Prime and Commiting Crimes

About a month ago, I made a choice to take a late start math class.

I know, I thought. I'll get a jump ahead for the spring semester.

Guess what? It was the wrong choice. When I get ideas to shortcut it with subjects like math, I forget that I'm not good at math. In fact, one could argue that I'm terrible at math. I am to math what fire is to wood: a bad idea.

In high school, I would doodle all over my math notes when I no longer felt like paying attention. I guess I should specify that math is difficult for me because I don't care about it. It's not that I'm stupid, it's that I'm lazy. I'm lazy and I couldn't care less about factoring and real and imaginary numbers. Last I checked, I was able to survive 21 years without knowing the quadratic formula and as soon as I pass this class, it'll fade back into oblivion just like all the other useless knowledge I've accumulated. I'm looking at you, lyrics to every Will Smith song and that animal sexual behavior class I took that one time.

I thought I was past my doodling phase. I've taught myself write down the notes, bite the bullet and just get past college algebra. But tonight showed me some things never change.



In case you're wondering, yes, that is two prime numbers in their number-mobile running me over. That's what sitting in a math lecture for three hours makes me feel like on the inside.

Is it time for turkey yet?

Thanksgiving up in here

It's Thanksgiving! Well, almost. Some of us still have our day jobs, y'know. We can't all just take the day before a holiday off and go galavanting around town with the top to the car down and being fun and fancy free. And by all that, I mean that I have exactly 13 minutes left at work so this is gonna be a quick one.

I hope everyone has a fun and super delicious day tomorrow. I'll be going to my uncle's house in Queen Creek and hanging out with my family, all 159 of them. My uncle makes the best food I've ever had the pleasure of putting in my mouth.* Don't believe me? Well check this: he likes to wrap things in bacon. Oh, you want some shrimp? How about shrimp with a bacon blanket. What's that? You want some zuchinni? You know what you make that zuchinni dance in your mouth? A nice strip of bacon. Ok, so maybe it sounds gross when I talk about it here but you get the picture.

I'm off! And since I'm too lazy to Google a picture of a turkey, here's a fancy picture of the Northern Lights that someone at work sent me.


Pretty!


*I don't have time for a "that's what she said" reference, but you get the point.

This immune system isn't big enough for the both of us

This is a picture of a healthy, well-functioning cell (the yellow guy) eating and beating the shit out of some anthrax (that poor orange bastard):


This is what your immune system should do. It should attack disease and sickness like an old west outlaw. My immune system should be like the rough and grizzled sheriff that everyone is afraid of. And disease should be like the new, headstrong but foolish outlaw. Sure, Disease may have claimed the cells of helpless immune systems a couple towns away, but he's too silly to realize this was one immune system he should have left alone. This is one immune system that's tired of running from fugitive deases and renegade illnesses. This is one immune system that's not afraid to fight back.

But, seeing as I'm sick for what is literally the tenth time this year, I imagine my immune system is a little more like this:






Really, immune system? You were fooled by a fake glasses/mustace combo AGAIN? I'm going to die by contracting the common household variety cold. And at my funeral people will be like, "Wait how'd she die again? Wasn't it something cool like a zombie bite or falling 200 feet from a cliff face or being smushed to death by a monster truck?" And my loved ones will have to respond, "No. She caught a cold one too many times." There will be shame in their voices and shame upon my family. You mark my words.

Magnus Samuelsson ain't got nothin' on me

I joined a gym today. I had previously been a member of particular lady gym that shall remain nameless (but not lame-less). I was kind of unhappy there and the ladies who worked there were bitches. I already had kind of crappy self-esteem so I don't really need Nazi work-out ladies riding my ass while I was trying to tone that exact same ass.

So after putting in a year at the lady gym, one of my friends suggested I join the gym he was going to. I'm all for breaking a sweat with friends (nothing strengthens the bond between friends like sweating profusely and grunting excessively*) so I agreed.

I'd been a member of this gym before when I was younger so I wasn't too nervous about going back. When I was a member of LA Fitness, I had to give myself a half hour pep talk and drink three Red Bulls before I could even step foot inside. And even then I could only spend twenty minutes on a machine before the voice in my head that said "HOLYSHITEVERYONEISLOOKINGATMECAUSEI'MSWEATINGTOOMUCH" took over and I became two breaths away from being the gym's resident crazy lady. It was a bad scene.

But this gym is more laid back. Nobody cares what you're doing and I like that. I feel good about this change. I've lost a good amount on my own just kind of half-assing it, so now that I'm thinking about maybe possibly putting in a solid effort maybe the rest of what I want to lose will come off easier and/or quicker. Plus I get really hyped up on the endorphins and by the time I leave there I'm relatively positive I could bench press a Volkswagon Beetle if I needed to. In fact, today when I left, I gave a fellow gym goer a high five and accidentally launched him across the parking lot.** Guess I don't know my own strength, which can happen when you look like this:


This is me. Actual size too. Jealous?


* That's what she said.
** This may or may not have happened.

If I only had a brain

Today at work, someone called and asked for directions on how to get to our building. I'll admit it; our building is kind of difficult to find if you're not from Tucson. The freeway is a mess of orange tape and rubble and hasn't been open in years. It's like the apocalypse happened only on this little strech of freeway. If you're coming from Phoenix and looking for our building, it's not going to be an easy quest. Many people don't survive the journey. But you know what's interesting about people: most of them can take directions. If I say, "Head east down Broadway towards the grey building" most folks will know what that means. Most folks, but not the dumb girl who inspired today's post.

Dumb Girl called a bunch of times looking for our building. I said head east down Broadway and she heard "find a hotel parking lot". I said turn around and head south towards the Art Museum and she heard "find a Baggins". She's dumb and passive aggressive.

"There's no grey buildings. You said you were in a grey building," she says.

Lady, we're the only grey building. Downtown looks like it was painted by a six-year-old on a sugar high with a new box of Crayolas. We're the drab looking one on the left. The only building left uncolored in a sea of bright pinks, beighes, magentas, blues and, fuck, every color except grey.

"Wait, is it the one with windows?" she asks.

Yep. We're the only building in the entire city to have windows. It's a recent development, something the rest of the city hasn't caught onto yet.

God, Dumb Girl really gives a new meaning to dumb. Finally she gets here and looks exactly how I imagined her. She's wearing a shirt that doesn't fit right and is way too low cut for an office environment. And not that I looked (note: I totally looked), but her chest blossoms were nothing to write home about. If you're going to pull out the girls to give yourself an extra advantage, then at least have something to show. It was a lot of hype for nothing, much like college and my first kiss (zing!).

Her skirt also was revealing a bit too much, like say, glitter body lotion. How on earth is glitter body lotion appropriate for a sales pitch or job interview or whatever the fuck she's here for? That means that wherever she sits, there's going to be a greasy, glittery residue left behind. Which means that whoever sits in the chair after her is going to be covered in second-hand glitter and the cycle will just continue until we're all covered in stripper glitter. I don't want to be covered in stripper glitter. Not again.

I hate Dumb Girl with every fiber of my being for no other reason than she's a moron. I might be a bitch, but at least I know how to dress appropriately for my job and follow directions. Which reminds me, she even printed something from Google maps to find out how to get here. Google maps knows everything. I could type in "my purpose in life" and then click the "get directions" button and Google would direct me to my purpose in life using clear, concise language and a map for easy viewing. Come to think of it, that might be easier than actually doing all this soul searching.

I've compiled a list of things Dumb Girl could get directions to on Google maps:

- A brain
- A properly fitting shirt
- Victoria's Secret (if you're going to be a slut, at least own a good push-up bra)
- A shower
- On-coming traffic
- A better handshake. Pussy!
- Conversational skills. I can hear the meeting and she's bombing. I don't mean that in the sense that she's awesome, I mean that in the sense that she's dropping out of the sky like a destroyed fighter plane. War analogies are always appropriate. You don't know.

EnV2, will you marry me and commit to a lifetime of good reception?

I forgot my phone at home today. I feel cut off from the world. Everytime I forget my phone (which believe me, isn't often), I get really stressed out and anxious. What if someone really imporant is trying to call me? What if I'm missing out on some hilarious text from a friend? What if I've won something and they're calling to let me know but I'M NOT THERE TO ANSWER?!

My skin gets all goosebumpy and my voice gets really high pitched. I've been trying to mentally teleport my phone to my office building all morning. So far, no go. Damn it, this is why I need to be enrolled in Hogwarts instead of lame, no magic college. I could apparate anything in a matter of seconds. But no, I'm enrolled in learning-through-boring-textbooks-and-lectures-instead-of-flying-around-on-a-broomstick-and-hanging-out-with-Dumbledore college. Effing muggles, man.

Aside from missing my one true love (I'm looking at you, Verizon EnV 2), I'm feeling better. The weekend did me well. It was a weekend long birthday celebration of the awesome blossom that is Marcos, my older, cooler brother. Drinks were served, vomit was plentiful, burgers were grilled and fun was had. I just found my camera today and let me tell you, that bad boy went on an adventure this weekend. So now there's photo documentation of all the drunken, obnoxious antics. Great. Perhaps I'll get around to posting them later. If I remember. Maybe.*

*Maybe not. My ego is still pretty bruised on account of me embarassing myself. I was all up on that shorty like, "Wassup yo?" and she was all, "You don't know 20 different ways to make me call you Big Poppa," cause I don't, yo.**

**What?

Feel Sorry For Me Like I Feel Sorry For Me

Guess what the fuck is up? Give you a hint: *my estrogen levels* Being a chick sucks sometimes. I've had a serious case of the fugs lately. I feel disgusting and am pretty sure I still look like Godzilla. So today, I decided to do some retail therapy.

Nothin' cures the blues like spending some greens.

Except, oh right, my wallet is empty. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. I gathered all my clothes that don't fit anymore or I don't wear anymore and decided that instead of donating them to charity, I was going to be selfish and sell them so I could get a little charity. It's a win-win situation, for me at least.

So I packed my shit up, stuffed it in a trash bag and went to the phenomenon that is Twice is Nice. Twice is Nice has a serious arrogance complex. It's above a Savers but definitely below a Buffalo Exchange. I'm sorry, you want me to pay how much for a pair of Kathie Lee Gifford jeans? But being poor and in desperate need of new jeans (but not desperate enough to buy anything from the she-devil known as Ms. Giffords), I sucked it up and went in.

Now, this may be icky, but everyone knows that shopping when your, uh, estrogen levels are off the fucking chain and you've gained five pounds in water weight is probably a bad idea. But time of the month be damned, I was going to try on some jeans. Big mistake.

Nothing fit. Nothing. Every pair of jeans in my size were tight in the waist or loose in the leg, or squeezed my leg to the point where I lost circulation or gave me a motherfucking muffin top. My dressing room was like a war zone. It was like I was young, fresh faced America and the British were coming back after all these years to claim my thighs in the name of the Queen. As if the Queen doesn't have enough stuff, the greedy bitch.

There were one pair of jeans though. Dark wash, boot cut and didn't make my ass look like it was two watermelons shoved in denim.

Not bad, I thought. Not bad at all.

So I look at the tag to see how much they are and what the brand is and find something terrible. They were Daisy Fuentes brand. DAISY. MOTHER. FUCKING. FUENTES.

Needless to say, I stripped out of those jeans like someone was gonna pay me money, threw them on the ground, stomped on them, collected my $50 in trade and bolted. Daisy Fuentes jeans deserve worse. So do my ovaries.

Whore-o-scope

As an informed, intelligent young woman, I often start my day out by reading the paper. Keeping up on current events is imporant, you know. But I'm going to let you in on a little secret. The entire time I'm scanning the latest headlines, all I'm thinking about is how many more sections I have to read before I get to the horoscopes. So my eyes may be reading "Robbery on South 6th Early Tuesday Morning" but my brain is wondering what gem of a prediction is waiting for me just six pages away.

My favorite place to read my horoscope is in the local paper, the Tucson Weekly. Most of the times they're pretty good. I should say that most of me just reads my horoscope for fun. I need something amusing me every second of every day or I'll collapse of boredom. True story. But there's a teensy, tiny, itty bitty little part of me that is just looking for some guidance. That itsy bitsy part of me reads the horoscope and thinks, "Wow, this free, weekly, liberal paper really gets me. This must be the Universe's way of telling me to get my shit together." Well, that little part of me that was so optimistic and believing just shrunk a little bit today.

Per the Tucson Weekly:

Cancer (June 21- July 22)
Dolphins love erotic play, according to the book "Dolphin Chronicles". For almost a third of their waking life, they caress and touch each other. They're ingenious about using their Frisbees, plastic boats and rubber balls as sex toys. Gender isn't much of an issue. There's as much same-sex as opposite-sex cavorting. If you'd like to place yourself in alignment with cosmic rhythms, Cancerian, you will consider taking a page from the dolphin "Kama Sutra" in the coming days. Remember, the key for them is simply to play freely without any specific goal. Bliss comes as much from experimenting with creative intimacy as from diving toward orgasm.

Uh huh, great. So does this mean I need to take a trip to Sea World? Should I buy a plastic boat and see what "adventures" I can set sail with? Or is this horoscope telling me it's time to just straight up get freaky with anything that moves? Cause I'm not going to lie, it'd be really cool to have a plastic boat. Not for canoodling purposes, but just to show off. I think that's what I'm choosing to take out of this week's horoscope. Dolphins around the world are humping and rubbing and I'm in Arizona playing with my plastic boat. Awesome.

I Hate Cute

I have something to admit that I feel like my gender frowns upon: I dislike cute animals. Well, maybe dislike is too strong of a word. I don't fawn over cats dancing or puppies wedged into small spaces. That dramatic chipmunk thing just freaked me out. When introduced to the Cute Overload site, it suddenly became the new bane of my existance. (Also I'm too lazy to insert the link so you're going to have to look it up yourself. It's way too much cute in one place, which has the opposite effect and just makes me angry.)

But today as I was going through my gossip web site line up, I found the cutest mother effing video. Ever. I watched it twice and giggled throughout the entire thing.



You loved it.

Debby Downer Alert

I try not to be one who wallows in self-pity. Sometimes it doesn't work. But today instead of focusing on how much my hair looks like a tumble weed or how I'm sucking all kinds at everything right now, I'm trying something new. I'm not going to try to be funny because I feel like all my attempts today are half-assed. So, I'm starting another blog. I know you're thinking, Really, two blogs? Yep. Only this second blog will be entirely fiction. It's not true, it's not real, it's not anything other than rambling when I'm having days where I feel like stabbing myself and/or everyone around me in the jaw. I'm just going to lay it out there: it's going to be lame attempts at short stories. I sometimes entertain the idea that I can write. You don't have to read it if you don't want to, but if you do it's there.

Think of it as a split-personality type deal. Second to a Sitcom is the fun, light-hearted blog that you want to go drinking with or bring to parties to make your friends laugh. It's the blog you bring home to your progressive, comedy appreciating parents. Unnamed Blog #2 is the blog that you're friends with but you don't really know why. The blog that you kind of deny knowing when your parents ask you about it. In a nutshell, Blog #2 is the Jan Brady of blogs. It's the Stephanie Tanner to Second to a Sitcom's DJ.

You're welcome.

Backup Plan

Today I feel like this:



Which sucks for two reasons. The first of which being that feeling like I resemble a 50 foot tall dinosaur doesn't quite give me the self-esteem boost I'm looking for. The second reason being that if I were going to be any monster, I want to be a zombie. That's right. I want to be a rotted, green, eyeball missing, people eating zombie.

I'd make a good zombie because it'd be the easiest profession* ever. Their only goal in life, er, un-life, is to eat. Granted, what they eat is human flesh, but that's just a small price to pay to be a member of the everlasting un-dead party. All my worries about school, work, social standing and self-esteem would be gone because I'd be dead and wouldn't care. The only thing Zombie Karina would care about is eating and trying not to trip over my decomposing peers. My estimation of what a day would be like in the life of a zombie would go a little something like this:

7 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
8 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
9 a.m.- Wander around looking for food.
10 a.m. -Wander around looking for food.
11 a.m.-3 p.m. - Groan.
4 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
5 p.m.- Wander around looking for food.
6 p.m. - Stare at something off in the distance; wonder to myself if it's food.

I think you get the idea. If my plans to be a professional, well educated and well adjusted adult doesn't work out, I plan on becoming a zombie. So if in the distant future you see me wandering around, dead with half my arm missing, you'll know that behind my cold, lifeless eyes I'm smiling. But, uh, you probably don't want to get too close.


*This is of course assuming that being a zombie is on scale with having a full time job. You would have to have qualifications like, "Can eat up to 10 pounds of brain" and "Has 2+ years experience in being un-dead" and "willing to work holidays, weekends and dark, foggy nights".

I'll show you some Steps of Knowledge

Whew, another Halloween down the pipeline! Verdict: success. As promised, here's what I looked like as a Blue Barracuda.



Blue Barracuda was the best team from Legends of the Hidden Temple. Everyone knows it. So much so, that during our bar hopping we ran into another Blue Barracuda. Who knew so many former LOTHT fans liked to discover their very own Temple of Vodka on a Friday night.

The rest of the group looked great. Don't believe me? Don't be silly. Check 'em out.


Marcos as Period Pants and Holly as an 80s fitness instructor.


Crystal, my sister-in-law-in-law, as a Playboy Bunny and Brandon, her fiance, as Hef.


Daniela being Risky Business.


When I tried on the Risky Business glasses, it looked like I was blind. And have carpal tunnel. So pretty much exactly what I was going for.


The ladies.

I have to be honest, most of the ladies we saw looked scandalous. Daniela was not the only one showin' off the risky business. Just by wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I felt way overdressed. We saw a couple girls wearing only underwear and corsets and one girl who was just in a bra and a small piece of fabric trying to masquerade itself as a skirt. Ladies, I realize Halloween is code for "vaginas dress like sluts". I get it and I've made peace with it. I'll even go so far as to say that some of the slutty fire fighters, slutty policewomen, slutty Dorothys and even that one slutty witch looked alright. But c'mon, wearing your underwear and putting animal ears on is just lazy. You aren't even trying. I mean, at least the slutty (insert job here) had some sort of idea what they wanted to be, even if they got it terribly, inappropriately wrong. Ladies, we're better than that. We're much more creative than that. And if you're not, then at least don't let the drunken Tin Man in the corner touch your yellow brick road. It's just ooky.

Hope you all had a good Halloween! Now onto November.