Going to the zoo always compares to when you are waiting for your toast, and it pops up with that sudden alarming strike of shock-sound that makes you jump like you are being woken up by eight pale looking Japanese horror kids. It gets me any time of the day – just like the animals at the zoo. Due to my million visits to zoo’s I would think the sight of these not-everyday-animals is something that should be counted as a common happening in my brain depots. However, I seem to always end up gasping and breathing in that surprised “oooh” sound when I get near one of these majestic creatures.
Starring at the monkeys puts me in a paralyzed state where I can do nothing else, than just stand there and observe. Kind of like when you get stuck on YouTube watching cat videos. Monkeys always seem blow me away like I’ve just ended first season of Lost. I freeze up and all these extremely deep philosophical questions arise, and as my mind stresses out trying to find answers and come up with reasons my body pumps the feel of awesomeness.
It always surprises me how much they look and act like us, and somehow that is hilariously entertaining. One thing I wonder about is what it must have been like to live in the part of evolution where some of us were monkeys and the other part was human? They must have been some extremely patient homo sapiens and confused monkeys.
You know how 70% of planet earth is made out of water? Well, I’m made of 70% hunger tissue. My Bermuda Triangle of a stomach has made a name for it self; The Machine. There are several reasons why I have honored my stomach with such a majestical status. 1) Its passion for meals – in particular nachos, will always remain the same or above, in the event of eating the same meal for days, like a true warrior. 2) It lives by the rules of Joey Tribbiani such as if the fridge is broke you eat everything and do NOT share food! 3) It doesn’t have a humane limit to food.
Life with The Machine has lead to great dining experiences, however in one particular restaurant I had to put the fork on hold due to a sudden situation that deserved a moments rant. As my fork took direction towards the plate I noticed that it oddly had three stabby sticks in the end of its one metal leg. Don’t all forks have 4 tines? Think about it. If you Google pictures of forks they all have 4 tines. It just looked like it had special needs or something. Who decided that a fork should have 4 tines in the first place?! It’s like changing The Lion King to The King of Lions. It’s less cool, and there’s just no point!
The life of me involves no personal wars as such. Only at the event of stopping my hands from delivering tasty overloaded cheesy nachos to my fragile buds I struggle, as the fat kid inside me just can’t reach a limit for nachos eating. It’s like when you without intention of breaking into song, sing ‘Mamaaa’, and then having to sing oh-oh-ooohh afterwards – you just have to go on. This concerns me, because I feel like I’m destined to be so much more than the girl who over-dosed on nachos. Anyhow, I stumbled upon something that created a war against myself, and in the end, I have acknowledged that I simply can’t win. There is no angry way of saying ‘bubbles’. No matter how hard you try, or the amount of negative thoughts you force through your emotional tubes, it’s an endless battle. There is just no way. Even with a german accent it sounds like an angel sliding off a rainbow. Imagine Kristen Stewart saying bubbles, that would be a great film for one. Secondly, I think it would do her aura good. Another great thing ‘bubbles’ could give to society would be casting a spell on Grumpy Cat, so its ‘Miav’ would be replaced with ‘bubbles’. Just putting it out there.
I must admit that I place myself in the “love for the winter” catagory, and like Ned Stark – I’m prepared when winter is coming with cuddly wearings. However, it feels like winter has been here for the time it took Zeus to grow that amazing beard of his, and now I just want to be smothered by the glorious feel of a warm sun. Our apartment is so cold, that it wouldn’t make any difference to sit here, or to have Edward Cullen desperately breathing on me with his freezing fumes.
There are many things, you can observe in this Antartica remake of London, and one of those things are the way we produce heat physically. When your hands are cold you creep them in a model of ‘Jesus Blessing Hands’ and blow on them with intention of producing instant heat. But then why do we at the same time blow on our hot food or drink to dip it down to a colder scale? How does that work when it’s the same heat used on polar things? It doesn’t really make any sense when you throw a brain bomb at it. I don’t put “(I’ve Had) the Time of my Life” on when I don’t feel like dancing, but somehow our inside air just does the job for both warm and cold. I just don’t get how?
The genes of my family have proven to create extremely pale-skinned human beings. Life of a no-sun-tan individual has its advantages such as… That’s right, nothing. Even a taco shell achieves a higher bronze level in the sun than I do. Other than tanning like a lobster 2 minutes before the egg clock rings, the second unfavorable position pale genes puts me through, is the fact that I bruise like a peach left in a college room during a drowsy hour. (I imagine a peach left with college student tends to have a soggy formation leading them to bruise to a more extreme effect). In a reckless boozing adventure last Thursday, I slipped off the couch where I was busting ‘4 cocktails and 2 beers moves’. In the tragic attempt to slide down off the couch graciously, I smacked down, knees first to the floor. Like a boss.
The day after I found the evidence of my clumsy crime; my knees had transformed to bruise galore. It’s not like I fell down from Mount Everest, it was only a standard leather couch. Still, the state of my pale knees looked like a catastrophic fail of a ghosts attempt to tattoo the ocean on itself. Blue as f’ck they were. On the second day my bruises were in an even worse condition, it felt as Fat Joe had done a gig on my knee shells. While feeling sorry for myself I looked at my knees and wondered; how come bruises are blue, purple and yellow? What is it in the skin tissue that caused my knees to look like the knees of pornstar after a 14 hour shift? Are bruises just for humans or would a fish for example leave a colorful bruise if you punched it? Or can a duck bruise its beak by smashing it into another ducks beak? Cause if I can get a bruise under my nail, do the color of bruises have anything to do with my skin? I just don’t get it.