SO WHAT

yeah. that's right. ATTITUDE. I've got it, and I'm gonna share it. SO WHAT?

SO WHAT if I've been sick for like two weeks and refuse to go to the doctor.
SO WHAT if all I've done in those two weeks is cringe miserably on my bed in the fetal position watching Parks and Recreation.
SO WHAT if I haven't gone running in two weeks.
SO WHAT if I just ate my third grilled cheese in 24 hours.
SO WHAT if I dipped said grilled cheese in ketchup.
SO WHAT if I kind of want another. or maybe two.
SO WHAT if I've spilled all of the following items on my bed sheet and haven't bothered to wash it yet:

1. cheez-it crumbs.
2. a considerable amount of hydrogen peroxide
3. black paint
4. ...something else
5. dorito crumbs
6. guess who just dipped her elbow in ketchup* and then got it on her sheet? (it's totally cool, my sheets are red anyway)
7. I should really stop eating on my bed.

I am a crazy person. Literally. Last night I woke up at four AM with a stabbing pain in my jaw/ear/throat and I decided to pour peroxide in my ear. I decided to do this in the dark. On my bed. Turns out, you can't see very well when it's dark and you're pouring a clear liquid into a miniscule cap. So I ended up pouring approximately a quarter cup of peroxide onto my bed and onto my arm.

This is what I exclaimed at 4AM, out loud, to no one but myself : "Well that's really fucking cute."

I then reassumed fetal position and stared at the wall for about 45 minutes until I could fall back asleep. It was totally awesome and not horrible and I didn't cry at all.


And on kind of an unrelated note, SO WHAT if I want to burn State Farm Insurance Agency to the ground. Because I have to print out, AGAIN, a grade report to prove that I graduated from college. You know, just in case they decided to, I don't know, rescind my degree in the past year. Because that's possible. So now, I'm wasting time, and paper, to send them this stupid form they already have AND I have to buy STAMPS which I've never done before and seems really really inconvenient and almost as terrible as calling a doctor's office.

You know what, State Farm? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

...and you probably did ride in on a horse, because it's probably cheaper than buying your stupid car insurance. And gas.

Fine: Nothing.
Ruined: Everything.


..I'm on a lot of pain medication here. I hope some of this made sense.










*fuck people who spell ketchup 'catsup'

I really feel like I titled this blog trying to prove life wrong but now it kind of feels like life is trying to prove my blog title wrong.

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii. I'm sick.

You know what I like about being SICK?
NOTHING. I like nothing about it. It's terrible and I don't like it all.

Check out all these numbered terrible things

1. You can't go running. Which is made 989,000 times worse by the fact that:

2. You have to sleep like a champ. I don't know if you remember this about me but not only am I NOT Camp Champ, I'm really not much of a champ at anything. At all. Particularly not sleeping. I slept for like 24 hours because I was TRYING to be a champ. And when I woke up I felt THE SAME as I did before I fell asleep. I WASTED A WHOLE DAY OF MY LIFE DOING SOMETHING THAT I HATE WITH ABSOLUTELY NO BENEFICIAL RETURN FOR ME. And I went through a lot of Nyquil.

3. Sometimes you buy things called "Cepacol" that you think are cough drops but they are really just mild oral anesthetic agents, so you pop them and start to panic when your mouth goes numb because you wonder why in the hell anyone would want this to happen to them. ever. Also it reminds you of going to the dentist which is terrible because your dentist is crazy and terrible and now you're panicking because you just remembered you need to get your wisdom teeth out YESTERDAY but you still haven't done anything about it and they are probably exploding out of your head as you speak (or sputter.. your mouth is numb, remember?)

I don't remember where I was going with all this but popping pills reminds me of how retarded medicinal packaging is most of the time. Being sick is pathetic. It really is. Your brain is all fogged and you're just so DONE with feeling crappy and you're on the verge of tears and the LAST THING you want to do is enter into a 15 minute war with the packaging that is separating you from happiness and rainbows and unicorns and whatever actually makes sore throats go away. So either you're tearing and poking and using your teeth to try and coax this magical pill out of its hole (that reminds you, disgustingly, of that issue you have with holes and pockets and toads and lotus-flower people), OR you go to pop the pill out of its pocket and it rockets across your car and wedges itself inbetween the seats, which is really the last place you want to stick your hand at the moment. Or at any moment really. So now you're confused, sick, and ashamed of how dirty your car is, about to cry and down one "cough drop" until you realize that you dont really need this "cough drop" anyway because all it does is numb your MOUTH, which is not an ailing part of your body right now. And then you accidentally swallow one, and decide that its fine because you can't really feel your stomach on a daily basis, anyway.

4. You can't even get drunk. This is the most cruel part of it all. You know that if you get drunk you will feel great for a few hours. But your body will not appreciate this at all, and the bacteria in your throat will thank you for weakening your immune system enough to let them continue the rager they are throwing in the back of your throat. Sigh. Someone please call the cops.. so that I can be healthy and get drunk in peace.


On a slightly related note, I AM THIS GIRL. Except I don't look like Justin Bieber and, for the moment, am not allowed to drink.

Meet Karly. She's on the verge of losing her god-damn cool. This fate could have been avoided IF she had a Sassy Gay Friend.

What.

WHAT.

WHAT AM I DOING?!





Instead of drowning myself, I'm going to write a sad poem in my journal, and move on.

That's what I'm doing.

DEAR HUNGRY HOWIES PIZZA

I was going to order pizza from you. But guess what? Now I'm not. Now I'm going to starve. And it's because of how TERRIBLE your website is. DO YOU KNOW HOW TERRIBLE YOUR WEBSITE IS? God. It's so terrible. The worst, in fact. It doesn't work. That's how terrible it is. You are terrible. Your pizza is terrible. EVERYTHING IS RUINED AND TERRIBLE AND GODD I REALLY WANT PIZZA RIGHT NOW. Oh, what, you want me to call? And, what, talk to someone? On the TELEPHONE? Do you have any idea how incapable I am of communicating with people on the phone? Because, let me tell you, this is how THAT conversation would go:

HH: Thank you for calling Hungry Howies Pizza, what can I get for you."
Karly: Uh, yeah, hi, uh.... do you have... food... there? Because... I WANT PIZZA. I DONT EVEN WANT TO HAVE TO EXPLAIN TO YOU WHAT I WANT OR WASTE TIME GIVING YOU MY CREDIT CARD NUMBER JUST SEND ME SOME AWESOME FOOD AND ILL PAY YOU IN PENNIES AND THOUSANDS OF iPOD CORDS I NEVER USE.
HH: ...no.


FAIL.

NOT #WINNING.

LOSING.

STARVING.

DEATH.

DYING.


That is what's happening here. And it's your fault. I hate you.


Love, Karly.

Just tryin' to appease all the dead people.

I have Dirty Bedroom Disease. It's chronic. Or terminal (whichever one means 'really awful and not likely to ever go away').

Here are the symptoms:

-No ipod charger (still).
-WRINKLED PANTS PROBLEMS, MMK.
-No motivation to do anything remotely productive except slouch on my bed. Which is currently only half-covered in clothes and guitars and other items that shouldn't ever necessarily be on beds, and certainly not for days at a time.
-I just gave myself fringe. And I'm pretty sure I looked in the mirror a few days ago (ok, it was YESTERDAY) and told myself never to touch them again and to grow them out. Oops.
Oh well. I just used the word 'fringe,' which is awesome and European. #stillwinning.
-I'm trying to decide if the shorts that are thrown in the corner of my room are dirty or clean. I guess it depends on how much of a hurry I am in the next time I want to wear them.
-Dying bamboo.

Sigh. This list doesn't even make sense. I don't think any of these things are directly related to Dirty Bedroom Disease so much as they might be related to.. Sad Dad Disease. Sad Dad Disease is when you are a Sad Dad, and you mope around pretending like you're never going to be happy again but really you know you will be... someday. So you kind of still feel a little motivation to do something with your life, but all you can muster is to watch 6 episodes of America's Next Top Model and then you do more Sad-Dadding because you realize that's not really 'doing something with your life.' At all.

You know the only thing that makes me feel like I'm doing something with my life? Running. So I decided to pacify myself as combination Sad-Dad/Ambitionist and go for a run... through a graveyard. Although I have to admit that this excursion came about mostly because I perceived that running through this graveyard would be a shortcut on my seven-mile run. Which, by the way... is really long.

Guess what isn't physically motivating? Running through a graveyard. First of all, you're running through masses of dead people and you start to feel like kind of an asshole because you're taunting the dead with all your youth and speed and it just doesn't seem very appropriate. How would you feel about this if you were dead? Probably not very good (and also cold. and bored). So I stopped. I'm not lazy- I was just trying to be considerate, you know. Second of all, it turns out graveyards can have a lot of hills. So it was a really terrible shortcut, but overall a good experience for my Sad-Dad soul.

I don't have anything else to say.

The (abrupt) End.