Much deeper than should be allowed on a Monday...

I have never been a poet, nor have I been a writer. When in college I wrote about topics that someone else chose for me. For the most part, I was given thesis ideas and asked to expound on them. I often struggled in Religion and English classes to look far past the metaphysical and find some inner being for the struggles or tribulations a character faced or find symbolism in a tree, or an apple, or any object that could have a far more in depth meaning that the author described.
My inability to look this closely into stories was directly linked with the fact I was a "factual" person. I find it much more exhilarating to research a historical topic, and base my own ideals around what happened and form my own stories about history. See with history it is a well known fact that the victors write the history books. They tell the story as they see fit, but is often forgotten how the "losers" came about, as they only tell their story. That is why we have lost societies, the losers were not left to tell their tale, their faults, their defense. We just let the kings and nobles and historians to depict them in whatever light, whether negative or positive, they see fit.
I have officially strayed far from what I had on my mind to write. With history, I can quickly veer off topic. Needless to say, I'm neither a creative or symbolic writer, but recently the symbolism behind a certain animate object has struck a far deeper yearn inside of me.

The symbolism behind a bird. What is a bird?

According to Websters', there is the literal meaning behind a bird: any warm-blooded vertebrate of the class Aves, having a body covered with feathers, forelimbs modified into wings, scaly legs, a beak, and no teeth, and bearing young in a hard-shelled egg.
But then if you look down farther it also notes a bird as an airplane, a peculiar person, something you eat, an obscene gesture or ridicule. And then come the numerous idioms correlated with the word, such as, killing two birds with one stone, or the birds and the bees.
This one five letter words, with numerous meanings, and yet literature,movies, and songs (i.e. Free Bird) have their own portrayals.
In Forest Gump, Jenny prayed to be like a bird so she could fly far, far away.The movie began with a simple feather fluttering through the air as young Forest got on the bus, later as Jenny made her prayer, black birds flew out of that corn field and later her father passed. As the movie progressed, she attempted to jump of a balcony, had this of happened she would have been that bird, she would have flown up, and quickly come back down. Throughout the movie she fluttered in and out of Forest's life, much like a hummingbird as they come and go with the season, always finding you when the weather is sweet and days are warm, singing you beautiful songs. After she passed away you see the birds flying into the sky behind the old oak tree. And finally, the same fluttering feather lands at Forest feet as their son steps on the bus.
Was Jenny a bird her whole life? Was that feather in the beginning always Jenny? Was her childhood prayer her simple plea to God to make her bigger than this world and give her wings that she was never able to spread. It was the 70's and the drugs and alcohol could essentially make you feel like you are flying. Was that the entire essence of the movie though. Was Forrest merely flying through his life creating his own recollections of stories. Was he writing his own history book since Jenny had already flown away and was not there and able to write. Symbolically, had Jenny already flown when sitting in that field and her story went unwritten. In this setting a bird was a beautiful holy object there in a feeble attempt to save one from themselves.
One cannot write about a bird though and fail to mention the movie "The Birds." Alfred Hitchcock created his thriller with a predisposed meaning in my opinion. He took a factual story of a mass bird death in California and created a story of numerous bird attacks on this one girl. A girl who went to a small island an the birds, from the minute she stepped on the ferry, wanted her gone. The movie leads you to wonder were the birds in fear the Melanie was the next apocalypse. Did the birds smell Revelations in the air, and attack Melanie in attempt for her to leave town? Also, the were never beautiful or valiant or heroic, they were crows. Black birds. Pesty little creatures that my grandmother used to stand on her doorstep, beating her cane on the porch, trying to get the out of her yard. We never look at a crow in the same manner as we look at a dove or an eagle. They are dirty, dark objects. Even in Peter Pan, James Barrie depicted Peter crowing after killing Pirates, the crow that caused the pirates to fear, and the Lost Boys to cheer. Nothing could correlate with a crow.
But then, in moments of bleak sadness, we find the beauty of two doves. They are rare in themselves, but if seen together is symbolically refereed to as an everlasting love. They will never falter. Newlyweds will set them free at their wedding to show they unwavering commitment to one another.
There are also to cardinals, most ofter referred to as love birds when seen together. Old wive's tale's say that when you see two cardinals together to make a wish on them and you will be with you one true love the rest of your life.
And finally, the Eagle. A strong majestic symbol of hope and faith and power. For Christians they symbolize redemption and salvation. For governments, it is a symbol of protection, power and heraldry, depending on what ever direction the tips of the wings are pointing. By no means was the US the first society to use this a symbol of power and strength. There was Nazi Germany and the Third Reich and Napoleon and the Romans. We were by no means creative in placing this majestic bird in conjunction with the word e pluribus unum. Out of many, one.
In terms of the foundation of this statement, and how it was derived to be the seal of the US government, it was meant to show the foundation to be created between the 13 colonies to develop one government, one people. People that have immigrated from so many lands, and created their own states, but are able to be one body, one protector, one symbol of power and the strength. No wonder our founding fathers paired the eagle with this statement.
But on the opposite side of this, the eagle as the the American symbolism of power, is a fake in itself. The land was stole from the Native Americans, and the the Native Americans, they believed God chose the Eagle as the Master of the Sky, a leader because it can fly higher and see better than all other birds. Their feathers are sacrad to Native Americans are a treasure. Some tribes have Eagle dancers in their outfit, and if a feather falls of their regalia it is to be watched over in order to properly cleanse the feather after the dance has ended.
And yet, we stole the land and we stole this symbol of faith and power.

And hell if you made it this far, the birds and the bee's ... power and love that will sting the crap out of you and peck you at the same time. Its all relative my dear.

Childlike wonder

Tonight, as I was baking a mountain of made from scratch cookies, it yet again caused me to look back upon my life. You see, in my house, Christmas was a magical time. I suppose in most homes it was. But me, I was one of those peeing-in-your pants, Santa Claus is watching me through the heat ducts, eat every cookie in sight kinda kid. And a tree with bright white lights and ornaments made out of Popsicle sticks and twist-ties was for more majestic and holy than any Martha Stewart Christmas catalog could summons. And that day, that one beautiful Autumn day, where the pinecones littered the ground and the air was crisp and smelled of football and red hot dogs..the day the Sears and JC Penny Christmas magazine came in the mail! Any child that does not recall this day, I feel sorry for you. At no other time in my young life did I have access to pages and pages and pages of toys, shoes, clothes, bedspreads, and everything else you could imagine...and yes, I could mark every single page and then write 10 5-page letter's to Santa Clause... and Santa Clause never judges.
Maybe I had a teacher once write in a "proposed" letter from Santa that if I wanted one of the lifelike Michelle from Full House dolls that I should ask my parents about making one, because unfortunately she was old and did not know I truly wanted a doll, not a baby sister.
And maybe, I had someone in the high school band try to give me a present my mother had bought through Tom-Wat which subsequently showed up on Christmas morning,
And maybe, when I got older, I sometimes wondered why my Dad was always able to fix my handmade Doll House that Santa bought me..
But through all the maybes, I never faltered in my childlike wonder. Even into high school I was unable to sleep on Christmas Eve, and now know if I stop "believing" Santa will stop coming.
As an adult, I miss baking cookies for 2 days, playing bingo and board games Christmas Eve night, having Christmas trees in every room, and seeing the quaint stocking hung under the Magnolia and decorated house covered mantle, or quietly hovering in my brothers room until finally, the most amazing sentence any pee-in-your pants kid wants to hear... "Fine, fine, we'll get up" from your parents, knowing that Santa just went to sleep an hour earlier, the piles spread across the living room in our respective chairs, and Christmas breakfast with half dead parents at grandma's house, nanny trying to burn your presents, and grandma forgetting to give you yours (not once, but twice), and then playing until finally your eyes were heavy and December 25th had turned into the 26th....and let me just tell you, Dec 26th has always been a bummer to me, so much anticipation for this one day and the next morning is just another morning.
I used to often wonder what other families Christmas's were like, and now I realize that at heart, I'm still ready to pee in pants at the first sight of a Christmas tree and Santa in the Macy's parade and dream of homemade cookies. The only Christmas that matters is the one we create for ourselves and our family, because that Christmas is one you carry in your heart and feel the warmth, like peeing in your pants, whenever you want...or forget to hold in the excitement.

call screening and a new bed.

I haven't written here lately as more of my creative writing have been dumped obnoxiously in the stupid chic book I have embarked upon writing. But I think I need to bring the blog back so I can get some of the day to day monotony off my mind. So basically...
1. I have a new love for Mumford and Sons and white wine thanks to Amber.
( This has inadvertently increased my desire to find a cute redheaded Irish and have little babies with Irish accents) ( Ok. Well maybe that was a lie, and a little far fetched. Just give me the Irish boy and no unfortunate child has to suffer with me as mother.)
2. I do love my country music. And have had a strong love for Reba after hearing Fancy and the Nights Went Out In Georgia at very young age. Come to think of it, maybe something about those songs defined a portion of my life. Poor girls with sugar daddy dreams and crazy bitches with guns. Maybe I should just write a song, name it "I Got Girlfriends with Guns" I'll explain the situation to Rhett Atkins, and let him know having girlfriends with guns is way more awesome that friends with tractors ( bc the girlfriends with guns know how to drive tractors in my song....now thats hot.)
Ok, back to my point....Reba, I love you. But do not sing Beyonce songs. Beyonce is the goddess of all things R&B and the body to prove it. You are the creme' de la creme' of country. Stick with country.
3. Why is Oregon so far away.
4. Tonight will be my first night sleeping in a bed that is not covered in a mountain of down. Thanks to a new-to-me pillow top mattress. I'm not sure how this is going to go down, but if someone has their head bitten off tomorrow, do not cast your eyes towards me. I giving my disclaimer now.
5. Why do old people wear really awful perfume? I mean really, do people completely lose their sense of smell the older they get or do they just like the smell of musk. Or Must in my opinion...because they stank!
6. The same number has called me for the past 5 minutes, every minute, w/o leaving a message. I do not know this person, but I'm fairly certain whomever you are, you are probably stalking me. If you were smart you would leave a voicemail, or send me a text, because whoever you are...I may not want to talk to you and yes, I do screen my calls.
Ok. That is all. Good night.
And long live country music.

How eyebrows can define your face?

So, as some may know, recently I have been in hot pursuit of regrowing my eyebrows. Why? Last October I made the decision to "attempt" to save money in numerous aspects of my life. One of the biggest arena's was in beauty supplies. I decided to use all those random, half empty bottles of Shampoo, Body Wash, Lotion, all hair products, make up, and basically all that other crap that causes 98% of all females bathrooms to be come a cluster of fruity goodness that we have grown tired of. It is now March and I have not purchased body wash in close to 8 months (this is also thanks to receiving about 5 bottles for Christmas) So, when I decided this I also made the decision to "attempt" to pluck my own eyebrows rather than pay the completely asinine $10 a months to let the Chinese lady wax them while, also, asking/attempting to wax my non-existent lip hair ... aka...mustache as well. Obvi, I decline. By the way, if there is a mustache, an no one has informed me, all of our friendships are over.
So, here I am, in my bathroom, tweezers in hand ready to begin the process of tweezing and shaping a rapidly growing uni-brow. While I have always been able to do the standard week to week clean up, being in charge of my own prettiness was never a forte. I pay people for that, it took this defining moment for me to realize I will continue to pay for that.
Actually, I should have never embarked on this adventure anyway, especially after living the bad haircut hell for 3 months. See this one time, after having my haircut by a new hairstylist, I was not a fan of my bangs. You know where this is going; of course I decided that because I had watched hairstylist go snip, snip for years, I too could go snip, snip. WRONG! I snip, snipped side swooping pangs to the exact same length straight across my forehead. I screamed as soon as I made the cut, I immediately knew a baseball cap was about to be my best friend. The next day I went to the hairstylist begging, pleading, practically crawling on my knees and only receiving a laugh in return because there was nothing she could do for this catastrophe except say "It will grow back!" Did I learn my lesson from this? Of courssssee not!
So back to the eyebrows, here I am, sitting in my sink, knees to my chest with mouth wide open ( I have a tendency of making the OH! face when focusing) so I can capture as much light from the bathroom mirror as to not miss anything. I am being as delicate as possible, trying not to rush because one wrong pluck, much like my bangs, can make a grown woman cry in complete dismay.
Then, as if Edward Scissorhand's had over come me, I made that one, ill-fated, wrong pluck and "accidentally" grabbed an entire section of tiny hairs and pulled; next thing I knew....my eyebrow's were two different lengths and I was sitting in a sink contemplating crying a river. I immediately stopped, went to the bitchy Chinese lady who talked about me in some Ching Chong that I didn't understand, possibly calling me a silly white girl for trying to do my own eyebrows. (I still love the little Chinese lady, but in this moment I was not a happy person). She, much like the hairstylist, attempted to play damage control, but they were to far gone. Accidentally shaving off an entire eyebrow, would have been the only thing worse.
I tried to grow them out for months, but I would get too frustrated by how horrifying they looked with all the little random hairs all over the place and would get the wax and pray that China didn't comment on them. She did, she said I needed to grown them out, I never listened, I just went to new salons and blamed the lack of symmetry on the previous person. Actually, I never blatantly stated that this was all my fault, just never said it wasn't another person's either. The worst part, thanks to my red hair and that no cosmetic supplier makes strawberry blonde/red eyebrow pencils, I could not even draw them in without it being blatantly obvious.
With all this being said, for future reference, It takes roughly a month for completely botched eyebrows to grown back in... and I am getting them waxed back to perfection this weekend!!!

Exploitations of a skanky girl...

Ok, so I may not be skanky. Scandalous may better suffice. Ok, so maybe not scandalous, I do have a reputation to uphold here.Well, that is, if there is still a reputation to uphold. I think there are few Saturday nights that could have ruined my reputation or created an entire new one. I'm not so sure, they were a bit hazy. None involve the stereotypical going home with a person I don't know, but most involve waking up with a phone number I'm unsure of, some have involved meeting a new guy when I'm out with another, and once or twice may involved dancing on a bar. But in terms of reputation, really why should I base my sole existence around some nonsense others think about me. Wouldn't we all be a little bit more free if we were not trying to maintain a reputation. Personal opinion, I don't think you really begin to live until you remove the bars that are surrounding your existence. Why do you think the skanks of the world can thrive in a celebrated fashion?
So here's what I say.....Live on skanks... live on the white trash, trailer park hood rats. I will be forever indebted to your cut off jorts, Pall Mall smoking, Natural light drinking, baby on your hip, K-Mart feet, chewing Big Red, with Johnston County hair (sincere apologies if that offended you, but it is a cross between the Kate Gosselin and the mullet), and rouge lipstick. You have perfected the art of embracing your skank-tastic reputation of looking dirty and cheap while flaunting your Tweetie bird tattoo and tramp stamp to a man that has no desire to even give you a quarter to call a person who cares. You find your self fascinating to everyone, when really it is only Bubba down the street with the beer belly and one tooth. And think about, what is the perfect vacation for the skank...a trip to Graceland wearing Jorts with their Camera and Pall Malls in an acid wash fanny pack.

whats the point of no return...

So, just out of curiosity, at what point are you supposed to open up to someone. At what point are they supposed to see past the face value bullshit and know the real you. Ok, so maybe some people allow the true them to show at all times, from day one. I'm not saying that I have an issue with this, but there are things about me people are unaware of. Its not because I am scared of admitting these things, but rather, I am unsure of when is the most appropriate time to bring up more personal subjects. And is there really an appropriate time, or do I just miss the segue in normal conversations with a significant other that can lead to more in depth topics.

For instance, I have 2 big fears in my life. They have absolutely nothing to do with monetary happiness or success in my job. I know I will do well in both of those arena's, mainly because I am a workaholic and will go through every possible facet in order to be the best and move up the quickest. And in terms of monetary happiness, when you are cheap, and you will always have dinero, at least that is my opinion, and plus, I have a strong relationship with Goodwill Industries.

So for me, my two fears are that, one, I will not find someone to accept me for the forever aspect. Maybe, this is because I don't put out the vibe that a I am ready and willing for commitment and maybe its because my fear that someone will not accept all the positives and negatives about me, and this inhibits me from disclosing all the personal information about myself that allows others to get in my inner circle. I do realize that I have to have a certain aura about me, but I'm fairly certain no matter how ready I am I will never have that aura. I have always said that I never had issues getting the guy, but never had the appeal to keep them around once the honeymoon/physical chemistry subsided. To be honest, maybe only twice in my life have I a been completely honest about who I really am. Once ended due to irreconcilable difference and there are no ill feelings.
Anyone is able to sabotage their own relationship, and I have come to the determination that I have a very high success rate at sabotaging relationships. At times, I believe others are unable to see past the face value.....hello, its their fault not mine. Classic single girl response. But really, why should I want anything to do with someone that can only see me for exactly what I present, shouldn't I want that person that see's more, that is able to look past the physical aspects or the image that I portray. I'm a balla... I know this, thus everyone else should know this.
Secondly, I'm petrified of being a good mother one day. Actually, I'm just petrified of being a mom in general. I don't get that warm, fuzzy feeling at the thought of being a mom. In hindsight, I'd rather take a butter knife and slowly disseminate my carodit artery while shoving a cold ice pic in my eye at the same time. Graphic...maybe. Really, you are trusting the life of another human being in my hands and expecting me to raise it to be a decent human being. It would be a well dressed object, but decent human...I think not. I'm fairly certain that I do not have that mother instinct....heck, I have a tendency of making babies and small animals cry. I am not only scared of raising something to be a just human being, but how do I do this and work at the same time. I can barely focus on fixing my own hair in the morning and you expect me to make sure something goes to school with matching shoes on it's feet. Teachers will hate me, I may even have the smelly kid one day whose name is Euripides because I decided that even if he was old and had the IQ of a 2 year old at least he would have a noble name. I'll give him a nickname, just so the kids won't call him a freak in attempt to protect his social development, but no doubt he will be scarred for life. To some extent, this could make me a good mom, I mean isn't part of growing up being completely scarred by something that happened in the forefront of you cognitive and social development. I was called Pippy, and told I was fat by some dumb boy on the school bus. At least now my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard now.

I'm fairly certain my quarterlife crisis is going to sabotage the rest of my life...

If I could write a parody of my life...

Why I will never be Britney Spears.

Yes, I am legit in saying this. In my mind, I was Britney Spears in a past life. Beyonce was my best friend. Miley Cyrus was my arch enemy. Do not try to discourage me in thinking this. Whenever my Ipod switches to "Womanizer" I feel as if this is the ultimate homage. But as many times as I have attempted to sing, I fail miserably. Inside there is this inner performer that wishes to break free, walk on stage scantily clad with a python wrapped around my neck while wearing 5 in heels. Like Britney Spears, I, too, am from small town USA where wearing cutoff Levi's, putting your kid on a leash is appropriate, and 17 year olds like Jamie Lynn have nothing better to do than get pregnant. While looking at Britney from this perspective, I should probably aspire to be more like Carrie Underwood, but she's sweet and wholesome and only sings of taking a Louisville Slugger to someone's car. Britney...is nuts. She broke out her entire career on the edge. She went from cute little Mickey Mouse Club and took the Catholic schoolgirl persona to a whole new level and parents questioned her, then busted out this red leather jump suit singing about the diamond from the Titanic. Miley tried to trump this buy posing naked in a magazine....well she did have a towel around her, but she still doesn't have it. She formally apologized for the image she portrayed. Britney and Christina have already been the once sweet, little Disney characters turned skanks of pop music, theres no place for you in this game of life Miley, so continue with your Hoedown Throwdown (which secretly I love). When Britney drove with her baby sitting in her lap, and bashed in K-Feds truck with a baseball bat, then shaved all her hair off, did she apologize..no! This is not One Republic, and there is no reason to apologize when everyone already knows your nuts. Can she actually sing, slightly, in the pop music world. She will never be able to sing with the likes of Aretha, singing with soul. Can she dance, slightly, in the I should have a stripper pole in my house and crawl across the floor with heavy black eyeliner/mascara duo swinging my wet wavy hair. As for me, I can only continue to dream.

Reasons this will never happen. I am tone death. Horribly tone death. As in, I make dogs cry. And I have no idea what pitchy means. I watch American Idol, and get confused when Randy always says pitchy, because I think the song sounded great. Is a falsetto a pitch, or a note in a song? I don't know the difference between a tenor and alto, except I know I am not a soprano. I learned this at Bible Camp, where half the girls could use this sweet little voice and hit soft high notes. I could not. I am not soft. Or Sweet. Nor can I dance. I am the epitome of white girl. The girl that in a club all the black girls talk about because she thinks she cool, and smooth on the dance floor, when in actuality all I'm doing is moving my hips in an obnoxious manner and rocking my head in a motion that makes me think I look sexy. What I do have, though, is stage presence. Granted, I have never been on a stage because some asshole would boo me off, or I would make a scene that is straight out of P.S I Love you and would fall off and break my nose. So I have deemed the inside of my 12 year old pick up truck as my stage, as well as, my bathroom with my bottle of hairspray as my microphone. I have fine tuned my facial expressions and know just when to put my arm in the air during the powerful part of the song and then bring it back to my chest with my fist and eyes closed. And, during an angry song how make my face mean and put the gusto behind the words. I have no ability to dress remotely close to Britney, except I do own cowboy boots. A. No body wants to see the extra baggage that is really going on. I don't wear tight form fiting clothing unless I have previously determined my baggage is well hidden. And yes, girls know how to hide their flaws. B. I have to strong of a friendship with JCrew and GAP and it is very difficult to skank up a cardigan. C. My mother would slap me.

So, when all is said and done, even though Britney is my homegirl, my lack of singing and skanky dancing ability enables Britney to retain the homecourt advantage. Plus, I'm not that physcotic....and not on mood stabilizer ... yet.

the bermuda triangle of vegetables

Why brussel sprouts changed my life.

Really, who decided one day, "Hey, I think I'm just going to pick this little cabbage looking shrub out of the ground and eat away". Brussel sprouts are not the only food I feel such disdain towards. Mushrooms hit fairly high on that list as well. Gah, the thought that some divine individual felt the need to eat this little dirty object that has no smell, essentially no taste raw, and has a slimy texture when cooked....I still refuse to eat them cooked. Oyster as well.

Obviously, I have a complex about food. I am not picky but the texture and visual appeal of a food completely outweighs the actual taste. I didn't eat a mushroom until I was 22, avacado and sushi until 23, smoked salmon less than 3 weeks ago, and have refused to eat oysters since my mother shoved this slimy, steamed, vinegar covered, mucous that just fell out of my snotty kid nose looking object down my throat. Oh! The damage that one oyster did to me.In my mind, I remember her holding my nose and telling me to just eat, but she would claim I was willing...she lies, all mother distort facts about the tramatic moments from you childhood. I think it's mother code.. they have to. Ok, back to the snot....the feeling still sends shivers down my spine at the thought of cracking open this shell that can grow a beautiful pearl and sucking out the mucous. It bothers me that this same shell can harvest something that looks like snot and I have to eat. I'd almost rather swallow my own snot when I'm sick...ok, maybe that was excessive, but you see the point.

So, brussel sprouts. They are small, green objects, that closely resemble cabbage. They have 45 calories and 8g protien in six. A good source of fiber and all this other nonsense. But they are still these scary green objects. Movies, commercials, and tv shows instill a fear of these in younglings by always showing images of children feeding them to the dog or spitting them out in their napkin. And for me, that moment occured while watching America's Funniest Home Video's...the old school Bob Saget one with the bad voiceovers...where this redheaded girl with thick bangs was throwing her brussel sprouts in the trash and lying to her parents about them. I didn't know this girl, but I immediately identified with her and decided I would hate them as well. I, too, had a thick mange of red hair, and, at times, lied to my parents about my brothers; her and I were destined to be bff's. So, ultimately, I refused to come near them, or even acknowledge thier vegetable existense in the food pyrmiad. In my mind, they only existed in the vegetable equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle, where things go but never come back.

And then (insert the dun dun dun) three days ago, as I am leaving the gym, I decide make my way to the local Kroger, more vegetable friendly than Food Lion, in search of Spinach salad, avacodo, raw mushrooms, and cucumbers to make a quaint little dinner. I aquire the ingredients and begin perusing the aisles for other delicacies. I stumble upon the frozen vegetables, I lock eyes with this bag of Brussel Sprouts, I give it the stank eye, and I walk away. Then, I stumble upon another bag and we lock eyes again. In this split second, I decided to slip on my big girl, unnamed, non victoria secret panties and dive into the unknown abyss. Next thing I know, as if Satan overcame me, the scary baby cabbage is in my basket, being scanned, and then ...being paid for....with my own money.

So, here I am standing in my kitchen, with this bag of grossness, that I have no idea how to cook. I take the easy way....microwave. Someone should be playing the Rocky theme song right now. 7 minute countdown begins and movie quotes are running rampant in my head :

Minute 7: "man down, man down, run for cover"

Minute 6: "This is no democracy. It's a dictatorship. I am the law"

Minute 5: "Boobie traps"

Minute 4: "Someone didn't love you enough when you were little did they?"

Minute 3: "I may have been bad. I may have kept you chained up in that room, But it was for your own good."

Minute 2: down to the wire.

Minute 1: "The key to change is to let go of fear"

Minute 0: Ding

The life changing defining moment has come. I take the bowl out, disperse of the water, grab the salt and pepper determined these two seasoning can over power any terrible flavor. Stare, eye to eye, woman to sprout, and stick my fork into its center, close my eyes, suck in fast, open my mouth, refuse to breathe, chew, let all the flavors arouse themselves, and swallow. And now I can say TOTAL DOMINATION!

Now, for the culminating moment....brussel sprouts are this shit! ( w/o the salt and pepper they could have been bad, but I will never know) And how this changed my life....for so long this was the last food I adamantly refused to try, and now.... on my own, I have overcome my fear of baby cabbage.

I will never eat snot though. Or fried snot. Or stewed snot. Oyster's = snot. Forever.