I'm A Terrible Parent: My Decline Into Spinsterhood

My latest mental breakdown has been pretending to be a parent.  Hold on guys, put down your phones and hang up on Amber alert, I did not take or receive some child in any way.  If you were just packing up your child to send to me, stop that as well.  So help me, if I wake up with one child in my backyard/mail slot I will be rather upset.  Almost as upset as the time Wendy's only gave me 4 love nuggets* in stead of 5.  Dark days those were... *shudder*

But my food woes aside, I've recently been wise enough to "adopt" a small kitten.  I can almost hear the surprise from...nobody.  Yes, I know, what else does a recluse need more than a stereotype pet for a pet.  Friends, the answer is "What is friends?"

This is, of course, the perfect place to talk about this subject.  I mean, the internet LOVES cats.

Anyways, after having this thing for some time now, I feel that my parental responsibilities are lacking:

My degenerate child ready to
mess you up

I never monitor his eating habits so I'm enabling his oncoming obesity, I often let him eat the spiders when I'm too scared to squish them, and at certain times of the night he might be flying through the air after biting my feet--with love of course, he's flying through the air with love...and profanities flying from my mouth.**

 "Where are your poor parenting skills?" you might ask.  I know, I know, I'm pretty amazing at my job of keeping a small creature alive, but it's not all fun and games.

I have recently tried training him not to bite destroy ______ (insert anything that fits into mouth) by spraying him with a spray bottle filled with water.  It usually goes like this:  "Don't bite that." *squirt* *bite bite* "I said no!" *squirt squirt* *bitebitebitebite* "NO YOU LITTLE F**KER!" *squirt squirt squirt* Then he stops, looks at me with a look that says, "Really?  You're gonna spray me with water?  Nice try SUCKA'"--where he continues to gnaw on my foot.

Because of these tendencies, this creature has earned some nicknames.  After spending time with my brother-in-law, he earned the name "Overseer Kitty" due to his dictator like qualities; my brother gave him the middle name "Figaro"; I lovingly call him "Bitch Cat, Demon, Mussolini," and "Thing that vomits on my floor and keeps me up at night," or "TTVOMFAKMUP"...I usually stick with the former.

You must be thinking to yourself, "Gee, I really MUST have one of these things in my life.  In fact, send me ten--no TWENTY!"  Hold on cowboy, don't you know about the threshold of catitude?  It goes something like this:

One Cat: The beginning of your declining social life.  You still go outside and socialize and the sun is still a familiar sight.

Two Cats:  Alright, you're starting to tread on thin ice bud.  You still see some need for social interaction, primarily the checker at the grocery store--I mean, you gotta eat.  Hm, it's pretty bright outside today, better stay inside.

Three Cats:  Woah there buddy, you're neck deep now.  I guess I have enough food for the week, so let's have a Netflix marathon instead of shopping.  I did laundry...three weeks ago?  It's clean enough.  A stray ray of sunlight filters through your blinds and you sparkle...odd.

Four or more:  You've heard rumors of the outside world, but can't really remember what people look like, much less yourself.  Legend of the sun have been heard, but you don't believe it actually exists.  You often whisper things like, "precious..." and you skulk around the house in nothing but your underoos.  Your neighbors often call the police to check to see if you've been eaten by the cats yet; a typical Tuesday.

So I jest (slightly), but I have taken my first step down the stairs of spinsterhood.  We all know that after that first step, you trip, break your hip, and hit every other stair on the way down.  I think the third step is an abundance of thick woven sweaters (Check!).

I guess occasionally this thing (who is named Moose for no particular reason) is cute and provides some form of entertainment now and then, so I guess I'll keep him around and see how it goes.  Like I've said before, someone just call the ambulance before the cat eats me. We all know he's already tried.




*Why are they "love nuggets?" you ask.  Well you see, in my high school days of depravity, Wendy's was a staple food in my life.  Getting chicken nuggets every time we went was not even a question so my good friend Austin decided there must be some sort of secret ingredient.  Yes, it was love.  The forlorn looking middle-aged woman behind the counter had made those nuggets with love.  Thus they were love nuggets ever since.  Yes, I have accidentally said that to the employee before when ordering.

**I know that this isn't talked about often, but can we throw babies in the air when they're misbehaving?  I mean, come on guys, it would probably work on some level.  No?  Well, I tried to incorporate some new parenting techniques into your lives.  Sorry for trying to be a modern parent.

We Always Have Good Intentions, Our Brains Are Just Idiots

The night: Sunday
The time: 10pm
The place: my bathroom
My sanity: gone

"Nick, I think I'm going to give myself a haircut."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"...well, I have the guards for my clippers now, so I'll be fine."

"Whatever"

*Much time buzzing and giggling like a tweenage girl when a clump of hair falls out later...*

"AH!"

"Did you mess up?"

"No! A lot just fell out, it looks...decent" as I take off the clipper guard

*Bzzzzzzzz*

Under my breath, "Shit..." as I carve stripes into my sides, "Come look at this, I need to know what the back looks like."

Enter Nick, commence staring, commence a wide smile, commence laughing

"That bad, huh?"

"Actually, the front looks fine, the back's all crooked though. Take a picture with your phone."

*Click*

"AHHH!"

"Told you, I think you're going to have to go all the way."

"No, I can fix this..."

"I don't think you can."

"Nick...I don't want to be bald..."

*5 minutes of giggling, crying and debating later*

"I'm going to do it, I'm going all the way."

*Bzzzzzz*

"AH!...I didn't realize I had so much hair.'

"It looks like a hair monster."

"You're going to wake up in the middle of the night with that in your bed."

"That's why I'm sleeping on the couch."

So...I shaved my head you guys, Britney style.  That same night, I went out and beat cars with an umbrella, it was pretty fun (10 points if you actually get that reference).

For some reason, I think it's usually a good idea to try and cut my own hair.  This has happened before but I stopped myself before things became irreversible.  This time, my crazy got the best of me.

First, let me start with the things I dislike about this:
-My head is eternally cold, I was not aware how much my hair did in terms of being a hat
-One of my friends described me as, "a bald elf...who has no friends"
-I've realized that my hairline is rather funky, but I'M NOT GOING BALD
-When I sweat, it goes straight to my eyes
-My hair can no longer cover up my blemishes
-I've become all eyebrows
-My head has become infinitely smaller, or more noticeably so
- I can no longer twiddle with my locks/grab it in frustration for shaving my head

I do have to say there are upsides though.  What? Upsides to being bald?  There can be no such thing.  Well disbelieving computer nerd, I'm going to blow your mind.  Or at least make you read something.  I really can't even force you to read it, you just can...please read it:
-I never have to do my hair
-I'm a lot cooler when it's hot outside
-I can lay down without worrying that my hair will get matted/crazy
-I don't have to do my hair
-Washing hair? So 5 days ago
-Hat all the time? Yes, please
-I think this gives me more street cred
-I can't stop feeling the fuzz on my cranium
-If anyone ever needs a good laugh, they need just to glance upon my scalp
-Did I mention how I don't have to do my hair?


See? Good things and bad things to losing all the fluff on top.  Not to mention there's really nothing I can do about it now other than get used to it and not sunburn my head.  Lord knows it hasn't ever seen the sunlight. Here's to first time baldness.

 Hi, my name's Ryan.  I'm bald...yeah that's it.

Well, I'm Not Dead Yet: Part 2

Just a quick note about my "book."  I wrote it really incoherently and acted like there were chapters before some chapters so that's why it might sound strange.*  So here we go ya'll, on to part 2.

Chapter 1: You Have to Start Somewhere

            We’d all like to say that we grew up as the kid down the street.  You know, the one who was good at sports, attractive, good in school, and volunteered at the animal shelter in their spare time.  You obviously must think that this fine description of a human being must have been me.  No?  Yeah, I don’t either. 

            Instead of Adonis child picture a gangly, lanky, glasses-wearing, recluse who was rather good at Pokémon in his basement, who also enjoyed sewing and cooking.  Now we’re getting somewhere in the ballpark.

            Try as my father did, I never excelled in sports (soccer mainly due to my Bolivian heritage) and was that nerdy quiet kid in school who the teachers loved and other kids associated with.  It definitely wasn’t much to start from, but at least it was something.

            Despite my obvious street cred, there were others who didn’t express joy in my general company which takes us to a warm spring day in 5^th grade.

            Even though I had had my best friend move at least a state away from my city consecutively for the past five years (yes, five friends moved away from me in elementary school, can you say popular?) I had started to break out my hermit-like shell and try and make a new friend.  Like me, Joe** was gangly and awkward and generally speaking, it doesn’t take much to constitute friendship for 11 year olds.  We spent many a day looking at clouds or him playing basketball while I did the best I could to fake it.  What more could I ask for?  A trust fund, but at this time I wasn’t concerned with such things.  What I got instead was the baggage that came along with my new friend. 

            Since I was now at a New Elementary school (the previous had been closed and turned into a deaf and blind school) I was easy prey for those with low self-esteem.  Joseph had been attending this school from the beginning of his education meaning he the other kids and had previous friends.  One in particular was Sam.  Maybe it was my large Harry Potter-like glasses or my obvious disinterest and lack of talent at sports that enticed him to choose me as his personal entertainment, I’ll really never know.  What I did know was that Sam did not like me and due to some cosmic joke, he and Joe were rather good friends.

            Well one day as I usually did on a lot of school days, I invited Joe over to my house to “hang-out” since cool kids “hung-out,” they didn’t “play.” 

“Hey is it all right if Sam comes with me?” He said on the phone when I called.

“Oh…yeah sure, why not?” I replied, probably some small twinge of terror/death in my voice.

How could my best friend be bringing my worst enemy to my house?  I’d just have to deal with it I figured. 

Some minutes passed as I awaited their arrival until I finally heard the doorbell ring.  I turned the door, saw both their faces, pushed the screen door open and was then suddenly pelted in the face.  I sat there confused as I saw a little piece of my paper fall to the ground and my friend and nemesis running away laughing.  “What just happened?” I thought to myself and then decided to open the paper on the ground.  In crude 11 year old writing was one word scribbled hastily:

LOSER

*To clarify: I jump around with the chapter numbers since I felt like that's where they'd be in the book if I actually wrote a book.  This is chapter 1.  I felt like it should have been first, so it is.  One thing that frustrated one reader of my story was also how it abruptly ended a lot.  Explanation for that: It's more like a preview of a book than an actual book.  I couldn't just keep writing forever people, loosen your choker necklaces.  What?  No one wears those anymore?  Oh, that was the 90's you say... *rolls into the street*

**I've changed the names from my original story just in case you might actually know these people.  I think it's a common courtesy.

Well, I'm Not Dead Yet

I recently had the pleasure in psychology of pretending that I had written a book based on my life story.  Now, the original instructions were to pick a title and four of the chapter titles and then explain each.  So, doing what I do, I pretended to start writing a book where I'd write a small portion of each chapter and then move onto another one.  To me it described everything much better than saying, "I picked this title for my book because blah blah blah."  It's just what I do people...

So here we start with the explanation for my book title, or I guess the foreword you'd find inside the little cover jacket if you happened to be looking in there.  I bet there's also a nice little picture of me posing with my head resting on both my hands looking serenely off into the distance...majestic.

Well, I'm Not Dead Yet:
A Collection of Short Stories

What Have You Just Opened?

Some may say that the title of this book is morbid and sad.  I’m going to try and convince you otherwise. 

“Oh, he must be such a tortured soul to only be contemplating about his imminent death in his writing,” some might say as they glance by the cover on their weekly Barnes and Noble coffee run (we all know you’re just pretending to read).  “People need to write more about happy things, like the return of the Confederate states,” one Southern Jehovah’s witness might say.  “I heard she’s really tall,” could be the thoughts of Cindy, mother of 5, soccer mom, and driver of a mini-van.  Maybe the only reason you bought this book is because the shiny cover embossed on the front caught your eye and you just happened to open it.  I’m assuming your thoughts were something along the lines of, “If the insides are as good as the outside, then at least I won’t be reading shit about a vampire.”  Heaven forbid someone referred you to this book—Lord knows my mother didn’t. 

          

  “Why is this book about your death then?”  Well see, that’s the thing, it’s not; It’s about my life and the fact that I’m not dead.  Throughout my life I found myself repeating this phrase through most situations and time and time again, it’s fitting.  Can this apply to only bad situations?  Of course not.  This phrase is as ambiguous as that slutty girl you knew in high school, it just goes either way.  Through all the times, light and dark, I could always remind myself that my body was still breathing, whether I liked it or not.  Overall, it really means that if I’m going to still be alive, then I’m going to do something with it.  Through all the narcissism, pleasure, pride, guilt, fear, stress, and pain, I survived.

        

So here we go, down into the abyss, as to why I’m (surprisingly) not dead yet.