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Never let me try to write comedy again. Ever.
DISCLAIMER-SLASH-WARNING: This entry is a very good illustration about why I don't write comedy. It also contains references to menstruation, masturbation, UTIs, accidentally burning one's netherbits by peeing on a fire, God, and The Catcher in the Rye
Also irreverence about dying, apologies for such that sound much less convincing than I really did mean them, fainting, scientific debates about the likelihood of me drowning in the bath, and a link to a blog that would be the funniest thing in existence, except some of her humour makes me nervous, like her being irreverent towards the word rape or writing an entry about how she decided to find out if her dog was actually retarded after observing that it wasn't exactly the smartest of mutts. Which, given the evidence, she has a point that her dog may very well be the canine equivalent of mentally challenged. I just shy away from the word retarded.
(Arrrrg it is hard to find humour that is also appealing to me as a good person.)
AT ANY RATE, you should read it if you like reading me being very babbly and dramatic. Especially because it's shorter than this intro! Okay, no, that was a lie, it's about four times as long as this intro, but WHATEVER GUYS! Just read! Or don't! It's up to you!
You guys.
I think I'm dying.
See, it hurts, a lot, in my baby-making region. Granted, this happens about every fourth time I spew blood from the crotch, but I grow whinier each time, and dammit, it's summer! I'm not supposed to cramp so badly in the warmth of the summer! These cramps that make me crawl into a tiny ball, clutching just below my stomach and caterwauling in pain are supposed to be a winter only friend!
So yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm dying. I took an ibuprofen and a hot bath and they didn't have any result besides me noticing that it's been a really long time since I've had a bath by myself, and I kinda hate hot baths. Like, a lot. You can't read unless you do it at stupid angles, and the heat dries your skin out and I think I tried to faint.
Yes really. I was just kind of lying there after I elegantly dropped the book on the floor and sorta staring at the faucet and the world kept cycling back and forth from "tinted a dull brown" to "tinted a greyish pink". I tried very hard to figure out if the brown was getting darker each cycle, by staying very still and focusing on my breathing, but I couldn't tell, and after a couple minutes, I determined that science was all well and good, but if I fainted in the bath and my head fell in the water and I drowned, then all the boys I like would laugh at me. A lot.
(And I was fairly sure that if I fainted and my head went in the water, I would wake up, but that is the sort of thing that you want to be one hundred percent sure about, and besides, I do not want to wake up and be drowning, especially not in bathwater. Baths are kinda gross. It makes sense I haven't taken one by myself in a while.)
Have you ever noticed that I become much funnier when I am talking about being in severe physical pain or perhaps DROWNING TO DEATH? I do not actually think I am funnier, or hell, even all that funny, but I have stronger aspirations to become some sort of comedian when my body is betraying me. Plus, last night I read like sixty entries of Hyperbole and a Half, which was an excellent plan in terms of laughing a lot and nearly falling out of my chair, but a bad plan in terms of her affecting my writing style, because everything with a distinctive voice that I read affects my writing style and internal monologue for a few days.
This is why I hate The Catcher In The Rye.
At any rate, when pain happens to me, it makes me want to be funny. I figure it is the least I can do to placate the people who have to put up with me howling "I'M DYING" all the time, and deal with me crawling around on my hands and knees because I lack the energy to actually stand and sometimes I'll just collapse on the landing of the stairs and make them step over me.
This is why, when I'm sick, I usually park myself in front of the TV and watch six hours of ER or something. At least that bathroom only involves crawling up like six stairs. Except we're in the apartment in Chicago now, and there aren't any stairs at all, and three bathrooms, so I'm pretty much in dying person heaven. Which I think would probably be normal heaven, but I am probably starting to get offensively irreverent, so I really do apologize for that. I am not really dying guys, and dying is a serious plight that should not be treated as a joke. I'm just spewing blood out of my vajeener which is making me miserable.
What do you mean you didn't need to know that?! You read my livejournal! Of course you get to know things like that! And look, if you're all worrying about TMI at least I did not tell you all about that urinary tract infection I had last year, which was miserable, kickstarted my interest in cranberry juice as being something delicious, and also convinced me that I was dying.
Waking up because of a UTI is the most miserable way to wake up ever. Truefax.
At any rate, that was another instance in which I dearly wanted to become a comedian. I figured I could've done a quite entertaining set about how much UTIs suck and about how the church should really just use that as an excuse against masturbation, rather than the whole hairy palms and going blind thing.
(Have I ever mentioned that whenever I hear the side effects of something include going blind, I immediately associate it with masturbation? Yeah, I'm a weird kid.)
Because, see, you can get a UTI if you masturbate, or at least if you don't wash your hands well enough and masturbate, so clearly, they are a way for god to punish us all for spilling seed without reason or however that line goes. Except, I masturbate all the time, and I'm pretty good about washing my hands before and after, and I've only had the UTI once, so I really don't think that's it. Or at least, God is too busy punishing everyone else that he hasn't gotten back around to me or something.
Sorry was that TMI again? Anyways, the point is that with UTIs, you can just take a bunch of antibiotics and magically be better, which is awesome, but leads me to wonder why the hell I just can't take some pills for my whole spewing blood from the crotch thing and magically be better? Because let me tell you, that would be awesome. Boys don't know how easy they have it, with their whole being able to pee whenever they want and write their names in the snow and not bleed.
Did I mention that a couple weeks ago I was pop-quizing people on what to do when you're done with a campfire? Someone answered "pee on it" as part of putting it out, which made me stare at them. Peeing on a campfire would be SO COOL but noooo, because girl-bodies are stupidly designed, I would probably burn my ladybits or something, and then I wouldn't be able to masturbate for months, and that would suck.
But hey, at least God wouldn't need to punish me any more.
Luv
~Sor
MOOP!
Also irreverence about dying, apologies for such that sound much less convincing than I really did mean them, fainting, scientific debates about the likelihood of me drowning in the bath, and a link to a blog that would be the funniest thing in existence, except some of her humour makes me nervous, like her being irreverent towards the word rape or writing an entry about how she decided to find out if her dog was actually retarded after observing that it wasn't exactly the smartest of mutts. Which, given the evidence, she has a point that her dog may very well be the canine equivalent of mentally challenged. I just shy away from the word retarded.
(Arrrrg it is hard to find humour that is also appealing to me as a good person.)
AT ANY RATE, you should read it if you like reading me being very babbly and dramatic. Especially because it's shorter than this intro! Okay, no, that was a lie, it's about four times as long as this intro, but WHATEVER GUYS! Just read! Or don't! It's up to you!
You guys.
I think I'm dying.
See, it hurts, a lot, in my baby-making region. Granted, this happens about every fourth time I spew blood from the crotch, but I grow whinier each time, and dammit, it's summer! I'm not supposed to cramp so badly in the warmth of the summer! These cramps that make me crawl into a tiny ball, clutching just below my stomach and caterwauling in pain are supposed to be a winter only friend!
So yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm dying. I took an ibuprofen and a hot bath and they didn't have any result besides me noticing that it's been a really long time since I've had a bath by myself, and I kinda hate hot baths. Like, a lot. You can't read unless you do it at stupid angles, and the heat dries your skin out and I think I tried to faint.
Yes really. I was just kind of lying there after I elegantly dropped the book on the floor and sorta staring at the faucet and the world kept cycling back and forth from "tinted a dull brown" to "tinted a greyish pink". I tried very hard to figure out if the brown was getting darker each cycle, by staying very still and focusing on my breathing, but I couldn't tell, and after a couple minutes, I determined that science was all well and good, but if I fainted in the bath and my head fell in the water and I drowned, then all the boys I like would laugh at me. A lot.
(And I was fairly sure that if I fainted and my head went in the water, I would wake up, but that is the sort of thing that you want to be one hundred percent sure about, and besides, I do not want to wake up and be drowning, especially not in bathwater. Baths are kinda gross. It makes sense I haven't taken one by myself in a while.)
Have you ever noticed that I become much funnier when I am talking about being in severe physical pain or perhaps DROWNING TO DEATH? I do not actually think I am funnier, or hell, even all that funny, but I have stronger aspirations to become some sort of comedian when my body is betraying me. Plus, last night I read like sixty entries of Hyperbole and a Half, which was an excellent plan in terms of laughing a lot and nearly falling out of my chair, but a bad plan in terms of her affecting my writing style, because everything with a distinctive voice that I read affects my writing style and internal monologue for a few days.
This is why I hate The Catcher In The Rye.
At any rate, when pain happens to me, it makes me want to be funny. I figure it is the least I can do to placate the people who have to put up with me howling "I'M DYING" all the time, and deal with me crawling around on my hands and knees because I lack the energy to actually stand and sometimes I'll just collapse on the landing of the stairs and make them step over me.
This is why, when I'm sick, I usually park myself in front of the TV and watch six hours of ER or something. At least that bathroom only involves crawling up like six stairs. Except we're in the apartment in Chicago now, and there aren't any stairs at all, and three bathrooms, so I'm pretty much in dying person heaven. Which I think would probably be normal heaven, but I am probably starting to get offensively irreverent, so I really do apologize for that. I am not really dying guys, and dying is a serious plight that should not be treated as a joke. I'm just spewing blood out of my vajeener which is making me miserable.
What do you mean you didn't need to know that?! You read my livejournal! Of course you get to know things like that! And look, if you're all worrying about TMI at least I did not tell you all about that urinary tract infection I had last year, which was miserable, kickstarted my interest in cranberry juice as being something delicious, and also convinced me that I was dying.
Waking up because of a UTI is the most miserable way to wake up ever. Truefax.
At any rate, that was another instance in which I dearly wanted to become a comedian. I figured I could've done a quite entertaining set about how much UTIs suck and about how the church should really just use that as an excuse against masturbation, rather than the whole hairy palms and going blind thing.
(Have I ever mentioned that whenever I hear the side effects of something include going blind, I immediately associate it with masturbation? Yeah, I'm a weird kid.)
Because, see, you can get a UTI if you masturbate, or at least if you don't wash your hands well enough and masturbate, so clearly, they are a way for god to punish us all for spilling seed without reason or however that line goes. Except, I masturbate all the time, and I'm pretty good about washing my hands before and after, and I've only had the UTI once, so I really don't think that's it. Or at least, God is too busy punishing everyone else that he hasn't gotten back around to me or something.
Sorry was that TMI again? Anyways, the point is that with UTIs, you can just take a bunch of antibiotics and magically be better, which is awesome, but leads me to wonder why the hell I just can't take some pills for my whole spewing blood from the crotch thing and magically be better? Because let me tell you, that would be awesome. Boys don't know how easy they have it, with their whole being able to pee whenever they want and write their names in the snow and not bleed.
Did I mention that a couple weeks ago I was pop-quizing people on what to do when you're done with a campfire? Someone answered "pee on it" as part of putting it out, which made me stare at them. Peeing on a campfire would be SO COOL but noooo, because girl-bodies are stupidly designed, I would probably burn my ladybits or something, and then I wouldn't be able to masturbate for months, and that would suck.
But hey, at least God wouldn't need to punish me any more.
Luv
~Sor
MOOP!
no subject
Pps. If you hyperventilate then hold your breath your body doesn't realise when you need more air (because you've flushed out all the co2 from your system, and your body measures co2 not o2 content when working out how much o2 you have available). So if you hyperventilate then hold your breath you can end up falling unconcious... Do people hyperventilate when they faint?
no subject
And thank you for hugs!
~Sor