Sick Day

It’s Friday. Friday: the bacon-flavored nugget at the end of a week of pure obedience, the giant reward, the sigh of relief. The show, my friends, is at its end for this run. At least that’s what it is supposed to be. Not for me this week. I've been home sick.


A Brief History of Faking It

When I was young, I remember staying home sick as the height of all reprieves from schoolwork, and mean little girls who would pass their secrets to everyone at the table but me. In a tiny one and a half bedroom apartment where five people dwelt, it was paradise to be home sick. Think Home Alone. I could finally live my dream of eating nothing but ramen noodles and watch daytime television. Maybe I’d go to the pool or start a new project (even then I loved projects). Days home sick were the greatest unless you were actually sick, of course.

Like all kids, I bent my acting skills to the limit and as a sibling in a brood of three others, you had to be talented to warrant a day off from my parents. Some nights I’d skip dinner so I could use that evidence as support for my case the next morning. Sometimes I’d even go to sleep super early in order to give the appearance that I’d caught a bug that day and it was going to lay me out for AT LEAST 24 hours. I never went to far as to put the thermometer under the light bulb like the kid in E.T., but it was only because I didn’t think a temperature of 135 degrees would render good results. I think that even Ferris Bueller warns against this method citing that a trip to the ER is never a desired outcome.

But, by far, my most elaborate plan for staying home was also my biggest fail. If you ask my sister, she’ll peel over in laughter to this very day and will probably utter the phrase “whole peanuts” in between exaggerated breathes for air. I used to wish I was an only child. One night I decided I could not possibly face the teacher without my homework or deal with the mini-bitches I shared a table with (I take the Lord of the Flies stance on children and innocence). I had to do something drastic. Mom was not buying the traditional pouty face and refusal to get out of bed. So, I went into the bathroom with some, what I thought were, very well-planned ingredients. I think I had a mustard packet and some peanuts. I opened the packet of mustard and peanuts and started mashing them into the tile of the bathroom floor. The result was a bile-colored pile with whole peanuts in it. It needed more orange, I thought. What was orange? Ah, the conditioner that we used at the time was orange and it smelled like heaven. I added it to my fabulous concoction. A few sound effects later and I emerge with the frown, the fake shivers and a half-bent posture to indicate my severe agony. My sister finds me three steps out of the bathroom.

“Oh, I’m so sick” I tell her. She, being the foil of my entire childhood, replies.

“Oh? Did you puke?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see!!”

I point a frail and slightly trembling finger toward the bathroom floor.

“It smells incredible in here for puke,” she starts, “Oh and what is this? Wow. Whole peanuts! Whole peanuts! You barfed up whole peanuts.”

If I thought I wouldn’t be struck dead by lightning for cursing at that age, I would have had a steady stream of F-bombs going off in my head. They’d never buy it now. I didn’t even have to worry about alerting them either because in her torrent of laughter, my sister belted out for the authorities to come and inspect my latest creation.

“Mom! Mom! Get in here now! Ann’s sick. Look. She’s been barfing up whole peanuts and shampoo.”


The State of Staying Home as an Adult


Nothing could be farther from paradise than staying home sick as adult. For the most part, anything that will warrant more work upon your return or will leave you unable to get essential tasks completed is not dubbed desirable. To add to it, staying home from work is a last resort, meaning you feel so completely mutilated that even sitting up straight for an extended period of time warrants short breathes and a vague prayer for a quick death. Oh, and the hit to the wallet only amplifies those prayers.

Weird Al has a song where he celebrates calling in sick to do absolutely nothing all day. Doing absolutely nothing all day will do to an active mind what the rack did to medieval criminals. It pulls at little doubts you couldn’t afford to entertain in a busy atmosphere; it stabs at tender wounds you never got a chance to lick; and it holds you back from doing anything about them.

And then there are the drugs. When I first got sick, I was looking forward to the days of Nyquil and the nights of Theraflu. This is the closest I can actually get to narcotics in my life, so I welcome those “drowsy syrups”. The doctor put the prescriptions in my hands and told me that my bronchitis would be gone in a few days after starting this inhaler, and to make sure I kept up with the decongestants. Yay. Decongestants mean sleep and fevered dreaming.

Not always, apparently. Imagine my disappointment as I lay in my bed at midnight, the covers to my chin, an idiotic grin pasted across my face and my foot twitching nervously at the end of the bed. The dialogue in my brain was just one long word. okIhavetogotosleepforworktomorrowiamfeelingbetteryay. Inhalers, for those of you who don’t know, puff a small cloud of crack into your lungs. Instant absorption. It’s like shooting a Monster into your heart. Logically, I figured that I could negate these effects with some decongestant magic. Some of you may already be chuckling because you know exactly how decongestants act in certain situations. Like, for instance, if you mix them with a strong upper, they will only heighten the 100-cups-of-coffee reality you are stuck in. One a.m. comes around and cleaning seems like the most perfectly logical cure for all of this. Cleaning ends at five and the sun is coming up and since you’d deprived your body of sleep and replaced its healing time with lemon-scented household cleaners, you are sicker than when you started. Grand. More days home. I don’t know about you, but when I go to sleep when I am sick, I have a slight fear of waking up.

It’s always worse when you wake up.

No such thing as bad press

More Evil Apples

Blank Stares

There is a story my sister tells about being so stoned and paranoid at being caught that when her friend walked in the front door, she hastily set herself up on the couch and pretended to be mesmerized by the program on television.
The TV was off.

Whatever appeal she found in that black square is now available for your iphone:
Proof that people will stare at an empty screen.

You can make the screen on an iphone go to black on command without the app, of course, if you prefer darkened and distorted versions of your reflection. This is equivalent to dressing yourself in the reflection of your car door.

My sister stared intently at the blank television screen thanks to recreational stimulants. So, I have to ask, what are all these people smoking?

For more Apple-flavored haterade: uSheep
and another app.: A 1,000$ social status label

Let's Pretend We're Married

Throughout my life, I have found that all of the traditional milestones and phases of my development that were advertised as momentous and awesome occasions have been nothing short of whopping festivals of disappointment. Graduation pictures of family members crowded around you in the gown symbolic for the death of your freedom and your inauguration into suffering (bills, work, bills, work) make it appear like the event is some sort of dignified celebration of your accomplishments. In reality, it turns out that those pictures capture nothing more more than the five minutes spent outside of an auditorium, crammed with thousands of people who are forced to sit through the self-indulgent speeches of figures they have never met or even heard of. You bear all of this to hear a stranger mispronounce your name in a conveyor belt of awkward handshakes and "turn and smile"s while you hypnotize yourself with repeated prayers that your heels won't get caught in the large cracks in the floor of the makeshift stage. People will actually sit through hours of this kind of torture willingly, yet I can't get my students to stay awake for ninety minutes while I tell them about the most influential works of the entire human experience. People are terrible.

Back to the topic, most "life occasions" fell flat for me. College was not a party. It was a four year long study session, a prolonged stay in a forum for criticism, and an expensive one at that. It wasn't parties, orgies and a reliving of the sixties. High school was not all cheerleading and prom dates and driving tests. It was being a ridiculed minority and a part time retail whore.

So, you can imagine that the next milestone that will be coming up (since I am somewhere in the land of 20s) is marriage. I know I am not the norm. Weddings were always awkward occasions. In fact, they reminded me of Bar Mitzvahs more than anything. A rehearsed show for people who are there for the food, stimulants and perhaps to find a way to move forward to whatever sexual base they haven't achieved. Of course, you go to honor the relationship of your closest kin, but let's be honest, wedding attendees fall into the following categories.

- I am here because so-and-so are my closest friend/friends and it is my duty to be at these occasions. This probably the most genuine you can get. (5% of guests)

-I am here because so-and-so was at my wedding and I don't want to be ousted from the family for resisting my mandatory time with them. I must show up, buy a gift that they deem appropriate and by no means say anything that I am thinking throughout the course of the night. Also, I must hog the camera to keep myself from getting bored. Getting wasted wouldn't hurt either. (60% of guests)

-I am here because I want to believe that an actual lasting marriage is possible and I have unfounded hope for these two. I will probably eat more than I should and feel too enormous to actually dance. I will be the idiot crying even though I barely know the couple. (10% of guests)

- I am here because I love to watch a wreck. I know that these people are doing this for many reasons (save the relationship, scared of being alone, someone is preggers, someone cheated, someone is a control freak, etc), none of them being actual compatibility and love. I will drink and have the best damned time ever at this ceremony of poor judgment. (25% of guests)


Because of the disease that I contracted at the age of 7 years old (Bitteritis), my Barbies didn't have weddings. They owned ice cream stores and had sex in the back room. They never wore wedding dresses. They wore kick ass mini skirts and high heels. They may have been pregnant, but for the most part they adopted ponies. So, from an early age, I knew I wanted love, but not so much the marriage part (and ponies). Some people, mostly girls, believe that marriage is a milestone they must pass in their lifetime. They even have specs on when it should occur and how. I think that's a little much to ask from something based on finding one person you can stand long enough to be around for the rest of your existence. One would figure the odds of that are very slim and confining the end of this search to take place in your late 20s seems ludicrous to me. It took me 15 years to find a friend that I call "best". It's taken me 23 years to find a guy I actually liked and trusted. Maybe I have a learning disability based on the early onset of Bitteritis that makes it hard for me to understand this whole deal. Now, don't get me wrong, I have known a (singular) couple that I believe belong together and, at their wedding, I will be part of that 5% that doesn't believe the whole thing is a giant waste of money whose sole purpose is to make breaking up incredibly complicated and soul-murdering. But, for the bulk of this post, I believe that marriage expectations are ridiculous and part of that is due to "girl training".

And after way too much exposition and flat attempts at humor, I reveal the nugget of this social conditioning.

Things like this real life advertisment kill me.




It happened to pop up as an ad on the side of a blog site. It's part of a website where teens and kiddies can make their own avatar and dress them up and make them have lives that don't resemble life in the least (where is my purple unicorn and unlimited cotton candy tree?). Girls and teen-minded ladies, I present the "Romantic Proposal Game". There was never a better title in all of living history.

You can look at the description of this gender-conditioning fantasy right here.

If I created this game, it would involve levels you have to pass to achieve desired proposal:

- Sexual Fulfillment Level
* Holding out as long as possible to make him/her "want it more" mini game
* Doing things you never thought you'd do to keep his/her attention properly titled "Is your dignity bigger than your insecurity?" mini game
* Hiding your dissatisfaction/lack of fulfillment

If you are not successful in the mini games in the level, you will have to engage in battle.

Battles

-Battles consist of who did more hurt to the other and who can dole it out quicker
-In a successful battle, both parties see that they are too exhausted to fight and start over at the Sexual Fulfillment Level
-Guilt points are accumulated in battles that you lose which can limit your progression to the next level. At times, if your partner has enough guilt points, you can skip right to the end of the game to "Romantic Proposal"


-Getting Comfortable Level
*Main puzzle requires you to resist settling and to constantly reignite a burnt out match

If you can survive the "Getting Comfortable" level with enough energy/life to propose without any guilt points or last resort thoughts, then you can achieve the Romantic Proposal and you may be eligible for the "Lasting Marriage" Challenge.

If at any time you skip straight to the Romantic Proposal without mastering the "Getting Comfortable" level, your chances of getting past the "Lasting Marriage" challenge are minuscule.


Spreading Bitteritis To Those You Love
Date a Unicorn
Don't Date a T-Rex

Play Now, My Lord

I was going to litter this page with long-winded sentences and sarcasm, but I feel these ridiculous web-ads speak for themselves.







In the end, I assess that this site will be filled with fat,adolescent guys and pathetic older creepers parading around in an avatar with either humongous boobs or an overly stuffed cod-piece. For women to want to play something like this (and yes, there are geeky woman gamers) the ads would have to feature a suit of armor, much like King Henry's (actual armor - complete with overly swollen bulge) and the words "I live to serve" or "Command me now, Mistress". But, guessing as most girls won't settle for CG swords, they'll stick to their Romantic Proposal Game. A girl would never stoop as low as to engage in virtual war or sex, only virtual love.

I present, Annie, my sister

Dear Robert Pattinson,

You've fucking ruined my life. Allow me to explain.

As if puberty wasn't tough enough.

As if shopping in drag-stores at the tender age of 13 for ladies shoes that only burly men could fill wasn't awful enough.

As if sleepovers didn't inspire enough anxiety when my girlfriends would lend me a baggy tank to sleep in, and after sliding into it, gawking at the thong-like coverage it offered me. Or when they would stay over my place, I would try to beat the odds by offering my most form-fitting tee, and wanting to fade into thin air when they would change into what looked like a moo-moo on them.

As if being sprinkled with volcanic acne colonies on my face, all the while donning an "I <3>

As if the memory of ripping a loud one during silent reading in 10th grade and blooming into a siren-colored mess, alarming the class "IT WAS ME IT WAS ME" doesn't still send me into panic attacks.

As if phoning 411 for phone numbers to businesses and having them respond with a "Is this what you're looking for, sir?" didn't make my stomach turn into sailors knots.

ROBERT, I HAVE BEEN THROUGH ENOUGH, ALREADY. Jesus Christ. Like, is that not fucking enough?

I thought I made adamant strides toward being a respectable adult. Balancing two jobs, earning my keep, taking risks and turning out the victor in many challenges in my life. You have retroactively ruined my growth.

Here's now what a typical day is like: Hello New York City subway! Hey business women and men, intensely studying the New York Times - you, with your intent to inspire and change the world - here I am, like a psychotic 13-year old death-gripping the Twilight book, one-inch from my face, as my eyes dart left to right, LIKE I DON'T ALREADY KNOW WHAT FUCKING HAPPENS from watching this movie on a daily fucking-embarrassing basis. IT'S ME, just reliving all the moments that made me turn into cartoon-form, with bulging eyes, smoke steaming from my ears, jaw dropping to the floor, tongue unraveling into a 27-foot red carpet, all the while omitting weird noises like "AWOOOOOGGAAA", foot gyrating at a steady pace, panting like a starved dog - which was every time you walked into frame.

It's not entirely your fault. I blame my friend. She knew my weakness. She knew I wall-papered my room in Taylor Hanson posters when I was a tween. I was Lindsay Lohan and she had invited me into a coke den. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was adult-like and innocent. And there she came, Twilight in hand, forcing it into my DVD player. I remember ridiculing her: "Ugh, what is this, some Harry Potter Hannah Montana bullshit - UGHHHHH". And from the moment your character entered the shot, my integrity shriveled to the size of pea. I knew. I uh-ohed out loud, knowing that I had set my dignity on fire. Later I found out that you were a musician and like a ravenous lion, gobbled up everything I could read or listen to with you in it. EVEN ADMITTING IT ON THE INTERWEB MAKES ME CRINGE WITH EMBARRASSMENT.

This is a good one: remember the time that I was scrambling for my wallet in front of my adult coworkers - and OOPS, there's my copy of fucking j-14, with the Miley Cyrus giving tweenAmerica a huge thumbs-up on the back. THANKS A FUCKING LOT, ROBERT.

Or what about the time that I was in my room singing no, SHOUTING the indecipherable lyrics to one of your shitty-recordings that someone taped from the back of a loud club - I DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU ARE SAYING? Is it English? The language of angels? I CANNOT TELL - but I moan all the intonations at the top of my lungs, like it was the poetry of Shakespeare of the wisdom of Ghandi.

How about the time I slouch into a goon late at night and fetal-position myself in front of my laptop to watch YOUTUBE MONTAGES of you set to Monica's "Angel of Mine"? That's not enough?

Or how about when I watch Twilight and half-smirk some asshole comment when Kristen Stewart comes onto screen like "whatever, she's not even that cute."

Or what about when I phone my mom to notify her that I have found my soulmate - AND I SEND HER A LINK TO THE MONTAGE. How's that. How does that make MY MOTHER FEEL, Robert? Probably not too great about her adult-daughters future.

You have made me second guess my growth into adulthood. I had this thing down pat. I can watch Brad Pitt and George Clooney with the best of them and sigh occasionally. Entertain the occasional day-dream, but that's it. I don't throw their name around in conversations regarding what I'm doing later that night.

My real-life friends have real-lives. How's am I going to find a man, now? Fuck you for making every man that exists in this world look like a kindergarden school girl. Thanks for BEAMING with talent, making everyone's feeble attempts at being good at at least ONE thing look silly and desperate. Just fucking relax a little.

Written by Annie