

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If he’s not on a leash, I have to watch him or else he’ll take advantage of the invisible boundaries which have been established over his 11 years of life. He clearly knows what they are, yet he doesn’t give a flying crap about them.

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I am the person who gives Sam a bath. Sam smells similar to a frito – like the chip – but one that you would absolutely never eat. During the bath, he will slowly try to make his way just out of my reach, as if I don’t see him leaving. I spend the majority of my time pulling him back. He applies a variety of methods to get away from me.

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After I scrub the frito out of him, I have to dry him. While he’ll willingly sit on a small bench, he does not like the hair dryer for long periods of time. He resorts to a desperate crotch escape:

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Sam’s biggest peeve is food. Sam is perhaps the only dog you will ever meet who turns away from freshly cooked steak. Every meal for Sam is a chore for the rest of us, as he refuses to eat even the most extravagantly prepared dishes.

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Eventually, after shoving a piece of food into his mouth, he realizes that he has to eat – to, you know, survive – and finally, he eats. Slowly.

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While I am Sam’s least favorite member of the family, he’ll willingly grace me with his presence from time to time. Again, these moments are only meant to serve or satisfy him in some way, like when he’s trying to get a better view of the television.

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One of his favorite things to do is to slap my door with his paw as if to knock before entering. I’ll open the door to let him in, but he quickly wants to go back out. And so on, and so on.

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*2 seconds later*

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*REPEAT FOR 3 HOURS OR UNTIL SANITY IS LOST*

Other times, he’ll hang out with me in my bedroom or in my art room while I paint. I get fooled into believing that he’s suddenly taken a liking to me. I should know better. As many dog owners know, when a dog comes and goes quickly from a room, it is for one reason.

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The poisonous gases released from the bowels of my dog are so putrid, I feel as though I am drowning in liquid death. Is my dog trying to end my life? YOU DECIDE:

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Sam also isn’t the brightest pup around, although he does put forth a valiant effort to guard his precious property. Regrettably, anything on his left side goes unseen – literally, due to lack of eye.

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Here is an actual picture of Sam staring at walls, one of his more common activities:

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Here is an actual picture of Sam selfishly eyeing our birthday cake. Yes, you heard that right, “our cake,” as in, we have the same freakin’ birthday:

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Here’s an actual picture of Sam sitting smugly on a mattress, knowing that while the sheets are being washed, his stinkiness will penetrate the mattress fibers permanently.

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Amazingly, on a rare occasion, Sam does reach out to me to express his gratitude and love. Considering the fact that I shower him with affection and care 24/7, it’s nice to receive it back. I mean, he is pretty adorable.

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“hahahah just kidding!” -Sam

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I hope, dear reader, that your animal friend loves you unconditionally. Unless, of course, you’ve got a dog like Sam.

 

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oxox kelly

 

 

Why Operation is the Weirdest Game Ever

I don’t know about you guys, but during my childhood there was one game that I absolutely despised playing: The game of Operation.

You all know it. The creepy naked dude with his internal organs exposed for children to poke at and remove for their selfish pleasures. Yes children, harvest the organs! HARVEST THEM.

But, that was not the worst part of the game. The terror was in the removal of the organs themselves. For if you didn’t do a decent job during the surgery, a loud and sudden buzzing sound would be released from the man’s body like it was his own bloody screaming.

As a child who was terrified by basically everything, and saw everything very seriously and realistically, this game was absolute horror.

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What a nightmare.

Let’s look closer….

Here’s the box – it always freaked me out as a kid. Firstly, the dude on the table is AWAKE. Perhaps slightly drowsy, but definitely conscious. Naturally, I felt bad for him, and the pain he must have been experiencing during the game. For the sake of this post, let’s call this guy Norm.

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Norm clearly has a lot of medical problems, as demonstrated by the outrageous amount of surgery being done.

Looking at the box, we can see Norm with his inflamed red nose (which by the way is NOT addressed as a problem for him in the game). Does anyone care about Norm’s obvious nose issues?! No, no they don’t.

On the left, we have Einstein – in pink socks and red striped boxer shorts – holding a butterfly in one hand while jamming a ginormous metal device into Norm’s thigh.

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Apparently pants aren’t required when you’re a surgeon. Also, he is unnecessarily standing on a tiny ladder. The whole procedure is disturbingly close to Norm’s crotch. Yes, I said it. You all noticed it too.

Behind Einstein is a small, cheerful boy holding a bucket of water and staring directly into Einstein’s butt. No further comment on that one.

Moving to the right, we have a taller fellow who looks like Ferris Bueller’s principal, Mr. Rooney.

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This must have been his after-school job. Mr. Rooney appears to have serious back issues, but at least he’s wearing pants and shoes. And look! A face mask! …..not on his face though. SO CLOSE ROONEY! Below him is a happy little girl holding a very large weapon.

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But it only gets weirder my friends! The game looks like this:

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Norm not only has a serious nasal condition, but also, terrible hair.

I’m going to point out the weirdest thing here: why on earth are we supposed to remove things like ice cream cones and butterflies and apples from this poor man? I get the creativity here, but from my childhood experience, it was all very disturbing.

Here I was, a young girl, expected to remove absurd objects from Norm’s naked body with a pair of giant tweezers while he looked up at me with that hairdo. I knew it was a stupid game, but I couldnt’ help but take it very seriously and the buzzing sound gave me tremendous anxiety. It wasn’t exactly a sensory-fun game.

None of my friends seemed to understand the fear.

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(p.s. I loved my friends)

So there you have it. Operation is an irrational game where children are asked to pull foreign objects, like ice cream cones, from a naked man with a nose deformity.

May this game never see the light of day again.

xoxo ~Kelly