Lesbians: A Terror Upon Today's Society

Have you ever met a woman and instinctively been afraid of her? She has given you no reason to fear her – she’s nice, polite, and friendly. But for whatever reason, she scares you shitless and you avoid her the way you avoid a rabid elephant (I’ve never seen a rabid elephant, but I imagine it would be a petrifying animal).

This is because she is a lesbian.

“What? Laura, you’ve clearly had too many shrooms today. Lesbians aren’t scary!”

That, my dear Watson, is a lie. If lesbians weren’t scary, people wouldn’t be making claims such as, “ZOMG GAY MARAIGE KILED TEH DINOSORES!!!!!1!!1!!!ONE!” and everyone would be fine and dandy with Teh Gays. But people aren’t fine and dandy with Teh Gays. Therefore, lesbians are terrifying.

I could analyze why lesbians are terrifying on a theoretical level in that they’re completely like, “FUCK YOU PATRIARCHY!” by diggin’ the ladies instead of the dudes and therefore threaten the patriarchal structure that we all live in and love on a bizarre, perverse, masochistic level, but I won’t even though I just did. Instead, I shall make ridiculous comparisons.

THE FAUXHAWK

S

So, this isn't actually a fauxhawk. I woke up and my hair looked like this. Close enough.

Yes. That is a picture of me and my unmade bed. I couldn’t find decent pictures of females sporting fauxhawks, so I used my own. Plus, I’m narcissistic and totally rock the hawk and want you all to know how much of a BAMF I am - I mean, who goes to bed without a fauxhawk and wakes up with one? ME. That's who! I digress.

In case you aren’t up-to-date on lesbian culture, lesbians OWN the fauxhawk. Yes. They own it. If you are straight and sporting a fauxhawk, you are subject to copyright laws. No joke. So, don’t do it. Anyways, you might be wondering, “Laura, why on earth is a fauxhawk terrifying?” Well, I shall tell you. Sporting a fauxhawk adds – depending on the length of your hair – 3 to 23.96 inches to your height, making you terrifying if you are 5’10”, like I am. It is the equivalent to birds puffing up their feathers to make themselves appear bigger and scarier than they actually. Or those frilled lizards. The fauxhawk says, “I AM A LESBIAN. I TALK ABOUT FEMINISM AND CATS AND ANGELINA JOLIE. DO NOT MESS WITH ME,” to everyone. It also acts as a weapon to fend off unwanted attention from boys – like a rhinoceros horn, or elephant tusks, or fake nails. However, an untrained person sporting a fauxhawk can result in unintentional casualties – this is why the lesbians own the fauxhawk. They are the only ones trained in the ways of the fauxhawk and know how to wield its power.

NOTE: The above also applies to mohawks – except maybe the part about lesbians owning them. I don’t know that lesbians own mohawks.

FLANNEL

O

OH GOD IT'S SO SCARY. LOOK AWAY! LOOK AWAY! HIDE THE CHILDREN!

Now, you might be saying, “Laura! Flannel is not scary! It’s warm, cozy, and comfy! What’s scary about that?”

Well, I’ll tell you.

Aside from lesbians, who else wears flannel? No, not Donna Pinciotti! Think harder. That’s right. Lumberjacks. Lumberjacks carry around axes and chop down wood and eat stacks of pancakes and have big blue oxen. So when a lesbian wears flannel, and there’s no wood to chop, it sends a message. It says, “I AM A LESBIAN AND I CARRY AROUND AN AXE SO YOU BETTER WATCH YOUR BALLS.” People see lesbians wearing flannel, realize that there are no trees around to be chopped (especially if you’re in a city), and flip a shit. They stay the fuck away from the scary lesbians. Flannel also acts as the frill on a frilled lizard thingy. It sends a warning.

RUGBY

T

Hardcore. You don't mess with these girls. They'll fucking punch you in the face... with their elbows.

“Laura, rugby is a SPORT. Sports and athletes aren’t terrifying!”

That, sir and/or madam, is a lie. Sports are absolutely terrifying, which makes the people who play them walking pure and utter horror. For one, sports take an immense amount of WORK and EFFORT. We’re talking physical labor here. Exercise – it’s awful. Modern day form of torture. It should be outlawed. In addition to that, sports are VIOLENT. Not only do you become exhausted when partaking in them, but you also get HURT. And these are just sports in general – we haven’t even started talking about RUGBY.

Have you ever seen a rugby match? No? Neither have I. In fact, I know next to nothing about rugby, except that it’s like football – therefore, it must be violent. You have to be tough as a wolf who wrestles rabid moose in volcanoes for fun to play rugby.

Rugby – like the fauxhawk – is owned by the lesbians. Lesbians like to break bones, get bruised, and get scratched up… for fun. At least, lesbians who play rugby do. Lesbians who don’t play rugby? They still like to watch it. It’s like back in the day, with coliseums and gladiators. Lesbians are tough. You don’t mess with them.

BAGGY PANTS

 What secrets are they hiding???

By now, you might be saying, “Laura! Baggy pants aren’t – forget it. Why do baggy pants make lesbians terrifying?” Well, my friend, I am glad you asked.

Baggy pants can hide almost ANYTHING. You don’t know what could be underneath/inside them. Hips, legs and ankles? Perhaps. A syphilis-ridden armadillo? It’s possible. Secret portal to Narnia? Maybe. You just don’t know what they’re hiding. Which is why you should be on guard around a lesbian in baggy pants – don’t say anything that might offend her. Otherwise, she might whip out a giant isopod and command it to attack you. That would be traumatizing.

You thought I was being silly. You thought I was trippin’ on shrooms. You thought my claims were unjustified. But I have told you, and you understand now. You understand the threat, safety hazard, and terror that are lesbians. And you are safer having read this blog.

Where are all the ninjas?

Now, you might be thinking, "Laura, it's impossible to know where ninjas are PERIOD. I mean, they're NINJAS."

Yes, yes, I know. Ninjas. Super sneaky and all that jazz. But why hasn't someone died from a mysterious neck wound? Why hasn't anyone found a dead body with shurikens stuck in it? Why hasn't anyone been poisoned lately?

Where are the ninjas?! I ask you.

I'll tell you where.

They're in your churches, your convents, your catholic high schools. They're praying for you and beating teaching your children.

That's right. I'm accusing NUNS of being NINJAS. They are-

NUNJAS!

A nunja in her natural habitat.

"Laura, are you on acid? That's just ridiculous!"

Yes, yes, ridiculous, I know. But I'm sure you thought my claim about the love of squirrels for catholics was ridiculous, didn't you? And then you read, and understood and thought, "BY GOD! SHE'S RIGHT!" So, my friends, read and understand.

As I have said before, I'm a bit of a Catholic school expert. I have had the opportunity to view nuns in their natural habitat (I worked as a secretary for the nuns on my high school's campus a few years ago), and I must say, they're... suspicious, to say the least.

For one, they are quiet. FAR too quiet. You never see or hear a nun coming until they make themselves known. This happened to me many a time when I worked for them. I would never see a nun approach the front doors of the Provincial Center (where they lived on my high school campus) until they rang the doorbell (which was LOUD and scared me shitless countless times). Futhermore, if a nun was walking behind you, you would never know. If they were approaching you from behind, you wouldn't be able to tell. Even if it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, you would not notice them until they said, "Hello, Laura (or whatever YOUR name may be), how are you today?"

Which usually results in a, "JESUS CHRIST! ... Thank you for this beautiful day. Please bless the sisters. Amen. Oh, hello, Sister. I'm wonderful - just doing a little praying to good ol' JC, y'know. How are you?"

But that is beside the point.

See? Nuns are so ninja-like that they have figured out how to get into the men's room!

"Laura, you're being silly. Some people are just really quiet!"

Uh huh. Sure. Then let me present to you, Exhibit B - Sr. Charleen.

Sr. Charleen was one of my Theology teachers in high school. She was this little, elderly nun who taught Prayer and Theology III, as well as other classes, I'm sure. Sr. Charleen, however, was in a motorized wheel chair.

"A motorized wheel chair? What does that have to do with anything?"

Well, I will tell you. Sr. Charleen told us that she has a condition (I can't remember what it's called, or exactly what it is [I know it has to do with her spine], but that's not important), so she can't walk very well, or very far, which is why she is in the wheel chair.

SPINE CONDITION MY FOOT.

She clearly injured her back in an epic ninja battle involving swords, poison, and shurikens. Doesn't that make more sense than a silly spine condition? After her injury, clearly, she had to retire as a ninja. BUT her enemies were still after her. Where could she retire to? Where would she be safe? With the NUNS of course! No one would suspect her to retire and live in hiding with the nuns, teaching religion to the most intelligent young women ever. No one would ever think of that!

"Laura, you're ridiculous. Maybe she just has an actual spine condition? You know, those DO exist."

Alright then. Let me tell you about Sr. O'Neil.

I met Sr. O'Neil when I was but a wee (the irish-ness of "O'Neil" gave me an irresistable urge to use "wee." STFU) freshman at UD. Back when I was still a Music Ed major and had to take pedagogy classes. Sr. O'Neil taught Low String Pedagogy as well as other string instrument-related classes. She is a cellist, and expained to us that her hands are so strong from turning the tuning pegs on her cello that she can open jars even full grown men have trouble opening.

Strong hands from tuning pegs?! I THINK NOT!

PROOF! I TOLD YOU!

Obviously, she got her strong hands from her NINJA TRAINING AND EXPERTISE. I bet she can crush someone's skull in a fraction of a second with her hands.

And, think back to the good old days when teachers were allowed to use physical abuse as punishment. How do you think nuns got so good at detecting when you were doing something bad? How do you think they got so good at making those ruler-smacks hurt so much? IT'S BECAUSE THEY ARE NINJAS. Only to keep up with their ninja skills while worshipping Jeebus, they've practiced using every day objects - rulers in place of nunchucks. Crucifixes in place of shurikens. CANES IN PLACE OF SWORDS! This way, no one is suspicious of them. No one can ask, "Sr. O'Neil! Why is there a sword in your cello case?" "Sr. Charleen! Why are there a pair of nunchucks on your desk?" Even look at the word "nunchucks." THEY WERE NAMED AFTER NUNS! It's so obvious!

And if all that evidence doesn't convince you, then maybe this will.

JUST LOOK AT THE SIMILARITIES! ARE YOU CONVINCED NOW?!

Dear Self: Why did you do that?

^This is generally the feeling you have after a “Why did I do that?” moment.

There comes a time – or, if you’re me, several times – in everyone’s life where you do something. That something may be smart, stupid, at a Samuel L. Jackson level of kickass, lame or none of those creative adjectives. However, after this something has been done, by you, you will ask yourself one question and one question only. This question –

Why did I do that?

Actually, depending on what you have done, you may ask yourself this variation of the question –

Why the fuck did I do that?

For instance:

I forgot to take my blood pressure medication and drank a gianormous caffeinated beverage the size of my face and could possibly have a stroke because of it. Why the fuck did I do that?

I drunkingly kissed a cute girl who was on her last day of antibiotics for strep throat last night and am now developing a sinus infection. Why did I do that?

I had a dream that I was roundhouse kicking a nun in the face, proceeded to kick the ceiling in my sleep and consequently broke my toe. Why did I do that?

I started my 12 page paper at midnight the night before it was due and consequently stayed up for 34 hours straight. Why did I do that?

I offered a bear a stack of hot, delicious, homemade, buttermilk waffles and then decided that I wanted them moar than he did and ate them all. Why the fuck did I do that?

In my experience, this question occurs to me several times daily. About as often as I have to pee. A lot of the time it occurs because I’m playing Tetris. Food-related crises come in at a close second – “Why did I eat that last breadstick? [groan] I’m going to explooooooooooooooooooo-BOOM.” Very rarely is it ever seriously panic-attack worthy (sadly, my definition of “rarely” when it comes to panic attack-worthy crises is about once every week or so. General anxiety disorder FTW!) And when it is panic attack-worthy, it’s usually a homework assignment that I didn’t feel like doing because it caused me too much anxiety, and then because I put it off it causes me even more anxiety because I have less time to do it, and then I have a panic attack because I have so little time to do it and I start hyperventilating and then I explo-BOOM.

This happens a lot when I play tetris. Unfortunately.

Of course, you already know why you did whatever it is that you did – because you wanted to. Because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Because you weren’t paying attention. Because Jasper – your green, invisible pet chiweenie – said it would be a good idea. The question merely calls to your attention the fact that

YOU
WERE
DUMB

and regret whatever it is that you did.

Anyways, my point is, is I’m having a “Why did I do that?” moment. Right now. And you get to witness it. Aren’t you ecstatic? Don’t be. It’s not that exciting. It’s actually kinda gross.

So, as my lack of wisdom teeth heals up, I am able to eat moar and moar foods (more on my use of the word “moar” another time). Currently, I am still unable to eat rice, which means I am unable to eat a burrito or Chinese food – but the day when I can have my feast of unhealthiness is quickly approaching. Now that I can eat pizza, subs, cookies, pasta and CEREAL MOTHERFUCKERS, I can patiently wait on the burrito and Chinese – mainly because I can eat CEREAL MOTHERFUCKERS. I could go on and on about my love for CEREAL MOTHERFUCKERS, but I won’t. I may devote an entire post to that. Another time, though.

Back to the topic at hand.

I can eat moar food than I used to – hard crunchy things, such as potato chips. Normally, I don’t like potato chips, but when you go forever and half of eternity without eating anything substantial I can guarantee that even goat poo would taste like a steak to you. So tonight, I decided to devour some potato chips – sour cream and onion flavored. This is where part one of my “Why did I do that?” moment occurs. Everyone knows that onion anything is impossible to get rid of – no matter how many times you brush your teeth, floss, use mouthwash, and chew that spearmint gum, the oniony grossity is still there. But I demolished those chips. And they were delicious. For whatever reason, though, they left me feeling dirty, unclean, and un…healthy. So, to compensate, I eat something healthy. What is healthy?

Yogurt.

Strawberry yogurt (let’s face it – what other flavor yogurt is there? None. Because strawberry flavored anything is superior to all other flavors).

This is where part 2 of my “Why did I do that?” moment occurs. Because, yeah, my mouth is all nice and strawberry flavored for the time being, but later, what happens?

I – as all human beings do after eating food that is 23,984 different kinds of delicious – burped.

And what did that burp taste like?

Sour cream and onion potato chips. Plus strawberry yogurt.

YUM. SO DELICIOUS.

…

SORRY. I JUST THREW UP IN MY MOUTH A LITTLE.

Squirrels love Catholics

Folks, I am about to make a claim that may be too ridiculous to believe. A claim so ridiculous, you may laugh. A claim so unbelievable, you won't believe it.

Squirrels love Catholics.

He found out you aren't Catholic. And he is NOT happy about it.

So, if you don't already know, I was born and raised Catholic. This fall will start my 16th year of Catholic school. You could call me a bit of a Catholic school expert, I suppose. I know quite a bit about their rules, uniforms, as well as their oddities.

I knew my high school was different for many reasons. 1 - I loved the place. That in itself meant that it had to be somewhat odd (I was a HUGE oddball when I was just entering high school. Now, still so, but less). And 2 - It was a Catholic school.

"Hey now," some of my more religious readers may be thinking, "Catholics aren't all that bad."

No, they aren't all that bad.

But they are weird.

If a teacher saw you with your hand in your pocket for longer than the amount of time it takes to grab a pen or pencil or whatever may be in there, she was allowed to give you a demerit - because having your hand in your pocket meant that you had a cell phone in there, and you were texting someone (What? Yeah. Cellphones. What did you think I was going to say they thought we were doing? You dirty, dirty people!) Cellphones and texting during school hours was a big no-no. Nevermind that some people have made a habit of sticking their hands in their pockets (i.e. ME, GODDAMMIT). But if a girl was sitting in glass with her purse in front of her, "rummaging" through it for the duration of the hour and twenty-five minute class? Yeah. That was totally fine. That didn't mean she was texting AT ALL.

Walking into class thirty seconds after the bell rang meant you were tardy and had to go get a tardy slip (Seriously, Sr. Irene?)

Jesus, don't even get me started on the nuns.

One of the more entertaining events of my Catholic high school occurred when I was but a mere sophomore. By then I had learned most of the oddities of Catholic high schools, but not all of them. One day, as I was sitting in class, waiting for the announcements to end so I could head over to my next class, the dean of students (Ms. Cousino or as we liked to call her - The Cous) came over the PA system.

"I understand that our students are very environment-friendly, but I'm afraid I have to ask you to refrain from feeding the squirrels."

What?

"A squirrel managed to get into the building yesterday..."

Seriously? Dont' feed the squirrels?

I died laughing. At least, I thought I did.

A couple days later, I was doing the same thing - waiting for the announcements to end so I could go to my next class, but The Cous came over the PA system again.

"I understand that some of the students here are concerned about the well-being of the squirrels on campus, which is why we have installed a brand new squirrel feeder."

... What? Seriously?

Yes. They installed one of these contraptions at my high school.

You all know the squirrels are like, "FUCK YEAH! CATHOLIC SCHOOL GIRLS ROCK! Party at the Catholic high school! FREE FOOD MOTHERFUCKERS!"

"Okay, well, that's only one instance," you may be thinking. "That's no reason to make a ridiculous statement about the love of squirrels for Catholics."

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you, exhibit B.

My parents are devout Catholics (granted, a little on the odd side, but devout Catholics none the less). Now, a number of different factors may have contributed to exhibit B - such as 3/4 my parents children going off to college (AKA nearly empty nest syndrome), their old age and boredom, blah blah blah

OR

It could have EVERYTHING to do with the fact that they are CATHOLIC (yeah. Let's go with that reason, 'cause it fits into my argument quite well).

Exhibit B:

My parents feed the animals in out backyard. Usually, my dad will throw some walnuts, almonds, pecans, whathaveyou on to the patio in our backyard. A variety of animals eat these nuts - birds, chipmunks, etc - but I guarantee you the animal that gets to the food first is the - you guessed it! - squirrels. The squirrels fucking LOVE us because of this. So much so that they've begun to come up to our back door and look all fat and adorable until we give them food.

Yes. They've learned how to beg!

Now, I don't consider myself Catholic, but Catholics must have a certain scent or something which has rubbed off on me. Whenever I'm mindlessly staring out the back door (it's one of those sliding glass door thingies. I don't know what they're called), a squirrel will come up to the door, and sit there. It smells the Catholic on me and knows that if it looks cute enough, I must eventually feed it.

NO SQUIRREL. I AM NOT CATHOLIC.

I WILL NOT GIVE YOU FOOD.

This is what's going on in my backyard. My parents are enabling the squirrels!

So what do I do?

I mess with those squirrels. I keep them on their toes. I'll open the door and chase them away. I'll fill up a glass of water and throw it at them (the water. Not the glass. And it's room temp, I promise - I'm no animal abuser. I just like screwing with their minds). I'll yell at them and scare them away. Eventually, they won't know what the expect when they come up to our back door. Food? Maybe (and with my parents in the house, quite likely). Terror? Perhaps. Water flying at them? Fuck yeah. I mean... Perhaps.

"Still, only two pieces of evidence?" You're thinking. "Not much of an argument."

I present to you - my university.

The University of Dayton is a Catholic University in Dayton, OH (Woooooo Ohio! ... not). Students on my campus play something called "squirrel tag" where you run up to a squirrel, touch it, and earn points.

The squirrels love Catholics enough to let them touch them.

SEE? Squirrels fucking LOVE Catholics!

I was not jesting when I made this claim!

Life is so much better after you whine to your mom about it.

Seriously. Has anyone else noticed that? You can be having the shitiest day in the history of ever, and as soon as you tell your mom about it, it's suddenly not so bad.

Just now, I was going into fussy infant mode because of my lack of ability to eat. This whole wisdom teeth thing sucks. I can't eat, so I can't sleep 'cause I'm clenching my teeth 'cause I'm hungry, which makes my jaw even more tense than it already is. I'm tired and weak because I can't eat, even more so because I'm having trouble sleeping because I can't eat. I have a headache because I've been clenching my teeth for four days straight. My pain meds make me nauseous which makes me want to eat even less. And my ear hurts for god knows what reason. I'm just generally feeling shitty.

I whined about all of this to my mom (with a, "And I just want a burrito!" thrown in for good measure) and suddenly, it's not so bad. I'm curled up on the couch now with a comfy blanket and pillows and everything's better. Nothing has changed. I still feel shitty. But for whatever reason, a hug from my mommy made life a little less sucky. This is because mothers are magic. That's the only explanation for it.

So, here's to you, moms. You and your magical ability to make everything suck less totally rock. Happy mother's day.

Me? What did I do for my mom for mother's day? I ate. I figured that would make her happy. It did. Don't worry. I'll do something for her I don't every day in honors of mother's day. I'm not that much of a dick.

Wisdom Teeth: I just want a fucking burrito.

Hello all!

Some of you may know me, some of you may not. Those of the latter variety will get to know me as we go, but to jumpstart our new relationship, here are a few things about me:

• I'm an activist.
• I'm in to the whole music thing (majoring in it, actually).
• In addition to being a serious, no-nonsense musician/activist, I like to do stand up comedy.

Sadly, since the opportunity to do stand up comedy comes by very rarely, and I like to make people laugh, and I need a place to keep my stand up comedy ideas, I decided to write them down here and share them with you.

I guess that's not so sad, now is it?

Anyways, recently (and by recently, I mean Wednesday) I had my wisdom teeth out. Ooo, how scary! Must've hurt! How awful! Poor baby!

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cut the crap. It's not that bad. The pain afterward is about as bad as an intense hour-long work out (for your jaw... innuendos ensue!) and the meds make you chill and prevent pain, swelling, and infection. It's not that bad. There hasn't been any bruising or swelling (unless you count the bruise on my arm from the IV tube - seriously. Whoever put that thing in needs a shit ton more practice) and I can open my mouth enough to eat something that doesn't involve chewing.

Speaking of eating....

People who talk about wisdom teeth focus on the pain. "Oh does it hurt when you get them out? How bad? I'm scared it will hurt!" But, honestly, the pain is the least of your worries. The people who go on and on about the pain are just trying to cover up the worst part about having your wisdom teeth out: the hunger. 'Cause let me tell you, before you hit that 10 hour fast before your surgery, you better eat a meal that is as fucking delicious as the last supper, 'cause that's the last substantial thing you will eat for A LONG. FUCKING. TIME.

I had my surgery on Wednesday. Three days ago. I'm starving. Yes, yes, I can eat. But soup, mashed potatoes, ice cream, yogurt, and juice get old. FAST. I'm already planning what I can eat when I can finally eat solid foods again and I will become obese once my mouth has healed up. Here's what my list includes thus far:

• 1 Jimmy John's Sub (Turkey Tom FTW!)
• 1 GIANORMOUS Chocolate Chip Cookie to go with that
  
• 1 Chicken Burrito from Chipotle (black beans and sour cream!!! SO DELICIOUS!)
• 1 Burger from Smash Burger (Orgasmic)
• And an order of Smash Fries to go along with that.
  
• 1 Order of sweet and sour chicken (My mouth is melting!)
• 1 Crunchwrap Supreme (Taco Bell... more like Taco Hell... but anything that's of the fast food variety sounds delicious when you haven't eaten)
• CEREAL MOTHERFUCKERS. EVERY SINGLE TYPE OF CEREAL IMAGINABLE.
• 3 Hard shell tacos
• Cheddar Broccoli Soup from Panera. WITH A BAGUETTE. IN A BREAD BOWL. MOTHERFUCKERS.
  
• 1 Order of Chicken Fried Rice
• 1 Pizza with green peppers. That's right. An ENTIRE pizza.
  
• Pasta. Screw what kind and how much. I'll just effin' buy Olive Garden and eat EVERYTHING.

I will eat all this in ONE. DAY. And then proceed to EXPLODE. And I'm okay with that.

Yes, I realize some of these things I should already be able to eat (such as the soup), but I cannot eat them because either a.) they have too many little things in them that can get caught in my sockets and cause infection or b.) it would involve a tremendous amount of cleaning after eating. Cleaning = brushing teeth = PAIN. Yes, I realize part of my dilemma comes from me being a baby/lazy - but who's the one writing here? That's right. I am. I can whine about whatever I want. And believe you me, I am a whiner.

Since having my wisdom teeth out, there's a lot I've realized I don't understand. Such as compulsive dieters. HOW DO YOU DO IT? I love food way too much to go on even a MILD diet (as in, cut out sour cream. Not anything else. Just the cream. That's too big of a step for me). Seriously. I mean, it would not surprise me if I dreamt about tacos, chicken fried rice, subs, burgers, and pizza tonight. It would not surprise me if I already have and just don't remember it. It's all I think about right now. Hell, all I think about? It's all I fantasize about right now. I just want a fucking burrito. I want to devour that Chipotle burrito and then move on to the chips and guac. I don't even like guac. Then I want to eat an entire pizza from Papa John's, complete with bread sticks and garlic sauce. And, oh God, how could I forget about ONION RINGS?!

I have come to the conclusion that people who are capable of dieting have some strange, strange abnormal, mutated gene that allows for some obnoxiously intense self-control. They should be put in labs and studied. They are freaks of nature. It's not normal, I say.

If I had known that it wouldn't be the pain, but the lack of food that would kill me during this whole wisdom teeth excursion, I never would've done it. My wisdom teeth weren't even bothering me that much. I go off the dental insurance when I turn 22 (in October), so it had to be done. But if I knew it would be this awful, I would have put it off FOR. EV. ER. I never thought I would crave Chinese food so much.

Who wants to join me in my feast when I can finally eat again?