Hipster Hospital: You've Probably Never Heard of It

Linked from Deviantart; I thought it would work for this morning's laugh. 

DO YOU WORK FOR A COMPANY THAT RECEIVED TARP MONEY?!

This never fails to make me laugh. (Posted from a link I found on stumbleupon, although I think this has been circulating for a while):

Twelve Step Programs

Wouldn't it be nice if there was a twelve step program for people who worry too much (aka me)?

Full disclosure: I am sitting here in a bra and boy shorts, thinking that I shouldn't spend money on anything ever again because I will never make it to graduate school. I am basically feeling like I shouldn't even spend money on graduate school, at this point. Also troubling is my lack of a regular sleep schedule, the amount of cheese I ate at dinner, the fact that my glasses are a little bit smudged, my inability to keep my room clean, the amount of time since I last talked to my parents (they're going to die and I'll feel badly for not having talked to them enough!!), the fact that I got the day off tomorrow because I'm sick, the fact that I'm sick, the idea that I might be sick(er) because I had too much cheese at dinner, and so on.

Okay, Elisha, calm down. It's lecture time, publicly, on the interwebs. Let's think about this reasonably:

 A) You had a normal amount of cheese for dinner, and even if you didn't, you look fine. Even if you don't, all you need to do is live your life for other things and your weight will adjust healthily, accordingly.

B)  You have never been broke in your life, and it isn't likely that you are going to go broke now. You have enough money to pay your rent, so stop worrying and be happy.

C) You can clean your room tomorrow.

D) Your parents love you almost as much as you love them.

In short, everything is fine, and I'm not going to wake up tomorrow with no money at all. So why do I feel as though I am going to? I don't know, but it's ridiculous, and I eschew the thought venomously. I HAVE PLENTY OF MONEY! Worst comes to worst, I will get a second job at McDonald's and learn to love the Big Mac.

And now I am going to sleep. All is well.

It's 11:18 pm and I'm Thinking about Stephen King

I. Can't. Sleep.

6 hours from now, my tenacious iPhone 4 alarm will be delighting in my exhaustion with gusto, but for now, my exhaustion is being expressed in sentences that I fear are somewhat incoherent.

I CAN'T SLEEPPP.

Today at work we were short a person because our deli man (we'll call him Jack) is always calling in sick, or breaking a tooth, or dropping something on his head and having to go to the doctor, or getting a kid in juvenile, or something (literally, he has used all of those excuses). You know the guy at your work who is never at work because he just got a part time acting job in Spanish films? Yeah, that's Jack.

But seriously, world of the internet, how do they do it? Can I start doing it? Does it require children? Does it require shelves from which pans can fall on your head? How do I invent these wonderful excuses which will allow me to sleep late tomorrow?

Much Ado About Adolescence

It is my day off.

On my day off, I usually turn myself into a bulbous organism devoted to thinking only about chocolate chip cookies, sleep, and whether or not the cellulite I got from last weeks cookies will ever go away. Occasionally I combine eating with watching 187 episodes of Weeds, then sleeping, resulting in dreams that I'm Nancy Botwin living a daring life of crime, but alas, usually my days off consist of staring out the window into my next door neighbor's apartment.

Having, over the course of the summer, ascertained that my neighbor is also not living a daring life of crime a la Nancy B., today I moved on to other entertainment. I was kind of forced to do so, actually, because some young gentlemen of the patio-re(patioing?)-class decided to use my day off to repatio the patios in my apartment complex, and so I was unable to walk outside.

Around 3:00 pm, after several hours wishing I could go buy some cookies, I decided I really hate clutter. My deciding this is essentially the same as deciding that I hate my apartment. And yes, the decision was inspired by being stuck in my extremely disastrous hole of a living situation for an entire day.

Haunted by my newfound realization (okay, actually I've realized this several thousand times, and go through a "throw everything out!" phase about once a month, only to get tired after I've cleaned about 1% of the mess), I began a merciless rampage of doom around 3:300 pm. Meaning I began to create piles of stuff around the garbage can in the kitchen.

3:45 found me (tired and) reading my old (extremely sappy) journal of "letters to my husband," compiled at the age of 13, when I was an angsty Phantom of the Opera devotee. Seriously, who the hell writes letters to a man they don't even know?!

Okay, so I was pathetic, but you know what, I was kind of hilarious. Now, I have no recollection at all of my being so darn sassy, and having so much interest, and being so, well, childishly naive and enthusiastic. Dude, if you'd asked me at that age, I would have told you I was the world's most horrific cynic, ready to bare my teeth at a kitty cat. And yet, I was writing journal entries on whether "sanguine," is an uglier word than "choleric," or "phlegmatic"!

All this is to say that sometimes I get a little worried that Elisha at twenty-one, con mis drogas de Chocolate Chips, isn't charming or funny or perky or odd at all. But then again, maybe 20 years from now I'll read this and think my children were never half so damned clever as me.

But then again, they might have cleaner apartments. Probably practically everyone does.