Truf - Just because you scream into a microphone does not make you a comedian.

Speaking loudly into a mic doesn't make you any funnier either. I've learned this lesson again tonight after sitting through the SoundFix Comedy Night. I would like to pose a challenge to any comedian reading this. Try to do a routine that doesn't consist of the following words:

1. Vagina
2. Pussy
3. Cock
4. Asshole
5. Anus
6. Fuck

If you were really witty, you could keep all the profanity out. George Carlin is the only one who could use profanity in a clever way, so please, save us all a bit of time and don't try to rip off a legend. It's not that I'm offended by your language but more along the lines of being offended that I've wasted any time watching you perform such an uncreative act.

Truf - Breathing through one nostril is never fun.

I'm currently nursing a head cold that won't seem to go away, and as a result, I have developed the fine skill of breathing out of one nostril. The other nostril could be described as skilled in the field of ambidexterity (if you consider my nostrils appendages) - it can both run AND remain stuffed up, all at the same time!

Only one week and five days until summer weather. Not that I'm counting.

I understand if you don't want to be friends anymore, and yes, this post has to do with the band ABBA.

Contrary to the super cool persona this blog resonates (stop rolling your eyes!), I'm not as cool as the cat's pajamas, which should be evident by the fact that I just used the phrase "the cat's pajamas." Well, here's another reason to think I'm not awesome. It's almost 10 p.m. on a Saturday night here in Sydney, and I'm at home waching a documentary on ABBA visiting Australia sometime in the 1970s. And to make things worse, I've just realized that I'm a fan of the song "S.O.S." Don't believe me? Well, I've found a video of the song and have posted it below (and I've already watched it five times). I understand if you can't be friends with me. This might be too much for some of you to handle.

Is this a bad time for me to go on about how much I like IKEA as well? I used to think that IKEA was run by a bunch of communists because let's get serious folks - who sells furniture called Leksvik, Kviby, and/or Malm? I'll tell you who - the Commies. But, after realizing that IKEA has one of the most delicious cafeterias in the entire world (try the carrot cake!), I decided that the Reds couldn't be behind this greatness (I'm referencing the carrot cake).

For me, Heaven is a Saturday afternoon at IKEA with ABBA blaring over their store loud speaker.

Truf - Light is not always better.

I'm talking about Sunkist Light soda. I just tasted Sunkist Light for the first time, and I have to say…well...it's light on a lot of things but certainly not bad taste.

I for one am a huge fan of not only soda, but the orange-flavored kind. Somebody got a Fanta they want to share? I'll take it! But if you try to give me a Sunkist Light in the future, I'll hate you. Will I still drink it? Well yeah. I never say no to free soda. But my contempt for you will be palpable.

Truf - The one day you don't live by the triple check rule when it comes to your fly being up...

...it will most definitely be down and it will take a man noticing your red undies and pointing out that your fly is indeed down for you to notice.

Normally, my routine consists of:

1. Pull pants up.
2. Button up.
3. Zip up.
4. Open bathroom door.
5. Recheck fly situation.
6. Wash hands.
7. Recheck fly situation.
8. Exit bathroom.
10. Recheck fly situation.

Dammit! The one day I skip steps #5, #7 and #10, I totally drop the ball. On a more positive note - the guy who pointed out my undies, well...I think we had a bonding moment. And not in a pervy way.

Truf - Peanut butter on green apples is the best snack...EVER.

Don't try substituting red apples...unless you want a snack that, at its best, would be described as "crapple".

Also, the picture I've included does not do this snack justice. It was either this photo or a picture of someone's cat named Peanut Butter. Hey, even Google Image Search has its low points.

Two types of friends.

I've decided that friends can fall into two categories:

1. The type that pick you up from the airport.
2 The type that wouldn't pick you up from the airport, even if you asked.

Truf - I have the same sense of humor as most 10 year old boys.

I noticed today that whenever I rub my hands together, for example, to warm them in cold weather, I can not avoid making farting noises. My hands are incapable of silently rubbing together. And do I laugh every time I hear said farting noise? Yes. Yes I do.

(rubbing hands together right :: now ::)

Truf - Fried Green Tomatoes, Steel Magnolias and Designing Women are still relevant.

For those skeptics that think the films Fried Green Tomatoes and Steel Magnolias, as well as the television show Designing Women, are outdated and irrelevant, I'm here to tell you that you're wrong.

The idea of sassy Southern women is NEVER out of style, and in the immortal words of Carlene Frazier Dobber, "I've learned one thing in my life; never fry chicken when you are naked."

Truf – Airport bathroom.

It is a universal truth that if you have to go to the bathroom at the airport and you hold it in until you learn that your flight has been delayed, you still shouldn’t go to the bathroom. Inevitably, if you go to the bathroom to relieve yourself, the airline will revert to the original flight time and you will have to rush. Truf.

McDonald's Corporation, please forgive me.

As I now see myself in the middle of housing/financial crisis, I must issue an apology to the McDonald's Corporation. I realize this blog is a piss poor apology, so I will craft a suitable letter to mail (and I will also post it here). To sum it up, you might not have a place to live, you might be contemplating kayaking across half the globe, but you can always count on McDonald's to offer up cheap food. It might kill me in the long run, but nothing says "feel better lil' Mary" like McDonald's french fries and soft serve ice cream cone. Bring on the elastic waist pants!

In China, the phrase "temporary employee" means "retard." (originally posted on April 28, 2006)

So it's 4:35 p.m. on Friday. My boss is leaving early for her daughter's birthday and I have nothing to do. The "nothing to do" part is actually what I do all day. It's my life at work. It's the life of a temp.

People look down on temps, but it's the closest thing to not working that will still pay you. Basically, if you are carrying the title of "temporary employee" you are are also wearing a make believe badge that says "possibly retarded." People don't trust you do to real work, so you spend your days piddling around the Internet. It's a sweet deal, but you don't get health insurance, which I'm certain sis ome sort of conspiracy since I will most likely develop wrist problems from chatting with my friends on MSN Messenger all day.

Since temping, I've developed a multiple personality where I like to pretend to be British. I say "cunt," "twat," "bint," and "slag" like a pro, and it keeps me quite entertained whilst at work.

Another thing I've learned/developed is an uncanny ability to look at only four websites a day. I feel that all of my personal interests are captured in these four sites, thus I do require any more stimulation from the Internet.

I also eat a lot of peanuts now, but that's only because they stock them in the employee kitchen. I like peanuts, so this is a good thing.

I've also learned the difference between an "inbox" and an "outbox" in regards to where mail goes. I already knew the difference, but my boss felt it neccesary to explain this to me. I felt enlightened in the same way you feel after you see someone try to light a fart on fire for the first time and you think "Man. I just learned something."

My boss has now exited the building, and I'm still sitting here writing this entry. I'm going to pack up a few packages of peanuts for the weekend and I'm out of here.

Ass sweat for the weary. (originally posted December 27, 2006)

Last night, I sat on a plane for 3.5 hours. It was a small plane, just three seats across, so ultimately, you could say it was designed to be one of the most horrendous transportation vessels created. To top it off, the small air valve above my seat wasn't working. As a result, I learned first hand how hot airplanes can be.

About an hour in, I realized my ass was sweating. Now, everyone has experienced this if you've ever been in temperatures above 80 degrees. It's a state of anxiety almost, as you don't know if you will have wet stains on the back of your clothes once you stand up, and because of this you panic and in the end sweat more. It might be the bitchiest of the bitchiest catch 22 situations.

So for 3.5 hours, I endured a sweaty ass. I couldn't get comfortable because of the heat, so somewhere above Iowa, I gave up the idea of napping and assessed my situation. I was hot. Everyone is asleep around me. I'm in a capsule to hell. Check. Considering that I was essentially alone, I stared out the window and found myself eventually thinking about my current situation, not just what was presently happening.

I share a love/hate relationship with airplanes. I'm not afraid of flying, but I sort of dread boarding planes. Nothing good has ever come of walking through an airport departure terminal, and I consistently find myself with a knot in my throat every time the security checkpoint checks my ticket and allows me through to the gates. For me, I'm always leaving something behind. More importantly, I'm leaving someone behind.

My hatred of general aviation began the winter of 2005, which subsequently was the worst year of my life thus far. That January, I had traipsed unwillingly through the departure terminal at Edinburgh International Airport for what I didn't know was the last time (at least for the next two years). Unfortunately, there were things I couldn't store in the overhead compartment or check in at the ticketing counter, and as a result, the most important thing in my life at the time was left behind, standing in the general common area of the airport, waving goodbye and eventually walking away. Part of me knew that things were finished, but the definitive end was still three days away. Leaving your heart overseas is difficult. Passport control makes it very difficult to retrieve.

Because of this experience, I'm constantly reminded of a broken heart every time I'm in an airport. Instinctually, I look around the terminals when I find myself in such a place, scanning for that one familiar face I lost two years ago, always keeping my eyes open for that chance meeting. Every passenger passes through my vision, but to no avail. The person I'm looking for is never there.

Sitting on the plane from Oklahoma City to Newark, I realized that I'm in a constant state of flux. My plane rides are a transitory period where I have no boundaries, no limits, no home. I'm neither here nor there, and all it takes is one airline ticket to change this status. Because of this state of nothingness, one can take on roles. No one knows you; no one knows where you're from or where your ultimate destination is. Trying out new accents, various stories about where I'm going and why, etc. are some of my all time favorite activities. I don't completely lie to these strangers. I just, how do you say, make myself more interesting? Basically, who wants to hear about an average girl from the Midwest who has done nothing really to speak of when they can hear about a young Australian who grew up in six different countries with seven brothers and sisters and is now traveling to London to take up her course at the London School of Art? I'm proud of my ability to make up these stories, and as far as I can tell, people believe them. Maybe they just want to believe them, because same as me; their lives leave something to be desired in the adventure department.

Last night, however, I had no one to talk to. No stories to tell, no fake accents to perfect. For 3.5 hours, I lamented on the people I've left behind in all those departure terminals, fighting the loneliness I feel somewhere above empty spaces I can't identify from being so high up.

El masturbation es malo. (originally posted January 11, 2007)

My new Brooklyn apartment is home to many things. Obviously, it's home to me. It's my place of refuge, blue bedroom walls and all. If I'm not clambering about the city or the neighborhood, I'm probably napping or reading in my room. It might be small, but it's got character.

When I moved into my new place, I painted my bedroom walls blue, with the exception of the brick wall. The color reminded me of a tapestry I saw in a house in Hempstead Heath outside of London, something that involved ornate flowers. It also reminded me of some kick ass eye shadow I bought in the ninth grade, and this is probably what actually compelled me to buy. Tapestries are for pussies. At this point, the walls have been decorated with an antique map of the London underground and two framed record albums: A limited edition Madonna Japanese import album and a Blondie record. There are also some various photos that have been framed, along with one of my diplomas. The journalism diploma is shoved somewhere amongst my book collection, still in the envelope the university registrar mailed it in. How appropriate.

The lighting in my room is perfect. It makes anyone look like have clear skin, which is something that I appreciate. It's as if the light fixture was installed just for me. Thanks unintentional mood lighting!

However, the best part of the room is the sound effects. Mind you, they aren't coming from inside my room, but instead filtering in from the apartments around me. Every Saturday and Sunday, I can hear one neighbor practicing his songwriting and guitar playing skills, and I have to say, he's quite good. He also has good taste in music, as he too has identified the one good Del Amitri song ever recorded.

The other neighbor starts every morning off by blaring various Mexican radio stations. I think it may be a radio alarm clock, as I can hear him slamming down on something and then the music/chatter suddenly stops. Also, this event occurs every day at the same time: 7:40 a.m.

The upstairs neighbor is, by far, the most entertaining/disturbing. An elderly man, he's most likely been smoking since the 19330s when he was born. His hacking is the most outrageous thing I've ever heard, both in pitch and length. It's actually quite amazing.

Today, however, the cough was not what I heard. Instead, I was awoke with the following:
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!
¡Jesús!

AAAAAAAAAHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAHHHHHHhhhhhh....

Yes my friends, the elderly Mexican man was spanking it. Jerking off. Mas-tur-ba-ting. Due to the fact that it woke me up, my reaction was slow. At first I thought, "What radio station is that?" Then "I hope he isn't dying." And then finally "Whoa, maybe he just saw Jesus...OHMYGODHEWASWHACKINGIT!"

Have you ever experienced a moment when you couldn't move? Your body was completely frozen in time. I imagine this happens to victims of crime, or witnesses to an accident. But I too have borne witness. And the auditory hell I was forced to endure of an elderly Mexican man waxing his pole is enough to put one into a comatose like state. I feel like for a short time, I knew what it felt like to be Terri Schiavo...minus the real coma and the bloodthirsty husband.

My roommate shared that the previous occupant of my room had heard the same thing. She too, had been disgusted, as I believe anyone would be. But to be fair, if he can keep up this sort of schedule, it would be nice to have a back up alarm clock in the mornings...

Truf: The international music section in every record shop smells like farts AND why I love strangers who openly admit to me that they farted

It is a universal truth that every international music section in every music store you have ever visited in the entire world smells like farts. Don't ask me why, but it's true. I visited Barnes & Noble today trying to find a copy of a very old school 1980s movie on DVD and decided to swing through the music section. This truth was very evident, might I say.

Also, this morning on the L train into work, a man openly admitted to me and the crowd around the two of us that he had farted. I'm pretty certain everyone noticed the smell, but honestly - who would say anything? But apparently this man does not live by this rule. Very plainly, he said "That was me. Sorry, my wife made chili last night." Everyone kind of giggled, except for me. I shook the man's hand and introduced myself. I just met my new hero. And his name is Garry Cartledge of Brooklyn, New York.

Cosmic Truth.

It is a cosmic truth that if you buy four bottles of salad dressing that you don't like (but bought because Ranch and Italian seem to be favorites for everyone else) for the company Thanksgiving potluck lunch, no one will open any of them. Then you will be left with four unopened bottles of shitty salad dressing. For all of time.