The Time My Boss Showed Me Her Boobs

April 7, 2013 Leave a comment

fireant

So, my former boss had boobs.

This, in of itself, is not remarkable. However, when she sustained an injury to said breast that she insisted was my fault, I found myself face to face with a lot of boob meat.

It all started when I decided I simply had to have a pet in the office. Our soulless span of cold grey cubicles seemed like a parody of a stifling office, and I was beginning to crack. I had already decorated my cube with a lava lamp, a Rubik’s cube, some putty, and other assorted toys, but it still felt like a desk of despair. Perhaps it was the lack of visible windows, or my beautiful view into a dangerously overcrowded supply closet that maimed many a fellow employee.

Whatever the reasons, I somehow felt that introducing LIFE would be a good start.

The natural cubicle pet is, of course, a plant. But given my previous experiences with plants of all shapes and sizes, I knew that I would somehow manage to care it to death within a few weeks. Either that or it would thrive, but then become infested with tiny mites that would then spread across the thinly carpeted floor. Plus the aforementioned lack of sunlight would doom all but the heartiest vegetation.

No, I wanted something that would move.

And so came the purchase of an ant farm. To save myself time and frustration, I opted for the creepy blue gel version of the farm, in which the unfortunate ants would both dig, eat, and shit out only a space-age gel the color of Windex until they ultimately died from despair. Because owning an ant farm as an adult is truly one of the more depressing experiences out there. As the Onion so eloquently observed, an ant farm is a “fun, interactive way to teach children ages 5 and up about unceasing, backbreaking toil and the cold, inescapable reality of death.”

The ants are all female, and fucking PISSED OFF when you receive them in the mail. I placed mine in the workplace fridge to calm them down, which upset many coworkers who felt I was doing some sort of cruel experiment. In a way, I suppose I was. After depositing the now semi-comatose ants into the enclosure, they quickly perked up and began to dig. And die. And dig. And then muse on the ephemerality of life. And then die some more.

The bodies piled up quickly, and the living ants seemed determined to dismember the dead rather than dig more pointless tunnels. A fat ant with glasses was at some point hunted down by a roving pack of insects covered in war paint. The conch lay forgotten at the dead end of a tunnel into which no one dared enter, for a spectral beast lurked within.

Anyway, each day the environment within the farm became more and more bleak. I occasionally had to pry open a corner of the lid to allow the ants some precious oxygen. But upon lifting the plastic, every ant who still possessed the will to live immediately tried to swarm out. They were shockingly fast, and had large mandibles that would leave fiery welts on your fingers.

And so the day finally came when my coworkers begged me to set the ants free. Most were now lying on the surface in a stupor, unwilling to eat, drink, or move. They were waiting for their inevitable extinction.

My boss, a kindhearted soul, took it upon herself to empty the remaining ants into a nearby park. Tired of looking at a constant reminder of my own mortality, I gave her permission to do what had to be done.

She came back with stings on her boobs as the imprisoned ants had ravaged her chest in their haste to escape. She threw the empty ant farm, which resembled some sort of horrible chemical bomb, into a park trash can. I imagined it being surrounded by the NYC bomb squad and detonated within hours. She showed me her battle wounds with a mixture of anger and pride, as if to show me that she had been strong enough to do what I could not.

But she still blamed me for the whole fiasco, and ant farms are now not permitted in the office. However, her boob scars were showed to all for weeks afterwards.

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The Time I Fainted Regularly

March 31, 2013 1 comment

So right around puberty, my body decided it could go fuck itself.

I mean, not literally. Well, maybe a little bit literally. But more like my body thought that betrayal of itself was the order of the day.

The first time it happened, I was in the kitchen getting some breakfast around 6:30 am before school. Suddenly, while in mid-sentence, I keeled over and thwaked my head against a counter before slumping to the floor unconscious. I had no memory of what had happened, but came to with my parents’ concerned faces floating above me, and a goose egg slowly forming on the back of my skull. After testing that I had my full wits about me, I was sent to go catch the school bus with little fanfare. My head ached the rest of the day, but I otherwise felt fine.

This scenario would replay itself several more times over the next few months, finally culminating in a fainting session where I stopped breathing and my mom had to call 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, I was conscious and talking, but couldn’t stand up without immediately passing out again. But I refused to go into the ambulance, and simply sat on the floor slowly eating cereal until I could get myself onto the couch.

We never really figured out what the problem was, but it seemed to be related to blood sugar. I started swallowing spoonfuls of sugar whenever I started feeling a bit out of it, which usually preceded a fainting spell. I began carrying hard candies around with me always, for a quick sugar boost on the go. To this day, I know I need some candy or soda if I start getting the “sweats and shakes,” as I call it.

It’s bizarre, but luckily the days of collapsing like a felled tree seem to be behind me.

The Time I Was Still Alive

March 31, 2013 Leave a comment

Yes, here I am. I know I haven’t updated this since 2012, but it’s time to get back on that wagon.

I’ll be posting new content, though I’m aiming for one post per week instead of 3-5. Burnout isn’t pretty.

Also, I’ll be editing my previous posts, and removing most of the pictures since I’m pretty sure I’m violating some sort of copyright law there. Perhaps some illustrations will replace them? Hmm.

So stay tuned. If you want to be a writer, you have to write, so here it goes again.

The Time I Went to SantaCon

December 24, 2012 1 comment

So, SantaCon is (by this point) an international parade of Santas and drunkenness.

The NYC one is pretty huge every year, though I had never gone before. Mostly because I didn’t want to be trampled by surly Santas. But since I’m never one to turn down an opportunity to wear a costume in public, I decided to attend.

The celebration was on December 15 this year, and it was crowded, but luckily not the shit show I had been anticipating. I dressed as a reindeer and swam as a furry lump of brown in a sea of cheap red velveteen. People were drunk, and I got stepped on a few times, but most people were actually more jolly than out of control. Every bar even vaguely on the Santa route had people lining up for 30+ minutes just to get inside, so my co-worker and I popped into the largest bars we could find. Once inside, it was nearly impossible to get a drink, but with patience, we were finally able to enjoy ourselves amidst the nearly 30,000 people dressed up and hammered that day.

Also, these photos have once again reminded me that I need to lose some weight. Sigh. Below are also photos of a packed Santa bar (off the route, so at least you could breathe in there), and this one girl’s awesome homemade menorah costume. All the candles lit up!

reindeer1 reindeer2

santa1

menorah1

The Time My Brother Talked About Guns

December 17, 2012 Leave a comment

So.

Another mass shooting. Targeting children.

I’m not really sure what to say. It’s fucking awful, and what do you write in the face of such tragedy? So I thought I would share my brother’s thoughtful essay he posted to Facebook on Saturday. He said it better than I ever could.

***

And what is this fantasy? What is this fantasy that makes us think, as a nation, we need to have guns?

I know the fantasy. I know it because I grew up with guns. I know it because I had my own gun when I was sixteen years old. My Dad had a .357 revolver and he got me a little .22 caliber pistol. He kept them on the top shelf in his closet, each in a padded case, with the cylinder and clip placed neatly, safely beside them. We’d go shooting at the gun range. We’d try for accuracy and speed. We spent some of our best hours together in the stifling little room breathing gunsmoke. After, we’d come home and clean the guns and talk and browse gun magazines and chat.

Eventually, though, the conversation would turn to delicious ‘what ifs?’

“What if someone is trying to break in?”
“What if someone has already broken in?”
“What if someone has broken in and they’ve found the guns?”
“What if they have knife?”
“What if they have their own gun?”

Invariably, the scenarios became more and more baroque, with multiple attackers and heroic risks and clever ruses that got us to the closet and put the familiar weight of our own guns in our steady hands. Then all hell would break loose in our minds, the wallpaper shredded, the furniture blown to bits, fear and doubt nowhere to be found. The stories always concluded with my Dad and me standing victorious over a field of faceless victims, each lying dead, each undoubtedly deserving of their fate.

Our fantasies, though, never entertained the reality – that more often than not, a wielded gun will end up the hands of the attacker or, as we’ve witnessed now another heartbreaking time, in the hands of those we never intended to hold them.

But the fantasy is always there:

Your family is in danger. It’s you against them. They drag your kids out of bed. They tie them up. They drag your wife to the garage and close the door. They’re about to unleash Hell. Only they didn’t count on you and your 9 millimeter, which somehow ends up in your hand and which you unload in a righteous hailstorm of searing lead that also somehow avoids each of your family members.

You’re in your car in a bad neighborhood. Suddenly your door is yanked open. Your kids are in the back in their car seats. Hands on your jacket, you’re being dragged out. But not before your fingers close around the handle of the Glock you keep by your left thigh. A second later, it’s painfully clear that they fucked with the wrong guy.

Or the war is coming. Everyone knows that. And every one of us will have a shot at our John Wayne moment. We just need a gun. Or a couple. We’ll keep it in the safe, under lock and key or combination. Ignore the wife’s concerns that somehow the kids will figure it out. They know who’s boss around here. You’ve told them to never touch that safe. That cabinet. That padded case. And they never would because you’ve got your house in order.

It’s a right. America was carved by strength of will out of nothing. We are the rugged individuals, the mavericks, the lone wolves. We need that pistol at our side because when the shit goes down, it’ll be the American left standing, a wisp of smoke trailing from his red hot barrel.

But, from a raised and confirmed gun enthusiast, hear this:

It. Is. Fantasy.

Your house will, most likely, not be invaded. Your car will, most likely, never be jacked. The zombies or Russians or Chinese or Martians are, most likely, never coming. What is much more likely is that your guns will end up in the hands or your kids, or their friends (who come over when you’re at work and who aren’t as well-raised as your kids). And if not your guns, then it’ll be your neighbor’s guns your neighbor’s kids – your neighbor, who was on the fence about owning a gun, but he knows you do so he figured, ‘why the hell not?’ He needs a new hobby and Walmart is having a sale. He’s got his own fantasies, after all.

Gun ownership, I know, is essentially about preparing for the worst. But while you set the scene and lay the props for some fantasy that never materializes, the worst does indeed come.

It comes in the shape of Sandy Hook.

Gun Control.

Now.

-Damian Baldet

The Time My Brother Created Contests

December 7, 2012 Leave a comment

Hi.

It’s been a while, I know. I don’t really have an excuse, except that I simply couldn’t think of anything to write about. I don’t want to put out drivel simply for the sake of publishing something, but apparently nothing interesting has happened to me in weeks. This is depressing in of itself, but I decided to try and write today because I miss it. I began this blog as a type of therapy for myself – to create something that I can look back on later and say, “Yes, I made that.” Even if it was crap. Because otherwise I leave nothing behind except some body heat and (probable) flatulence. I even went out and bought a new sketchbook to begin drawing again, which I gave up several years ago when my forward progress slowed to a trickle.

It’s always that way when you take up a new hobby. For a while, the learning curve is steep, but your accomplishments grow by leaps and bounds within a very short amount of time. It’s the ability to keep going with a project after you’ve achieved basic competency that sets a talent apart, and I tend to lack that kind of discipline and conviction. How many things have I started and then given up on just as quickly? I hope this blog and writing doesn’t become one of those things.

I’ve been slowly listening my way through this Story Board hangout with The Bloggess, Wil Wheaton, Patrick Rothfuss, and John Scalzi, which I highly recommend if you’ve ever taken a stab at memoir-style writing.

Anyway, aside from me being a sad sack lately, I wanted to talk about my brother’s lovely Facebook contests that he’s been having recently. I’m tempted to start one of my own, but I’m afraid I’d get approximately zero responses, which would be like the time I had a birthday party that nobody attended (true story, and endlessly depressing).

Each day, he chooses a topic or theme for people to weigh in on, then chooses a “winner” (who receives nothing but a smug sense of self-satisfaction) based on the number of “likes” or his own personal preference. So without further ado, a best of his recent contests! My brother is clearly the creative powerhouse here, and thus technically wins most of his own contests, I believe.

November 27: Terrible Children’s Book Titles

Brother:

  • “Cassie – The Faerie With No Particular Goals or Talent”
  • “All Bees Die: Dealing With Angry Feelings”
  • “Johnny Appleseed – A Children’s Guide to Paternal Identification”
  • “Slapping Is Just Faster Cuddling”

Brenda:

  • “Everybody Poops………And Saves It in Jars in the Guest Room”

Me:

  • “Not In the Face!: A Guide to Surviving Daddy’s Drunken Rage”

November 29: Breakfast Cereals of the Dystopian Future

Brother:

  • “Penance Pops”
  • “Half-Life Cereal”

Sam:

  • “Ricin Crispies”

Brian:

  • “Cinnamon Toast… SHHH! Put out the fire I hear someone coming.”

November 30: Tourism-Boosting Slogans for Crappy Cities

Brother:

  • “Des Moines – Inexplicably French”
  • “Cincinnati – Where Racism Meets the Cloudy Sky”
  • “Sheffield – Come See What’s Left”
  • “Jackson Hole – Fit It All In.”

Brenda:

  • “Schenectady – Home of the Bulletproof Drive-through”

Sam:

  • “Boston – Specialists in Slightly Odd Drunken Male Aggression Since 1647!”
  • “Toronto – Come Wait in a Nice Straight Line.”

Diana:

  • “Barstow…A Good Place to Pee.”

December 3: Frustrated Panda Haiku

Brother:
Girl panda beckons.
I’ll pretend to read instead.
God, I hate the spring.

Children point and shout,
“Silly panda, dance for us!”
Masturbating now.

Mate, or chew bamboo.
Mate, or chew bamboo. Let’s see …
Oh look! A tire swing.

Sam:
Fur tight from eating.
Bamboo is my only friend.
Shame is the season.

Me:
Zoo breeding program,
Workers are showing us porn,
Small junk remains limp.

Oh, God, this ennui,
The dark stench envelopes me,
Lin Lin shit himself.

December 4: First Line of Cookie Monster Apology Letters to the Woman He Loves

Brother:

  • “Me sorry. Okay? Me said it. You like see Cookie beg? You like see Cookie debase himself? Me do it. Me will, girl. Me hurt self. You see.”

Brian:

  • “Dear Krista, Cookie want write for to say how sorry he am for incident at Krista’s sister’s wedding. Cookie feel emotions and not know what to do with them… So he eat cookie and drink schnapps and fight old man.”

Scott:

  • “C is for cookie. Good enough for me. A is for asshole. Not how I want to be.”

December 5: The Teachings of Drunk Miyagi

Brother:

  • “Paint the fence, don’t paint it … fuck do I care?”
  • “You no speshle, Dan-yu-san, you no speshle! Miyagi have whole ARMY of Dan-yu-sans in 70’s, wash Miyagi, feed him, sing him to sleep, play shamisen … soapy … soapyyyyyy……”

Me:

  • “So I tells him, I tells him, I could catch your DICK in my chopsticks, you should have seen his face…”

The Time Halloween Was Cancelled

November 7, 2012 Leave a comment

Yes, I understand why it was cancelled, and it was clearly appropriate to do so, but I can’t help but be disappointed all the same. I spent so much time and energy on my costume, only to miss out on the annual NYC Halloween Parade.

Oh, well. Next year!

I at least did get to dress up on the Saturday before Halloween, though the pictures I took were terrible since I was in a rush, and I figured I’d get better photos the day of the parade. Oops? So I have no close-ups of my makeup, though I’ve linked to the YouTube tutorials I used below.

A group of teenage girls ran screaming from me in the street, then came up to me and wanted my photo, so I think the costume was a success! According to many, I looked terrifying (and unrecognizable) at night in NYC.

I used a combination of makeup tutorials, mostly from this video and this one. I used black and white Wolfe FX makeup, and lots of cheap black eye shadow and makeup brushes from the dollar store. I actually completely forgot to paint in the cracks on my skull, which I’ll have to fix if I ever do this makeup again. Most parts of the costume were from China via eBay. I look super short and stumpy in this photo because 1) I am really short, 2) The skirt was long (below the knee), which didn’t help matters, and 3) My roommate who took the photo is considerably taller than me. Sigh.

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