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.

Success is going from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.

In that regard, I am incredibly successful.  And incredibly broke.

Hello my loyal Tablets.  I have a story for you.  About an hour ago, I was unfortunate enough to have to go to one of my least favorite places in the entire world: the dentist's office, or as I like to call it: Hell.  There are SO many things wrong with dentist trips that I honestly don't even know where to begin.  First off, the only reason we go to the dentist is because we're told to.  Yea, healthy teeth and mouths are good things to have, but who's to say we couldn't go to the dentist once ever three years and be fine?  I'll tell you who says that.  Dentists.  You know exactly what I'm talking about.  You're all finished up, thanking God that you've made it out of that death trap with your life, and they hurriedly usher you to the front counter where they schedule you for another trip in six months, while the only words you have time to sheepishly mutter are "Sure, I guess an appointment Saturday the 23rd at 3:16 am works for me."  Monsters.  

But let's get back to the beginning of the adventure.  I'm 90% positive everyone does the same thing on the day of a dental appointment.  You wake up, eat, shower, and start thinking about what you have to do today, when all of a sudden SHIT!!  Today you go to the dentist!  Quick, brush your teeth for forty five minutes while cursing through the toothpaste and wishing you didn't just eating syrup-covered Starbursts for breakfast, then floss for the first time since the last trip to the dentist, and try to stop the blood from gushing from your gums as you rush out the door to this "health" appointment.  You too?  Good, I'm not the only one.  Anyway, after I made it through that little morning debacle, I drove down to the office.  Aside from the fact that it smells like a combination of an old folks home, bleach, and sadness, I managed to sign in at the front desk, sit down, and begin reading the Sports Illustrated from eleven months ago.  Anything to take my mind off the demonic sadists behind those pearly white doors.  The people around me are called one by one, and I start wondering if there's a back door they shovel the customers out of, because nobody comes back out once they go in.  Then the moment arrives.  That stark white door slowly creaks open, and a name is called, "Tav Hiskey?"  That must be me, they probably couldn't read my name because I was having a fear-induced seizure while signing in.  Close enough.  I got up with all the confidence of a middle school boy at a dance and walked through the door into the completely featureless hallway, where they directed me into a room that looks like a slightly cleaner version of the set for Saw IV.  

At that point, the hygienist starts up some casual conversation, asking how I've been since the last visit, etc.  Why does she always know so much about me?  Do they stalk me in between visits?  Anyway, it'd actually be pretty soothing if while she was chatting she wasn't slowly unboxing a set of tools that would make an evil butcher nervous.  S I sit down and accept my fate, and she begins her work.  There's the usual conversation where they ask questions that I have no way of answering, because currently I have both of her hands entirely in my mouth, but that doesn't stop her from continuing the talk.  That's pretty universal.  At one point she even paused to tell me that I had impressively healthy gums.  Really?  Then please stop stabbing it.  That'd be just great.  Then she pulls out the tool that "polishes" your teeth.  "What flavor would you like?  We have mint, grape, cherry...." Cut the shit, woman, I know what happens here.  I don't care what flavor you use.  You're grinding it into my teeth so hard it doesn't matter.  I'm not thinking, "Ooh cinnamon!"  I'm thinking, "Holy Tap-dancing Moses my teeth are being dissolved!"  Maybe it would help if you used something less abrasive than a belt sander.  My teeth aren’t made of weapons grade steel, they're made of enamel and whatever the hell everyone else's teeth are made from.  

And of course to add on to all of the pain and life-threatening situations, when I went in at the beginning, I was already exhausted.  Now that doesn't sound like a big deal and you might be thinking to yourself, "Nut up, dammit.  So you're tired, stop being a little girl."  First off, go swallow a knife, I hate you.  Second, I'm not whining about being tired, I'm whining about how amazingly awkward it made the entire experience on top of everything else.  How, you ask?  Let me answer that question with another question:  What do you do when you're tired but can't sleep?  You yawn.  Yawning by itself is an innocent enough action.  Your mouth opens wide, a very strange noise comes out vaguely reminiscent of a muffled foghorn, and people know you're either tired or bored.  However, I'm in a dentist's office.  My mouth is already pried open as far as it can go.  So basically it looks like during her one-sided conversation, my mouth is completely open and I am randomly moaning loudly, making a noise that sounds like I'm either trying to imitate a dying seal or signaling my nomad band of mountain men.  Needless to say it caught her off guard.  

Then, after all that, after all the blood sweat and tears, the actual dentist decides to grace you with his presence.  Except instead of actually trying to convince you that he knows what he's doing, he cruises into the room, glances in your mouth, says a couple things like "Make a note of number 30, the lateral incisor, and the fractiongiggle," and flies out of the room, never to be seen again.  Thank you for your time, sir.  I'll be back in six months for some more quality bonding time.

Long story short, I hate the dentist.

This was weird.  I don't think I've ever written an entire post about one topic.  Thoughts?  Opinions?  Recipes?  Let me know.

Fact of the Day:  The first toothbrush with bristles was manufactured in China in 1498. The bristles were from hogs, horses and badgers.

Shout out to Allison Hatasaki.