Five reasons I will not survive the zombie apocalypse

So when I started writing this blog, I was initially trying to list the pros and cons of a zombie apocalypse. As it turns out, the only thing I could come up with as a pro was that the economy would crumble and the entire world would fall into a catastrophic collapse, so the fact that I’m pretty much broke all the time wouldn't matter anymore. I mean, I would still be broke, but everyone else would be too, so it wouldn't be as noticeable.

That sounds way more selfish than I anticipated.

The only other pro is that someone would obviously take advantage of the opportunity to murder every single member of Nickelback. (And maybe Scott Stapp from Creed, but that may just be me being greedy.)

Watch it, Stapp. I've got my eye on you. 

Also, after going over the pros and cons of a zombie apocalypse, I realized that I would possibly be more fucked than anyone else in the entire history of people being fucked. Besides Stephen Hawking. If someone left him outside and his chair died. In that case he’d definitely be much worse off than me. Actually, that’s not a terrible escape plan.

So here are five reasons I would not survive in a zombie apocalypse.

1) I run slower than things that are dead.

According to the new version of Dawn of the Dead, 28 Days Later, a handful of spry zombies from The Walking Dead, Resident Evil, Shaun of the Dead, I Am Legend, Zombie Strippers, The Evil Dead and several other movies that I’m pretty sure are based on fact, zombies can run, despite what should be extremely limited motor function, faster than Carl Lewis if you set him on fire. (First, I do not want to set Carl Lewis on fire. Second, I’m not a runner. Carl Lewis is the only runner I know besides that runner Brad Pitt played in that stupid movie about running. And Forrest Gump. So Carl Lewis, That Guy Brad Pitt Played in That Stupid Movie About Running, and Forrest Gump. I am aware the reference is out of date, but I’m working with limited material.) What I’m saying here is that I fall a lot. I've actually fallen while standing perfectly still.

My sister drew this picture of me. Mostly because she
is a heartless B with terrible drawing abilities, but also because
one time we were at the San Jacinto Monument and I was
standing still and fell down. She draws my arms like
that because she has never seen a T-Rex and thinks
that because my arms are perfectly normal, they are
dinosaur like. I told you she was a heartless B. 

And sometimes the thought of even putting running shoes on makes me involuntarily take a nap.  As it turns out, based on what I've seen in movies, I have a more limited capacity for physical adeptness than a human who has been bitten by a zombie, infected with a horrible disease, died and then reanimated with several non-functioning lobes of their brain. Which made this a sad day for me.  Reason number 1 that I will not survive the zombie apocalypse: I have two speeds: falling down and asleep. Neither of them is adequate for escaping from ravenous zombies.

2) There will undoubtedly be a limited pie supply in the zombie apocalypse.

In case you don’t remember, or haven’t read my blog before, first, shame on you, and second, I love pie.  I imagine making pie would be considered among a list of “shenanigans” that have low priority when you’re running from hordes of the damned.  Also, pie-making supplies would probably be low after a while, and you would have to start using pie shortcuts. And you can’t really shortcut pie. If you shortcut pie, alive-or-zombie-Paula Deen (whichever the case is at that point in the zombie apocalypse) will find out, track you down, kidnap you and take you back to her planet where she is an alien overlord that tortures people with desserts, which is only ok if she somehow tortures you with pie, but she’s an evil alien overlord so I doubt it.

I mean, it's pretty obvious that this woman is an
alien overlord. Who will torture you. But not with pie.

And while I’m not saying that I would die without pie…wait. Yes. I’m saying I would die without pie.  Reason number 2 that I will not make it in the zombie apocalypse: the only things I’m terrified of more than giant Michael Phelps monsters are Paula Deen and life without pie.

3) I already have zombie apocalypse hair.

Let me begin by saying that I love the Walking Dead more than 20 tyrannosauruses on 20 mountaintops. If Daryl Dixon showed up at the door right now with a dead possum and a crossbow and said “if you go outside and catch and then skin a squirrel with your bare teeth I will marry you this instant,” I would be in the backyard climbing the fence with acorns in my mouth and stop to question his judgment only after I removed the squirrel blood and took off my wedding tiara. But let me tell you what pisses me off more than any one single thing I can think of besides the existence of Oklahoma. Andrea, Maggie, Blond Girl Whose Name I Do Not Know and Lori before she was eaten by a zombie. Spoiler alert. Lori gets eaten by a zombie. Know what pisses me off about them? Their Paul-Mitchell-Biolage-Tony-is-my-stylist-shiny fucking hair.  On any given day when I walk outside, it is entirely possible that I will end up with leaves and twigs and small animals in my hair. After being outside for more than five minutes, my hair looks like a George Washington wig if you drug it through mud and then a tornado and then a bat landed in it to have babies and then those babies grew up in it and made it their home for several generations of bats. What I’m saying is that I have zombie apocalypse hair and I’m not even in a fucking zombie apocalypse. There is no possible way my hair would survive a zombie apocalypse. It would become sentient and attempt to kill me in my sleep.

It's too late for Russell Brand.

The third reason I would not survive the zombie apocalypse is because my hair is already angry that it is terrible and will try to strangle me when I’m not paying attention if it is forced to endure a zombie apocalypse.

4) I have no discernable talents.

When you’re running around the streets alone during a zombie apocalypse (without pie and with terrible hair), you’re either going to get eaten by zombies, killed by Tom Petty posing as a fake mayor, or a group of strangers will take you in. If you have some sort of discernable talent that will help the group. Let me give you a rundown of my talents: I can sort of draw stick figures. I know the lyrics to every Paula Abdul song ever written. I know that Tom Petty played a mean mayor in a post-apocalyptic movie called The Postman. I know Ninja Turtles trivia. I’m pretty good at Pictionary. I know grammar rules, sort of. I can do a passing impression of Danzig, and a less good impression of Bobby Hill. That’s it. I’m pretty much unemployable in the real, non-zombie apocalypse world. Once motherfuckers start rising from the dead and chasing me, I will be completely and utterly useless. My friends Kellie and Sam, who inexplicably love me, are aware that I have no talents, and Kellie has agreed to let me run the bordello on their very heavily guarded and well-stocked complex. And I will rule all of the hookers across all of the lands, and I will brand them so they will not escape, (but I have already chosen a head-brander, so please do not send resumes, unless you would like to be a hooker. And in that case, please do not send video resumes). Here’s my fear though: Kellie and Sam have agreed to let me run the bordello under duress, in optimum conditions. We are not currently, I hope, in a zombie apocalypse. And they agreed because we were trying to think of ways I could help and this is all we could come up with. It’s like when I try to help someone working on my car and they let me hold a flashlight so that I don’t accidentally explode anything. I’m pretty sure once the zombie apocalypse starts, Kellie and Sam will have their guards shoot me on site as soon as I run up awkwardly to their complex without pie and with my zombie apocalypse hair. The fourth reason I will not survive the zombie apocalypse is because the only talent I have that we could come up with is running hoes.

"Come on, girls. This corner isn't going to work itself."

5) I make terrible decisions.

This one is pretty self explanatory. Here’s a fairly comprehensive list of some of the terrible decisions I've made: I had a perm. I bought a PT Cruiser. I own a bump-it. I once tried to break up with someone and when they said “no”, I just went with it. I own every Paula Abdul TAPE ever made. I bought a yoga booty workout DVD. I went out on a date with a lying, jobless, judgmental, samurai-sword-collecting blind guy. I got not one, but two useless degrees in literature. Sometimes when I’m in awkward social situations, I wear my Shrek ears. I did my hair like this for a long time:

I brought sexy back. And then it ran away screaming about its eyes.

Once, when I was eight and already really, really nerdy and unpopular, I made an entire group of my peers watch me do a cheerleading dance at somebody else’s birthday party. At some point during a meal six years ago, I accidentally swallowed one of the tines on my plastic fork and did not notice until I had finished eating. In high school, a guy I had a crush on asked me to deliver a message to his girlfriend on my softball team: He said “tell her I love her and to have a good day,”  but I got so flustered staring at his face I said “I will, I love you, too.” I have lost staring contests to three separate squirrels on five different occasions. I once told Farva from Super Troopers during an interview I would not marry him because I had already seen his junk and the magic was gone.  I have read 50 Shades of Grey. Last year, when a guy walked me to the door and told me he loved me, I got scared, made him high-five me said "sweet, man" and ran inside. I spent an entire afternoon when I was 12 learning every lyric to every song on Vanilla Ice’s To The Extreme. I drink boxed wine. I watch Lion King knowing full well that it is going to make me cry every single time. I left a job as editor at a daily newspaper to ultimately work at Ulta. I purchased a Snuggie. I once went out on a date with a guy who told me his favorite sport of all time was “mountain biking” and that his favorite AMERICAN novel was ULYSSES by HEMINGWAY and my head exploded because of all of the things that were wrong. On several occasions, I have purchased parakeets only to remember that I fucking hate parakeets.  When my parents took us to Disneyland when I was six, I was walking through the park behind my mom and dad with my eyes closed, ran into a lady wearing a sweater, assumed it was my mom and assaulted her with hugging: it was not my mother, but she was not a kidnapper, so win-win. I am aware that riding a bike is likely to cause me catastrophic injury, but I ignored this knowledge and my sister had to rescue me when all of my pants got caught in a bike chain and I almost fell into a ditch.

The fifth reason I would not survive a zombie apocalypse is that people are born with an innate ability to make good decisions, and that part of my brain was apparently lobotomized when I was an infant.

So there you have it. If any of you have any room for a no-talent, pieless, slow, zombie-apocalypse  hair train wreck on your zombie apocalypse team, let me know. I can provide approximately three hours of Vanilla Ice and Paula Abdul entertainment. 

How my family terrified a teenage cake shop worker

I'm about to throw you some percentages that I've possibly made up but I do not feel you have the resources to check.

Over 99 percent of brides feel like they would rather spend the day with their leg in a bear trap than plan their wedding. People ask you questions like "when do you want to do the bouquet toss" and "what if we invited this person no one's seen in 20 years and may likely be dead" and "don't you want your wedding to be pretty?" and "can I bring John Stamos as my plus one".

Fig. 1
"First, don’t you ‘Hey, Girl’ me, John Stamos. Second, no. Please leave your John Stamos at the door, Billy. You didn't get a plus one because we all thought you were dead."

Here's the other thing. Of the assumed 99 percent of those imaginary brides I did not interview in this fake study:

• Two percent of them had their dresses break in a semi-threatening-Janet-Jackson-wardrobe malfunction way.
• Three percent of them had to figure out whether or not to have the wedding because the groom's mother was in the hospital. 
• Zero percent of them paid for a wedding cake that didn't show up.

Fig. 2 
I’m going to be honest. I was looking for a Janet-Jackson-wardrobe-malfunction photo. But this is what I found. And this is better. 




For the record, all of these things happened at my wedding. So when the marriage ended a couple years later, I really shouldn't have been surprised. And while I may write a separate blog about all of those things, this blog is about the time my family verbally assaulted and then subsequently terrified a cake shop worker because he would not let us talk to his boss, who was hiding in the back because I am so terrifying. And by "terrifying" I mean "not at all terrifying and sort of awkward.”

Fig. 3
Exhibit A. I am meet-my-favorite-author-and-be-too-terrified-to-stand-next-to-him-so-I-just-close-my-eyes-and-stick-my-boobs-in-his-face awkward.



So the day before my wedding, I stopped by the bakery to bring them our cake topper, a photo for the groom's cake and ribbons that were going to be wrapped around the petit fours I ordered. Petit fours, in case you didn't know, are fancy cupcakes and fancy cupcakes are awesome, so by the law of transitive property, petit fours are fancy-awesome. They're like sugary unicorn hearts. And I was very much looking forward to eating sugary unicorn hearts. The next day went something like this: 

• I show up at the hotel to get ready. And the cake isn't there. 
• I get dressed and get my makeup on. And the cake isn't there. 
• My photographer starts taking our pictures. And the cake isn't there. 
• The catering manager calls about the cake. Which the bakery says is on its way. So the cake isn't there. 
• Guests start putting gifts on the cake table, because they think it's a gift table, because the cake isn't there. 
• I walk down the aisle. And the cake isn't there. 
• We say our vows. And the cake isn't there. 
• The reception starts. And the cake isn't there. 
• My mom has gotten involved in calling the bakery, who is now hanging up on us whenever we call. So is the wedding coordinator, the catering manager, the kitchen manager, a few relatives, the concierge and some homeless guy named Jimmy we found on the Seawall. 

To make a long story short, the wedding ended at 11. The bakery tried to bring the cake at 10:30. Our extremely subtle and eloquent catering manager told them to "get that the hell out of here. We already went out and got them another cake". Which they did. The amazing staff ran out to Kroger, bought a plain white cake, brought it back and dressed it up so that we had something to serve. Because the bakery I went through, that I had just visited the day before, thought I was kidding about the whole needing-a-wedding-cake-for-tomorrow-yes-I've-paid-for-it-already thing.

Let me explain a little about my personality that I may not have touched on before. I'm the person that tough talks someone after they have left the room, shut the door, gotten in their car, have driven away, gotten to their own home and are then safely inside. I’m the person who was basically assaulted by a blind guy on a date. I'm the person who invents fake coworkers when visiting a Taco Bell drive through so I don't have to tell the drive through guy that I don't want to give him my number. I'm relatively non-confrontational, is what I'm trying to say.

So when I had to go and talk to the bakery the following Monday, an army of very confrontational, very loving family and friends eventually joined me. Initially, my brother Jarrett and my friend Kellie went with me. Let me set the scene for you. We drive up to the bakery in Kellie’s SUV. It was Christmas time, and Kellie’s SUV had reindeer antlers and a reindeer nose on it. But in a threatening way. Because Kellie means business. Whether the business is Christmas, or trying to terrify a bakery worker. So in the parking lot is Kellie's reindeer car, an 80s model BMW, and a new Yukon. The 16-year-old kid I dropped my stuff off with the day before the wedding was cleaning the counter. When we walked in, he froze like he thought we were all dinosaurs whose vision was based on movement.

Fig. 4 

No matter what you've heard, I’m not a T-Rex.
 



Because we were not dinosaurs whose vision was based on movement and I could see him, I said, “Hello. Remember me? I came in the day before my wedding with ribbon and money. And then no one brought my cake. Is your manager here?”

He said no. I asked if she had a cell number we could call. He said no. My brother said, “So. Say a meteor falls out of the sky. And that meteor hits your bakery, and then burns your bakery down. And people are running around screaming on fire. And there’s a meteor in the middle of the kitchen. You can’t call her?”

He confirmed that yes, in the case of meteor fire, he would have somehow been able to reach his manager. 

Fig. 5
It's cool. Morgan Freeman narrated it.



I asked him what he drove. He told me that he drove an 80s model BMW. I asked him what his manager drove. He confirmed that she drove a Yukon. Because I am only passive aggressive and not aggressive-aggressive, I told him that we needed to call the police, because her car was in the parking lot. Which meant she was either dead in the back or kidnapped, barring any kind of hitchhiking situation. 

I’m going to skip through the part where I told him that I knew she was in the back cowering behind some cookie tins. And about how I called my co-workers at the local newspaper in front of him and told them that we needed to write a story about a local bakery that steals money from clients. And how Kellie called a local judge she knew about how to pursue legal action while the cake shop worker kid nervously wiped the same spot on the counter over and over again. And how I called the police department to see if I could report the bakery for a crime. I’m going to skip those things and skip right to the best part. Which is the part when my mother and sister walked into the bakery.

First, remember how I said that, unless there is a very scary monster or murderer loose, my sister is fiercely loyal? And how she would rip out somebody’s eyeballs if they hurt my feelings? She got that from my mom. If you hurt my feelings, you'd better pray I don't tell my mom. Because she will rip off your junk. My mom used to tell us in elementary school that if someone cut in front of us in line, she wanted us to trip them. One time, when an elementary school counselor told my sister, who had never before taken tennis lessons or played a single game of tennis (she did own a racket though), that she was probably not going to be a professional tennis player when she grew up, it took every single ounce of restraint in my mother to not go up to the school and murder that B Scarface style. (But without all the cocaine and Cubans. She’s totally against that. Cocaine. Not Cubans. I’m not actually sure how she feels about Cubans.) She is only this way when it deals with someone hurting our feelings. Or telling us we can’t be professional tennis players. That’s apparently my mom’s bugaboo. What I’m getting at is my mom is 99.9 percent hilarious and 0.1 percent terrifying velociraptor with machine guns for arms and machetes for claws riding a great white shark with laser beams for eyes and chainsaws attached to his pectoral fins.

Fig. 6
Rough Estimation. Also, this is clearly my best work yet as an artist. 

They came into the bakery with murder eyes and the counter kid froze again. Like that thing you hear about when someone walks over your grave. Or when a shark-riding velociraptor walks into your bakery.

“Hi,” my mom said sweetly. “What’s your name?”

Then he did a really stupid thing. He said that he wasn't allowed to tell her.

“I’m sorry. What.”

“I can’t tell you my name.”

“Sweetie. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. What is your name.” (I know that, grammatically, there should be a question mark there. But she wasn't really asking him to give her his name.)

“I can’t tell you that.”

At this point, my mother started losing her patience.

“We know your manager is back there. And you know what? What she’s doing isn't fair. You’re just a kid. You’re not capable of handling this. You’re not old enough and you don’t know how to deal with us, sweetie.”

And then he made his fatal mistake.

“I DEAL WITH THIS ALL THE TIME!” he passionately proclaimed.

“What?” my sister asked.

“Wait.” I said.

“All the time?” Kellie asked. 

"Dude!" my brother said.

What my mom said, was “I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me your name.” But what it sounded like was, “If you do not give me your name, I am going to give you one million paper cuts, followed by one million Indian burns. And then I am going to rip off your junk.”

What the kid said was, “I can’t give you my name.” But what it sounded like was, “Oh sweet little baby Jesus, please let this end. Please don’t let that lady rip off my junk.”

And she sensed this weakness. She sensed it like a terrifying velociraptor with machine guns for arms and machetes for claws riding a great white shark with laser beams for eyes and chainsaws attached to his pectoral fins.

“Alright!” my mom said. “Someone take his picture!”

And precisely one millisecond later, my sister reached across the counter and put a camera in his confused, frightened face.

So there was this ‘click’ followed by the camera flash followed by total silence.

Except for the kid behind the counter. Who was very busy being frightened and peeing on himself. He screamed: “MYNAMEISTHOMAS!”. It was a lot like Fight Club. Except his name was not Robert Paulson.

Fig. 7
His name was Thomas the Counter Worker...





And that was the day my family and friends verbally assaulted a cake shop worker, acted like the paparazzi, and helped me get my $400 back for a cake that never showed up.

Real and fabled animals you probably don't want to get raped by

Here is a list of several, SEVERAL disclaimers you may want to look through before you read this post:

• This post is a conversation between me and my friend Bridget Jones that deals with the rape of humans by both real and fabled animals.
• Bridget Jones is not THAT Bridget Jones. My friend Bridget Jones is way more funny and way less whiney. In fact, when you hear my friend Bridget Jones speak, you don’t want to punch her at all. Unlike the other Bridget Jones. Also, I call my friend Bridget Jones BJ. Because ten people read my blog, and all of you went to high school with me and BJ, you already know her. 
• BJ is one of the most hilarious people I know, and even though we explicitly say that rape is funny in this conversation, neither one of us thinks that actual rape is funny. Just rape by animals. Or mythical creatures.
• This conversation started around midnight and officially ended around 2 a.m. Which means that we discussed rape by mythical creatures for more than two hours. Again: human rape is not funny. But mythical creature rape is hilarious. Think about it.
• I will neither confirm nor deny whether either of us was drunk.
• If the thought of a real or fabled animal raping you is upsetting, you should probably not read this. You can always read this or this. They’re both relatively rape free.

You’ve been warned.
***********************************************

BJ: Do alligators rape?
((There is no preface to this question.))

Me: God I hope not. I mean, they probably rape other alligators, and maybe the occasional turtle, but hopefully they don't rape people.

Fig. 1
Artist’s rendering




BJ: I think your next blog post should be the top five animals most likely to rape you.

Me: I completely agree with this idea.

BJ: Dolphin, dog, pig, monkey, alligator?

Me: All of those seem plausible and equally terrifying.
((And now that I’ve had time to think about it, rhinoceroses.))

BJ: Unicorns are like the date rape drug. It happens, but people don't think it exists.

Me: And it would maybe be kind of cool because they would probably sort of calm you down. Maybe the top five mythical creatures that really suck to get raped by? Because centaurs are way, way up there. Also griffins. Because of the talons.

BJ: I agree. And the chupacabra.

Me: All those teeth! Bigfoot. If he's a proportionate simian.

BJ: Or that dog from the Neverending Story.

Fig. 2
Falkor! Noooo!!! He just lost his horse!!!


Me: Yes, but maybe he'd let you fly on his back later. Not that that would make up for the raping. You'd have to do a lot of flying to make up for Falkor rape.

BJ: Chewbacca.

Me: He's tall. And his voice would be really irritating. Satyrs, because of the hooves.

BJ: Abominable snowman. One cold dick.

Me: And he'd probably just roll over and steal the covers from you.

BJ: Dragon rape is pretty terrifying.

Me: Dragon rape just shot to number one on my list. That Devil Thong from Legend.

Me: *Devil thing. Devil thongs would be too much for my fragile mind to bear.

Fig. 3
Devil thong?
 
BJ: I was once raped by a devil thong.

Me: Was it sparkly?  I imagine a devil thong would have some pizzazz.

BJ: I don't want to talk about it.

Me: Sorry. I understand.

BJ: Some people don't think rape is funny. I'm not one of them though.
((She is only referring to mythical creature rape. She does not think actual rape is funny.))

Me: I don't really understand why not. I think tape is hilarious.

Me: Also rape.

Me: Mostly tape.
((I am only referring to mythical creature rape. I do not think actual rape is funny. Or tape.))

BJ: I agree! They're both sticky.

Me: And they can both leave you pregnant. Wait.

BJ: I think you misread the tape instructions.

Me: I like to just open a box and do what comes naturally. Not be tied up in a whole bunch of rules.

BJ: That makes sense.

Me: Know what I've always liked about you, BJ? You don't judge. No matter how many minotaurs I've raped.

Fig. 4
How YOU doin’?


BJ: You gotta do what you gotta do!

Me: Thank you! Now please explain this to PETA! How are minotaurs even on their list of concern?! I'm going to be in court for months!

BJ: Minotaurs love being raped!

Me: They're practically begging for it wearing those short skirts!

BJ: That's why they do it!

Me: Exactly. But you rape 12 minotaurs in short skirts and all of a sudden the authorities have to be involved.
((I have not raped 12 minotaurs in short skirts. Three of them were in bath towels.And two of them were consensual.))

BJ: Speaking of predators, how scary would it be to be raped by the predator?!
((It took me several hours and I reread this four times before I realized that she was calling me a predator.))

Fig. 5
Holy. Christ. THINK ABOUT IT.


Me: Oh my god. First there would be that creepy light on you. Then the clicking nose. And god knows what their junk would look like. Just thrashing dreadlocks and furious clicking.

Me: And when Alien rapes you, she lays babies in your lungs. So that's pretty bad. Or she lays baby Sigourney Weavers in your lungs. I'm not sure which is worse.

Fig. 6
“Oh. Hi, Lieutenant Ripley. This is…awkward…”


BJ: Yeah, that's a nightmare waiting to happen. You just have to wait for death at that point.

BJ: Or the fly!

Me: Like the fly mid-Jeff-Goldblum transformation?

BJ: Exactly.

Me: Jeff Goldblum already sort of looks like a spider. So double scary.

Fig. 6
“Hi. Uh. I, uh, I’ve…I’ve probably never…never-ruh, raped anyone.”
((^It’s pretty hard to do a Jeff Goldblum impression through type alone. Stop judging me.))


BJ: Know what's NOT funny? Child dolphin rape.

Me: Like dolphins raping children, or children raping dolphins?  Because one of those is very funny.

BJ: Adult humans raping dolphin children.

Me: You're right. That's pretty serious. But if human children were raping adult dolphins, somehow, that's much funnier. Actually, human children raping any of these things seems eerily funny.

BJ: Yeah. Especially if they are British.

Me: Because their accents are so proper and it would remind me of Mary Poppins.

BJ: Exactly!
((Please reflect on how disturbing it is that British children raping adult dolphins simultaneously reminded two people of Mary Poppins. I blame Dick VanDyke.))

Me: Maybe that's why dolphins aren't common near England? Too much raping of dolphins by British children?
((One hour goes by without a response))

BJ: My phone died :(.

Me: I was confused why British children raping dolphins was the "too far" mark in this conversation...

::The next day::

Me: So. Dragon rape may be possible.

Fig. 7
“Right now, I just burn down elf homes, but I’m working my way up to raping humans.”


BJ: That is terrifying!

Me: Yeah. We spoke too soon.

…And THIS is why I cherish the friends I have. Because no one else would talk to me.

Six bugs on my arch nemesis list

***WARNING: This post contains pictures of very scary bugs and one of Michael Phelps with lobster pincers.***

I think that I'm a pretty friendly person, but, like every other bat-shit crazy person I know, I have a few arch nemeses lists floating around. Unfortunately, I can't publish the list of people who are my arch nemeses because it would probably look suspicious when live scorpions turned up in all of their sock drawers (are you listening, Nickelback?). Because I can't list the people who I've declared as my arch nemeses, I'm giving y'all a list of bugs that are my arch nemeses. To be honest, there isn't much difference between the two lists (are you listening, Nickelback?).

1) Roaches
Ok. Roaches in Texas are like a genetic experiment gone horribly awry. They are roughly the size of a Volvo. They have terrible legs, they have creepy antennae that can feel their way into your soul where they will definitely lay babies, and they bite. (What's that? They don't bite? Well then, Bill Nye, explain to me how the fuck they eat.)

FIG. 1
Pictured: A fucking roach. That is fucking biting.

Also, roaches are aggressive. Don't look at me like that. A couple months ago, I woke up and walked out into the kitchen for a drink. There was a roach on the ceiling and he was approximately three feet long and he had a switchblade knife pointed at me and was wearing a bandana and a Guns N Roses shirt.

FIG. 2
Rough Approximation

He twitched his wings at me in Morse code, saying "if you take one step closer to me, I will fly into your hair and bite you" and then he charged at me to send me a message. To which I responded "Oh! Sorry!" and turned off the light and ran out of the kitchen as fast as I could (which, truthfully, isn't very fast). You read that correctly. He charged at me. Which is aggressive.

While roaches have always thrown me into mild states of cardiac arrest, I put them on my arch nemeses list after I woke up one morning with a roach on my arm. I screamed, simultaneously faceplanting out of bed while attempting to claw my own shirt off. I stood up with my ankles twisted around each other, the roach on my face and my shirt somehow stuck around my head. I tripped, screaming, and fell onto the bed which I bounced off of, screaming, and fell onto the dog's kennel, which I bounced off of, screaming, and fell into the wall, which I bounced off of, screaming, and faceplanted on the floor again, half naked with my shirt still somehow tied around my face. And the roach was still on me. Basically, I added roaches to my list the day a roach turned me into a half naked human pinball and won a battle of wills.

2) Water bugs
According to scientific research that I have just made up, water bugs are a combination of very scary pinchers, roaches and Michael Phelps, which are three of the things I'm most terrified of in this world.

FIG. 3
This seems legit. And you brought this on yourself, Michael Phelps.

Because my parents wanted to increase the possibility of death for all of us growing up, we had a pool. Inside this pool on occasion, were extremely terrifying water  bugs. From now on, we'll refer to them as Michael Phelps monsters. First, let's take a look at these things:

Fig. 4
"What's that, sir? You also come in Terrible Monstrosity size?"

That's a Giant Michael Phelps Monster. I used a giant Michael Phelps monster for a few reasons. First, it's easier to see all of their terrible nightmarish qualities when they're blown up to gargantuan proportions. Like their terrible eyeballs that can see all of your fears, or their terrible backs that are meant to trick you into thinking that they're a leaf you can pick up in your pool until it squirms out of your hands with it's terrible slippery body and lunges for your face. Second, I used a picture of a giant Michael Phelps monster to show you that they come in gargantuan proportions, which is probably God's way of saying that he wants me to die of a heart attack in the middle of a swimming pool.

Have you ever been peacefully floating on your back in your favorite Hello Kitty swimsuit in your parent's pool (this was a while ago, like at least two years) when suddenly it felt as though an Orc or a grizzly bear was clawing at your ass cheek? And then you remember that Orcs aren't real? And that there are no salmon in your pool so it's probably not a grizzly bear? And that's when you start to panic because you realize that there is a Michael Phelps monster loose in your swimsuit? I put Michael Phelps monsters on my arch nemeses list when I ended up almost drowning in a swimming pool because I freaked out and couldn't find the Michael Phelps monster that was loose in my swimsuit.

3) Mosquitoes
Mosquitoes made it onto my list last week. I know that's weird because they're kind of the worst creation in the history of things that have ever been created, but none of them have ever given me West Nile or Malaria, so honestly, I thought we were cool. I mean, yes, they're like terrible tiny vampires. But according to teenagers and 40-year-old moms who are pedophiles, vampires are sort of in right now.

Last week, I was driving home. My car is a convertible (an AWESOME convertible. As awesome as six Aston Martins except it's a PT Cruiser) and a mosquito flew directly into my eyeball. I'm not good at physics, but the velocity my car was travelling plus the velocity at which the mosquito was flying equaled approximately one million miles an hour, which equaled about seven millions pounds of force against my eyeball.

FIG. 5
These calculations seem correct.

This caused me to almost kill myself and several other people on the road. And the policeman that pulled me over because he thought, I am assuming, that I was drunk, did not quite understand what I meant when I said that a tiny vampire was trying to eat my eyeballs. So I put mosquitoes on my arch nemeses list last week when one caused me to almost kill several people, attracting the attention of the Friendswood Police, who then gave me a ticket for my expired registration.

4) Brown Recluse spiders

FIG. 6
Because holy Christ, that's why.

I have lots and lots of irrational fears, like that I'm somehow going to get eaten alive by an escalator or that any time I sit in a recliner, I am definitely going to fall over backwards. One of my more rational fears is that I am going to get viciously attacked by an entire colony of brown recluse spiders and doctors will have to remove all of my limbs and most of my boobs. Oh. That's not logical? Go Google "brown recluse spider bite" for me. It's ok. I'll wait.

FIG. 7
The bite is literally too terrible for me to post. So here's a picture of Richard Simmons.

Did you do it? Was it the most terrible thing you've ever seen besides anything starring Jennifer Lopez? If you didn't search for it and see the horror movie that results from one of these bites, first, that was probably smart, and second, all you have to do is picture the most terrible, disgusting wound in the whole world and then multiply that by exactly one fuck-ton. I put brown recluse spiders on my arch nemeses list as soon as I discovered that they lived in Texas, most likely in my attic, and then concluded that they had become self-aware and were planning an uprising.

5) Silverfish
First, look at them:

FIG. 8
"What? Oh I'm just hanging out. Trying to lay eggs in your brain."

Second, silverfish are like that really terrible socially awkward guy no one invited to the party and he refuses to leave.

FIG. 9
"But I brought French onion dip."

I'm just going to throw a few things out there:

• They eat books
• They live anywhere I am currently trying to take a shower
• They eat books
• They feed primarily on carbohydrates without getting fat, which means they are officially better at life than me
• They eat books
• They apparently live in piles of expensive bras
• They eat books
• Some species of silverfish HAVE NO FUCKING EYES, which somehow makes it even more frustrating that they always know where my arms are when I'm trying to simultaneously carry something and not touch a silverfish

FIG. 10
"Enemy arm at 6:00! Let's go, Comrades!"
(Also, silverfish sound Russian in my head. I blame the Cold War.)

I put silverfish on my arch nemeses list when I was four days old and someone tried to bathe me and I'm 100 percent certain there was a silverfish on the wall trying to crawl onto my arm.

6) June bugs
These are the things I know about June bugs.

FIG. 11
...besides, "I hate them."

• They have creepy legs
• They are like stupid kamikaze pilots that aim specifically for faces
• They do not know what the word "June" means
• They are like the very dumb and irritating cousins of Egyptian Scarab beetles
• They are apparently delicious, based on the number of June bugs my dog brings into the house and tries to eat, only to let them go so they kamikaze right into my face
• If you are a lifeguard and have to keep the pool clean, approximately seven trillion will accumulate in the skimmer baskets. When you try to get them out and have nowhere to put them, another lifeguard whom you incorrectly assume is a friend will suggest that you set them on fire. Several of them will, as it turns out, not be as dead as you originally thought  and will begin to fly at you out of anger and retribution.

FIG. 12
It was pretty hard to find a picture of this.

I put June bugs on my arch nemeses list when I was 20 and a lifeguard named Chase suggested I set a pile of presumed-dead June bugs on fire and three flaming undead June bugs attempted to kamikaze my face.

So that's it then. I'm pretty selective about what goes on this list, but I'm sure I'll be able to update it with equally terrifying arch nemeses bugs eventually. (Are you listening, Nickelback?)

***Also--I've added a subscribe-by-email thingie to the right hand side of the page if that would make life easier for anybody. Like my mother. Who had this conversation with me the other day:

Mom: I've never read your blog.

Me: Mom, are you serious?

Mom: It's not my fault! I don't know how to get there!

Me: Type in my blog name in Google!

Mom: What's your blog name?

Me: Seriously?! Diary of a failed anorexic!

Mom: Jennifer! No one wants to read about anorexia. That's not funny.

Me: Diary of a FAILED anorexic.

Mom: Oh, I get it. That's kind of funny, I guess.

She keeps me humble.***