As you can see, I changed shit around again. The last set-up was apparently kind of annoying for people who read on tablets and phones. Hopefully this one will be better for everyone.
Back tomorrow with something at least slightly more amusing!
I may or may not have tried to match my new background color to the color of Lloyd’s suit. Also, I love how the guy with the tape measure just keeps getting exasperated over and over.
Do you ever get a notification from Twitter that someone new has followed you, click through to their profile to check them out and just end up thinking to yourself, “what about my profile and/or tweets could have possibly led you to the conclusion that you would like to read more of what I have to say”?
One guy that followed me the other day has a profile full of tweets with links to articles about crystal healing, for instance.
Another person looked perfectly reasonable until four tweets in when they started talking about how they support Ted Cruz…in a completely non-ironic way.
There was one who was just wall to wall misogynistic body-judgement jokes.
And one who did nothing but promote a Kickstarter campaign that, when clicked through to, was one of the most poorly written things I’ve seen in months. I don’t even actually know what the person was trying to raise money for. That’s how fucking badly their campaign information was written.
Here I am tweeting about anxiety and depression, dumb shit I say to my dog, pictures of the stuff that I make, and derpy jokes about nerdy stuff, and somehow that screams “Hey world, I want to hear about how you think women who don’t fit your ideal of physical perfection are worthless! I’m also super into hearing how you think a pro-life Tea Party crackpot who wants to outsource all our jobs is a reasonable choice for President! You know what I could really use right now? A CHAKRA CLEANSING. Also, I have $10,000 just burning a hole in my pocket, so please send me your completely unintelligible requests for financial backing and I’ll hook you right up.”
I prefer my chakras slightly soiled. It helps me stay grounded when Rodney Yee is trying to kill me via yoga DVDs.
I finally figured out how to get my favorite blogs to actually show up as links in the sidebar. HUZZAH! It’s only been, like…a pretty embarrassing amount of months. In my defense, it’s not like WordPress makes it especially evident or anything. It’s kind of hidden under three or four layers of internet WTF’ery.
Anyway.
So, yeah. I enjoy the blogs I’ve linked to off to the right there, and I suggest you give them a look.
FYI, if you comment on my posts I always click through to your blog to check it out. If you’re a non-commenting lurker but you have a blog you want me to check out, let me know! I don’t bite, I promise. I’m more afraid of you than you are of me. Also, I should not be exposed to bright light, fed or gotten wet after midnight. Just…in case…
You may notice things look a little…different…around here.
They’re going to look even more different-er soon because I am super duper not in love with this theme that I mistakenly ended up applying to the site.
Sooo…yeah. Bear with me while I tear my hair out and try to find a set-up I actually like.
Why do I do these things to myself?
Ugh.
Barf.
Twitter is kind of beyond me.
I have an account (@Alpacalypse5), but 99% of my posts are Instagram photos and links to posts that I write here on the blog. Succinctness (is that even a word? Spellcheck says it is, so suck it) isn’t my strong suit to begin with, and that little character-count in the bottom right corner of the Twitter posting screen just fills me with dread. Plenty of people are really good at being very funny and/or profound in 140 characters or less, but my heart probably couldn’t take the amount of Adderall I’d need to be included in their ranks.
Could you imagine, though? Going out in a blaze of Adderall-fueled viral tweet glory? My obituary would be like:
“In search of that one golden moment of virality, Shelby took a whole handful of prescribed ADHD meds, wrote what is now considered the Best Tweet Known To Mankind, then dropped dead of a massive coronary. She is survived by her husband and dog, who are both pretty fucking annoyed that she didn’t stock the fridge with sandwiches before she croaked.”
And then the obituary editor would be like, “Frank, virality totally isn’t a word” and Frank the obituary writer would be like, “Fuck you, Steve. You’re always so negative. You know what? I’m sick of this dead-end job, and that’s not even a pun. I’M OUT.” And then, in the final cruel twist of irony, Frank’s flouncing would knock my half-written obituary into the recycling bin next to his desk, never to be finished. The author of the Best Tweet Known To Mankind wouldn’t even have an obituary to be remembered by and her memory would fade into the ether as quickly as, well, a non-famous person’s tweets…
…
…wow, I got kind of lost in that one.
ANYWAY.
What I came here to say was that I’m going to try to be better at actively tweeting instead of just lurking, so feel free to follow me if you want.
Also, if you’re super confused right now, it’s totally ok. I am too, and I wrote this shit. Sometimes you have to just go with it.
Acid reflux, huh? I feel your pain, birdie.
Like, the guy who is giving away a whole bunch of dowels. I can see needing maybe A dowel, maybe even two….but what would you DO with dozens of dowels? Build a yurt, maybe? I don’t know if dowels even figure in to yurt construction, I’m just spit-balling.
Or, the person trying to unload six gallons of unused battery acid. What? Just…why? Why does a normal person in a tiny town in rural New Hampshire need six fucking gallons of BATTERY ACID, unless they’re going to like…I don’t even know. Build a big battery, I guess? OR DISSOLVE A WHOLE BUNCH OF BODY PARTS. I’m just saying.
“Chairlift for Sale”.
(Also worth noting, by the way: I have no garden, nor do I have any significant amount of lawn of my own. We rent, and we live in kind of rural version of an apartment complex where there are a bunch of fields and lawns around us, but we don’t actually OWN any of them.I would have literally nowhere to put any kind of bench, chair-lift or otherwise.)
“Two outdoor elite straight rail stairlifts for sale”
Stairlifts?! Those aren’t fucking CHAIRLIFTS. WTF, person who wrote the ad. The headline CLEARLY said”Chairlifts For Sale”, not “Stairlifts For Sale”. I went back and checked three times because even though I know I’m crazy and I’m mostly at peace with that, I feel like I still have fairly reasonable reading comprehension skills.
I mean, granted, I could have actually read the ad itself, realized what it was being sold, saved myself the excitement over planning a chairlift garden bench for my non-existent garden and the SUBSEQUENT DEBILITATING DISAPPOINTMENT OF WATCHING THAT DREAM GO DOWN THE DRAIN…but on the same token, YOU could have been more clear in your headline, ad-writer.
Way more clear.
You probably have to pay more for the Majestic Dog option. Picture courtesy of Fire On Demand, who actually MAKE these babies, along with super cool fire pits. This is not a sponsored ad placement, by the way. I just really liked this picture and wanted to give credit where it was due.
So there.
This is my favorite dog in the whole world other than Junior. Just FYI.
You know how sometimes someone shares a link to something, saying things like “OMG, you have to read this, IT’S HILARIOUS”, and then when you click on the link and read the thing it’s…not that funny?
Or worse, you click on the link, read the thing, and find it to be not only NOT funny, but actually pretty dumb and/or ignorant?
And then you sit there thinking back on all the past interactions you’ve had with the link-sender, trying to figure out where things went so wrong in your relationship that they picked up the impression that you would think shit like THAT was amusing?
And because you’re now well down the hyper-analytical rabbit hole, you then start wondering if you even really know ANY of your friends AT ALL, and wondering if anyone truly knows YOU at all, and what’s the point of even trying to interact with anyone socially in a world where it’s technically not acceptable to sit someone down and make them fill out a pre-screening friendship questionnaire because fuckin’ A man, life is short and ain’t nobody got time to waste laughing politely at jokes that aren’t funny?
And further to that end, are all these people who are laughing at YOUR OWN jokes just laughing politely because they’re normal and well-adjusted and don’t get annoyed when things with a build-up of “this is really funny” don’t actually pan out to any amusement whatsoever?
No? Just me? Fair enough. I kind of suspected as much.
Carry on.
Ever one to leave things until the absolute last minute, I just bought my husband another Christmas gift on Amazon. Even with the super-duper-omg-rush shipping it won’t arrive until Saturday, but it’s the thought that counts, damn it!
Anyway.
A couple minutes after I placed the order I received the customary “hey you just placed this order” email from Amazon. A moment later ANOTHER email popped up entitled “Your Amazon.com Promotional Credit”.
OOOoooo! Promotional credit? How EXCITING!
It only took half a second for visions of sugarplums and new embroidery swag to start dancing in my head. Then I started reprimanding myself, pointing out that I should use the credit to buy something responsible like vitamins.
The sugarplum-obsessed side of my brain began to whisper sweet sultry nothings about the new pots and pans I’ve been thinking about getting. The responsible side scolded about boring shit that ran the gamut from compact fluorescent light bulbs to laundry soap.
I clicked on the email, all excited to find out how much new stuff Amazon was about to let me acquire for free, and scanned the email for a dollar amount.
No numbers? WEIRD. I read it again, more carefully.
“Purchase has qualified me for promotional credit, blah blah, yes yes…credit added to my account…but how much ISSSS ITTTTT? Can be used toward the purchase of…a digital HD copy…of Kung Fu Panda on Amazon Video.
…Oh.”
The visions of pots and pans and sugarplums and free laundry detergent all melted like the Wicked Witch after a judicious application of water. SIGH.
I mean…I don’t have anything against Kung Fu Panda. I saw it when it came out but it isn’t something I’ve ever felt the need to watch again in the SEVEN AND A HALF YEARS since it was released.
I wonder if I can redeem the credit and then send the copy to someone else as a gift. Do you want a digital HD copy of Kung Fu Panda? I might be able to make that happen.
I share many traits with pandas, including body shape and general disinterest in physical activity.
You know what I hate?
Besides Kokomo, anyway…
I hate these “make your own happiness” memes that are all over Facebook and Pinterest. You know the type:
It’s so easy. Why can’t you see that it’s so easy, Shelby? Just choose to be happy! SMILE, DAMN IT!
First of all, way to fucking grammar, (says the queen of the fragmented sentence. I KNOW. Shut up).
Second of all: this shit might have made the person who made it feel better about themselves in some ego-stroking way, but it’s sure as hell not helping me or really anybody else I know who is clinically anxious, depressed, or has some other alternate brain chemistry reality.
One of the biggest things a clinically depressed person often deals with is a sense of loneliness or isolation, even when they’re surrounded by people they care about. When you already feel deeply, utterly alone, the last thing you need to hear is another way in which you’re failing at life. That’s how these memes always make me feel – like I’m even MORE abnormal because I can’t just choose to be happy and step out of the mist-shrouded labyrinth that has been the last ten years of my life. The more of them I see, the more irrationally inferior and isolated I feel.
Telling someone who is depressed to just buck up and be positive is, at best, misguided. At worst, it’s pretty fucking offensive. If someone confined to a wheelchair told you that they wished they could walk again, would you tell them they just aren’t trying hard enough? That the ability is there within them, they just have to dig deep and find it? No you wouldn’t. At least, not unless you’re a very special kind of asshole.
Just like it’s very easy for an able-bodied person to take for granted all the things they can do physically, it’s very easy for someone with a chemically normal brain to assume that depression is a choice.
Depression is not a choice.
If it was, most of us would have chosen to get the fuck away from it by now, trust us.
again with the bears!
You may have noticed that I lasted all of A WEEK AND A HALF using the NaBloPoMo writing prompts.
First of, ADD motherfuckers. I warned you.
Second of all, you can’t blame me, really, when this week’s prompts sound like a bunch of fucking Miss America pageant interview questions:
Monday, November 16 – Pretending you have the expertise to make the product a reality, what do you wish you could invent?
Answer: I’d invent a life-sized doll of your mom.
Tuesday, November 17 – What is one place you need to see to feel like your life is complete?
Answer: I need to see…your mom.
Wednesday, November 18 – What do you hope people remember about you after you’re gone?
Answer: My razor sharp wit. I know your mom will.
Thursday, November 19 – Where would you want to retire if money wasn’t an issue?
Answer: Your mom’s house.
Friday, November 20 – What do you hope happens by the end of this year?
Answer: I hope that rash your mom has clears up so she can hang out again.
I don’t want to sound like I’m directly bashing the BlogHer people who came up with the list because I get it, it’s not easy. Shit, I do a thing called the Friday Five on a knitting forum, where I come up with five usually at least tenuously themed questions to ask everyone once a week and even THAT gets really hard sometimes. Like, to the point where I start avoiding the internet some Fridays so that I can claim I was sick and didn’t, uhh, internet at all that day, and that’s why I didn’t do the Friday Five. *shifty look*
Basically, I’m cool with the writing prompts until they start getting DEEP…and making me have to like, THINK. Or worse, FEEL. I feel more than enough on a day to day basis already, believe you me. I feel shit that isn’t even appropriate or, in some cases, applicable.
Examples:
Happy commercial with a cute puppy? I FEEL OVERWHELMING SADNESS THAT THE PUPPY WILL SOME DAY GROW OLD AND DIE, JUST LIKE THE REST OF US. LIFE IS SO POINTLESS.
Fun pop song on the radio? ANGER BECAUSE THIS SONG CLEARLY STEALS PARTS FROM TWO OTHER, BETTER SONGS, AND KIDS CALL THIS MUSIC. WTF, ALL THE GOOD MUSIC HAS ALREADY BEEN MADE. THERE IS NO POINT IN LISTENING TO THE RADIO ANYMORE.
Friend tells me exciting news? I will not only be happy and excited for them but I will then proceed to WELL UP WITH TEARS BECAUSE LIFE IS SO BEAUTIFUL I JUST CAN’T HANDLE IT.
Sooo, yeah. Sorry BlogHer writing prompts, but I feel enough feels that I can’t turn the volume down on to begin with. Trying to expound upon how I’d invent a way to feed the world…
…or how I don’t think I’ll ever feel like my life is complete because there’s so much to see and do that it’s overwhelming and makes me really sad that I’m going to miss a whole lot of it no matter how hard I try…
…or that I’m afraid that no one will remember me for ANYTHING after I die because no one will have really known me…
…or that I can’t fathom picking a place to retire because I can’t fucking fathom retiring at all…
…or that my only hope for the end of every single year ever is that people will somehow come to their senses and stop fucking HATING AND KILLING each other…
…just isn’t something that I’ve got the emotional stamina to handle.
At least, not on the average weekday, where it’s “inappropriate” to start drinking at 10am.
How Bad Can It Go? 