home of the enslaved and cowardly

As I pack away my sweaters and cardigans, I cannot help imagining the anxiety I will face away from my home and family. At college. By myself. Alone with thousands of others. Will I completely lose all of my social capabilities? Or perhaps by some twisted act of fate, I may rise to the peak of social life. To anyone else who may feel a smidgeon of what I currently face, let's just think back to all of these speeches (see: Cue Pimp and Circumference) that we thought to be cliched and cheesy. Let us disregard the cliches and cheese to entertain the words of strength, encouragement, and confidence. May your footsteps be steady and your endeavors successful. Alright. Enough optimism. I am going back to my Opera station on Pandora. Good night.

A rather frightening for young children is sleeping in a bed infested with bugs. Of course in a child's imagination, bedbugs are not minute creatures that merely reside in piles of dust and skin cells. Bedbugs are the stuffs of nightmares that crawl their way into your skin and reproduce parasitic offspring that consume your flesh until you are reduced into a pile of clothes (yeah, think of the Mummy film franchise). Even though I am no longer eight years old, finding a miniscule, yet highly visible organism scurrying back and forth across my pillow into who-knows-where miraculously transforms my adult person into a paralyzed mass of goosebumps. So, for now? I will be sleeping on a leather (read: bedbug free) daybed and (illegally) amassing DDT.

After working out with my exercise-holic mother, I have come to the conclusions that a) I am disturbingly out of shape and b) my mother is the Terminator. When I tell someone that I cannot accomplish a pushup to save my life, I don't mean the pathetically-overused humorous manner. I mean that if a twisted serial killer were to appear, point a revolver in my face, and ask me to do a pushup for his twisted pleasure, he would have to shoot me to put me out of misery as I struggle to descend halfway to the ground. My biceps/whatever-muscles-I-still-possess-in-my-arms are that useless. Not to mention this has already happened to me in middle school (instead of a killer with a gun, I faced a coach with the power to humiliate me in front of many-same sense of sick humor between the two). Oh, and my mom? She's just a BAMF.

As college tuition and the associated bills have turned my face into that of a gigantic, grumpy toddler, I have realized that I do not have a current "go-to" website or blog to forcefeed myself some comedic relief. I used to visit Dear Blank, Please Blank on a regular basis until it started to become more moralistic and less sardonic online humor. I was also a big fan of Grouchyrabbit, one of their other sites, when it first started up (I sound like such a hipster). Once their posts started to repeat, I really lost interest. After I got into anti-jokes a few months back, I realized that anti-jokes are meant to be told in person by a sort of dead-pan gracefulness. For now, I shall just leave my online existence in a slightly less bitter mood since I have found Ewan McGregor's old Scots joke. Two Scotsmen are walking down the street and pass a local bakery. The first man looks in the window and turns to ask the second man, "Is that a cake or a meringue?" To whi...