Experience is a cruel teacher. It gives a test before ever presenting the lesson.

Well the world didn't end.  Or, if it did, the afterlife is weirdly similar to my regular life.  It didn't though, because I'm pretty sure hell would have a permanent Justin Bieber soundtrack.  Anyway, I'll stay away from all the apocalypse and Mayan jokes, mostly because I've been abusing them on Twitter.

First off, Merry Christmas everyone!  Or Happy Holidays if your Jewish or just generally hate people wishing you the best.  You know what?  I take that back, I hope your holidays are mediocre at best you scrooge.  Anyway it's Christmas today, and I am fulfilling my annual tradition: Spending the entire day in airports and planes.  Except this year I actually have people traveling with me, so it looks slightly less pathetic.  Anyway this year I met my family up in Beaver Creek Colorado for one of our favorite white-person traditions: skiing.  As you probably don't know because why the hell would you, I haven't been skiing in about four or five years (rough estimate as my memory is essential that of a senile 90 yr old).  Since then I've been snowboarding once, but that's it.  I figured it'd be pretty easy to get my ski legs back because I've been skiing a lot over my lifetime.  I was very wrong.  It turns out I am significantly worse at skiing than I was a couple years ago.  For those of you following me on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, or just generally following me around in person, you've probably seen the picture I posted showing that I hit 52.8 mph on skis and would say, "Well you seem pretty good..."  False.  This is simply a misrepresentation of information.  While you might see that statistic as showing my confidence and control at high speeds on the mountain, what it actually means is that I am an utter pansy who's too afraid to turn, and instead simply closes his eyes and waits until he comes to a stop via the run ending, hitting a tree, etc.  Zero skill involved.  Of course, as soon as I successfully maneuver my way down two or three runs I immediately assume I'm qualified to hit the Winter X Games runs and professional crap.  And you know what assuming does.  It kills you.  Or at least severely injures you.  As is what happened when I decided to go into the terrain park and mess around while waiting for Salomon and Rossignol to bring the contracts.  Terrible, TERRIBLE decision in retrospect.  The first run down I nailed it.  (Possibly due to the fact that I slowly cruised down the side of the run, not touching a single feature.)  The second run.....well, it escalated quickly.  With completely unearned confidence flowing from every pore, I got off the lift, turned into the park, and bee-lined for the closest jump.  A jump that was far bigger than ANYTHING I'm qualified to hit.  I don't want to say I was ungraceful whilst in the air, but a fellow skier may have compared me to a set of broken windshield wipers.  I landed, way off from where I was supposed to, but I landed nonetheless, and in my absurdly irrational state of mind I took that as a good sign and thus continued on towards the rails and boxes.  With a head full of wrong decisions, I made for the second rail down, again moving way too fast.  I hit the little entrance jump thingy (scientific term), went into the air, hit the rail WAY too hard, immediately shooting my skis out from under me and absorbing the brunt of the fall with the my head.  I was pretty stunned and may have lost awareness for a minute or so, but I didn't cry, despite what Mr. Biggie Fries Skier says.  Who cares what he thinks anyway.  It freaking hurt.  Go back to doing you Double-Triple McFlurries you jerk.  Long story short I think I'm just gonna stick to sledding from here on out.

You know that WOPWOPWOPWOP sound when only one person rolls down their window in the car?  Firstly, fuck that guy.  Second off, can you imagine how bad it would be if you could roll down airplane windows?  Assuming of course we didn't all immediately die from lack of oxygen.

Speaking of traveling, this is the first time I've been on a plane since August, which is a pretty long time for me, and I'm kind of getting nostalgic.  Nothing feels like home like a warm scripted greeting, a homey instructional video, and a nice prepackaged serving of pretzels.  Of course one of my favorite parts of flying, as I've said before, is texting at least twenty people then immediately turning off my phone for the flight, that way when you turn it on after landing (make sure it's on loud), you sit there helplessly while being continually notified of your unimaginable popularity.  Hey 4B, do you hear that?  That's the sound of me having friends.  Yea, go back to your Sudoku you pathetic friendless loser.  (4B was a jerk anyway.)  Anyway, the one thing I've never been able to do is sleep on an airplane.  Up until a few days ago I thought that was a curse.  I would've given anything to be able to sit down and immediately go unconscious instead of dealing with the tiny little Hitler behind me screaming for two and a half hours because it's too much of an idiot to know how to pop his ears.  What I found out last Friday, however, is that for me, not being able to sleep is a blessing from GOD.  Is it an exhausting and frustrating blessing?  Absolutely yes.  But it is a blessing nonetheless.  Why, you ask?  Because God have mercy on the person sitting next to me when I wake up in a total panic from a dream.  As you may be able to guess, my imagination is slightly.... well, insane.  On the way to Denver I had the kind of dream that Stephen King would go to a therapist over.  M Night Shambangala cries about this kind of stuff.  Of course I can't remember every detail, but you know the feeling when you wake up and even though you don't really know what happened, you still have this gut feeling that something has gone horribly wrong inside your head?  Like a little bit of your soul was just deep-fried and eaten by a demon?  Yea, that.  Basically the last thing I remember is sitting in an abandoned DMV being attacked by what I can only describe as a fear monster with insanity scales chewing on me with teeth made of secrets.  Yea, you try being in that situation and not waking up flailing every limb outwards and screaming for Jesus.  Lady, I'm sorry about your new jacket and for the loss of your ginger ale, but I was in a very dark place.  If it matters that much, your next Schweppes is on me.

Let's move on to something a little less life-ruining.  Two days I found out I got into another college, and I'll be moving to Phoenix.  Huzzah!  I've got the major details covered, like what I'm eating for lunch when I get home (Zaxby's) and my first couple stops on the drive to Arizona (also Zaxby's).  It's the smaller details I've got to worry about now, such as where I'm staying during the four day drive, where I'm going to live once I get there, how I'm going to afford the gas, getting student loans to actually pay for college, and registering for class.  So far I've got literally none of those things figured out.  Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that if any of you people live in between Columbia, SC and Phoenix, AZ and aren't going to murder me and wear my skin, hit me up if you've got an extra bed/couch/closet space.  I'm not picky and I'm pretty low maintenance.  Please have bacon available.

Fact of the Day:  Astronauts have a small piece of Velcro inside their helmets so they can scratch their nose.

Shout out to Emily Moore.

A closed mouth gathers no feet.

Hello Tablets.  Honestly, how have you people gotten along without me?  Have you forgotten how to laugh?  It's been a solid month and a half since I wrote the last post, and I apologize.  I've gotten distracted, but I have a life too so back the hell off.  Also, I'm cripplingly afraid of commitment, and yes that even reaches into my online life.  I don't like expectations, and deadlines terrify me.  Moving on, a lot's happened since September 22nd, most importantly Halloween, which is easily my least favorite holiday by far.  Why, you ask?  Luckily for you I just happen to have a list of why Halloween sucks:

1) I am, at heart, a complete and total fucking pansy.  I saw The Ring once when I was 13 and have cried nightly since then.  Of course when I say I "saw" the movie, I mean watched it through squinted eyes behind a quilt with covered ears curled up in a ball behind the lay-z-boy.  And I've never looked back.  I understand that "scary movies" are supposed to scare you.  What I don't understand is why the HELL you want to be scared in the first place??  What wires are crossed in your brain that makes you want to trick yourself into the same state of mind that makes you involuntarily pee, scream, and cry?  I don't get it, and I have absolutely zero problem admitting that.  Do I want to go see Paranormal Activity 4?  Do I want to go through the haunted trail?  No.  Very no.  I have the terror threshold of a paranoid schizophrenic and the emotional stability of a toddler.  You have fun though.

2) When the shit did Halloween become a weeklong thing?  I mean this is an ordeal now.  When we were kids it used to last about two and a half hours then it was done, and we couldn't have been happier.  Now you plan more for Halloween than you do for your thesis paper, and probably have about the same number of references.  There is no possible way I can be held responsible for the quality and originality of my seventh costume.  The first night out I'll be in legitimately thought-out and creative attire, like a homemade transformer costume that actually transforms into a fully functional cement truck, but by the last night I'm usually going as a guy that is mind-blown that people are still even conscious at this point.  I mean shit guys, even God rested on the seventh day.

3) It’s way to effing cold.  Not to be even more of a bitch, but the temperature being eleven degrees really puts a damper on my evening.  Especially when I'm dressed in my slutty judge outfit.  Don't get me wrong, I love to have a good time, but I also enjoy feeling in my extremities and the absence of icicles on my eyelids.  Next year I'm just going to go as an Eskimo for all seven nights.  

Speaking of cold, I never officially got out all my thoughts about the fall/winter.  Throughout the past couple months I've been seeing an incessant amount of posts online about how ready everyone is for the colder seasons, and honestly I agreed with them at the beginning.   You're always ready for the next season, at least until it hits, then you want the old one back, but that's just because you're an ungrateful twerp that's impossible to satisfy.  Anyway, the main problem I have with the cold weather is.... well, the cold part of it.  To be clear, I love cold weather, but only at certain times, like between the hours of 11am and 8pm.  I'm rarely happier when it's chilly outside during the day and I can wear jeans and a jackets, roll the windows down and pump the heat in the car.  What I'm not okay with is the morning cold.  It makes it incredibly hard to get out of bed in the morning, and damn near impossible to get out of the shower.  How am I supposed to get back into the frigid air when I'm currently standing motionless and sleepy while thousands of tiny little warm angels massage my back? I mean I get dangerously close to comatose when I'm in that zombie position with my eyes closed, chin on chest, with hot water hitting my back, and the only reason I'll move is to turn the heat up because I've used nearly all the hot water for the entire house.  And it doesn't help that for the first couple weeks it was literally warmer in the refrigerator than it was in the rest of the house.

I've been having some extremely quirky dreams recently, and to no surprise, most of them have been about bacon.  A week or two ago I had one where I was diagnosed with serious heart problems, and was told I could never eat bacon again.  Earth-shattering to say the least.  You’d think that'd be pitiful enough for one dream, but it didn’t stop there.  It ended with me on the kitchen floor cuddling with a bag of bacon bits singing "It must've been love".  Then, last night, I had another one where I dreamt that a pig was elected to be the President of the United States, and that I was arrested because I assassinated him in an attempt to get bacon.  Just out of curiosity, at what point do I go see a therapist?

Have you ever gotten really busy working or something and not been able to check your phone, then you finally do and have a ton of texts/calls/etc?  As shallow as it is, that's one of the greatest feelings ever.  The worst is when you’re on a plane, you finally land after a long flight, and turn on your phone and don't get a single notification.  Talk about bankrupting your self worth.  That's why every time I travel, right before the flight takes off I send out twenty or so texts, tweets, and everything else.  Then when I land I make sure my phone's on loud and let the sounds of my popularity ring out for the whole plane to hear as I sheepishly shrug at people in a fake air of embarrassment.  Pathetic?  Maybe (definitely), but nobody gets hurt and I get the sense of long-lasting fulfillment that really keeps me going.

Fact of the Day:  When glass breaks, the cracks move at speeds up to 3,000 miles per hour.

Shout out to Allison Renth.

Those who live by the sword get shot by those that don't.

So I have officially lived in South Carolina for a month now, and I guess I can say the Honeymoon period is officially over.  It's not that I don't like this place anymore, just that kind of Christmas-esque feeling of excitement from moving to a new place is gone.  Now's when you start realizing that certain things annoy you, like not having a disposal or sharing a house with a demon-possessed street cat.  Actually, that's not completely true.  When I think of something blog-worthy, I immediately have to make a note of it in my phone because I have the memory of a mentally challenged goldfish.  I wrote the part about the cat a week ago, but guess what??  Satan's kitty is GONE!!  I know, right?!  If I wasn't bankrupt in four states I would have bought a cake and Power Ranger Plates and had a party.  Actually, wait, screw that.  Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for sure, eff the Power Rangers.  Anyway, the point is that the animal is no longer a member of this household and I can't say I'm angry about it.

BREAKING NEWS:  As of September 20th, 2012 I can officially say that I have met the most excruciatingly painful person to spend time with.  I'm going to call him Lima Bean, because that was the first thing that came to mind when I thought about how to describe his personality.  Honestly though, if this guy had a patronus, it would be an earthworm.  If he were a color, he'd be a soft grey.  He’s like the human version of Crocs but with less to make fun of. Being around Lima Bean is like being subjected to 24 hours of Sarah McLachlan SPCA commercials.  Anyway, I think you get the point.

Have you ever been in a place like a college cafeteria or public restaurant and spilled a drink?  It's like your group of friends becomes a Chinese family and you've brought horrible shame upon all of them.  You immediately feel like everybody in the entire place is staring and muttering insults/harsh judgmental stabs, even though there's a 98% chance they don't even know you exist.  Your friends will help clean it up, but only after everybody jumps back from the table and offers a  "DUDE, what the hell?" or sarcastic "NICE man."  They've got to establish that they had nothing to do with the actual spill, just in case the judges were watching this time.  Shit I'm insecure.

You know what we haven't revisited in a while?  The Hate List.  For those that don’t know, this is the running list of things I hate most in the world.  Here's the updated top ten list with a few links to specific rants, just in case you're really bored:

1.  Anything associated with the University of Florida (namely Tim Tebow)

2.  Mayonnaise

3.  PETA

4.  The Smurfs

5.  Bongo players

6.  The little hole in the airplane window

7.  Flamingos

8.  Wheelbarrow Races

9.  Cereal

10.  School buses

Really the only change since last time was the addition of bongo players.  I'm sure everyone reading this already follows me on Twitter and gets personal alerts every time I release 140 character bits of genius hilarity, but for those of you who don't for some reason, I think bongo players are some of the most pompous douche bags on the face of the planet.  I mean honestly, think about it.  Every time you see a bongo player, they have this infuriatingly smug look on their face, like they think they're the best thing to hit the musical stage since the effing Beatles.  Holy shit, I get so pissed when I think about this that my hands are literally shaking right now.  (That also might be because I chose to sit here and write this instead of eating today.  That's how important you are to me.  I love you.   Don't smother me.  You’re being clingy, I need my space.)  First off, you don't "play the bongo".  You slap a piece of wood and animal skin that, at it's very best, can make a whole two different sounds.  (Three if you hit the side, sorry I didn't mean to downplay your magnificence in the world of musical innovation.)  The only requirement of the bongo is your hands, and you can still probably play it without those.  It's literally the only instrument that an infant enjoys as much as an "expert", and it basically sounds the same when either of those two play.  The bongo essentially ranks on the musically talented level of the triangle.  Yea, that stupid little piece of metal used in second grade band class and sometimes to let cowboys know dinner's ready.  The worst part is that the bongo players are always up on stage next to the real musicians playing actual drums or guitars, yet they always look confident that they are the glue holding the band together.  Dude, you're the guy with little-to-no talent that they didn't want to feel left out.  At the very best, they needed something to keep time, and couldn't afford a drummer.  That's what you are, you're a glorified metronome.  I bet you like the opera and crumpets too you pretentious dick.  Man that was angry, I really need to eat.

Law of the Day:  It is illegal to sing off-key in North Carolina.

Shout out to Cambria Eber.

To succeed in politics, it is often necessary to rise above your principles.

Also, it helps to not have principles to begin with.

So for those of you that don't know, I recently moved to Columbia, South Carolina.  I'm going to optimistically assume that none of you are cereal killers and won't abuse that information.  Anyway, almost two years ago I moved from California to Atlanta, and even though I was back on the eastern side of the country, Atlanta didn't really have that Southern feel I was used to when I lived in Mississippi or central Georgia.  Well, now that's over.  South Carolina has made up for it and more.  About a week ago, I participated in something about an hour north of Columbia, called The High Cotton Classic.  And if we're embracing stereotypes, and The Daily Tablet always does, it's pretty obvious that this event is about as Southern as it gets purely because it has "cotton" in the name.  Anyway, The High Cotton Classic, or "High Cotton" as us locals call it, is a skeet shooting competition.  If you don't know what skeet shooting is, it's when these clay discs get launched into the air and you shoot them with shotguns.  If you don't know what shotguns are, then you're an idiot.  I know what you're thinking:  "So basically it's bunch of rednecks with loaded guns running around shooting them in the air just to see shit explode?"  No, that’s not "basically” it.  That’s exactly it.  And it's AMAZING.  Turns out, as extremely surprising as it was, I'm a natural when it comes to shooting shotguns.  As awesomely terrifying as it is, I'm like goddamn sniper out there.  It was a nice change of pace, considering how when I first stepped out there, I had to turn to the guy next to me and ask him how to load the shells, how to turn off the safety, and whether or not he closed one eye when aiming.  Pathetic start I know, until I fucking NAILED those clay bastards out of the air like they burned down my family tree.  Beast mode whatup.  Damn, I did it again.  I wrote an entire paragraph just because I wanted to say one thing.  Consider all that an introduction.  I wanted to talk about a certain guy at High Cotton, at least until you distracted me.  Anyway, when we were lining up to get started with the competition, this guy drives up on a four wheeler, decked out in camouflage, shotgun on his back, and wearing the most nerve-wracking sneer on his face that I've seen in a very long time.  Now I don't mean to judge a book by it's cover, but have you ever looked at somebody and thought, "I am confident beyond a shadow of a doubt that this human being in front of me has killed a man."  I have.  And of course I'm sitting on the back of the cart, forced to face the probable axe-murder armed with a shotgun.  Now I'm no pansy (*yes I am), but this was thoroughly disconcerting.  It was all I could do not to load up and shoot him right there in a preemptive attempt at staying alive.  I didn't though, I just sat there calmly with closed eyes, muttering prayers and clutching my probably unloaded shotgun.

I'd like to take this time to rehash my hatred for small animals.  Rats, squirrels, small dogs, and my roommate's cat.  If I could rid this planet of every rat, mouse, gerbil, shitty little dog, and Pluto the cat, I would do it in a heartbeat, then spend the rest of my incredible life celebrating.  Actually, so far there are two crappy little dogs I wouldn't kill.  One in southern California because it is quite possibly the funniest looking creature I've ever seen.  I’m pretty sure it’s a distant cousin of the Taco Bell chihuahua, and it clearly took fast food eating to a whole new level. It’s not as much “fat” as it is “perfectly spherical.”  I have actually kicked this dog across the yard because I thought it was a soccer ball*.  It’s far too entertaining to execute.  The second mutt is in northern California, and I wouldn’t exterminate this one simply because this particular owner is even more obsessed with their dog than most microwaveable-dog owners, and wouldn't stop bitching for the rest of eternity.  The cat, on the other hand, I would have no qualms about slaying.  It pissed in my room TWICE less than 24 hours after I moved in, has bitten two of the four houseguests we've had over, and meows extruciatingly loudly and high pitched every 1.6 seconds.  To be clear, I will give $50 to whoever offs this cat.  I don't even want to know who you are, just come to my house, eliminate it, and slip your address under my door.  I will mail you cash, burn the address, and the world will be a better place.

This summer was an interesting one, for good and bad reasons.  I was scheduled to moved into my house here on August 20th, after renting a U-Haul trailer, packing up, and driving from Macon, GA (about 4 hours).  What made this interesting was that at 9:00pm on August 19th, I was about 2,600 miles away in Chico, California.  I made it work by driving to Sacramento, taking a red-eye flight to Charlotte, NC, then another flight to Atlanta, a shuttle down to Macon, then renting the U-Haul, packing, and driving to South Carolina.  And all of this with no sleep.  Well anybody that follows me on Twitter knows how my flying experiences tend to go.  I've basically established that flying is the way God retaliates for everything wrong I've done in my life.  I have yet to have a single flight without a screaming baby, a kicking child, a fantastically sweaty and obese neighbor, or vomiting passenger within arms reach, and these two flights were no exception.  This time I won't go into detail, though, because that's not what this post is about.  In my sleep-deprived, slightly angry and completely delirious state of mind, I started thinking of what my ideal flight would consist of.  The list escalated quickly and this is what I came up with, or at least the stuff I remember thinking… 

Ladies and gentlemen, we know you have a choice when it comes to flying, and we’d like to thank you for choosing Hirschey Airlines.  Here’s what your flight will consist of:

-There is no first class restriction, and the front is a soundproof room with Tempur-Pedic mattresses

-Coach is just one big beanbag.

-There is a plane-wide Rochambeau tournament (that’s “Rock Paper Scissors for you uncultured folk) to determine who gets to try to land the plane.  (Don’t worry, we land in a giant ball pit so you’ll be fine.)

-Babies, dogs, and fat people ride in the cargo hold.

-There is a mandatory mid-flight freestyle rap contest between two randomly selected passengers.

-The tray folds down and already has a plate of freshly cooked bacon on it.

-Anyone deemed overwhelming annoying or high maintenance by a majority vote must sit in the bathroom for the remainder of the flight.

-There's an option to drag behind the plane for the duration of the flight while it's at cruising altitude.  (Yes, I know this isn’t possible right now, make it happen NASA.)

Also, on this plane, to hell with the oxygen masks.  If the plane's going down, the only thing dropping from the overhead compartments are jellybeans, cause let's be honest, when your plane's about to haul ass into the ground at five hundred miles an hour, putting a yellow cone over your face isn't going to do shit.  Unless of course you're trying to imitate a duck, in which case they can be located at the front of the Tempur-Pedic section.

Fact of the Day:  There was once an underwater post office in the Bahamas.

Shout out to Victoria Shao.

If you believe everything you read, don't read.

The obvious exception being this blog of course.  Always read The Daily Tablet.  And believe everything it says.  Also mail me money.

Has anybody ever thought about how long stoplights last?  Have you ever seen one out or even being changed?  Do these things last forever?  Can I have one for my room?  Enough of this Energy-Saver bullshit, I want an infinity light that can double as a children's game or instructions on whether or not to enter my room.

Another question:  Have you ever been in the car with someone and started to get nervous about their intentions?  Not sexually, I mean more like…murderous.  For instance, a little while back I was getting a ride with someone and they took a detour saying "I just wanna check something out."  Terrifying?  Not exactly, but in my completely logical mind I immediately think to myself, "Holy shit this man is going to slaughter me.  You want to “check something out"???  Yea right, I see right through your scheme you sick twisted murderer!  You're taking me out to a field where you can hide the evidence.... I’ve got to escape!!"  Of course right as I've stealthily unbuckled my seatbelt, unlocked the door and am moving to fling myself out of the car we turn back onto our original course and I realize that I may have been a little jumpy.  The issue is that this happens every single time.  Not to mention that the driver in that specific story was my stepfather.  I'm unstable.

Speaking of family, about a month ago I went home to visit the Birthgiver and her husband.  I hadn't been home in quite a while, and it was a serious culture shock.  I forgot was it was like to have a fully stocked pantry and fridge, and that wasn't even including Ramen!  It was wondrous.  I didn't realize it until I was in the kitchen, and my mom was making me lunch and asked what I wanted.  I immediately panicked.  What do I want?  There are choices??  What do you mean what kind of cheese?  You're allowed to have more than one kind of cheese in the refrigerator?!  Holy crap you have stuff in your freezer besides frozen pizzas and ice!!  What is this magical place?!?”  Sadly I'm back in my own house now and have reverted back to Pizza Rolls, turkey sandwiches, and a cheeseburger every now and then when I'm really feeling adventurous.

I've come up with another list, for those of you that are actually read these.  This is my list about things I assume hell is like.   In my opinion hell is:

-Not being able to sneeze when you REALLY need to.

-Having to go to the bathroom when you don't have any shoes.

-Needing to scratch your eye/nose/etc when playing a video game or something else totally consuming.

-The Jersey Shore

-Knowing you have something in your teeth but not being able to get it out.

-Always being about a dollar short when buying anything.

-Anything related to the Kardashians.

There are tons more but I'm bored of this topic.

So I know we've covered this a lot, as has everybody else in the country, but I'm seriously getting sick of Chickfila's policies.  Not the gay/anti-gay stuff cause honestly, it's chicken, who gives a shit?  I don't even want to know what the owners of McDonald's opinions are, I’m assuming they're against human life or happiness or something.  I'm talking about the being closed on Sundays.  I realize that's part of their Christian image, but let's be real, Chickfila being closed on Sundays isn't going to make me a better person.  If anything, it's going to make me sit around and sulk all day like a troll with rage issues all because I can't get two chicken egg and cheese biscuits, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, OJ, and a large Ice Dream.  It's torture.

Fear of the Day:  Papaphobia: A pathological fear of Popes.

Shout out to Emily Rycenga.

In life there are terrible temptations, which require immense strength and courage to yield to.

Fortunately I am strong and courageous enough to yield to nearly all temptations I come in contact with.

I was talking with a friend about luck and chance the other day, and the topic of being struck by lightening came up.  As one or two of you know, I have a cousin that was struck by lightening a couple years back.  I started thinking about it, and I decided that I would absolutely be willing to get struck by lightening as long as I got some kind of superpower from it.  Actually, shit, I'd probably be down if I got a free t-shirt out of it.  Think about it.  "...then he came out of nowhere and stomped on my foot and broke it."  "Yea?  Well I took a 35,000-degree, 500 million volt blast of electricity and fire straight to my face.  But seriously, is your foot okay?"

I've noticed something funny about people and relationships over the past couple months, and I've determined that the relationship between a man and a woman doesn't even come close to the intensity of a person and their phone or favorite television show.  I've picked up on this because, over the past year, several shows have been benched or cancelled.  For example, when a guy and his girlfriend break up, he gets sad, drinks with his friends, and slowly gets over it.  However, when their favorite TV show is cancelled or they lose their phone, all different kinds of hell break loose.  They spend weeks upon weeks sending hate mail to the producers or writing angry and pathetic Facebook posts, their friends pity them, and next thing you know they're taking longs drives, openly weeping and eating gallons of Ben & Jerry's ice cream while screaming Adele.  Of course absolutely none of this is from experience........ probably.

While we're talking about couples, I've got another little nugget of knowledge I've picked up on over my wonderful time working in restaurants.  Well it's more of a list, actually, but who are you to judge my terminology?  I don't see you contributing to this blog at all.  Consider yourself in time-out for the next twenty minutes.  Anyway, here are several fairly consistent couples that come into the restaurants I've worked in:

1) Beauty and the Beast:  In this is the couple the girl is absolutely gorgeous.  Not hot, but beautiful.  She looks innocent, healthy, and just all around pretty.  On the other hand, the guy looks like some steroided-out version of a Donald Trump right after he came out of a horrible body-mangling gas explosion.  I've never quite understood this pair, but they seem to be everywhere.

2) The Brother and Sister:  Get your minds out of the gutter, these two aren't actually brother and sister.  This is the pair that have been dating so long that they are actually starting to look like each other.  It's really kind of eerie.  However as far as temperament goes, these people are great.

3) The Male-Dominated Couple:  This is the couple that will be in the restaurant for an hour and a half, and the girl will say less than eleven words.  The guy has taken it upon himself to be the alpha male, which in his mind makes him responsible for all outward communication.  He's very proud because he is ordering for the woman, and knows exactly what she wants.  Unfortunately he is usually very wrong, but the girl just goes along with it.

4) The Female-Dominated Couple:  This is a complicated one, because the girl has control over everything, but acts like she wants the guy to be in charge.  For example, when asked what the couple wants to eat, the girl will widen her eyes at the guy, signaling him to order or ask a question about the food.  When he does, the waiter responds, at which point the girl completely takes over the conversation with more questions and very specific demands.  Usually this is the point in time where the guy starts attempting to signal for help to the waiter or surrounding tables.

5) The Movie Couple:  This is my least favorite of all.  This is the couple that truly believes they are in a movie.  And not just any movie.  They think they are in the happiest movie that has ever graced the human race.  They immediately consider themselves best friends with every one of the staff, even though this is the first time they've ever freaking seen them.  They are loud as HELL, with obnoxiously flamboyant laughter at shit that's not even remotely funny.  It's infuriating.  You have completely average lives, settle the fuck down.  You literally make me hate happiness.

6) The God-Help-Humanity Couple:  This “couple” is more of a category, and a category that though it varies greatly throughout, is generally terrifying overall.  To sum it up, the last pair like this that came through looked like a Circus Ringmaster and a crack whore.  I'm talking one in a full on whack-job suit and the other in an oversized dirty and saggy sweatshirt with suitcases under her eyes.  The kind of group you try to avoid like the black plague with a bad personality.

Speaking of evil people, which we weren't, I now have a vendetta against one of my friends, who we'll call the Dreamcrusher.  Now I don't know if this particular "friend" thought they were being nice, or if it would be just hilarious, but they decided it was necessary to wake me up by lighting a bacon scented candle near my bed.  Well Dreamcrusher, you are an asshole.  I don't know if you've ever known what it feels like to wake up in the most incredible mood, feeling like the world is in your hand and knowing happiness like never before, and then had it all ripped away from your in a chorus of the devil's laughter, but I have felt it.  It’s life ruining, and it's your fault.  Here's a tip for the future:  If you ever wake me up like that again, you better have some goddamn bacon, or I will burn everything you've ever loved, and most of the things you've liked.  Watch your back.

Fact of the Day:  On average, there are 178 sesame seeds on each McDonald's Big Mac bun.

Shout out to Emily Caulfield.

Just remember, if the world didn't suck, we'd all fall off.

I think it could suck a little less and we'd still all be fine, but I'm no scientist.

Seeing as my summer just officially began, I've decided to devote this blog to summer.  You're welcome, Summer.  Don't let it go to your head.

To start, I've made a small list to help guide you through the summer.  I call it: "Tips for the Summer".  Yes, I know it's astoundingly creative, but the title isn't important, the tips are.  Let's begin:

1) Rope swings are dangerous and usually illegal.

2) Alcohol and water sports do not mix.

3) Always bring shoes and a shirt.

4) Sunscreen is never a bad idea.

5) Cliff diving in unknown territory is always a bad idea.

Okay actually I'm just gonna stop there.  To be honest, I follow literally none of those rules.  That is the Pansy-Bitch List.  Here are the rules I live by in the summer:

1) Rope swings are awesome.

2) Drink light beer.  Unless of course you want to look like a slightly more red version of the Michelin man by the end of summer.  Drinking in the sun burns skin, not calories.  Nobody's gonna rag on you for not drinking a Guinness when it's 112 degrees.

3) Standby flights will increase your number of trips significantly.

4) Standby flights will increase your number of hours spent in an airport by an unimaginable number.

5) Skin cancer is for nancies.

6) There is an incredible difference between shell beaches and sand beaches.  Always go with the latter if possible.

7) If there's a camera, it's worth it.  Always.  No questions asked.

Overt the past couple weeks, I've been fortunate enough to be able to vacation to a friend's lake house up in North Carolina.  I went with the owner and a group of coworkers, and to be honest, when we are together we manage to transform into the most immature, irrational, unsafe group of people this side of the Prime Meridian.  Anyway, I've also composed a list of tips and notes that I've learned from these two trips, and here it is:

1) Take nothing valuable if you ever want to see it again.

2) No matter how mature you think your friends are, you are wrong. 

3) Men can giggle, loudly and frequently, and it is exactly as disturbing as it sounds.

4) Floating docks, while fun, are a recipe for disaster.

5) Never assume that anybody is on the same page when it comes to immediate plans.

6) Any liquid at all, if opened, is assumed to be at least partially alcoholic.

7) Whatever groceries you bought, go back and buy double.

8) Sunburns are a bonding experience.

9) The possibility of lightening should never stop you from being out on a wet wooden dock during a rainstorm.  At the very worst, you'll get a good story out of it.

10) Go ahead and accept that whatever regularity your sleep schedule had previously is completely out the window.

11) There is no dancing on the tables and chandeliers.  They're selling the house next week.

12) Two fully-grown guys fitting on a single kayak meant for a child is absolutely doable.  That does not in any way mean it is a graceful or even remotely efficient means of travel.

13) If you can't do a flip, just flail.

14) Under NO CIRCUMSTANCES should you EVER stand up on a canoe and assume that your friends are decent enough not to immediately push you over.

Okay that's enough of the lists.

You what I don't understand, besides vegetarianism and people who voluntary purchase satellite television?  People who wear pants in the summer.  It's been over 100 degrees in Atlanta for the past two weeks, and there are still a plethora of idiots wearing pants everyday.  I just don't get it.  Are you impervious to temperature?  Are you hiding something?  WHAT ARE YOU HIDING??  Do you have a human tail?  As far as I'm concerned, if you have anything short of a tattoo of Barbie riding a bright orange beluga whale, you shouldn't be wearing leg sleeves after April.  Get it together.

Fact of the Day:  Bubble wrap was originally invented to be used as wallpaper.

Shout out to Dylan Vanderhoff.

If you can't be kind, at least have the decency to be vague.

Everybody likes vague.

You know what else everybody likes?  The excitement when turning on your phone after a long time of having it off and waiting for it to ring like a spastic, tourette-stricken mobile device for eight minutes while you're showered with text messages, missed calls, voicemails, tweets, and emails.  At least that's how it is for me.  There is a contrary side though, which happened to me a month or so ago, and that's when you turn it on after a while and nothing happens.  Nothing at all.   NOT A SINGLE DAMN NOTIFICATION.  It is the most demeaning let down ever.  I thought I had friends, but apparently when I disappear and they can't get a hold of me they just give up and assume I’m dead.  Some friends they are.  You know what y'all are getting for Christmas?  Anthrax.  And a dead raccoon, because apparently that's what I'm worth to you.  Jerks.

So a little over a year ago I wrote a blog about carpooling.  Holy Balls I've been doing this for a YEAR.  Anyway, I not-so-briefly presented an example dialogue between the driver and passenger of some new carpoolers.  Here's the link if you haven't read it, or need to refresh your memory.  Yea, so I covered most of the panic and general terror that comes with carpooling with strangers, but I just recently was thrown into the same situation again.  This time was a little different, as it wasn't a stranger, but it was a new friend, new enough to where you're still a little nervous about what they think of you.  And it wouldn't have been that big of a deal if they weren't obsessed with music, and if I didn't listen to the crappiest music on this planet (except Nicki Minaj, I at least have the wherewithal to hate her).  So basically my friend hops in my car, and it hits me, "Holy shit, this is my car, I'm supposed to supply the music."  Instant panic.  It ended up being okay because I realized that I had recently made some playlists to avoid this exact situation, but to fully grasp my alarm you have to realize that the music on my phone has ability to make me seem like a completely normal guy with pretty good taste in music, but at the same time it can make me look like a cross dressing twelve year old.  (Let your imagination take you wherever on that one, I don't have a clue what a cross-dressing twelve year old would listen to.)  Moving on.

I recently tweeted about how I judge guys on how they react when they walk through an unexpected spider web.  It is a wonderful tool of judgment because it really reveals their true manliness, such as my rugby-playing friend who would probably start openly weeping and having seizures because he's deathly afraid that Daddy Longlegs are going to learn to fly and take over the world.  Anyway, since then I've added to that statement a few more practical, even deep, ways.  I believe that the three things you can judge a person's character on are how they handle lost luggage, a rainy day, and tangled Christmas lights.  If you think about it, it really makes sense.  That being said, I personally handle all of those things terribly.  Lost luggage is cause enough for me to burn down an airport.  Rainy days, if too cold for a slip-n-slide, result in me sitting inside watching TV and complaining for the entirety of the rainstorm and probably several hours after that.  And tangled Christmas lights?  Fuck it, throw em away.  They're like $1.15 at Walgreens for 100, stop being cheap and make your life infinitely easier.  Chances are once you finally get them untangled you'll have broken at least one of them in an irreparable way and you'll have to buy new ones anyway.  (Side Note:  I once mentioned arson as a solution when American Airlines lost my luggage, and that went over about as well as a condom in a collection plate.  I wouldn't recommend it.)

The other day I saw one of the most surprisingly cool things I've seen in a while.  Whilst walking out of my summer class, a guy in downtown Atlanta went flying by riding a wheelie on a moped.  Besides being about as useful as being able to juggle scarves, it was cool just because I didn’t expect it at all.  Then again, he was on a moped, so that's working against him, but hey, props for being unique.  It also got me thinking about mopeds, and I realized that mopeds are one of those things that are never hugely popular, but they're always hanging around, kind of like Brisk Iced Tea or Matthew McConaughey.  

Fact of the Day:  The cigarette lighter was invented before the match.

Shout out to Norris Clay.

There is a fine line between a numerator and a denominator.

Nerd humor, it never gets old.  I’m sorry for those of you who are terrified of anything related to math.

Speaking of terrying things, a while back I went to the grocery store after recently hanging out with a nurse friend, I'll call her Mrs Green.  Of course, being a nurse she is a very healthy person, and therefore my worst enemy.  Don't get me wrong, she's a perfectly decent person, wonderful company, and even occasionally funny, but she "eats right" and as a result is as evil as it gets.  It's not that I'm angry with healthy people for not eating junk food (though personally I just do not understand it), it's that whenever I spend time around only healthy people, they tend to rub off on me.  I know what you're thinking, "Tab Hirschey!  HOW COULD YOU PARTICIPATE IN SUCH HERESY?!?!?"  I am weak-willed, and personally do not care much for being judged by someone I hardly know, so you can go swallow a grenade.  I'll let you know when I need your opinion.  Anyway, after spending several days around Mrs Green, I noticed she was drinking the same green-colored smoothie-ish thing every morning.  I didn't try it, but was curious as to its origin and ingredients, so I inquired.  She told me it was just a healthy mix of [good for you] and that was the end of that conversation.  Once I returned to my side of the country, I texted her and got the recipe, figuring, in my corrupted state of mind, that I would like to give this so called "smoothie" a try.  So I went to the grocery store, got the list of required items and set about making it.  The first ingredient was Kale, which should have been a building-sized red flag saying, "DON'T DO THIS.  RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!"   However, I ignored that flag, Googled what Kale was, purchased it, and continued making the smoothie.  Now let's pause here for a second.  At this particular point in my life I like to think that I am beginning to break into the adult world.  I am not in any way saying I'm there, but I'm at least peering over the gates.  That being said, I am beginning to accumulate some pretty decent kitchenware.  My blender, in particular, was no shabby piece of equipment.  But when I started making this horrible, life-ruining drink, everything went to hell in a hand basket.  I turned on the blender, following the instructions perfectly, left it on low, and went into my room for no more than a minute as it blended.  When I got back into my kitchen, it smelled like an entire factory of computers was on fire and sounded like some mixture of Gollum and Optimus Prime was screaming bloody murder.  I dove towards what was left of my blender and frantically yanked out the power in chord in what I can only assume was seconds before the entire apartment building imploded.  Somehow the drink was blended enough to look somewhat edible, so after cleaning out the shards of metal and hatred, I gave it a try.   To be completely honest it wasn't that bad, once you got past the consistency of damp sawdust and flavor of grass with a hint of lemon.  That first batch lasted a couple mornings, and by the next week I had forgotten about the horrid experience that occurred when I attempted to make what we had by then named "Hulk Drink", which was extremely appropriate considering the damage done to Blender #1.   Anyway so we went to the store, got the ingredients along with a blender that was adamant that it could handle blending everything short of uranium.  Guess what?  It lied.  Two batches of Hulk Drink, two blenders down.  Not a bad ratio if you're into blender destruction.  A terrible ratio if you're a college student that's now down a good bit of money just because you were attempting to be slightly considerate of your body.  Long story short, the moral of this story is there is no point at all in trying to be good to yourself, because something large, green, and probably smelling like grass will come along and completely ruin you.

WARNING: Parts of this next paragraph could be considered insensitive, offensive, and all around mean.  If you wish not to participate, please feel free to go whimper in the corner like a little bitch, then skip to the next paragraph.

If you're like me, and God I hope you aren't, then you think about crazy shit.  And that's not a broad category.  I'm talking about like actually going crazy.  I've spent many an hour thinking about how if I went crazy, what type of crazy would I go?  Me and my roommate had a brief chat about this one time and based on that I’ve come up with a couple different kinds of crazy:

- The first is what I call “Meth Crazy”.  People that have gone Meth Crazy are there by...I don't know...say, doing too much meth?  These people usually don't know what time, day, month, year, or even season it is, and probably not even what planet they're on.  They usually have messed up faces that look like they're trying to eat their own nose, and they're often talking to themselves.  Really unsettling if you’re not into that sort of thing.  (Side Note:  If you’re into that sort of thing, you’re probably Meth Crazy.)

- There are also “The Kinks”.  No, not the band.  People that are Kink Crazy are the mildest of the group, and usually can pass as sane, or at least eccentric.  They are mild-tempered, never really completely out of it, and can see, hear, and respond to normal stuff, but they interpret the world completely in their own way.  Just gengerally quirky.  Also, they usually are panicking about an inevitable attack of the aliens, or ranting about being abducted, but that;s as bad as it gets.  Needless to say, these are the pansies of the crazy world.

- Then there are “The Batties”.  Batty Crazy, short for Bat-Shit Crazy, is what I would hope to be if I had to sign out of the rational world.  When you meet one of these people, it is as terrifyingly uncomfortable as it can possibly get.  On the up side, chances are they won't really notice you because they are horribly busy screaming at an imaginary person across the street about how they need to borrow a nickel to end the Holocaust.  The imaginations on these people are legendary.

- Of course there's also the category of crazy that includes people like Lindsay Lohan, Tracy Jordan, and any character John C Reilly has every played, but I figure it's best just let those slide.

Sadly I haven't gone completely lunatic-status yet, and it's kind of a let down.

Speaking of let downs, most of my friends have been serious disappointments lately.  I will admit that my perception of being a Debby Down-Syndrome is slightly ridiculous, because for me if you're not willing to drop what you're doing at 3am Eastern Time and fly to Russia to drink vodka and build a life-size Vladimir Putin snowman then you might as well not be my friend.  That being said, many of my friends have been slacking on even the simplest of tasks, such as cross-country visits and skydiving.  I'm looking at you specifically, Wondertwins.

Fact of the Day:  Gustav Eiffel, designer of the Eiffel Tower, had both dyslexia and a paralyzing fear of heights.

Shout out to Jenny DuFour.

People want you for your looks. Zombies want you for you brains.

Zombies are people too.  Scarred, mutilated, slightly bloodthirsty people that haven't showered in a while.

Speaking of blood, I'm taking a three-week summer class, Calculus II to be specific.  Needless to say, I have been in a perpetual state of misery for the past couple weeks, and have another week and a half left.  All joking aside, 2 hours of calculus at 8am and then again at 2pm everyday during your summer is roughly as fun as playing hide-and-go-seek in a mostly abandoned insane asylum.  My professor, some French guy, chose an opening lecture that only made things worse.  The very first words he said to us were "If I'm going to be honest, it is a complete mistake for any of you to be here.  If you make it through, you are going to hate me and all calculus by the end."  Okay first off, unless the class involves bacon and/or waterslides, I'm going to hate it regardless.  Secondly, you're French, of course I'm going to hate you.  Basically what I've discovered is that no matter what, a summer class, like Chinese food at the mall, is always a mistake.  Anyway, of course there are several of the stereotypical nerds in the class, but there's one in particular that is almost too much.  The kid is always wearing a tucked in collard shirt, several of which have had shoulder pads, with elastic banded pants, very thick glasses, and K Swiss.  I'm not making fun of him, I'm just laughing at him.  Yes, there’s a difference, but I’m not going to tell you what it is.  Anyway, today was different.  Today, instead of the Steve Urkel-esque outfit, the kid walks in about five minutes late in full MMA gear, even holding the gloves, sweating and breathing hard with what I'm pretty sure was dried blood on his shirt.  Didn’t see that one coming.  I didn't even recognize him at first, but now it's comforting to know that if terrorists for some reason decide to take over Georgia State University's Classroom South Building, I have a mixture of a Rocket scientist and Jason Bourne sitting two rows down from me.

On the subject of classes, I've come to realize that my subconscious really does hate me.  I will never sleep through a class, but my subconscious will wake me up three minutes before it starts.  Not soon enough to actually get there in time for it to matter, but early enough to make you hate yourself for being worthless.  Granted I also have to admit that my logic for the afternoon class is severely flawed.  Here's the breakdown:

2 hours til class starts:  “I have time to watch a 2.5 hour movie…”

40 minutes til:  "I should eat something before class."

20 mins til:  "I'll check Facebook real quick."

15 mins til:  "Wait what books do I need again?"

10 mins til:  "Crap, where is my book?"

5 mins til:  "WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY KEYS???"

1 minute late:  "Well they’ve probably already covered the important stuff..."

What's even worse is when I see classmates outside of class.  Not like at a bar or anything, cause I can handle that, I just mean like in the library or common area on campus.  Just to clarify, if I'm in class and we weren't friends before this class began, chances are I'm never going to speak a single word to you.  I probably won't even acknowledge that you exist.  It's not that I think I'm better than you*, I just like to keep my social life and school life very separate.  Anyway, so as I was saying, I absolutely hate seeing classmates outside of class on campus, especially when it's a small class, cause then you both know that you recognize each other and someone always makes the awkward half-move to say something.  Here's a tip:  Don't effing do that.  Just move on with your life.  Sadly it's almost inevitable, which sucks because literally the ONLY thing you have in common at this point is whatever class you're taking, and everyone knows how great and long-lasting of a topic that is.  (Just in case you didn’t pick up on the sarcasm there, I’m trying to say it’s a terrible, terrible, possibly even the worst topic ever conversed.)  So this happens to me outside of the library last week, where he asks me if I'm ready for the test and if I know how to do a certain part of calculus.  Of course I do, but I don't say that, because this situation, for me at least, is exactly like when someone asks you what your favorite movie is and you instantly forget every single movie you've ever fucking seen.  So that's where the conversation dies, at which point I usually turn and run.  When it comes to awkward first conversations that I really don't want to be a part of, I'm about as reliable as a homemade elevator.

*I am definitely better than you.

So I know all of you have been affected at least a tiny bit by this "You Only Live Once (YOLO)" madness.  I think it's 97% annoying as hell.  There are exceptions, as always, but in this case they are few and far between.  Basically I am only okay with this YOLO nonsense when it's used in a snide, ironic, or sarcastic manner such as in this picture.  Basically if you're not base-jumping off the Burj Khalifa wearing nothing but a 4-year-old picnic blanket and a banana hammock, you should never ever utter that phrase.  Even then you still just sound like a douche.  By the way, the Burj Khalifa is a building in Dubai, not a rapper.  Stop being an idiot.  Anyway, of course as soon as I heard the phrase, I immediately began thinking of contradictions to the statement.  Here's what I came up with:

YOLO- Unless you are Jesus Christ, Harry Potter, a zombie, a cat, or believe in reincarnation.

Let me know if you come up with any more.  I love shooting people down.

Well I have a ton more to write about, including my personal list of Tips For Summer, but this is getting to be a long blog, and if your like me, your attention span is so short we probably lost you back at Steve Urkel.  You'll just have to wait a few days for the next one.  Try and survive until then.

Fact of the Day: A Strawberry is not technically a berry, but a Banana is.

Shout out to Liz Hobafcovich.