Tear Factor: My Girl

So, every so often (or maybe every single sacred weekend), I have an overwhelming need to make myself cry. Especially after a long week or an especially bad Friday (probably caused by my failure to remember anything on a Latin quiz), the cathartic release of crying is the one thing I really need to feel. So, rather than suck it up and go out and get wasted enough to forget my troubles, I cozy up with my favorite blanket and a bag of Sour Patch Kids (my kryptonite!) and go in search of books, movies, and TV shows that are likely to make me feel like the sappy, hormonal woman I truly am.

So, I've decided to share with the world what tearjerkers I use. You know, just incase anyone else needs a good reason to release some built up emotion and have a good cry! (And let's face it, we all could probably use just a little bit ;P)

So this weeks pick: 
Title: My Girl (1991)
Starring: Anna Chlumsky, Macaulay Culkin, Dan Aykroyd, Jamie Lee Curtis 
Rating: PG-13 (contains mild language and intense scenes)
Synopsis: Vada Sultenfuss is obsessed with death. Her mother is dead, and her father runs a funeral parlor. She is also in love with her English teacher, and joins a poetry class over the summer just to impress him. Thomas J., her best friend, is "allergic to everything", and sticks with Vada despite her hangups. When Vada's father hires Shelly, a makeup expert, in his funeral parlor, and begins to fall in love with her, Vada is outraged and does everything in her power to split them up.

My Take: This movie, without a doubt, is in my top 5 favorite movies. Ever. Maybe it's the awesome 70s soundtrack and the more than adorable Macaulay Culkin (and trust me, this is no Kevin McAllister that we're working with this time around) , but, seriously, fantastic movie. 

I don't even know where to start with this movie without just diving into complete spoiler mode. 

First of all, Vada is a great character. She's been surrounded by death from the moment she came into being, and she is the biggest hypochondriac ever. She reads the "Cause of Death" on the death certificates of the people taken to her father's funeral home, and automatically gives herself the same diagnosis. This is just, like, the best thing. It adds a comedic element to the movie. Her naivety of disease is what makes it hilarious, in case you were wondering. At one point, she thinks she has prostate cancer, if that gives you an idea of how naive she really is. 

Then there's her best friend Thomas J. He's an easy target for the other kids in the neighborhood because he's a bit less adventurous. But Vada, despite her own crazy ideas and ambitions to learn, keeps him around and always defends him. He's also allergic to just about every damn thing, even chocolate, which is actually pretty sad when you think about it. But together, he and Vada make the best pair and show the greatness of childhood innocence. 

Now, I've got to say right now that movies about kids are probably the worst tearjerkers ever. The thing about these movies is that they get you totally hooked on the adorableness of these kids and then something terrible beyond terrible strikes and your whole understanding of happiness comes crashing down into one of those shitty pits in an Edgar Allan Poe story. This movie is definitely no exception to this assumption.  I don't want to totally turn you off by saying that happiness is not in the stars for Vada and Thomas J, but.... I mean, what are you expecting if I am writing a blog post about a sad movie... that just happens to be about kids? But it's really a pretty funny movie until the end, so, please, don't worry about instantly getting all the feelings. (Well, if you're me, then you probably will just because kid feels, but seriously... don't worry about it)

But let's get to what everyone really cares about: the on-screen romance between Jamie Lee Curtis and Dan Aykroyd. Yeah, I know, JLC was a total babe back in the day... and, well, Aykroyd... he's looking like something. Curtis plays Shelly, a make-up artist recently hired by Aykroyd's character of Harry, Vada's dad. When Harry and Shelly see sparks fly and love fills the air, hilarity ensues. Harry, who probably hasn't even touched a woman since his late wife died soon after giving birth to Vada, is the most awkward flirt and dater on the planet. Meanwhile, Shelly is constantly trying to send signals to Harry... and he is just not getting it... at all. 

So, pretty much, if you watch this movie, you'll get to see some awkward romance, cute kids, and some really sad things that I can't talk about because I don't want to spoil it and ruin your life. 

I have no criticisms for this movie. Seriously. Everything is perfect... and everything hurts. 

Just... Go watch it, dammit. 

Tear Factor Rating: 9.0

Broken Hearts for Teen Angst Me

"I hate the ending myself, but it started with an alright scene"

So, I'm not even going to lie. I'm a little whole lot heartbroken to hear of the recent split-up of one of my favorite and most dear alternative ("emo") bands, My Chemical Romance. This band was really the first "I'm-so-angry-slit-my-wrists-don't-mind-my-eyeliner" music that I ever really took refuge in as my teen angst set in during the early high school years. I first heard of them through MySpace, which really shouldn't come as a surprise. After that, I was hooked. Even after I grew out of that dark, shitty and quite downplayed part of my life, this band was still one of my favorites and has remained a source of inspiration and encouragement to express myself through the last 5 years of my life.

Honestly, I really wasn't all that big of a tortured soul as a teenager. I just hated... well, everyone. I liked sitting in my bedroom (alone, of course) with the music playing way too loud. I liked wearing black and wasting my parent's hard-earned money on band t's at HotTopic. I read shitty Twilight novels and claimed to be "not a religious person" as a really pathetic form of rebellion against my mother (which is pure irony today!). All this started happening spring semester of 9th grade. I can't say what

Whoa. Who is that hottie with the smudged eyeliner? Oh wait. 

triggered me to go to the dark side (actually, it was probably frustration with the fact that I felt so invisible that I figured no one would notice if I turned to a blur of black) after pretending to be a pacifist and "modern day hippie" for the first half of the year, but it happened, and, well, it is safe to say that it is a little too damn late to change that.

But, back to my reflection on MCR. 

You see, tragedy happens. Sometimes you can see that kind of shit coming because the headlights are just way too damn bright and the horn is blaring "You can't run! You can't hide!". Other times.... It comes at you in the blink of a beautiful eye. 2008.... was a shitty year. And, on the scale of tragedy that I had at the time, it probably ranked at a decent 8. That was the year I was constantly bullied for being me. The year my uncle lost his battle with a brain tumor. The year I got braces. The year I let a shithead sophomore boy manipulate and destroy me. And, while I don't think some of those things are quite tragedy-worthy today, these were really big deals for me as a 15 year-old. I mean, all that plus really shitty math classes and horrible acne... C'mon.

But this band was a constant companion during those times. They were there to welcome me to a new day when I woke-up and served as a lullaby when I closed my eyes at night. During a time when nothing seemed reliable or secure, they were there.

Today, I don't need bands to save my life because I have really amazing people beside me at all times, but the music will always be there to add the proper soundtrack to get me through the best and worst times.  

Right now, as I am writing this, I'm listening to one of MCR's songs "Disenchanted" from their album The Black Parade, and somehow all the words work. Fit. Speak all the things that mattered when I first picked up the album almost 5 years ago today. Being a fan of this band... No... Being a believer in this band has changed my life, and I am infinitely proud to say that I have been a member of the Black Parade and a Killjoy. These talented men influenced a generation of once hopeless people, and they will never be forgotten.

Thank you: Gerard, Mikey, Frank, and Ray.

"My Chemical Romance is done. But it can never die. It is alive in me, in the guys, and it is alive inside all of you. I always knew that, and I think you did too. Because it is not a band -  it is an idea.”- Gerard Way 

An Excuse to Write

It's said that it takes something like 10,000 hours of practice to master a skill or career. At least, that's what the guy who wrote that Outliers book said (which, btw, if you've never read that particular book, go spend your heroin money on something that won't rot your braincells). Ever since I read this little bit of information my senior year of high school, I haven't really given much thought to how much time 10,000 hours really is. That's a whole lot of time, if you hadn't figured it out yet. I mean, what else have a I spent 10,000 hours doing? Sleeping? Eating? Clicking my heels together while wishing that he'd finally man up and plant a wet one on me? I don't know. And then I think about my writing. How many hours have I spent writing shitty research papers while shamelessly citing Nick Jonas' diabetes? Writing passive aggressive poetry? Blogging about things that don't necessarily matter to anyone (even myself, sometimes)? I don't know.

Realistically, I probably am nowhere near 10,000 hours of writing, but I see this as a reason to write more and to keep writing. Maybe this whole "keep a blog for school because blogging is the next big job market and thing that will put bread on your table so you don't resort to becoming the next (who am I) 24601" that I keep hearing isn't just because, yeah, one day I might get a job with a company because they need someone with experience with blogging. Maybe it's an easy way to cumulate some hours of writing so I get the suck and lack-of-experience out of my system.

So, what do I write about? 

This is the hard part. You see, I am always listening. Always watching. Always wondering what's going to happen next. That being said, I have years of blackmail at my disposal. This, mind you, is one of the amazing perks to being A) an ignored and forgotten middle child and B) someone no one truly considers a threat. I could write about that thing that someone did or said while totally wasted. About equal rights for the left and right boob during awkwardly irresistible encounters with second base etiquette. About every inch of oppressed anger and frustration that lingers in my veins. About my failed attempt to steal the wedding band of the lead singer of Switchfoot during a gig in Oklahoma City.  About car wrecks and sprained ankles and unappealing ankle tattoos on PE teachers and casseroles that didn't give my intestines the heebie-jeebies and books that made me laugh and cry at the same time and how I got matching bruises on my shins and roadside attraction spankings on family vacations. I have a lifetime of stories to tell, but where do I dare to begin?

I need an excuse to write. I need prompts. I need inspiration. I need someone to say, "Hey, tell me about that time...." and trigger multiple heart attacks due to the stress of having to actually talk about an era of my less-than-enthusing life. I want someone to ask to be told about something. Otherwise, these stories may go completely unheard and, consequently, forgotten.

Sure, this blog post is an excuse for me to write, but I feel like that's okay. I've used this blank canvas for other things. Why not use it to increase some writing time? I see no harm in that. Actually, all blogs should be an excuse to write.

The things tales, stories I've mentioned in this entry may one day be read or heard, but, right now, I think I'll keep them to myself. Save them for a rainy day... When I need another excuse to write. 

Stranger in the Mirror

Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize the person looking back. I've grown accustomed to seeing the same pudgy, greased, insecure girl in the reflection, but, recently, that image has changed drastically. The problem with altering your physical appearance after years of being in the same state that only changes with age is that there is a point when one day it is almost like nothing has changed at all and the next, you wake up and don't recognize the person in the mirror. It's frightening. Everyone else can see the change happen, but, due to the whole "I am with myself every second of every minute of every hour of every day," it takes time for your to see major changes.

For the last couple of months, I didn't see the difference between being 165 pounds and 145 pounds. I felt like I wasn't changing despite what the devilish numbers on the scale said. That's what the mirror told me, at least. I'd touch my shoulders, my collar bones, my ribcage, my hips, and I could feel bones that I'd never really felt before. It was like I was a little kid at a new and unfamiliar playground and I just wanted to find out what there was to see that I'd not seen previously. I wanted that adrenaline of touching untouched hot metal constructions. It was new and exciting to finally feel like I could figure out what my body was made of because before it was an ugly glob of cold mush that I had to lug around everywhere I went. I didn't understand that there was more to a body than cellulite and fat cells. Because that was all I had ever known.

This morning, I was sitting in my Professional Writing class (totally half-asleep due to the freaking time change), and I was starting to nod off when I looked down at my legs. Suddenly, I realized I had really small thighs. I was struck with this "Holy shit! When did I get these?" feeling. Then, just as fast as the image came, it disappeared. If you don't understand how one moment I can see one thing and the next, see something totally different, I can't explain that to you.

Sometimes, before I get in the shower, I'll look at myself in the mirror, and I'll catch a glimpse of how I am at the present time, and it's shocking. I probably almost cry every single time. Weight loss (and weight gain, depending on your circumstances) can be such an emotional experience for many, and I totally understand why. For better or worse, seeing the old, familiar machine that is your body change is like changing costume or reading from a new script. It's different, and many don't know how to react to such a drastic thing.

I finally feel like I understand (roughly, of course) what women and men with Body dysmorphic disorders see when they look at themselves. They see one thing when everyone tells them that they look like something else. Everyone can tell me that I'm tiny or thinner or that I look amazing, but I don't always see that. Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I see the girl I was almost a year ago. I know that's not the case, but the image is so real, that I understand why so many people believe it. 

I still love myself, though. I love my body. I cherish every bit of it. I love that I have full use of it. I love every scar, every hair, every stretch mark. Sure, I may not be able to witness every single pound shed and muscle grown with my eyes right away, but I have faith that one day, I'll see with clarity.

A body can be a cage sometimes. Yeah, like that Arcade Fire song, guys. But it's your cage. Make it a home, not a prison. 

The Perks of Being Unemployed

Just kidding, you broke-ass hooligan. 

There aren't any real perks to being unemployed. Well, that is, unless you count being able to sleep in and not put on a bra freaking ever. Also, there's that whole not having responsibilities thing that is kind of nice every once in a while. I mean, who doesn't want to spend 9 hours straight playing the Sims 3 (with all the lovely expansion packs, mind you)? I've been technically unemployed since February of 2010, and I'm a little nervous to even say that because I'm not sure if 5 months of working for my dad counts as really being employed (but for the sake of resumes and job applications, it totally does).  And every summer since then, I've said that I was going to finally get a job and be all self-sufficient or whatever. Needless to say, I never did that. Well, this summer, I'm out of excuses. 

One of my close friends recently announced that she'd scored a super-mega-foxy-awesome-hot job at Hobby Lobby (it's the Heaven of craft stores, if you're not familiar with it), and I suddenly had this moment of clarity. If this girl could get a "real" job, then so could I. So, since then, I've been doing a lot of anti-Angela things. I updated my resume, for one. Of course, with my lack of experience and usable skills (because, apparently, the ability to blog, memorize the lyrics to Hanson's Christmas album, and find streams of TV shows and movies online aren't real skills in the real world), I have a pretty bland resume. It's whatever, though.

Yeah, but I need money, so I'mma pass on the play thing.

I also started looking for jobs. That's both stressful and boring to do. Like, Target, for example, will only let you fill out an application online if you plan to start within 60 days of submitting the application. Well, for someone like me or anyone who has more than 60 days until they'll even be in the city of the job, it's frustrating. Like, what if I go to apply closer to the end of the semester, and they aren't looking for workers for the summer anymore? Now, I don't really know how a large corporation could run out of jobs, but I'm sure that in my case they would. Yes, I am paranoid about this.

I realize, though, that a lot of stupid people have jobs, so, realistically, a smart person like myself should be able to easily get a minimum wage job, right? RIGHT?

So, why am I finally putting my foot down about this rut of unemployment? Well, I need money, and that's pretty much the only reason that counts. Also, maybe something about experience and building connections and resume fillers.

Anyway, we'll see where my job search takes me. Hopefully, right into a giant pile of wonderful money! (okay, a girl can dream!) 

5 Reasons To Live Another Day

Every once in a while, I need reminders as to why I should want to be alive today and tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and so on. It's been a pretty hectic week for me (shit, it's been a pretty hectic life for me),  and I feel like this would be the perfect time to remind myself of why today is worth living. (Note: I am not suicidal).

1. I still haven't found the song I'd dance to at my wedding. Yes, I am a total sobfest when it comes to talking about me getting married one day (hopefully), and I, sadly, am going to say that the most important element for me for my wedding is the music that I will dance to at the reception. I'm not talking about DJ vs band or if we'll do the traditional chicken dance. There's the first dance as a married couple and then there's the father-daughter dance and I'm sure Julia will have some ridiculous dance routine choreographed for us to dance (or even worse, she'll have us do the choreography from Silver Linings Playbook). It's a constant search for me. Every new artist or album I discover, I'm listening for songs that are potential. But, deep down, I know that song selections can't be made now (when I'm single and have no suitors pounding on my door to get in), but that it could just come naturally when I find the man I want to marry.

I mean, look at that face. 

2. John Green is writing a new book. So, anyone who knows me well knows that I am a huge John Green fan. Like, I'm probably in love with him. Just a little bit. No, but seriously. (John Green, my body is ready). And over the last, I don't know, 6 months, it has become known that he is working on a new book. For me, that's like the best thing ever (even though I know he's going to rip my heart into a million tiny pieces and then bake those pieces into a delicious pizza and then eat the pizza). And I know that this book might not come out for years.  But, if this book is anything like The Fault in Our Stars or Looking for Alaska, this is so worth the wait. Also, book tours. That's another thing that is worth the wait.

3. Chocolate cake. And not just ordinary chocolate cake. I'm talking about the kind of chocolate cake that has the chocolate mousse stuff between the layers with a little with cherry or raspberry filling and chocolate shavings on top with a dollop of whipped cream and a cherry. Yes, I know, that is very specific, but this is a very specific kind of chocolate cake. Shit, I just found out this cake has a name. Black Forest Cake! I'm totally not a "OMG CHOCOLATE!" kind of girl, so the fact that I love this chocolate cake as much as I do is kind of a miracle. Like, if you made me this cake or bought me this cake, I'd probably love you... forever (or just until you make me hate your guts for making me fat).


4. Bad mix-CD's. So, I am notorious for making bad (like very bad) mix-CD's for my friends and for Julia. I think these bastards are amazing when I'm making them, but once I give them to their proper recipients, I realize how truly shitty they are. Like, it's just a bunch of music that only I could possibly like. But I love making them. I love picking out songs that I like and thinking that someone else might be able to relate to the lyrics or dig the awesome bass in an instrumental. I find so much joy in doing it, and I have no idea why. There are still so many CD's I need to make. I won't give up on finally finding a song that someone actually loves to the point they have it playing on repeat. 

5. Fear. Simple as that. It's the fear of missing out on stuff because I can't be there. My sisters' wedding days. Samuel's high school graduation. Traveling to other states and countries. Drunken nights that I'll regret the next day. Concerts and meet&greets. Learning how to use those damn chopsticks. Graduating from college and having that "oh shit" moment when I realize I have no idea what I'm doing. Getting married. Having children of my own. Becoming an aunt. And a crap load of other moments and happenings that I would never get to experience if I were to just give up on living. These are the moments that make life worth it, and what kind of shitty person would I be if I missed out on the good stuff?

Life, living is just totally worth it. Even if it is simple, silly things that keep you moving forward, you still have something to look forward to. I can't run away from everything, so instead I'm going to find something to run towards. 

Crossin' & Creepin'

Well, do they?

So, my best girl friend who isn't Julia, Darian, likes to constantly keep me in-check with the outrageous things that come out of my mouth. She calls it crossing lines. Sometimes I'm just a toe over the line. Other times, I'm crossing so many lines that it's impossible to keep track. It's important to note that I rarely think about what I am going to say before I say it. That just takes up time that I could be talking and the other person could be responding. Plus, it just keeps people wondering what kind of magical stuff is happening up in my noggin all the time. Like, holy shit, what is this girl going to say next because there is no way she can top that? And, you know, I'd rather be an awkward enigma than a walking, talking computer reading from a socially-accepted script like the rest of society.

I live on the 11th floor of my residence hall (do not call it a dorm. I will go all off on your ass if you do), so my elevator rides normally pick up a stranger or two. This is always fun for me because I can either talk to these people and be a normal, social person, or I can shy away in the corner admiring the luscious ringlets of Heaven flowing from their heads in secret. Sadly for me, I normally don't keep many of these admirations or thoughts to myself.

Me: *in elevator alone praying there aren't any pointless stops*
Elevator: *suddenly stops on a random floor*
My thoughts: Shit.
Stranger: *gets on the elevator equipped with tons of swag*
Me: *notices they have great hair/eyes/legs/shoes/etc*
Me: You have really beautiful eyes.
Stranger: Uh, thanks.
Me: *silent for the rest of the ride* 

Every. Single. Day. Of. My. Life

Back home, at a QuikTrip gas station, there is a guy who works at night, and, without fail, every single time I see him working, I always make a comment about his name tag. See, it says his first name and then his last initial, which is an "S." So, I always ask him if the "S" stands for sexy. I don't know why I do this. This guy isn't even that attractive. It's just an uncontrollable urge.

Sometimes I cross lines with my friends. We'll just be talking about something totally normal, and, like the freak of nature that I truly am all the damn time, I suddenly take the topic one step too far and it just becomes this huge awkward silence of disapproval. They'll just be staring at me like, "Angela, why did you just say that? That was totally uncalled for. ugh. You're ruining our lives."I just feel like a nuisance because I can't truly ever censor myself. Or, if I do censor myself, I just censor the completely wrong thing, so I still say something that I probably could have kept to myself. Or, even worse, I'll just stare at people. I like to observe things that seem so normal to everyone else. Like, people in lines at stores or fast food joints. I'll try not to make it too obvious, but, ya know, if they notice that I'm staring, that's cool.

I don't mean to be such a creep sometimes. It just happens. Like, I can't just change that. I'm a socially-challenged writer. How am I ever supposed to fully understand human interaction unless I standby in the shadows being awkward and saying highly inappropriate things to other people? Simply, I can't.

I'm just a psych evaluation waiting to happen. 

Shit-Shaming

So, the other night, I was texting Bruce at like 2 am because that happens sometimes (nothing good happens after 2 am, kids), and I don't really know how, but we started talking about having really good poops by the means of tea and supplements. It was totally chill. Ya know, just two friends talking about brilliant beyond brilliant shits at 2 am. Happens all the time. Well, then I woke up at like almost noon the next day (after I came out of my curly fry coma from the night before) and I went back to check my texts, and I realized that no one just talks about pooping. If they do talk about pooping, it's always in doctor's offices or in secret like shitting is something that everyone should keep a secret. WHAT?

Why are people so ashamed of a totally natural body function that happens to everyone normally at least once a day? Why is talking about how amazing pooping is frowned upon in today's society? Like, why is it considered potty talk or gross? Sure, it smells.... and it comes out of your stained asscrack, but every single person does it at some time. You do it after you're born, and you'll do it when you die... because science... so, just embrace it. 

Personally, I talk about shit all the time. I encourage my family and friends to also openly talking about what happens behind their bathroom doors. I'm sick and tired of having to keep my bowels a secret. Why should I be ashamed of them? Why should I shame other people who also poop? There is no reason at all. My sister, Julia, and I totally have this amazing bonding where we text each other "estoy poopin" (spanish for "I'm pooping" just fyi) from the bathroom. Sometimes we don't even say that. Sometimes we just send the shitty smiling shit emoticon. It's such a relief to share such an intimate moment with my sister.

Man, I feel you.

It has become the new deep dark secret of every man and woman (but mostly women because apparently women don't fart or poop ever because miracles) in the world. No, you can forget about uh-oh-spaghetti-o pregnancies, Italian mob families, ex-KKK memberships, closet Satan worshipers, and over-the-counter drug problems. Those are nothing compared to the shame that is brought on from the function of the unmentionable colon.

I believe we should not judge each other based on the color and density of our poops. I have a dream that one day men and women of all tongues and colors will speak openly about the conditions of their bowels. Olympic games will be created. Reality TV shows (Yup, The Biggest Pooper and America's Next Top Pooper are all going to be hits). Anthems for a generation. Vampire fiction (oh wait.). It's all going to be beautiful and very shitty.

So, what I'm saying is don't be ashamed of the fact that you poop. Embrace it. Don't clench your cheeks any longer. 

And, yes, I know the Brady Bunch didn't have a single toilet in that house... Don't worry. They were freaks, anyway.

Lesson learned: everybody shits. Deal with it. 

Angela & The Ferocious Bruce

For the last two years, I've pretty much had the most amazing partner-in-crime aka devil's advocate aka very best friend aka Bruce. Needless to say, I have no freaking idea where I'd be without this crazy fothamucka (what? you think I'd actually use that kind of vulgar language on my blog? what kind of girl do you think I am?) in my life. While, like everyone I know, he can make me think he's a total pain in my shrinking ass, there have just been too many awesome adventures and illegal questionable moments over time for me to get rid of him. Plus, he knows way too much. Gotta play it safe, right? 

Look at that posture! What a pro!

One of my favorite Bruce moments (like might possibly be number one, seriously) happened in the summer of 2011. We were hanging out, and he suddenly, for reasons I can't explain (so please don't ask me to!), had this ridiculous need to make pancakes. Holy shit. So, he goes to make these pancakes, and he's putting all of his mighty concentration into making these pancakes. And there I am laughing my pants off at him while he's trying to make the most perfect pancakes this world has ever seen. So, he's slaving away over his yummy meal, when he goes to flip the first pancake. I don't know what was going on his head when he decided to flip said pancake, but I don't think the pancake was prepared to be flipped how it was. It just seemed to fall apart into a big crumbled mess.

So, then he tries again with a second pancake, but, once again, his efforts failed. The second pancake turned out just as screwed up as the first. But, never fear, Bruce took his cooking like the man he is. He devoured that plate of orgasm-worthy pancakes like a real champ. And didn't share or offer any to me. 

Then, of course, there was the time when he forced me to watch a very terrifying movie called Insidious (which I do not recommend to anyone with eyes). Yes, for the record, I was forced against my own will to watch this very scary movie. I protested it the whole time. I probably sounded like a real wimp with all my begging and pleading for him to let us watch something happier... like pretty much anything but this one movie. I'm pretty sure there were actually times when he had me held down with his hands holding my head in the direction of the TV, but please don't quote me there. The entire time, I was on the line of peeing myself and actually dying from fright. And then the end (which I won't spoil for you because that'd be just cruel) came and BAM! I probably peed myself a little. Not even going to lie about that. And he made fun of me because I couldn't take the movie like a pro. Whatever. That movie was no tiptoe through the blasted tulips. I will never watch that movie ever again (ya know, in case you thought I enjoyed it or anything). But at least we added a super cool song to the soundtrack of our friendship, right? (aka Tiptoe Through the Tulips by Tiny Tim)

Yes, I did kick his ass. You can just tell from my face. 

We've been through so many good and bad times together, and I can't imagine having any of our experiences with anyone else. Our friendship isn't just the deformed pancakes or me being forced to participate in things against my own will. It's so much more than that. It's coming home passed my curfew smelling like cigarette smoke. It's walks to QuikTrip to get the donuts they just put out way too late at night. It's ditching Julia to go buy red shoes. It's getting way too drunk and then being hungover for a week. It's watching tortoises go crazy on each other at the zoo for a highly inappropriate amount of time.  It's the exchange of Stephen King novels. It's staying up until 6 am for the other just because that's what friends do. It's so much that I can't possibly fit it all into this one post. 

I think anyone who has a best friend understands that you can't put multiple years of friendship into words. Especially when, at one point or another, neither of you were truly in your right minds to make any smart decisions, let alone remember what you said or did (even if that means the other won't believe that they goosed you on St. Patty's Day while they were under the influence).

I'm just so happy that I get to have you as a part of my life, Bruce. I know that the last couple of months have been brutal (that actually might be downgrading it, so I apologize) for you, but I'm not planning to jump ship anytime soon (or ever, really). You're an amazing person and you care so much about the people in your life, and I couldn't have asked for a better best friend than you. 




So, happy 23rd birthday, Barnacle Puff. Let this year be a year full of laughs and adventure and chances to be the best you can be. You deserve that more than anyone. Love you, sweet pea.

Friendship Lesson Learned: No, that monkey doesn't have two asses, Angela. That's a female.