Actually, it IS Rocket Science

Island time


Guess where I am.

I’ll give you a hint.  It’s green, blue, and all the other colors of the rainbow.  IN TECHNICOLOR.

And it’s not the land of OZ.

Meaning I didn’t have to kill anyone to get here, thank god.

I flew into the big island of Hawaii on Saturday night, in the town of Waikoloa, which puts me three hours behind California time, so there’s been some adjustments.

Some trade-wind, mai-tai-infused, ZIP-LINE accelerated adjustments.

What trying times I’ve had so far.

Talk to you very soon!


Tomorrow… Tomorrow.

The life of a terminal procrastinator is rough.  I mean, it wouldn’t have to be, obviously, but it simply is.  There’s more at heart than simply putting off stuff until the last minute.  It transcends that.  Much like an addiction, the act of delaying responsibility is merely a symptom of something much, much greater.  And its effects are even more detrimental to those around them.  It breaks up families, crumbles civilizations, causes the decimation of potential laws under a fancy title of “filibustering,” and makes everyone pissed off that they had to wait for you to show up 20 minutes late for dinner.

Overall?  Infuriating for everyone involved.

But it’s not something that carries a simple solution as a direct order of “Just effing DO IT, already!”  That’s like telling a depressed person to “Just smile” or “Snap out of it.”

Oooo.  I hate those people that say  ”just snap out of it.”  I feel like putting on stilettos and “accidently” impaling their feet.

Well, I mean, if we’re already using quotations.

Tomorrow I take off for an extended vacation where my family will gather together like a rare sighting of an exotic species of birds and celebrate the union of two people who are very important to us.  At this point, for all intents and purposes, I should be done getting ready for my flight out tomorrow.  DONE.  The only thing I should be worried about at this point is setting my dv-r for the coming week.

Instead, this morning I woke up and made a list of what I had left to do.

Here, at almost 11am, is that list that I need to complete before I leave tomorrow:


go to bank

take out garbage

clean kitchen

schedule for airport shuttle


shop: still need:  energy bar for airport, shitty mags (for 5 hour flight), white button down shirt, new flip flops, a falcon (just checking if you were still paying attention)

write Psychopathology paper


hang up clothes

call sister


clean out fridge

water plants



iron clothes

maintain a modicum of sanity


Yes.  all that.  And although, admittedly, many of those activities will take only a short amount of time to finish, they are completely counteracted by other activities that will take much longer to perform.  And, wait, did I mention that I’m a procrastinator?  Yes?

May I just say that I have grown in leaps and bounds at attempting to recover from this crippling disease.  First of all, by making lists.  Lists.  Oh my god, the lists.  Lists have changed my life.  But it’s still a work in progress.  Because once I make a list, especially an extensive one as the one you see above, it can sometimes have a counteractive effect than its original goal.  Instead of mapping out a clean and concise directive of what still needs to be done, it has been known to put me in a complete state of disbelief and shock-induced paralysis that I’ve let shit build up this much.

And now everything is totally screwed.  Because ultimately that means that I will now find anything else to do to put of the list of clear and focused goals that need to be completed, but I just noticed that I should really dust off my dvd’s; they’re looking mighty… dusty.

And the list is now null-and-void.  I am procrastinating the procrastination.   How meta.

But I do it.  I will.  I always have.  I never just don’t turn in a paper on time, or simplynot clean the kitchen.  The only difference is that I now know that I will more than likely not go to sleep tonight in attempt to scramble to get it all done.  Oh, it’ll get done.  But tomorrow the TSA agent who has the misfortune of getting me as their next client is going to have to deal with a woman who is so out of sorts due to sleep-restricted-induced dementia that they will probably have to ask multiple times for me to pull my computer out of my bag.  And now out of it’s sleeve.  And to now please place it on the tray.  No, ma’am, the tray.  No, you can’t just place the laptop on the x-ray belt.  No, don’t put your dirty shoes on top of your laptop, get another tray.  You know what?  Do whatever the hell you want.  I pray you’re not carrying anything metal on you.

Crisis averted

Abooot a year ago, I noticed a really strange mark on my left thigh.  Kinda looked like someone took a sharpie marker and quickly dotted my leg.  Like a mini graffiti artist came in on his micro-machine the night and tagged me.

Being that I try to rationalize anything that I perceive as possibly bad so as not to get worried about it, I called my dad just so I could get someone else to back me up that I didn’t need to have a doctor look at it:

Ashlin:  Okay, so it’s raised…

Dad:  Yeah…?

Ashlin:  And it’s really dark…

Dad:  Uh-huh….

Ashlin:  And it’s irregularly shaped.

Dad:  Okay…

Ashlin:  So what do you think?  It’s not that big a deal, right?  I don’t need to get it checked or anything, right?

Dad:  Uh…yes.  Yes, you definitely do.

If I had to guess, my dad was at the same time giving me the universal “DOY” face over the phone.

I didn’t have a dermatologist in Chicago because I had never had to worry about it before, so when I went to work the next day, I mentioned it to my friend and asked if she had any suggestions.  To my surprise, she did.  “He’s just over here at Midwest hospital.  He’s really good, went to Harvard.  And he’s cute.”


I called to schedule an appointment and the woman on the phone explained they had a cancellation that afternoon and to just come over once I got off work.  Sweet.  I ran in there, got my paperwork filled out, was escorted to the room and told to remove my pants.

I suddenly regretted the extremely old and ridiculously novelty panties I had adorned that morning. Seriously.  When I got them I was still in high school- they were wizards with little stars that glowed in the dark at the time, but now just looked like sad washed out old men pointing at where stars used to be.  Thanks Target, circa 2001.  But in my defense, I think I mentioned before that waking up at 4:30 in the morning had some detrimental effects on my decisions in attire, plus I really didn’t plan on anyone seeing my unmentionables at 5 in the afternoon.  So, you know, suck it.

A few minutes later, in walked the Harvard Med dreamboat.  Actually, he wasn’t all that dreamy.  He was cute, certainly, but I’ve got to throw in some elaboration once in a while to deflect from the fact that I just explained to you my underwear in explicit detail.

So this total 10 walks in and begins the inspection… while giving me a back rub… and telling me how good my hair looks in that rats nest of a bun…

And finally puts down his magnifying instruments as well as my fears of imminent death by explaining that it was merely a series of broken blood vessels that had seemed to have just broken closely together, possibly because I had sat on something at some point or just because, as he explained, “sometimes these things just happen.”

“So I don’t need to worry?”

“Nope.  You’re fine.”

“Great!  Well thanks!”

“Well, I’d like to take a look at the rest of you while you’re here.  Check for moles and whatnot.”

“Um… sure.”

Mother. Fucker.  I had to have put on my most ill-fitting bra that day, too, hadn’t I?

As he inspected my shoulders and underarms, getting dangerously close to revealing that hole just above the waistband of my piss-poor excuse for a breast supporter, my self-consciousness elevated exponentially every second, until at some point I couldn’t take it anymore and blurted out, without prior prompt:


I gotta hand it to a doctor who still maintains a decent bedside manner, especially with a patient who apparently has no sense of proper conversational decorum, or choice in undergarment attire.  He offered a patronizing chuckle and moved on to my scalp, eventually explaining that I checked out all right all over.  I thanked him and he exited so I could get redressed.

Wonderful.  Everybody’s happy.  I’m not going to die.

But now I have to wonder if I have Tourette’s.

Unknown caller

This morning I received a phone call from an exceptional friend who I haven’t had the opportunity to speak with in what could very well be several years on account that they now live out of the country, and therefore phone calls across the pond are a lot less accessible as you might think.  Instead we abuse the everloving shit out of emails, which is better than nothing, but given the fact that they recently returned to the states for a short trip and thus have access to a more local phone offered me a genuinely lovely surprise of a phone salutations.

Apart from the fact that talking to them is not unlike eating warm brownies while Radiohead plays an all acoustic rendition of OK Computer just for you, getting a phone call from an unknown number that shares my same area code and is thus calling from my old neighborhood are more often than not means that a veritable grab bag of voices lurk behind the answer button.  Which is what made answering the call and hearing an immediately recognizable voice even that much more a welcome change.

The sheer amount of wrong numbers I get from Southwest Louisiana is amazing.  Right now we’re averaging 3 per month.  I have different ringtones that decipher between my known contacts and unidentified numbers, and boy, when I hear that distinct ring, I brace myself:  it either means I’m getting a call from an automated solicitor or I’m about to engage with a person who is going to be blown away that I’m not Meredith…OR Scott, and probably has nothing to do with the possibility that they may have dialed the wrong number, as far as they’re concerned.

I’ve answered the phone to someone who has already launched into the conversation long before I had the opportunity to pick up the phone, which sounds something like this:

Ashlin: Hel-

Person:  And really, I mean wouldn’t you think that I knew she wasn’t really going out of town?!

Ashlin: I’m sorry?

Person:  What?  Oh… *click*


I’ve answered from people who get it:

Ashlin:  Hello?

Male:  Uh, yes, Don, please?

Ashlin:  Oh, I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number.

Male:  Oh!  Very sorry.

Ashlin:  No worries!  Have a nice day.

Male:  You too, ma’am.

(that’s one thing about people that get it.  They’re always polite and end the conversation accordingly rather than just hanging up)


I’ve answered the phone to those who don’t:

Ashlin:  Hello?

Male: … … Well HEY… …

Ashlin:  Hi.  Who is this?

Male:  Shaddup.  You know who this is.

Ashlin:  …?… Nnnooo.  Who am I speaking with?

Male:  It’s me.

Ashlin:  I think you have the wrong number.


Ashlin:  Nope. *click*


I’ve answered calls from ancient and loving grandparents:

Ashlin:  Hello?

Grandmother:  … … …Hey-…hellooooo?

Ashlin:  Yes, hi!  Who am I speaking with?

Grandmother:  …He-…Happy Birthday, Baby!

Ashlin:  Oh!  Thank you!  But I think you might have dialed the wrong number.

Grandmother:  … …Wha-…What’s that??

Ashlin:  I said I think you dialed the wrong number?

Grandmother:  … … …Is this Jessica?

Ashlin: Noooo, this is Ashlin, I’m sorry!

Grandmother:  Let me speak to your mother, honey.

Ashlin:  Ma’am, I think you should try calling her again.

Grandmother:  …What?

Ashlin:  This isn’t Jessica.  Try calling one more time.

Grandmother:  … Oh my…

*dead air for 15 seconds because I’m not going to hang up on a nice old lady*

Ashlin:  Okay… goodbye!

Grandmother: …Shoot, Henry, how do I press redial? *click*


I’ve answered to, well, I don’t even know if they were human or not (for the record: this was not a wrong number from Louisiana, but rather South Dakota, of all places, but still fits in the pantheon of oddly misplaced phone calls):

Ashlin:  Hello?

Person?: … eab…bee…buzzelll.

Ashlin:  What?

Person?: …iastinaw…litu…dern.

Ashlin: (I said absolutely nothing because at this point I was genuinely curious if I would hear anything that could be deemed of the English Language)

Person?: PLEE…Getina..kawr

Ashlin:  Please get in the car??

Person?:  NO!!…Pweee!  Geit’naw…Kawar!!

Person?: Twee…dunnaw…mitrealle streep.

Person?:  …AAAAAWWWW FUJIT. *click*

Well, at least he got “No” in there.


And finally, the best misplaced call I have ever received, placed at 1:30am which meant the caller was living at 3:30am their time and was probably getting desperate, understandably:

Ashlin: …Whut.

Woman:  Are you gonna get over here and—Wait.  WHO IS THIS?!

Ashlin:  You’ve got the wrong number.


Ashlin:  What?  No. Look. No. I don’t even live in Louisisana.  You’ve got the wrong number.


Ashlin:  You know what?  Tell Shirley to-



Dave, I’m sorry.  I think I may have just placed an incomparable rift in the love of your life.

Let’s get physical, I mean annoying

I’ve never been good at exercising on a regular basis.

I’ve always been extremely good at making up glib rationalizations to evade the possibility of pulling on a restrictive sports bra and a pair of running shorts and engage in what I regularly refer to as being-in-a-constant-state-of-complete-uncomfortableness-for-at-least-an-hour.

You know, the usual reasoning:

I can’t right now because I know the gym is closed for cleaning for the next hour, and by then I’ll be working on homework.

I can’t because there’s a total creeper who’s been annoying the shit out of me for the past week.

I can’t because their new automatic air freshener smells like someone else’s musty old grandmaw’s house.

I can’t right now because I’m having a fat day.  (Figure that one out.)

I can’t right now because Mad Men is on.  What’s that?  Yes, I KNOW I have all of them on dvd already.  But this is a refresher before the next season.  Would you like to discuss your affinity for Everybody Loves Raymond syndication??

I can’t right now because I just COMPLETELY BY ACCIDENT poured a glass of wine.

And after today I have just another reason why.


This morning, as with many mornings, I reluctantly slapped on my workout attire and went down to my apartment complex’s fitness center.  There was no one there, and being that it’s such a small place already, there’s only one television delegated to anyone on one of the five lined up machines.  It is, obviously, first come first serve, and since I was alone I turned on the boob tube and proceeded to zone out.

Somewhere around 9:30 one of the complex’s maintenance keepers, a guy who I see around the neighborhood on a regular basis and have struck up a minor friendship with, came up to the fitness center’s door and placed the obligatory notice that from 10-11 the gym would be closed for cleaning.  A few minutes later, a woman came in and took her place at one of the other machines.  We exchanged quick smiles and she began her own self torture workout.

ain't she pretty, y'all?

Finally, just a moment or two shy of the 10am deadline, I ended my session on the treadmill and she ended hers.  I figured we were calling it quits for the same reason  being that we needed to clear out for the guy to come dust the windows or whatever the hell he does, until I noticed her reason for hopping off the machine sparked from another motivation entirely.

She approached me and asked, “Would you mind turning the television down a little bit?”

To which I immediately felt like a bad person and smiled, said, “Sure!  Sorry!” and turned the box down, not realizing that it was as loud as I thought it was, even after exiting the treadmill.

This, in my opinion, would be the proper place to end the conversation.  But I guess she had other plans as what I heard next went like this:

“Because it’s really loud.”

I nod.

“And, you know, I’m getting a headache.”

I half-nod.  Shit wasn’t that loud, yo.

“You know, because I have to turn the music in my headphones up just so I can hear?”

I do nothing.

“And I’ve still got a long way to go on my workout.”

I blatantly disregard what she’s saying.

Because at this point, lady, you’ve far overshot a decent request.  Far as I can tell, you just want to bitch for no specific reason at someone else about something that you either really feel strongly about or take out your frustration at the fact that you never really learned to properly end a conversation.

There are few things I hate more than people who have an inflated sense of entitlement, and one of those are PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE people who have an inflated sense of entitlement.

And really, if you were suffering so greatly, why didn’t you speak up sooner?  Am I supposed to feel bad that you apparently suffered in silence for the past 15 minutes because I’m not a mind reader?


Because one bitchy move deserves another, I turned that shit on mute and walked out of the gym toward the front to retrieve my mail.  On the way back, I happened to notice my maintenance buddy in an altercation with the woman, who was now doing this weird dance where she would begin to walk away, but then twist and flip her direction and bark something back at him, then turn again and begin to walk off, only to return to the flip ‘n’ bitch again.  She finally turned a corner and the guy proceeded to enter the gym.  I poked my head in the door.

“She didn’t want to leave, did she?”

“I don’t know!  I guess not.  But I had put the sign up.”

“And she wouldn’t let well enough be, right?”

“Yeah.  Some people, you know… some people just like to complain.”

“Heard that.”

This post will change your life

You know how the conversation goes.  You’re in an informal conversation with someone in a normal setting when you get on the topic of a recent book/movie/event/etc. that the other person has recently enjoyed, where you then casually remark that you haven’t had the opportunity to take part in yet, and what follows is an onslaught of seraphim’s voices professing all laud-and-honor of the life-altering effects of said topic.  The first time this happens you might listen intently at the magical properties this particular entity might contain, given how excited your friend is about it, and you rush home later, chomping at the bit to take part in the latest movement that he or she has made very clear is on the cusp of changing the world.

And then at some point you realize you just spent $35 bucks on a criterion collection release of some pretentious asshole’s audio memoirs set to an intentionally ironic Ace of Base soundtrack.  This realization is usually followed by the feeling of being a complete jackass for allowing someone to bamboozle you so well that you think they may have even done it on purpose, just to make you feel like a dumbass.


So here are a list of things that have been completely ruined for me by others thoroughly overhyping them:

Rushmore (and most other Wes Anderson films, for that matter.  He’s just lucky he didn’t butcher The Fantastic Mr. Fox or else this would be a post dedicated to why I dislike the majority of his work)

Catcher in the Rye- the only thing phony about this was that I highly doubt you ever actually read the book, hipster with wide-rimmed sunglasses and a scarf on in the summer.

Casablanca- shit.  I just fell asleep writing that.

Mulholland Drive- I wish I had told the girl who raved about it “Silencio” long before she blew it for me.

Shutter Island- had that shit figured out within the first 10 minutes, spent the other 75 trying not to yell at the screen/the person who told me it was “such a trip”

Poetry- pretty much all of it.

On The Road- hey, you remember that time when someone told you about this completely transformative book and they made it sound like it would be the key to understanding what it’s all about and how you needed to go get it wait no just borrow his because you need to read this now and you did and you realized you had just gotten into a conversation with a really stoned guy at a party that overhyped an otherwise decent book that offered an interesting approach at stream of consciousness writing but because he had gushed over it for a solid hour that you now felt like a deflated balloon with a headache?  Yeah, so do I.

Grizzly Bear-Oooo, this one’s classic.  This was when about AT LEAST 7-10 friends wouldn’t just shutthefuckup about the band already and by the time I listened to them, I was expecting a magical hammock to float out from the ground and cradle me for the next hour.  Instead I just got a bunch of low-range Wurlitzer nonsense that if played loud enough made my bowels rumble.

latte’s- it’s just a lot of warm milk and a disproportionate amount of coffee.  What you probably meant to tell me was that you like reenacting your toddlerhood without the hassle of a sippy cup.

Red bull-  are you sure you meant to tell me this stuff tastes like sprite and gives me that “perfect amount of ‘oomph’?”  Because all I’m getting from it is the flavor of carbonated pez and mad caffeine jitters.

Citizen Kane- Admittedly, this is less of an overhype and more of a long-running spoiler since the day I first heard about it.  Just because I was born after the movie made history doesn’t mean I should be subjected to the twist ending before I have an opportunity to watch it.  (Also, keep this in mind when you introduce your children to Coen Bros. movies in a few years.)

Croquet-  Seriously, how goddam ripped do you have to be to have a decent time playing this?  If I had to estimate due to the apparent  blood/alcohol content the WASP who attempted to teach me, pretty heavily.

Incense- does it really cover up other nefarious scents as well as you say it does?  Because now all I smell is weed and nag champa.

And finally:

Law and Order: SVU- It’s not really that great, I think you’ve just got some seriously hidden sexual deviance issues to resolve.


The only thing I can offer from this ridiculous post is this:  if you EVER find yourself in a conversation with someone where a topic of something you feel strongly about comes up, don’t waste your time and theirs trying to get them to see how absolutely flawless its cinematography is, or that the director’s use of light will make you well up inside, or how the author’s understanding of iambic pentameter will blow you away, or anything else.  Just offer a simple suggestion, at most, of, “It’s something you might want to check out sometime.  And let me know once you have.”

Dark and sinister man

“You see, Wendy, when the first baby laughed for the very first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces… and they all went skipping about. And that was the beginning of fairies.”

This, if you’re not familiar, is a hallmark phrase from the novel written by Scottish author J.M. Barrie titled “Peter Pan.”

It is also a phrase that my dad might normally take a mighty crap on without a second thought.  If I had to estimate, that mighty crap would perhaps go something like this:

“If you’re going to talk about a prospect such as ‘fairies,’ what you should first consider is the probability of something as rhetorical as a fabrication of such a mythological creation.

And if you still do, in fact, believe in the illogical prospect of fairies, what you should really take into consideration is your ability to separate reality from fictitious prose.”


My dad is a terminal scientist, and subsequent eternal skeptic.  He has a razor-sharp bullshit detector which he used on me multiple times during my adolescence.

For instance, when I got my first car, the only rule I was subjected to was that I wasn’t allowed to drive at night.  A friend from work and I wanted to go see a movie, which wouldn’t let us out until well past sundown.  I called home and asked if I could spend the night at her house in attempt at getting a more preferable response than if I had asked if I could drive to the movie theater at 7pm.

Dad:  Oh cool.  What are you guys going to do?

Ashlin:  Oh…I don’t know.  Probably nothing.  Might go see that movie that just came out.  But probably nothing.

Dad:  Does she have a car?

Ashlin:  Um…no.

Dad:  Uh-huh… Why don’t you just come home now.

Ashlin:  But it’s only 3 o’clock.

Dad:  You misheard me.  That wasn’t a question.


I fear I have inherited some of his cut-the-shit traits.  Actually, I know I have.

And I’m totally cool with it.

That dude planted an “I-couldn’t-care-less-about-some-piss-ant-poorly-researched-horse-shit” sleeper cell so deeply in my genes that it took a solid 20 years to finally trigger, given that it was offset by the ever all-is-full-of-love genes passed on by my mother (who, not to be downplayed in this debate, kicks some major ass in the academics and sense of humor departments as well).  All I’m saying is the epic battle that went down during that gestation period, I can only imagine.  But truth be told, I’m not that displeased with the results.

I believe that by having a child, a sort of dual-education goes on from both ends of the spectrum.  My dad was brought up in the suburbs of South Philadelphia, which required him to grow a very thick skin and thus contributes to his lack of patience for wimps, procrastinators, and excuse-makers, and is also what has earned him a notorious reputation among his students to be sure not to cross for fear of committing unwitting academic suicide.

It’s also how he snagged my mom, eventually, so we know it can’t be ALL that bad.

I, however, was brought up on what I would consider the completely opposite end of the spectrum.  I had little to worry about apart from making good grades, and was offered ample opportunities without having to grasp for them like the unloading of contents from a pinata and then have to cling to them for dear life.

You would think that such a great difference in upbringing would lend itself to a rather giant rift between character traits between two people.  And I’m sure we butted heads here and there when I acted like a little fartface growing up, but knowing my dad’s shark-skinned attitude toward most things in life, it’s kind of fun to think about how he broke his own rules on the topic of myself and my sister.

He placated me when I ordered him around the playground like a 4-year-old Mussolini.

He happily played the Jew’s harp and harmonica in a tape recording he made for my sister.

He read and re-read the Sunday comics to me because I couldn’t understand the words in the captions.


When I was in Kindergarten, my mom made the mistake of taking me to see the Disney installment of Peter Pan, and I thusly became obsessed with the idea of flying and getting to remain a kid forever.  I guess it’s a testament to how well I was enjoying my childhood, as I remember walking through a Toys-R-Us once and thinking out loud about how I never wanted to get tired of loving this place.  My mom replied,

“Yes, but growing up, you won’t want to keep loving this place.  You’ll find other things to love.”

“I don’t think you’re right, Mommy.”

It was already too late.  I wanted more than anything for the ability to fly, and for the possibility that I might find a way to transcend the widely accepted laws of space-time continuum and remain, in fact, a child for… well, ever.

How I never broke anything in that house is beyond me.

Which is why that year, for Halloween, I chose to be Tinkerbell.

But wait.  Have I explained yet that my mom SEWS?!?!

You guys, my mom sews.  But she doesn’t just sew, she friggin’ SEWS.  And she would be damned if I wore a store bought costume for Halloween that year.  Aw HAYELL NAW.  She brought me to the nearest fabric store where we picked out the best McCall’s pattern for my costume that year, and in the process she picked up another pattern while she was at it.

Then she began SEWING.  Took her several days, but she finally emerged with my Tinkerbell costume, complete with giant poofballs for the feet… As well as full-out CAPTAIN HOOK arrangement for my father.

My dad, a man who has always prided himself on the maintenance of his silverback gorilla persona,  took one look at that get up and IMMEDIATELY TRIED IT ON.

And that Halloween, we went as two of the most venemous enemies who had momentarily buried the hatchet better than the Brits and the Germs did on the Christmas Truce of World War I.

For reference, that’s a Ph. D in there adorning a hook and a very impressively full-bodied wig.

I love you greatly, Dad.  Thanks for the snarky gene.  And the tutelage of how to put it aside when the moment calls for it.  Happy Father’s Day.

Kiss me, coffeecake

I think I’m in a little bit of a mood today.

And that mood is FREAKIN AWESOME!!

Really, when you think about it, unless you’re catatonic or in a full-on coma, aren’t you always in a mood of some sort?  Isn’t saying you’re “in a mood” along the same lines of useless as saying, “Hold on, I’m trying to think.” ?  And to tell the truth, the times that someone else has mentioned that I appear to be “in a mood,” even though I know what they’re implying is that I appear to be grouchy, the truth is that if I wasn’t before, there is now a very decent chance I’m more than likely to be in one after hearing that.  

And if I was already grouchy… Duck and cover, brainless.  You pretty much just tripped a veritable wire that would result in immediate death if you were in an 80’s horror movie.

But I digress.  I’m in a decent mood for a very particular reason, or combination of reasons, I guess.  First, that I just completed my summer semester’s midterm period, which means I finished an onslaught of tests, multiple presentations, as well as having completed four 5-page papers written over a 3-day period.  Secondly, having woken up from the first FULL NIGHT’S REST I’ve had in about the past 2 weeks, given the final relief from so much demand from school and a few other lovely influences from the apparently all-encompassing and highly effective Bullshit Department.  Next, knowing that I have one more week of class before I pack my bags and get the heck out of dodge for a destination wedding for one of my favorite cousins where I will see my whole family, including my parents who I haven’t seen in too long, and where I will be engaging in a number of activities, but most importantly a series of zip lines.  ZIP LINES!!  I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention ZIP LINES at least more than twice.  <—Hence.

And finally, floating out of bed at 11am (as opposed to 4am which has been my apparent circadian alarm clock setting for about a week now) this morning to make a lazy breakfast (have I discussed the “lazy breakfast” yet???  NO?!  Noted.  You’ll be hearing about the lazy breakfast soon enough, and it’s amaaaaaazinng), watch about 3 hours of saved dv-r shows that I’ve missed for the past week, finally clean my apartment, which was looking like a hoarder and a college freshman had gotten hitched online and proceeded to not go outside for an entire year.  And then to finally sit down to my computer, only to come across a video that turned my eyes into saucers and I ended up pressing the replay button over.  And over.  And over.  And over.  And over.

And over.

Because I have a soft spot for a particular clan of videos.  Just like everyone else has their own weaknesses, whether it be for I-can-has-cheezburger-infused or the latest epic-fail-record or the earliest possible nip-slip installment, I have my own viral kryptonite.  I’ve even mentioned it before here and here.  The only problem is that my specific brand of internet fly paper is not as common as watching, say, a dog getting bitchslapped by a cat, or someone getting smacked in the nards with a blunt object, which is why when I do come across a new video of my favorite type, I hold it in my arms and embrace it like a little baby —… I don’t know, baby something cute, I’ll leave that to the Cheezburger aficionados to fill in the blanks.

Which is why I’m always thrilled to press the eternal replay button and exploit the shit out of it.  So by the power vested in me by the state of the all-powerful internet and the great Bruton Stroube Studios of St. Louis, MO, I bring you another great installment of the most lovely slow motion video I have come across to date.

Really, if I could date a viral video, I’d without a doubt give a promise ring to this pretty little number.