I May Hulk Into a 26 Storey Marshmallow

Posted by under MOTHER FLUFFIN' DOG BLOG
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    I may be absent from blogging for a few weeks because, last night, my dogs failed to assassinate me with poison ivy.

    Every evening, I take them for a long walk at sunset, and, when we get back to the house, I unleash both of them in the backyard so they can blitz around and burn off any excess energy.  There’s no fence containing them there, but, on every single prior occasion, they have voluntarily not run away, because they love me.  Or they would really love to kill and eat me.  One of those.

    But, last night, Coco (Actual, live Coco; not Faux-Coco, may she rest in peace) spotted a squirrel dashing into the fire swamp behind our neighbor’s house.  Even though she heard me slow-motion-screaming, “COCO! NoooOOOO! IT’S A TRAAAaaaaPPP!” she was all, “THESE WOODS ARE LOVELY, DARK, AND DEEP, AND IF YOU WANTED ME TO OBEY YOUR COMMANDS THEN MAYBE YOU SHOULDN’T'VE RUN OFF TO CALIFORNIA AND TURNED UP TWO YEARS LATER WITH ANOTHER DOG!”  *Sassy bounding in pursuit of squirrel*

    1x1.trans I May Hulk Into a 26 Storey Marshmallow

    Jimi enthusiastically bounds after her, even though he hasn’t even seen the squirrel and is just like, “OOOoo! RUNNING! I LOVE RUNNING! LOOK AT ALL THESE TREES! I LOVE TREES!

    So, both dogs are now romping through the underbrush, coating themselves nose to tail in poison ivy oils and raccoon shit while I stand on the edge of the fire swamp ineffectually hollering,”TREAT! HUNGRY?! DINNER! BREAKFAST! BACON! BLUEBERRY! ICE CREAM!?”

    1x1.trans I May Hulk Into a 26 Storey Marshmallow

    All the usual synonyms for, “GET YO FURRY ASS OVA HERE.”

    Meanwhile, my neighbors just stand there, watching uselessly from their living room window as if this kind of spectacle is dishearteningly commonplace or somehow MY fault, even though THEY’RE the ones who let the fucking fire swap get totally out of hand with toxic plantlife.

    After nearly a minute of fervent cursing and angry hand clapping fails to entice either Jimi or Coco back out, I have no choice but to go in and retrieve them.

    I do so bravely but with caution, stalwartly minimizing all physical contact with the environment by entering the woods at a leaping sprint, using my arms to shield my face from poisonous vines and shrapnel and whatnot, sort of like an Olympic hurdler running into a burning building to save her murderous, betraying pets.

    Yet, when they see me blasting through the foliage like a reenactment of Pickett’s Charge, those fluffing assholes turn and run AWAY from me. This forces me to leap so deep into the fire swap that I eventually pop out the other side, where I find the two of them just sitting there, in some unfamiliar backyard, watching some weirdo on a riding mower, who, in turn, is just sitting there  ogling me because all this bravery has sucked my spandex shorts almost entirely into my vagina.  Or maybe he’s just staring in shock and confusion because no one has ever survived the fire swamp before.

    I’m not really paying all that much attention to what he’s thinking, preoccupied, as I am, with the realization that my dogs are trying to kill me.  A futile endeavor, considering I’m invincible and, when my immune system experiences an attempted ivy poisoning, it just Hulks the fuck out.

    I know because, the last time this happened (the last time I encountered poison ivy, I mean. Not the last time my pets tried to end me, which happens with disappointing regularity.), my entire body ballooned to an incredibly inconvenient size and stayed that way for three weeks.  I couldn’t move, including to speak or to consume any sustenance that must be masticated, because doing so would cause my prohibitively taught flesh to literally split  open at the joints, and also because my daily, head-to-toe calamine slatherings had layered and dried  into a gnarly, pink, full-body cast.

    So, I just laid, immobile, in bed, petulantly pondering the slew of alternative afflictions I would rather endure than the worst documented poison ivy rash in the history of mankind.

    Despite the fact that I couldn’t move, or speak, or see (my eyes were swollen shut), my friends still came to visit.

    I had my parents turn each visitor away, no matter how much I would have enjoyed someone reading to me or feeding me through a straw. Not because poison ivy is contagious; just because the first person I let see me was like:

    1x1.trans I May Hulk Into a 26 Storey Marshmallow

    1x1.trans I May Hulk Into a 26 Storey Marshmallow

    And if that’s how my own mother reacted, then it was in my best interests not to provoke others with my horrible disfigurement.

    Generally speaking, every time a person is exposed to poison ivy, the reaction is more severe, but I’m not really sure what comes after the Stay Puff Marshmallow Man.

    Maybe I’ll just look like someone microwaved the Stay Puff Marshmallow man on high for 20 seconds.

    Then again, I may not react at all.  After capturing my evil, wicked dogs, the three of us went into emergency quarantine mode; meaning, I tucked them under my arms like furry, belligerently thrashing footballs and whisked all three of us straight into the shower.  I washed us with hot water and Dawn dish soap (cocoa butter body wash didn’t have the oil-fighting balls for this next level shit), then I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves, threw the contaminated clothes, shoes, and doggie harnesses into a very hot laundry cycle, and retraced our route from door to shower, scrubbing  down anything we touched with rubbing alcohol.  It was actually an impressive feat to behold.

    It’s still too early to tell whether it did the trick. If I do Hulk into a grotesque human-marshmallow, I’ll try to let you know.

    It’ll probably look something like, ” 4to;mhkhcLHIL Ttw4jilH  kklW:YE J ,4oih5ty,” since I’ll just be blindly banging in and around the general vicinity of the keyboard with fingers that have swollen and merged into one monstrous, inflexible uni-digit.

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      Remember Alamo? Dead.

      Posted by under STFU DIARY
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        Hello friends and internet robots that keep “subscribing” to this site!

        I haven’t posted anything new in a while, and I apologize for that. Sincerely.  As you can read here, I’m desperately seeking means of feeding, clothing and generally providing for Jimi, which has kept me quite busy, considering Glenn is taking his sweet ass time in Miami with that stupid thesis nonsense and God knows what else, while I’m here in Chicago raising our dog all by myself.

        1x1.trans Remember Alamo? Dead.

        I’m also working diligently on a post/epic poem about the time my best friend had her heart broken by a thug, so I peed on him. I’ve been writing it for almost two weeks now because, apparently, I have quite a bit to say on the weaponization of bodily functions for purposes of retaliation.

        Here’s a story to entertain and/or alarm you in the meantime:

        Let’s flashback to the good old days when you could still threaten to shoot someone in an airport.

        The year is 1994, the hour is very nearly midnight, and I’ve just arrived in the mostly empty San Antonio airport with my mom and brother, Tony.

        1x1.trans Remember Alamo? Dead.

        Traveling in general is a stressful experience for my mother, and traveling alone, in the middle of the night, in the company of a 3- and a 5-year-old with undiagnosed ADD has been rabidly exciting.

        We approach the abandoned Alamo rental counter, where, in lieu of a customer service representative, there sits a bright red telephone with three, pre-programmed buttons to speed dial the White House, the Kremlin, and to alert Alamo of your arrival in San Antonio.

        Mom glares resentfully at it for a moment before snatching up the receiver.

        Tony and I hear only one half of the conversation which follows. It goes something like:

        “What do you mean there’s no car? How can there be no car? You want me to wait until morning to pick up my car. It’s 11:30 p.m. I’m traveling with two young children. No, I cannot call back in the morning! Nothing you can do for me? NOTHING YOU CAN DO OTHER THAN STRAND ME AND MY CHILDREN AT A DESERTED AIRPORT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, YOU SON OF A BITCH?”

        There are very few other travelers in the airport at this point, but the ones that remain are getting a real show. I imagine they’re pleased to have lingered this long, sort of like when you sit through the entirety of the film credits and your patience is rewarded with 10 extra seconds of Samuel L. Jackson being fatally strangled by a disgruntled snake.

        “OH, I BET YOU’RE SORRY! LIKE HELL I’LL CALM DOWN. YOU TELL YOUR SUPERVISOR THAT, IF I HAD A GUN, I SWEAR TO GOD, I WOULD SHOOT ALLLL OF YOU!”

        Then, she SLAMS the receiver down onto its sticky red cradle. *SLAMSLAMSLAM* After the third slam, she hefts the entire phone over her head and hurls it over the counter. Just, dunks it into the linoleum in mouth open, tongue-out fury, like Michael Jordan, except short, female and more impressive.

        It crashes to the ground in slow-motion with a grisly, reverberating clatter that, under normal circumstances, might sound like a long peal of thunder but, under the present circumstances, sounds like the enraged Sicilian woman who has just threatened to shoot everyone has, in fact, shot someone.

        She pirouettes, surveying the stunned onlookers. Across the baggage claim, a lone customer service agent stands behind the Hertz counter. Mom grabs the me, Tony and our luggage and tows us toward him. He stands motionless as we approach, probably in the hope that she will mistake him for the world’s fattest, cowboy-hat-wearing, customer service promotional mannequin.

        “Please tell me YOU’RE not completely out of cars, too, are you?” Mom demands.

        “N..No, ma’am,” he stutters, frantically. “We have lots of cars. Lots! You can have the cars. Whatever you want!”

        “I just need one car,” she says, raising one eyebrow. “Do you have something with a large trunk?”

        His eyes widen. “Y..ye…yes! OF COURSE. Is a…Subaru hatchback big enough for…?” he trails off, leaving “the cadaver” implied.

        “I’m not familiar with Subarus,” she says, glancing down at our suitcases. “We’ll be adding one more body and one more bag tomorrow,” she muses, referring to my father, who has patients scheduled through tomorrow afternoon and will be arriving on a 5 p.m. flight that evening. “Do you think the Subaru has enough trunk space?”

        “You know what?!” he squawks. “How about we upgrade you to the premium SUV, no extra charge?!”

        Mom is satisfied with this. “That would be wonderful,” she sighs, reaching into her purse.” The agent flinches, then relaxes again when he sees that she has withdrawn a wallet and not whatever firearm was used to murder the folks over at Alamo.

        They complete the transaction with record-breaking speed. “You’ve earned a loyal customer today, Frank,” she smiles, reading his name plate. Frank makes a valiant effort at looking pleased. “You know what kids,” she says as we walk away. “Mommy will always remember what happened at Alamo here tonight, and I will never rent from them again. That’s how you make companies treat their customers with respect, like Frank did just now.”

        1x1.trans Remember Alamo? Dead.

        Really, Mommy? Cause it looked like threatening to kill everyone worked pretty well…

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          Motivational Jedi For Hire

          Posted by under STFU DIARY
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            After doing some pretty tough math, it appears that the zero dollars I earn by writing this blog is probably not going to cut it.

            1x1.trans Motivational Jedi For Hire

            I would like to meet the titanic financial obligations of my indentured servitude as quickly as possible, so I’ve been hunting for a job ever since leaving Miami for Chicago.

            Finding a job should be the easiest thing I have ever done, considering that I am a goddamn genius and, as such, can do literally anything like a fucking champion.

            My skill set includes everything from baking macarons to building warp engines in my basement. I have three outrageously expensive and ambiguously defined degrees, the medical licensure to perform CPR, and the ministerial licensure to perform last rites so that I can save your soul in the statistically inconceivable event that I fail to save your life.

            1x1.trans Motivational Jedi For Hire

            You better stand the fuck back, The Village People.

            Until recently, I presumed that my job search would go something like this: I get off the train and stride into the first office building I see; eventually, someone asks who I am and what I’m doing in Duane’s cubicle, to which I reply, “Whatever you want me to do, Obi Wan.”

            Bada Bing, Bada Boop! I’m shorting treasury securities by Monday.

            Much to my shock and bewilderment, this is not, in fact, how it works. I know this because every single time I tell someone that I’m seeking gainful employment, the very first thing they say is, “What do you want to do?”

            Which never fails to surprise me because, CLEARLY, I want to make a shit-ton of money so that I can pay back my gargantuan debt before the bruisers at Sallie Mae Student Loans Division beat me down with a corked baseball bat.

            I would have presumed that this was obvious.

            But, even though every person I have ever met would almost certainly stop showing up to work if they stopped receiving money for being there, when I specify that what I would like to do is make $285,000 in the next six months, the well-intentioned friend or relation is all, “*Laugh Laugh Laugh* What a joker you are! But, seriously, what kind of job are you looking for?”

            And I’m like, “You think think this is a joke? Defaulting on student loan repayment is how Houdini died, you sadistic son of a bitch!” Then I slap them across their insolent faces with one of the mittens I keep on my person at all times because it’s April in Chicago and might snow at any moment.

            1x1.trans Motivational Jedi For Hire

            And they walk away looking stunned, presumably because they’ve never seen anyone wear men’s long-underwear like a champ.

            No one has gotten back to me yet re: jobs in the shit-ton salary range.

            So, apparently, I need to come up with an answer to this question other than, “One which pays me as many dollars as possible, you simple-minded fool.”

            I discuss the matter with Glenn during our nightly video chat on the eve of my first job interview. He insists on first lecturing me on the importance of not striking our friends and neighbors with winter wear before he finally gets around to informing me that, “What do you want to do?” is actually just code for, “What sort of job would you enjoy doing?”

            Honestly, you’d think that deciphering this kind of code without first having to assault someone is exactly the kind of thing they should teach you in Social Deedleleeboop 101. Glenn’s roundabout Rosetta-Stoning leaves me with barely enough time to modify the Career Objectives section of my CV.

            After some expedient self-reflection, I type:

            “Reverend Corielle Heath seeks high-paying employment as beloved humor columnist, Jedi Knight, professional crafty person, animal translator, dream architect, motivational dancer, gubernatorial food-taster, exotic traveler, or starship captain.”

            The next morning, I proudly slide my resume across a large oak conference table. While the interviewer’s judicious eyes skim the page, I gaze out into the drizzly morning and hope he presumes that I walked here in the rain, though, in actuality, I hailed a cab and am just sweating profusely from nervous excitement.

            After several silent minutes, he speaks. “So, what is it, exactly, that you want to do?”

            I am dumbfounded. “Excuse me?” I ask incredulously, because, “Are you fucking kidding me, GLENN?” seems inappropriate on several levels.

            Leaning away from my crazy-eyed stare, he reads aloud from my resume. “‘Humor columnist, Jedi Knight…starship captain?’ It’s an…atypical objectives section. I’m just curious what goes on in the mind of someone who would write something like that.”

            Though he says it kindly and appears genuinely intrigued, my genius instincts compel me NOT to reveal what goes on in the mind of someone who would write something like that, which is:

            1x1.trans Motivational Jedi For Hire

            I know what you’re thinking, Sir. “Why would she throw down $285,000 for three degrees which taught her absolutely nothing about galaxy-class captaining?”
            I’m pretty sure I have all the intangibles, though.

            Instead of the truth, I babble for several painful minutes which my psyche has already repressed but which went something like, “I am unique and occasionally make mirth. My favorite food is spaghetti, but everyone likes spaghetti, and you wouldn’t remember someone who likes spaghetti, would you? No, of course not. So, yes, because I am unique there are no other ones who are also me, and I would use the force for good. And, whew! Is it raining in here or what?!”

            1x1.trans Motivational Jedi For Hire

            I video call Glenn the minute I get back to my lair.

            “YOU LYING SON OF A BITCH!” I shout, savagely throttling my iPad.

            “Why are you all wet?” he asks, seemingly unfazed by my accusatory glare.

            “I WALKED HOME IN THE RAIN.”

            “From Chicago? Seriously?”

            God damnit. “No! I took a cab, and then the train, and I’m just sweating profusely from fury! But, it doesn’t feel good being lied to, HUH!?”

            He continues to completely ignore my increasingly belligerent squawking by responding only with ridiculous and evasive questions such as, “What are you talking about?” and “How did your interview go?” It takes thirty minutes of two-way interrogation for me to extract the following translation:

            “What do you want to do?” is actually just code for, “What kind of job would you enjoy doing?” which is actually just a cryptic way of asking, “What sort of job would you like to do and are also qualified to do and for which the technology presently exists for you to do?”

            “Reverend Corielle Heath seeks high-paying employment as beloved humor columnist, Jedi Knight, professional crafty person, animal translator, dream architect, motivational dancer, gubernatorial food-taster, exotic traveler, or starship captain.“

            I threaten him with another thirty minutes of ruthless interrogation and possibly even iPad waterboarding, and Glenn reveals that, when asked, “What do you want to do?” I must name a technologically feasible job that I am qualified to enjoy performing and for which someone in the City of Chicago in presently hiring.

            “Reverend Corielle Heath seeks high-paying employment as beloved humor columnist, Jedi Knight, professional crafty person, animal translator, dream architect, motivational dancer, gubernatorial food-taster, exotic traveler, or starship captain.“

            “What’s a ‘motivational dancer’?” asks Glenn, though this is, once again, just code for, “I would like that you not be a stripper.” Which is just plain insulting, because, obviously, a motivational dancer is what Patrick Swayze plays in Dirty Dancing.

            1x1.trans Motivational Jedi For Hire

            “Just because I’m a woman does not mean that I can’t motivate a room full of people to spontaneously break into choreographed group dance numbers without first taking my clothes off, Glenn, you chauvinist pig.”

            Then Glenn’s all, “Too bad creating arguments just so you can win them with unmatchable cantankerousness isn’t a job…”

            And I’m like, “You know I can’t afford a law degree right now, Glenn!”

            To which he says the magic words: “You already have a degree in News Imagineering! WHY aren’t you looking for a job imagineering the news?!”  And that’s when I realize:

            I want to communicate with my imagination!

            I would rabidly enjoy writing for a living.
            I am calamitously well-qualified for a job in communications.
            The technology currently exists for me to work in media–thank you, Gutten-Zuckerberg!

            Better yet, when a hiring manager asks me, “What do you want to do in communications?” I can confidently proclaim, “ANYTHING you want me to, Obi Wan!” without first having to go home and read the Wikipedia articles on speculative stock trading and how to build a smart robot that can understand the electronic trading algorithms written by that insanely smart robot which Sallie Mae’s bruiser squad was forced to destroy for the safety of all mankind.

            So! If you (Yes, YOU!) know of a job in media in the Chicago area which calls for a genius with a penchant for exotic travel and expressing herself through dance, I’m your Jedi!

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              Get Ye Vigilantes To The Polls!

              Posted by under OMG News
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                1x1.trans Get Ye Vigilantes To The Polls!

                On Saturday, I received a bizarre letter in the mail from a group calling themselves “Citizens for Effective Local Government.”

                (Clicking the scanned copy of this letter, at left, will open the full-size images in a new tab.)

                It pressured me to vote in my upcoming municipal election by threatening, among other things, to “[post] a list of non-voters online at www.frankforttownshipvotes.com.”

                …An empty threat which is now a total impossibility, given that I bought that URL out from underneath them.

                 

                1x1.trans Get Ye Vigilantes To The Polls!

                Click the images to open full-size documents in a new tab.

                Also in the envelope (which came with the word “AUDIT” stamped on it in red ink)  was a list of registered voters near my home, along with their street addresses and voting histories.

                I don’t like being coerced or creeped out by my mail, nor do I like receiving lists of my neighbors’ home addresses and voting habits from an anonymous squad of political propagandists unwilling to disclose its own address or agenda.

                So, here is my reply.

                Dear “Citizens for Effective Local Government,”

                Thank you for your threatening and invasively informative letter!  As you already know, I LOVE voting in municipal elections and do it every chance I get.

                1x1.trans Get Ye Vigilantes To The Polls!

                What you may not already know is that I also LOVE punishing my friends and neighbors who choose not to vote, because I am a complete lunatic!

                Like the Citizens for Effective Local Government, I, too, believe that nothing gets apathetic voters to the polls like vigilantism. In fact, my favorite part about Election Day is standing on the side of the road outside my polling place, throwing rotten eggs and my own feces at the infidels who dare drive past without stopping to perform their civic duty.

                In the past (because my hands were full of eggs and I try not to get poo on my pens), I was unable to write down the license plate numbers of the civically undutiful as they sped by me. Before you provided me with a list of the names, addresses and voting histories of 65 registered voters within easy walking distance, I could only dream of the ways I would shame the non-voters.

                But, now! When they awake one spring morning next to the decapitated heads of their newly bloomed tulips and a note that says, “I KNOW WHAT YOU DIDN’T DO LAST APRIL,” followed by a list of everyone who dies in the third season of Game of Thrones, they’ll know who to thank (because I’ll have written that note on the back of the letter you sent me)!

                You asked why so many people fail to vote in their local elections.  If I had to guess, I’d suggest that it has less to do with the fact that every candidate in the Village of Frankfort is running uncontested, and more to do with an alarming degree of disinterest in the political orientation of the kindly folk governing the larger Frankfort Township. Can you believe that some people just don’t give a shit whether the township official responsible for mosquito abatement and issuing handicap placards is a Democrat or a Republican?

                I must say that, while I cherish the increasingly rare letters I receive by snail mail, I, like most psychopaths, do not like being audited.

                How would you like it if some dweeb from the nanny state showed up on your doorstep, asking questions about the whereabouts of your neighbors’ cats and insisting that you put some pants on IN YOUR OWN FRONT YARD?

                As you can imagine, the giant red “AUDIT” stamped onto the front of your letter caused me to panic and light my neighbor’s mailbox on fire. I couldn’t even muster the courage to open your letter until I had punted a stray cat which absolutely did not belong to my neighbor until last month. This and the threatening voicemail I left with the mailroom at the IRS could all have been avoided if you had just remembered to stamp the envelope with your return address!

                Based on the lack of contact information and signature in your letter, it appears that you, yourself, are not quite sure who or where you are.

                1x1.trans Get Ye Vigilantes To The Polls!

                You did provide me with a web address where I would find an updated list of neighbors to publicly shame after this Tuesday’s election, but, when I went to that address, it didn’t exist! Because I really, really wanted to send this letter to you directly, I searched the “Who Is” database to see who owned that URL, and that’s when I realized that you had forgotten to purchase it in the first place. Doh!

                So, I bought it for you. On sale. For $0.50.

                Now we’re even steven on the postage. If you’d like to discuss purchasing it from me for future voter intimidation purposes, I hope you’re willing to pay in cat pelts. I’m sure we can negotiate something fair.

                The sincerest regards I am capable of,

                Corielle Heath
                Bona-fide Sociopath Just One Creepy Letter Short of Voting Republican

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                  MOVE ALL THE THINGS!

                  Posted by under STFU DIARY
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                     I’M GOING ON AN ADVENTURE!

                    1x1.trans MOVE ALL THE THINGS!

                    Jimi and I are moving to Chicago tomorrow! (See map above for detailed timeline.) 

                    To the immense dispiritment of everyone involved, Glenn must remain in Miami until JUNE, writing 95% of his master’s thesis and doing all the hard work involved in moving our meager worldly belongings from Miami to Chicago.  Meanwhile, my mission is to seek out new jobs and new apartments; to boldly go home, to my old bedroom new lair in Frankfort, IL.

                    Seven years ago, I left Frankfort on an academic adventure. (See treasure map below).

                    1x1.trans MOVE ALL THE THINGS!

                    I now make my glorious return to my old house, which I am very thrilled about because I had always hoped to move back in with my parents in my mid-twenties.  Also, unlike Glenn and I, my parents can afford nice things, such as:

                    Chest freezer. Basement.  Doorbell.  Kitchen table. Vacuum. Full length mirror. 

                    But I will miss many things about my Miami apartment, such as: 

                    Fitness center and unscrupulous spa.  Peephole. Shower window. The now imminent passing of my plants.

                    I’ve spent the last week packing and making high-quality memories of Miami.

                    On Easter Sunday, I rose at the crack of dawn to put out Easter baskets for Glenn and Jimi.  I crept silently about, taking great pains to maintain the illusion that the baskets were indeed delivered by a magic rabbit, despite the fact that Glenn seems to have figured out the truth and Jimi is a dog who does not appreciate the once-a-year specialness of Easter and now begins every morning by checking the apartment for hard-boiled eggs.

                    1x1.trans MOVE ALL THE THINGS!

                    The night before Easter, Glenn and I dyed the only 5 eggs we had in our refrigerator with the homemade egg-dyes I brewed saucepan-meth-lab-style.

                    1x1.trans MOVE ALL THE THINGS!

                    It might appear, at first, that I spent way too much time decorating, glazing and firing these eggs in the kiln, and maybe I take egg-art a little too seriously.
                    That is erroneous.
                    You see, this was an egg-dying competition, and the only thing I take more seriously than crafting is winning.

                    Glenn dipped his eggs in MY specialty egg dye, then hid in front of the couch “watching TV” but secretly decorating his eggs with a SHARPIE marker.  But then he came so gaily back into the kitchen saying, “Look what I made! This one is a businessman  and he has little feet on the bottom! And this one is me, see?” and it really is a striking resemblance and I hadn’t the heart to point out that he was technically disqualified from our egg decorating competition which he technically hadn’t been informed about in the first place.

                    1x1.trans MOVE ALL THE THINGS!

                    Instead, I just told him I loved him and would most likely miss him during my upcoming adventure. Then I said I would like to keep egg-Glenn so it could accompany me to Chicago and possibly on job interviews, but Glenn was all, “That idea will stink!”
                    And I’m like, “You think this is punny?”
                    But he makes a good point, so I settled for a life-size picture of his face glued to a Kleenex box instead.

                    1x1.trans MOVE ALL THE THINGS!

                    Cause that went so well the first time.

                    The next time you’ll hear from me, I’ll be writing from the Land of Lincoln.  Until then, live long and prosper, my friends!

                    (Do you like how I’m not going to bother explaining why I have such an impressive collection of Kleenex-box-size men’s attire?)

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