I pissed my sister off pretty good tonight…for both my mother and I. She left without so much as saying goodbye to either of us…the fun sort of passive-agressive bull we’ve come to expect from ourselves during any of our petty squibbles. To be fair, I think she was in a mood…and I was none-to-sensitive to it. Eh well…there hasn’t been an argument yet that has caused us to permenantly fall out of favor with eachother.

I just recieved my very first mailing of the Sherlock Holmes adventure,   A Scandal in Bohemia…it’s part of the Discovering Arthur Conan Doyle project put on by Stanford University. It’s neat and it’s free…all you have to do is sign up and you’ll get mailed monthly victorian-style segments of the novel. I think I’m going to read now.

I should just get “The World’s Biggest F-ckup” tattooed to my forehead…censored, of course. I’d hate to offend anyone. You see…everyone has got to excell at something…everyone’s got a niche…a knack… It just so happens that I’ve got an extraordinary propensity for f-cking things up. Does that mean I’m careless? Probably. Or that I don’t pay attention to details? That, too. One could tactfully dismiss my all too frequent disasters as absentmindedness. Even as a child my teachers would describe me as a day dreamer with my head in the clouds. So I’m a bit daffy…does that make me sweet? No. I don’t think there’s anything endearing about making the people around me work their posteriors off to cover up my stupid mistakes.

I shouldn’t be allowed to do web work. The whole concept of uploading files to a server and not copying over someone else’s work has time and again proven to be too much for me. One of these days I’m going to go into work and they’ll have taken away my network cable in a last ditch attempt to contain my destruction…quarantine my devistation to a local mac mini.
I saw Steven Spielberg’s The Goonies again last night and I really identified with Chunk’s character. For those that don’t know, he’s the pudgy little boy that babbles on incesantly despite a lack of audience. The remarkable thing about Chunk is that he can always be relied upon to be unintentionally destructive. If something needs breaking, Chunk is called over to make it happen. I wish the power of my klutziness could be similarly harnessed…wielded by the forces of good or evil…I care not. Anything would be better than the merciless whim of chance.

A volcano zit has just recently taken up residence on my forehead…I love it when geological formations develop on my face. Thank goodness for Dr. Burt’s Herbal Blemish Stick. It works remarkably well.

So…I’ve just seen the goatse and tubgirl images for the first time…I found myself filled with regret for having ever been given the gift of sight. I know…I asked for it. Curiosity got the better of me…and now I’ve got those terrible images burned into my mind. I’m sullied and I can never again have that innocence back. Serves me right.

I first heard the lore of these online images when I was in college. I had long since forgotten the conversation, but it went something on the order of my friends laughing at a lewed reference to the pics…I of course, didn’t catch a thing and naively requested an explaination. Nobody had the heart to tell me what the images were. I was simply instructed to do a google search of “goatse” and “tubgirl.” Well…one thing led to another and I got busy and forgot. Low and behold, I was reminded of the topic when reading a dialogue on image theft. Hence, the planets aligned in a perfect combination of boredom, curiosity, and internet access. Ick. I want to go clean my eyes with Listerine.

I get irrationally pissed off, sometimes…and quite frankly, I really enjoy doing it. I don’t understand the appeal…especially not for me. You see, my goal in life is to make people like me. The way I measure my self worth is not by the things I accomplish or accumulate, but instead by the number of people that like me and the degree of esteem in which they hold me. This is all well and good, for me…I know, people might criticize that I shouldn’t put control of something so valuable as my own self worth in the hands of others…that I should find my value within. Or worse, one could find fault that I require a means to measure my worth at all. These are valid arguments, but I don’t feel they serve to be addressed in the scope of this blog post. The point I was trying to make is that being irrationally pissed off isn’t very conducive to getting people to like me. Unless, of course, those people are all pissed off about the same thing I am…but it’s difficult to get everyone in the world to be irrationally pissed off at the same thing. I suppose sarcasim and humor work well to alieviate the sting of any offensive piss-ant rantings.

So yeah, I like getting pissed off, and I don’t understand the appeal. Maybe it’s the drama associated with playing the wounded heart. It’s fun to fill the role of the high-maintinance heroine…to fly off the handle on a whim and have the world rush to placate you. Maybe it’s all just for the make up sex…who knows?

Here’s the good news: I keep a lot of my irrational anger internal…humoring myself with angst-filled monologues…smiting innocent victims left and right with the omnipotent power of my mind. But the bad news is that I haven’t a poker face to save me. If something’s bothering me, the world knows it with so little as a glance at my tell-tale countenance. (Damn you face! Can’t trust you to keep a sectret!) But I suppse…I’ve never had someone confront me with a wounded, “Did you just smite me with your mind?!” So perhaps it’s only evident that something is bothering me, however irrational or pointless.
But, there’s other good news: I’m no good at holding a grudge…so I’ll get over it…whatever it may be. I’m resilient like that.

I’m seriously considering the logistics of bringing my coffee into the shower with me… It makes perfect sense…both are wet and hot and wake me up in the morning! …And no…I’m not making some perverse joke…suggestive innuendo…no. Sickos. It just so happens that I’m having a hard time separating myself from my cuppa’ joe long enough to take a shower this morning…so here I sit…tick-tacking away at my crappy old keyboard providing you with a full account of my serious dillema.

You see, it could very well be feasible to shower with my vitamin C. The primary consern is diluting the coffee or worse, contaminating it with soap. However, I’ve thought this over and all I would need to do is use a travel mug with a lid…I’ve walked to class in the rain with my travel mug before without any problems. Granted, one would hardly dodge raindrops in the shower…it would be significantly easier to simply hold the mug outside the stream of water. As for soap, I could place the mug in a dry corner of the shower while I lather and rinse. (I know…just the thought of the separation anxiety is too much.) Ultimately, the end goal would be achived…I would be sufficiently heigenic and alert to begin my day…without having to suffer the trauma of either gulping down my coffee more quickly than the temperature will allow, or returning to an unpleasenly cold mug…like a lover that’s lost his flame…harsh.

Whaddaya know…I’ve finished my coffee…shower time!

I suck at puzzles…what the hell is my fascination with trying to solve puzzles I’m no good at? My sister gave me a su doku puzzle book for Christmas and it’s flippin’ hard! Gah! Forgive me…I’m still frustrated with the damn thing. I managed to solve the first puzzle in what seemed like an hour…and I’ve only just given up on the second after exhausting myself with mental aerobics for which my brain is in absolutely no shape. I’ll try again in the morning. I’ll solve it or die trying….uhm…be sure to check the obits for me…Kimberly Vlies…24 and a half year old…death by su doku.

Anyhow…it’s that time of year again. It’s always a pretty notion to think that one begins anew when the calendar year changes. I realize that this is a fickle convention…what’s so magical about a calendar date? (Of course the first marks a change in fiscal years…but this crosses into the business world and can no longer be treated as a personal goal.) Why should people put so much stock in using the first of the year as an opportunity to make a positive change in their lives? Is there something about January 1 that forces the odds in the bettor’s favor? People do, after all, seem to regard their New Year’s Resolutions as somewhat of a crapshoot. Goals and expectations are set unreasonably high and people expect not to be able to fulfill them. Who, after all, ever makes a New Year’s resolution that will be conscientiously reviewed at the end of the year?

Well…I can’t criticize…I suppose I’m just as fickle as the lot of ‘em. The difference I do see in my resolutions is that I actually plan to keep them. I feel I have attainable goals and I have reasonable plans to implement changes in my life to make them manifest.

2006 Goals:

1. Lose 15 lbs. (more, if possible…but we’re going for feasibility)
   • 45 min. of exercise 3x week
   • limit myself to 1 serving of empty calories per week
   • eat out less
2. Develop artistic rendering skills
   • do at least 1 drawing per week
3. Be organized
   • financially
   • time
   • personal belongings

   (This, I’m afraid, is too ambiguous and no great change will be realized, but it’s important to at least be cognoscente of the fact that this is a weakness for me and definitely an area for me to work on in the coming year.)

4. Post at least one Blog entry per week.
   I like my blog…and I like to delude myself into believing people read it.
5. Re-design my website
   I know…it hurts to look at. Sorry.
6. Grow a spine.
   • Hang up on telemarketers.
   • tell people when they piss me off.
     (I realize that this would require me to get pissed off at someone first…we’ll see how this pans out.)
   • take calcium tablets
7. Quit smoking.
   (I know…I don’t smoke to begin with…but it makes me feel good to know that I’ll be able to at least accomplish one of my goals)
8. Avoid swimming with sharks and piranhas.

I’m kinda cranky today. You know…pissed off at the world…for no particular reason. Well…I suppose insufficient sleep and PMS are good reasons. That, coupled with holiday stress and over-crowded stores provide more than ample grounds for a solid bitch-fest. Yeah…I can be a little cranky if I damn well please! Fortunately, the recipients of my waves of aimless frustration and scorn have been limited to inanimate objects. The most prominent of which was an over-sized bathrobe that did everything in its power to (successfully) avoid being gift wrapped…with a (damn near unsolvable) brass ring-puzzle comming in as a close second. I can’t decide that it’s fortunate or unfortunate that inanimate (as opposed to animate) objects have gotten the better of me. At least I didn’t offend any actual personalities by my irrational pissiness. On the other hand, I was definately the loser in today’s object vs. Kimberly battles…which is a blow to the pride.

On a ligher note, I went holiday shopping with Brenda after going out to breakfast at IQ’s with the gang. I feel that I got a reasonable amount accomplished today and I got to spend some time with my dear, but sadly neglected, friend. While out, we passed a young woman driving her car and I was alarmed to see an orange tabby cat surveying the passing scenery from wher it pearched on her lap. I took a pic so I could share it with you all. Who takes their cats for rides, anyway?

Somebody with a flippin’ private phone number called me at flippin’ 5:15 this morning! What kind of sadistic bastard would do that to me!? What’s worse, instead of the soothing soft notes of the Indiana Jones Theme Song, private calls replace my beloved ringer with a default. That noise, coincidentally, is the loudest, most obnoxious known to man. It will effectively put 5 feet of air below anyone within earshot….and it stops the hearts of every bunny within a 2 mile radius. (It’s very hard on the rabbit population…that’s why they procreate so rapidly…it’s a natural selection response to my cell ringer.) “Right, Kimberly,” you say. “Quitcher bitchin’ and change your ringer.” It’s not as simple as that. I very rarely get private calls; so I make a quickly-fogotten mental note to change the ringer before Satan himself gives me a jingle again. Further more, if I didn’t have my early morning death ringer to bitch about in my blog, I’d have nothing better to talk about. I might even have had to brag to you all about having just bought a new 30 gig video ipod, making me the coolest person alive (humor me)…but I won’t.

BTW…if you call me at 5:15 tomorrow morning, I’ll hire a monkey to throw poo at you.

Okay…so I was just perusing the sites of those that submitted accepted designs to csszengarden.com and I happened across “think in pencil,” a blog that puts mine to shame in every way, shape, and form. After looking at this blog, I wonder if there’s even a point to continuing mine. I can never hope to do so well. Tsk, tsk…and I consider myself a creative. Maybe it’s not too late to become a nun.

It’s 10:30 pm…I’m pooped.

Forgive me. I realize that the title of this post is far too melodramatic for the trivial and gross nature of the actual topic…but I don’t care. In fact, said apathy leads me to wonder why I’m asking forgiveness at all. I don’t care if you forgive me. Quit reading my blog if you can’t deal with it.

And what’s the topic? Menstration. (Disclaimer: not for the faint of heart…this is going to be gross.) It blows. Just in case you were wondering. It hurts. It smells bad. It’s inconvienient. It stains. It causes petulance. One would think it’s something they’d have figured out how to entirely do away with some time ago. As I understand it, a very large majority of women are afflicted with the wretched thing. Oh sure, it’s a pretty thought…we’re graceful, feminine, sweet smelling and soft. Our fertile wombs are a gift from God that have the potential to yeild a beautiful human life. Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but women can be just as unplesant as anything else…particularly when their innards are contorting themselves like chinese acrobats to expell a gooey lining of clotted and decaying blood. So with this glorious gift of fertility, we can bear children…and aren’t all children just automatically precious little angels that sit politely in the corner like porcelain dolls after a painless and effortless childbirth. NO! I’ve never experienced pregnancy or labor, but something gives me this sneaky little suspicion that it would cause me pain as I have never felt it before. (A misshap with a nurse practitioner during a pelvic exam a few years ago gave me a strong appreciation for how sensitive to pain that area of the body is.) Furthermore, children are anything but precious dolls. Thank goodness that they’re not. Kids are cute, I’ll concede to that. and I’m glad they have the potential to be joy-filled and animated. That does not, however, negate the fact that they also are entirely capable of being no less vile than the spawn of satan in behavior and temprement. Furthermore, a lot of the personality of a child relies on nurture. Many, many people are unfit parents or spoil their progeny to no end…the result is…well…demon spawn. But I suppose that’s a noble thing. After all, demons must reproduce, too.

So what was my point? Menstrating sucks. I suppose that’s about it. Thanks for reading.