try to look away. i dare you.

Every so often, a phenomenon comes along that changes the way we see the world. Simultaneously attractive and repulsive, the enigma reveals itself subtly and we become seized by obsessive curiosity and affectionate disgust.

Some people pick scabs. Pop zits.

We do research. And then we post pictures of our findings in our “Who I’d like to meet” section on MySpace.

Phantom twins, hairless cats, mummified babies kept as family heirlooms, tonsiloliths mistaken for orally transmitted genital warts (that was a close one), Suri Cruise - the list goes on and on.

And every time we come across a new, hideously glorious wonder, we think it can’t get any better. But we’re proven wrong. Time and time again, we’re proven wrong.

On that note, I really hope I never get a pilonidal cyst. (The Latin root alone stimulates my butt’s gag reflex.) Unless they reinstate the draft - then I’m totally pulling a Limbaugh. And buying a brand new pack of Target brand Q-tips so Catmo can clean it out for me.

You’re welcome Kitten.

An open letter to those who choose to wear other people's pants.

I rarely find myself wearing other people's clothing. On occasion, I'll borrow a shirt from my sister. Maybe something from one of my roommates when the fear starts to creep in that the outfit I've been donning during mediocre Old Market evenings is slowly becoming a uniform. But mark my words: I always, without fail, make sure I check the pockets, crevices, hems and button holes for cocaine before leaving the house. Why risk ruining an evening at (insert bar bearing name of Irishman or amphibian here), or worse, a day at work, with a completely avoidable arrest and subsequent PR fiasco? It's just something I do. And maybe, Lindsay Lohan, it's something you should do too.

Back in the technological saddle. (My blog horse's name is Midnight Lady.)

It's been about three years since I last blogged, Livejournal style, surrounded by the cold comfort of Swanson Hall in a neon-lit room that bore the faint aroma of Nag Champa and Easy Mac. Subject matter usually centered on the angst of working in a Sodexho-owned coffee shop, the obligations of CSU Program Board, the trials and tribulations of Dr. Shrage's Atmospheric Science class. Basically, I was in it. And I've been out of it for awhile now. You'll have to bear with me while I channel my inner 20-year-old and learn what it's like to write about everything and nothing again.

Starting with Zach Braff...

Deez Nuts.

Get ready. We're about to throw down.



(What exactly we'll be throwing down, I'm not too sure yet. But it will be good. And full of Zach Braff jokes that you might not fully appreciate just yet.)